Maggie Furey - Aurian

With a suddenness that took Anvar’s breath away, the narrow track opened out into a valley. The clinging murk vanished, leaving only a silken, silvery ground mist that swirled underfoot, displaced by his soundless passage and that of his pilgrim guide. Catching a brief glimpse of the ground beneath his feet, Anvar realized that the path had vanished, and he was walking on a short, crisp carpet of turf. Above him, millions of stars speckled the velvet night, and the rounded curves of hills rose on either side, shouldering against one another and standing out as blacker humps against the star-crazed heavens. The silence wove a tangible spell around the mist-wreathed vale as Anvar, with no memory of the past or thoughts of the future, trailed after the hunched and shrouded figure with the lantern, as though this following were what he had been born to do.

The grove loomed out of the darkness as though it had materialized from a dream, holding for Anvar an eerie familiarity. But surely he had never set foot in this weird, unearthly place before—except, perhaps, in dreams. The huddle of ancient trees bowed in upon one another as if to conceal a mystery; as though they whispered secrets to each other through the endless night. For an instant the thought of the desert flashed again into Anvar’s mind. To his horror the scene before him began to ripple and distort, as though he had dropped a stone into the cogent, fathomless well of the trees’ meditations. He held up his hand, and found it becoming vaporous, insubstantial; the dark skeletal outlines of the trees were clearly visible through the fading flesh.

The old man swung round sharply with a warning hiss— the first sound that AQvar had heard him make. His breath puffed out in a cloud before his face, spangling his bushy, graying beard with droplets that winked like stars in the light of the silver lamp. The incongruence of the sight diverted Anvar, concentrating his wayward thoughts upon this strange here-and-now; and to his relief the scene before him steadied, and his flesh became solid once more.

The old man turned back to the grove and bowed low, three times. To Anvar’s surprise, a path appeared between the ancient, hoary trunks, as though the trees had accepted them and stepped back hastily to allow their passage. Anvar, awed and not a little afraid, followed his guide, passing through the archway of living wood into the heart of the grove.

In the center of the ring of trees, cupped in a circle of soft, mounded moss, was a pool—the very womb of this magical place. Though it was overhung by protective branches, not a leaf marred its still, dark surface. Anvar followed his strange guide to the brink, looked down—and recoiled in astonishment, stepping back hastily. Instead of reflecting his own face framed by the lacework of branches above, the waters, of un-guessable depth, held nothing but endless starry infinity! Anvar’s head reeled. His heart pounded, as though trying to beat its way out of his chest. He had the utter conviction that if he should fall into those waters, he would be falling forever . . .

The old man gave a long-suffering sigh. Then, to Anvar’s horror, he gestured firmly at the terrifying pool—and spoke at last, his voice as dry andaead as graveyard dust stirring on the chill winds of midnight. “Never believe that Death is merciless. Now comes the second part of the bargain. But remember, the third time will decide all . . .” With that, he vanished.

Anvar spun, looking around wildly, knowing in his heart that it was hopeless. His guide had gone. The only thing he understood was the clear edict to return to the pool. He hesitated, afraid to go near that dizzying brink. As though they had somehow sensed his reluctance, the trees began to shudder with anger as a hissing echoed through their branches.

Hastily, Anvar returned to the pool, and the tumult of the trees died away. As he drew near it, spars of light flashed and flared from the darkness of the glassy surface, making him flinch and shield his eyes. He approached with trepidation and knelt upon the brink, feeling more secure that way. It was as well that he had. The starry universe within the waters was spinning in a furious whirlpool of light, dragging him down, down into its dizzying vortex . . .

Anvar felt himself leaning perilously out over the pool, his nose almost touching that spinning surface. He was overbalancing . . . Unable to draw back from the hypnotic whirling, he dug his fingers deep into the yielding moss of the bank, pushing backward with all the strength of his rigid arms. He blinked as a fiery speck, rare and brilliant amidst the swirling whiteness, came spinning up toward him from the depths. The spark enlarged; resolved itself; took on glowing shape and form ... A cry ripped from Anvar’s throat. He was flung violently backward as a figure erupted from the waters, showering him with crystal drops that burned like fire. A despairing voice called his name as Aurian struggled and thrashed in the center of the pool, fighting with all her strength against being sucked back down into the whirling nothingness.

“Aurian!” Memory returned to Anvar in a shocking flash, and with it confusion. Where was the oasis? But there was no time to wonder. The Mage was weakening, dragged down by a great black burden larger than herself—Shia. Anvar knew somehow that if he entered the pool it would mean the end for them all. He stretched out as far as he could, leaning out to the utter limits of his reach. Aurian’s wild flailings made it difficult —he missed her once, twice. Although she still seemed to be wearing her desert robes, as was he, there seemed to be nothing he could get hold of. “Your hand,” he yelled at her, praying that she would hear. “Give me your hand!”

He saw her shift her grip on Shia, saw the whiteness of the arm that she flung out toward him. He plunged perilously forward, made a wild grab, trying to fling himself backward as he felt his fingers close around her wrist. The combined weights of Aurian and the cat dragged at him, he felt himself slipping . . . Anvar flattened himself against the ground and hung on with all his strength, his arm strained to breaking point. If he could have used both hands— But the other was still anchored deeply within the soft moss, the only thing that was stopping him from following theJWtage into the pool. Deeply rooted as it had been, Anvar could feel it beginning to crumble beneath his fingers, beginning to tear away and—

As the moss gave completely, plunging Anvar forward, a I hand came down out of nowhere, clamping his wrist like eagle I claws. Long, jagged nails bit into the thin skin, crushing tendon and bone and making him cry out in agony, but he did not relinquish his hold on the Mage. With an effortless twitch, the hand flung him clear of the pool, and Aurian and Shia with him. Though it had let go of him, Anvar could feel the imprint of the ghastly hand scorching his flesh. His skin was bloodied and torn where the nails had scored deep, crescent-shaped gouges. Biting his lip against the pain, he rolled onto his back —and his heart contracted to a ball of ice as he looked up at the scarred and ravaged face, the burnt-out sockets that had once held the terrifying gaze of the Archmage!

Miathan was robed in black, and his face was hideously disfigured. The skin around his empty eye sockets was blackened and cracked, suppurating and showing nauseating glimpses of red flesh and the white skull beneath. And set into the dark hollow of each socket was a faceted gem. The jewels burned with a glaring light—now white, now red—giving his skull-like face the soulless menace of a gigantic insect. But it was his smile, most of all, that struck terror into Anvar’s heart. Aghast, speechless, Anvar was paralyzed by that face, and its expression of gloating evil.