Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

THUMP! The sound boomed across the valley, smashing through the silence like a battering ram. The earth shuddered under Anvar’s feet, and an avalanche of small stones came rattling down from the crags above. THUMP! Anvar’s heart leapt into his throat and stuck there. He whirled wildly, trying to place the location of the terrifying sound,

THUMP! From the pine wood came the crack of splintering branches, Treetops waved wildly, as though tossed by a violent gale.

THUMP! Something was emerging from the forest, hurling broken pines aside like kindling . . . The Mage looked up and up, a scream of terror frozen in his throat.

Standing upright on two heavy, thick-muscled legs, the creature was immense. Clad in tough gray-green hide, it was taller than the Mages’ Tower in Nexis. Two incongruously delicate paws, unnervingly like human hands, were held close to the monster’s chest on stumpy forelegs. Balanced by a long, thick tail that was held above the ground, the blunt and massive head, larger than Anvar’s body, held great jaws lined with the sharp white spikes of fangs. Two wicked, glittering little eyes, brimming with arcane intelligence, scanned the valley and came to rest on the Mage.

“I see you, little Wizard!” The familiar, gloating voice came, not from those horrific jaws, but from within the confines of Anvar’s own mind. It was the voice of the Moldan.

There was no point in running—there was nowhere to run to. For one indecisive second Anvar stood rooted to the spot—and then he remembered the Staff of Earth. Gathering his will more swiftly than he had ever done before, he called the Staffs powers, and hurled a bolt of energy at the monster . . .

And nothing happened. His own will was unresponsive, and the Staff was dark and dead within his grasp. Stunned and unbelieving, the Mage tried again. Still nothing. He might as well have been holding a plain stick of wood—and what had happened to his own powers?

The vast jaws of the monster yawned wide in a grinning void. In his mind, Anvar heard the hideous, mocking laughter of the Moldan. “Would you like to try again?” the elemental sneered. “The Staff of Earth is of your world, Wizard. Like your own magic, it has no power here, where the forces of the Old Magic hold sway.”

THUMP! One great leg swung forward, the massive clawed foot sinking deep into the earth beneath the creature’s weight. Anvar turned, and fled. With deadly speed, the monster was after him. Anvar could feel the jarring thunder of its footsteps shake the ground beneath him as it ran, its great legs devouring huge gulps of ground as it rapidly closed the distance between them.

Terror lending speed to his flailing limbs, Anvar hurtled downhill toward the river; but he knew, even as he fled, that he was doomed. There was no cover that would hide him; there would be no outrunning the Moldan in its monstrous shape. Before him there was only that strange, green river—and a plunge to oblivion at the end of the valley where the churning green waters vanished from sight in a cloud of spume. Well, so be it. Rather a quick death, pounded on the rocks at the bottom of the fall, than the slow agony of the monster’s jaws. And at least the Moldan would be cheated of the Staff of Earth . . .

As Anvar neared the riverbank, he could hear the monster pounding closer and closer. Its hot breath surrounded him in a noisome cloud . . . With one last, desperate spurt of speed, Anvar gained the bank and leapt. The moiling green flood took him, snatching him right out of the creature’s snapping jaws. A bellow of rage receded down the valley as the Mage was spun away.

Gods—how could this water be so cold, and not be ice? Even if Anvar had been a swimmer, he would have stood no chance in that swift, icy current. Gasping, choking, he was whirled and buffeted in the flood, trying to snatch a breath when his head broke the surface, trying desperately to hold that breath when he was tugged beneath. Luckily the water was deep, and there were few rocks in this stretch. Already, Anvar’s limbs were achingly numb. For a moment his head cleared the water, and to his utter horror, he glimpsed the massive shape of the Moldan, running fast along the bank, keeping pace with him, its glittering eyes two burning pinpoints of rage in that expressionless, armored face. But that was the least of Anvar’s worries. He was losing his battle for breath in the chill water . . .

Aurian! He thought of her yearningly as the icy water seared into his lungs. There was a moment’s dark confusion, then . . . Anvar found himself, not drowned, but breathing! Belatedly, he remembered Aurian telling him of her escape from the shipwreck, when her lungs had adapted to the water. Lacking his own powers at that time, he had been unable to make the change, but this time, mercifully, it had happened.

And happened too late. The current became swifter, as the river narrowed between straight banks of stone. Ahead, he heard a thundering, booming roar. The falls! As he reached the lip, the Mage had time for one swift glimpse of the endless drop below, and at the bottom a lake that looked, from this height, like a small green eye. Then he was going over . . .

A pawlike great scaled hand caught him, squeezing the water from his lungs as it snatched him from the very brink of the precipice. Again, there was that moment’s pain and darkness—then Anvar, breathing air once more, found himself being lifted, up and up, until he was on a level with the great toothed cavern of the monster’s jaws. The little eyes glittered down at him, inhuman and pitiless; and once again, Anvar heard the Moldan’s voice: “So, little Wizard—I have you at last!”

In the unearthly realm of the Phaerie, the Earth-Mage Eilin sat in the Forest Lord’s castle, gazing through the window that showed what was passing in the human world. The deep, dark forest she saw: the wildwood that had replaced her own well-tended Valley. Her gaze fell on the bridge that crossed her lake, and followed the slender wooden span across the shimmering water to her own, dear island. But it was desolate and deserted now, her tower gone, replaced by the massive crystal, disguised by magic as an ordinary rock, that held the Sword of Flame.

Sadly, Eilin turned her gaze back across the lake, and saw, through the window’s magic, the beautiful unicorn, all formed of light, that was invisible to other eyes. Sighing, she thought of the brave warrior Maya, who had dwelt with her for a brief, happy time, before being turned into this dazzling creature whose purpose was to guard the Sword. Eilin’s gaze sped onward, through the forest, to where the young Mage D’arvan, Maya’s lover and the Forest Lord’s own son, watched unseen over the little camp of rebels that had sought sanctuary in the wild-wood. Onward went her seeking gaze again, to the city of Nexis, home of the Magefolk, where Aurian had once dwelt.

Suddenly Eilin started, gasped, and peered into the window more intently. What was the Archmage doing to the city? All around the ancient walls, the townsfolk were laboring, urged on by cruel guards with swords and whips. Great arches, equipped with barred water gates that could be raised or lowered, had been constructed across the river on either side of Nexis.

The Earth-Mage growled a curse that would have astounded her daughter, had Aurian been there to hear it. Miathan was rebuilding the city walls! What was that evil creature up to now? Quickly, she turned her attention toward the Academy—

“Eilin! Lady, come quick!” With a sound like a thunderclap, Hellorin, Lord of the Phaerie, materialized right inside the chamber. Eilin spun, startled by his unprecedented breach of Phaerie manners, and even more amazed to see the Forest Lord so agitated.

“Quickly!” he repeated, reaching for her hand. “You must come with me! Something untoward has happened!”