Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“Archmage, Archmage—the prisoner has escaped . . . Oh curse you, answer me!”

Somehow it seemed cowardly and wrong to use the Staff to slay this evil creature. With a ring of steel, the Mage drew his sword. As Anvar stalked him, Blacktalon backed away from the unresponsive crystal, and whirling, raced toward the window, his wings already half extended. Even as his hands stretched toward the ledge, the blade came arcing down to bite into his neck. Blacktalon’s body crumpled at the Mage’s feet. His head rolled a little way farther, the eyes staring wide and aghast, marking that last frozen moment of horror when he met his end.

Anvar wiped his blood-streaked blade on a corner of the High Priest’s robe, and with a shrug, he turned away. So much for Blacktalon—now for Miathan. Rash as it might seem, he wanted his enemy to know of his escape, because Miathan would tell Aurian. Sheathing his sword, he picked up the High Priest’s crystal, and summoned the Archmage. The gem flared into dazzling radiance, which suddenly cleared to show Miathan’s face. His astonishment that he had been summoned turned to horrified rage as he caught sight of the summoner, “Anvar! How—”

“Blacktalon is dead, Archmage.” Anvar’s mental tone was hard as ice. “Now I’m coming after you.” Before Miathan had a chance to reply, he threw the crystal out of the window, and turned to leave the chamber.

All this time, the Moldan had been watching. Now, with the Wizard isolated in the pinnacle tower, she could seize her chance at last! Sharply, the giant elemental twitched her outer skin, concentrating on the rocks beneath that slender spire of stone. The entire mountain shuddered as Blacktalon’s tower rocked, and cracked, and toppled with a thunderous roar to smash upon the rocks below.

As the moon waxed and waned again, Schiannath had found it impossible to stay away from Aurian, much to Yazour’s dismay. Although the outlaw should have been watching the tower from a safe distance, he would often creep closer in the dead of night and scale the crumbling walls to talk with the Mage again. Though Schiannath denied the visits, Yazour always knew when one had taken place. The outlaw would return to the cave, bright-eyed and excited, and lie wakeful in his blankets when he should have been resting before resuming his watch.

Folly! Yazour found such rash behavior difficult to countenance. Schiannath was placing himself, the Mage, and their entire plan in jeopardy! Yet, until he was back on his feet again, the warrior could do nothing to intervene. What concerned him most was the fact that Schiannath was lying about his actions. As far as Yazour was concerned, such secrecy boded ill. All he could do in return was to indulge in a secret of his own—whenever the outlaw was absent, he would exercise and work the muscles of his injured leg, always testing, always pushing himself to the limits of pain. He had carved a forked and sturdy bough from the firewood pile into a makeshift crutch, and already he could manage to shuffle slowly around the cave. But to his increasing frustration, the long road through the pass to the tower remained beyond him—until he finally found the answer on a rare, still, moonlit night, when the snow was all diamond dazzle, and the lonely cries of hunting wolves swooped between the glimmering peaks.

Schiannath was going to the tower again. Though he had denied it as always, his face a picture of innocence, Yazour had sensed his concealed excitement as he hurried away, and the warrior had been hard-pressed to keep himself from violence. Oh, the fool. The utter fool! Climbing the tower was one thing beneath the black shroud of a clouded sky—but tonight! Everything that moved against this bright backdrop would be visible for miles around! Just what was Schiannath’s fascination with Aurian? The outlaw refused to say—but Yazour could not believe that the Mage would be encouraging such arrant folly. Unfortunately, without giving Schiannath away, she would be unable to prevent his coming. Yazour cursed the outlaw roundly. Somehow, Schiannath had to be stopped! Turning, he groped beneath his blankets for his crutch.

Tonight, Iscalda was both irritable and worried. Schiannath had been leaving her behind when he went to watch the tower, taking the spare mount instead, and—oh, humiliation!—tethering her within the cave lest she try to follow him. He was afraid of risking her, she knew. An increasing number of wolves were now hunting in the vicinity, drawn, in these desperately hungry times, by the scent of the tower garrison’s food. Schiannath was also afraid that the Black Ghost was still somewhere in the area, though Iscalda, had she been able to speak, could have told him the great cat was long gone.

Men and their folly! The white mare snorted. And what was he up to with this woman in the tower, the one who claimed to be some sort of Windeye? Iscalda had her doubts about that. It seemed too good to be true! She did not dare let herself hope that one day she might be returned to her human shape, yet Schiannath plainly believed it—and as his excitement had increased with the passing days, so had Iscalda’s disquiet. Was he truly so fascinated with this Windeye because of her powers? Or had it something to do with the woman herself? Was she truly a Windeye? Had she bespelled him? Why else would the idiot have risked going to her tonight, when there was no darkness to hide him?

To distract herself, Iscalda turned her attention to Yazour. The Xandim were mistaken in their belief that when one of their race was trapped in their equine form, they became mindless beasts—she knew that now. True, the animal instincts took over when danger threatened, such as the attack of the great cat. The only-thing in her mind then had been flight. But by and large, Iscalda’s thoughts remained her own. It was simply that in this form, she had no way of communicating; and besides, it was easier on poor Schiannath to think of her as a beast. At least he only had himself to worry about, without tearing himself apart over her anguish.

Iscalda wished she could communicate to Schiannath her trust in this young Khazalim warrior that he had rescued. This was one occasion when her animal instincts had proved a blessing. Horses knew a good man from bad, a friend from foe, and this one, she knew beyond all doubt, possessed great goodness of heart, despite the fact that he had been born a foe of the Xandim. Iscalda had been observing him closely. He interested her more and more. She had kept an approving eye on his progress as he willed himself back to mobility, for she knew that he too was worried by Schiannath’s behavior—and that he had been horrified by the outlaw’s plans to scale the tower on this moonlit night. The white mare watched intently as the young warrior came staggering across the cave, still propped by his crutch. The leg was beginning to bear him now, but from the twisted expression on his face and the sweat that sheened his pallid skin, she could see that the pain was still intense. If he wanted to follow Schiannath, he would have little chance of even getting down from the cave, let alone traveling through the pass.

It was then that Iscalda had her idea. Why not? She also wanted to follow Schiannath—and Yazour could untie her halter. They could help one another! Yet the white mare shuddered at the sudden realization of what she was proposing to do. It was a rare thing for a Xandim, in human shape, to ride another in horse-form. It was a matter of the greatest intimacy, and only ever done in times of need, such as when one of the parties had been injured—or when the two concerned shared the closest of relationships. To let a stranger—a human-mount her! It was unthinkable! Yet was Yazour truly a stranger, after all this time they had spent together, mewed up within the cavern? Did she not find herself liking the young warrior? And was this not a time of direst need? Iscalda braced herself, I can do this, she thought, I can do it for Schiannath. Yazour was tottering toward her, plainly heading for the cave mouth. Iscalda whinnied to catch the young warrior’s attention, and dipped her knees, so that he might mount.