Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Schiannath, once Aurian had left him, crouched tensely by the trapdoor, listening intently, lest the moment should come when he must go to Aurian’s aid. Frozen with horror, he heard voices in an unknown language, and the sounds of a violent struggle. With all of his attention on the room below, he never heard the sound of approaching wings. The outlaw was just reaching out to throw the trapdoor aside, when there was a blast of cold air and something hard and heavy hit him from behind, hurling him to the ground. Wiry arms clutched at him, and from the corner of his eye, he caught the cold glitter of a blade

Gasping as a taloned hand tightened around his throat, Schiannath rolled, trying to dislodge his foe. Throwing wide one arm, he knocked away the assailant’s other hand that was driving the dagger toward his breast. Though instinctively he wanted to claw at the Skyman’s throttling hold, he reached back instead, over his shoulder, and drove his fingers into the enemy’s eyes. With a shriek the winged warrior loosed his grip, and Schiannath scrambled round to lash out at him, but as he spun his feet slipped on the frost-slick rooftop and his blow went awry. The Skyman, however, was reeling, his hands clasped over his eyes, his fallen dagger spitting sparks of moonlight. Schiannath recovered his balance, snatched up the knife, and lunged, With another tearing shriek, the winged man tottered backward and vanished over the low parapet, leaving a black smear of blood behind to mar the icy stones, Schiannath rushed to look down over the edge—and realized his mistake too late as a dark shadow fell across him, blotting out the moon’s pristine rays. The Skyman had not been alone!

Aurian knew only pain, a crimson sea in which she twisted and struggled, striving desperately not to drown. A wave of agony would take her, lift her screaming, and finally cast her gasping on the shore—only to be picked up and snatched back by another wave of pain, and lifted into torment once more. Her only link to reality, it seemed, was the slender thread of Nereni’s calm voice, soothing her and chanting advice—and the burning gaze of the Archmage, whose presence loomed above her like a black and ominous thundercloud over the crimson sea. Once, during a brief interlude from pain, Aurian’s misted vision caught the chilling gleam of a dagger, ready in his hand for when her child should come.

But birthing, for Magefolk, was never easy—and this babe did not want to come. The child’s mind had caught Aurian’s terror, and with all the stubbornness of his Mageborn heritage, he struggled against his fate.

“Aurian—for the Reaper’s sake—push!” Nereni’s voice was swept away by the tide as the Mage was swept up by another great wave of pain. She was snatched back by slaps that stung her face, and caught a bleared glimpse of Nereni, tousle-haired, white-faced, and frantic. “Aurian, you must help him. Help him to be born, or you both will die!”

“No.” Aurian turned her face away from Nereni. “Not for this. Not for Miathan. I won’t.” The Mage’s mind fled her body, fled the sea of pain, fled through an endless gray waste seeking Forral. Always, he had helped and comforted her. “Forral,” she shouted desperately. “Forral . . .”

From somewhere ahead, she seemed to hear the echo of a reply. Aurian strained toward the distant sound—but suddenly her way was blocked by a vast black shadow.

“You may not seek him here. It is forbidden.” With a chill, she recognized the bleak and dusty voice of Death,

“Let me come to him,” Aurian cried, struggling vainly against the cloud of icy blackness that constrained her.

“Aurian—go back.” Death’s voice was inexorable—but not unkind, “Now is not your time, nor that of the child you carry. Go back, brave one—return and bear your child.” With that, he cast her effortlessly forth, and Aurian went spinning down into blackness.

Biting his lip, Yazour cast desperately around in his mind for a way to save Schiannath from the attacking Winged Folk. Wounded as he was, how could he reach the top of the tower? Then the night was split by a shrill, wailing cry from the rooftop, and a dark, crumpled shape came twisting down through the air to smash into the snow. The young warrior, his heart in his mouth, collapsed over Iscalda’s neck, limp with relief to see an explosion of dark feathers as the body hit the ground—and then Yazour stiffened, as the howl went on and on. Looping up through the woodland around the side of the spur, the wolf pack burst into the clearing, drawn and maddened by the scent of blood. The warrior’s first panicked thought was for the mare, but the starving wolves had sufficient to occupy them. The stream of shaggy bodies divided, some pausing to tear at the Skyman’s bloody corpse, while others went for the contents of the Winged Folk’s bundle—the chunks of venison that lay strewn across the snow. Yazour saw a thread of light as the tower door opened a crack, then shut hastily once more. The warrior grinned to himself. So, the guards had no taste for fighting the wolf pack? Now that gave him an—

Yazour’s grin vanished abruptly as a scream ripped out from the tower above, Aurian! Forgetting Schiannath, Yazour drove his heels into the white mare’s sides and forced her out of the spiny undergrowth and across the clearing at full gallop, riding down any of the wolves who stood in his path. With the maddened pack snapping at his heels, Yazour rode the mare at full speed into the tower door. The brittle old timbers splintered beneath Iscalda’s weight and she leapt inside, springing lightly over the shattered planks, Yazour lying low along her neck to avoid the lintel. Behind her, the wolves came pouring into the tower, attacking any human in sight. Drawing his sword, the warrior waded into the startled guards, cleaving a path toward the staircase. But due to his wounded leg, he could not leave Iscalda’s back, and the mare was hampered by a knot of attacking soldiers. The wolves, however, were more mobile, Yazour, fighting for his life, caught a glimpse of great gray shapes leaping up the staircase, and bit down on a curse. The wolves would reach Aurian before him!

Down, down, Aurian plummeted, screaming, to fall back into the sea of pain. She was brought back to herself by loud and terrified cries from below, which were drowned by the snarls and howls of wolves. At that moment, her agony peaked—she was drowning at the crest of the crimson wave—then abruptly the great sea drained away, leaving her spent and gasping, the only crimson now the blood that pulsed behind her closed eyelids. Distantly, Nereni’s voice cried: “A boy!” And then Aurian heard the woman’s terrified scream, and Miathan cursing.

The Mage wrenched her eyes open to see a stream of lean gray shapes come hurtling through the door. Then for an instant, the world wrenched itself apart in a blinding flash of dark-bright power, as though reality itself had been hurled upward like a child’s handful of jackstraws, to come down again and settle in a brand-new pattern.

The terrified wolves hesitated in the doorway. Nereni screamed again, and dropped the child into the furs as though it had burned her. Miathan, distracted for an instant by the animals, turned back to the hapless babe, unseen among the bedding, and as he lifted his dagger ...

Aurian realized that she was free at last. Reacting quickly, she reached for her powers, lost for so long, and summoned the wolf pack. Newly freed from its fetters, her magic blazed up within her like a fount of glorious fire. At her bidding, the great gray shape of the foremost wolf leapt forth, striking Harihn’s possessed body and hurling him to the floor. The dagger went flying in a glittering arc as the wolves closed in. Aurian had time for one last glimpse of Harihn’s face, stark terror in his eyes, his soul his own once more. With a snarl of rage, Miathan’s bodiless form fled the chamber, as the wolf ripped out Harihn’s throat in a fountain of blood. Downstairs, Aurian could hear the dwindling screams as the remainder of the wolf pack finished her guards. Nereni was cowering in a corner, sobbing and hiding her face. Aurian, trembling with reaction and sickened to her soul by the carnage, hauled herself upright, driven by one last desperate imperative—to see whether Forral’s child had survived its horrific birth. Hardly daring to breathe, she turned the furs gently aside—and what she saw there tore a scream of agonized despair from her very soul.