Maggie Furey - Aurian

“Be careful!” Anvar grabbed her arm, yanking her back against the side of the doorway. Aurian, reeling, fell to the ground. “Anvar,” she gasped, “I hate you. I absolutely hate you.”

She was awakened by a gentle hand shaking her shoulder. Anvar’s face was close to her own. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I let you sleep as long as I dared, but we must get moving while there’s still daylight. Do you still hate me?”

Aurian groaned, aching all over. “That depends. Did I really see what I think I saw?” “I’m afraid so.”

“In that case, yes.” Moving very carefully, she peered over the edge of the platform that topped the tower. The sky—ah, how good it was to see the sky and the sun again after their nighttime journey through the desert and the long days passed in the gloomy halls hengath the mountain. And despite her fear, the view was staggering. The tower stood at one end of an oval plain that stretched about a league—a crater scooped into the top of the mountain. The jagged walls of the peak were higher than the roof on which she perched, and shielded the vale below from the worst of the desert’s blinding glare. And in the vale ... a gleaming city. Aurian caught her breath. It could only be the lost city of the Dragonfolk.

It was arranged, not in lines and angles like a human city, but in a series of interlapping circles joined like a spider’s web, all converging on a massive, conical structure like a great spire that was higher even than the tower. The sun struck fire from its pointed tip—and not surprisingly, for the edifice had been carved from a single, massive green gem. When Aurian had finished gaping, she discovered that all the buildings in the city were similarly constructed, each from a colored jewel that blazed with coruscating light. Most were rounded and single-storied with broad, flat roofs where, the Mage supposed, the Dragonfolk would have basked, absorbing the sun that was their lifeblood. There were several towers, domes, and minarets, all intricately carved and chased, but the highest buildings were the tower from which she looked and the huge spire in the center,

Anvar, it seemed, had seen the view while she slept, and was ready to be practical. “I’ve seen a lot of birds down there. I suppose this is their resting place when they cross the desert. If we can find a way to trap them, we’ll have food. And there must be water down there , . , Surely even the Dragonfolk would need that?”

“So we go down.” Aurian had already noticed the spiral path, a twin to the one on the inside of the tower, that wound down—and down and down—to the city below. “Damn and blast them!” She struck the stone with an impotent fist, and burst into tears. “Why couldn’t they have put railings on these bloody stairways?”

“I’m sorry, love.” Anvar stroked her hair. “But—”

“I know, I know.” Aurian sat up and sniffed, scrubbing at her face with the sleeve of her robe—and caught Anvar’s eye, remembering an occasion long ago when he had chided her for doing just that. “Take no notice of me, Anvar. I’m being an ass.

Lead on, then—since you seem to be in charge where high places are concerned!”

It was far worse going down. The path seemed to tilt crazily beneath Aurian’s feet, and there was nothing below her but thin air. The others were having similar difficulties, and the sun had long since dropped behind the high mountain walls when they neared the bottom. With the path shrouded in gloom and their attention fixed upon their feet, they barely noticed the shadow that plunged across them. Anvar, in the lead, turned to Aurian. “What about some li—” His face froze in horror. The Mage had no time to look behind her. Something struck her hard, wrenching her from the path. Wiry arms grasped at her—she caught a glint of steel. She was falling, falling . . .

“Aurian!” Sick with dread, Anvar hurtled down the spiral path, followed by Bohan and Shia. The ledge reached the ground on the opposite side from which the Mage had fallen, and he raced around the base of the tower, not daring to think of what he might find. He almost ran right into the fighters. A small figure, its identity obscured by the dusky shadows that flooded the bottom of the crater, was struggling with the Mage. Aurian was alive!

“Stay back!” The voice was shrill. The stranger, cloaked in deepest black, was using a handful of the Mage’s hair to pull her head back. A gleaming, naked blade lay across Aurian’s throat.

There was no time to wonder how Aurian had survived the fall. Anvar measured the distance between himself and the fighters, weighing the chances of a surprise attack. Not good, he thought. If I could see better . . . Magelight flashed between his fingers. He heard a yelp of shock from the stranger— and Aurian took advantage of her opponent’s distraction. There was a scuffle and a grunt of pain, and the positions of the assailants were suddenly reversed. The dagger spun away, lost in the struggle, Bohan chasing after it. Aurian had her foe down and was attacking with both fists, spitting curses.

Anvar, rememberirrg the blind rage of his fight with Harihn, rushed forward to grab Aurian’s arm. “All right,” he said, panting. “You’ve won!” But when he tried to pull the Mage to her feet, she fell with a cry of pain. “You’re wounded?” Anvar dropped down beside her.

Aurian was swearing furiously. “Wrenched my knee, landing,” she muttered. “That was how she got the advantage—and because I was scared out of my wits!” She shook her head in puzzlement. “But why did she break my fall?” “It’s a she?”

“Bloody right!” She struck her own Magelight with an ease that made Anvar sigh with envy. “You ever see a man fight like this?” Her arms and face were bloodied with long, deep scratches. “Added to that, I sacrificed a handful of hair to get out of the hold she had on me.” Aurian snorted with disgust, rubbing her scalp. Her face was gray in the Magelight, and Anvar knew that her fall must have terrified her—as it had terrified him.

“I don’t know why she broke your fall, but I thank all the Gods she did,” he said shakily.

Aurian’s composure was crumbling, and for a moment Anvar thought she would fling herself into his arms, as she had done after their terrible ascent of the cliffs of Taibeth. But instead she took a long, shuddering breath, making a visible effort to pull herself together. “If I start thinking about it, I’ll go into screaming hysterics,” she said firmly. “Let’s take a look at our prisoner.”

Stifling an insidious feeling of disappointment, Anvar turned toward the girl, and Aurian moved her light to illuminate the huddled, weeping figure. “Gods save us!” For the first time, Anvar got a good look at what he had mistaken for a dark cloak. “She has wings!” Sending Shia and Bohan off to make sure there were no other Winged Folk lurking nearby, Anvar bent to examine the strange captive.

She was very small and finely made—not much over half Anvar’s height, though each of the great black wings that sprang from her back was longer than her body. The pinions were jointed, so that their upper sections rose beyond her shoulders, higher than her head, while the lower parts dropped to her feet in a graceful tapering sweep.

As Anvar pulled her hands away from her bruised, tear-streaked face, she glared at Aurian with eyes that were huge and dark. “She hit me!”

The words were strangely accented, and Anvar guessed that his Magefolk ability to communicate in all tongues was in operation once more. “What did you expect?” he told her angrily. “You were trying to cut her throat!”

The winged girl spat at Aurian’s feet. “In my country she would die for striking a Princess!”