Maggie Furey - Aurian

“Nobody hurt it?” someone muttered incredulously. “Nobody’s going near the bloody thing!”

There was a swell of nervous chuckles from among the rebels, and their courage gave Vannor the strength to take charge once more. He yanked Dulsina to her feet. “You,” he said sternly, “have some explaining to do!” He glared at his assembled troops. “In feet, it took a conspiracy to hide her all the time we were marching—so you all have some explaining to do!”

Everyone looked at Hargorn, and the veteran shrugged. “Well, Parric was depending on me to keep you right—and since you were trying to set up a permanent camp without a cook and quartermaster . . .” He grinned. “I couldn’t let you make a mistake like that now, could I?”

Luckily for Hargorn and Dulsina, an urgent whine took Vannor’s attention away from the miscreants. He looked around to see the wolf, still waiting patiently on the far edge of the clearing. Beyond him, the trees had somehow moved aside, leaving a clear path through the forest. The wolf turned and ran along the path, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Vannor. The merchant looked at his rebels and shrugged. “I don’t know what you think, but it looks to me as though we’re being welcomed.”

As the weary rebels followed the wolf toward the sanctuary of the Valley, D’arvan closed the ranks of trees behind them, concealing their passage and all signs of the carnage in the clearing. Maya was wiping her horn on the grass, cleansing Angos’s blood from the sparkling weapon. She looked wistfully at the departing back of her dear old friend Hargorn, and gave a sad little whinny. D!acv£n knew that she wanted to follow her former companions—and he knew how she felt. He laid a comforting arm across the unicorn’s warm, gleaming back, wishing the men could see him—wishing that he could talk to them, and tell them they were safe. He longed for companionship. The forest was proving a lonely place for its Guardian—and it must be worse for Maya. “Well, my love,” he said to the unicorn, “Hellorin told us to shelter the enemies of the Archmage —and I can’t think of anyone better than our old friends from the Garrison. And others will come in time. It may not be much of an army yet, but at least we’ve made a start.”

It was dusk by the time the tree had been felled and stripped of its branches. Parric watched from the rainswept beach as it was towed to the crippled ship by rowing boats. “Well, that’s it,” Idris said. “We’ll be off now, Parric, and do our repairs as we go.” He looked heartily relieved to be leaving this desolate place.

“But surely you’ll stay until the new mast is in place,” the Cavalry master protested.

“Not a chance, mate. Take you to the South, Yanis said— and that was all. I’m not stopping here until the bloody Horse-lords come, thank you very much! From now on, you’re on your own.” He spat into the sand. “Besides, I’ve my crew to think about. I’ve never seen such storms at this time of year. No, I’m running for home, and grateful.”

“But you know these people ...”

Idris raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “Who told you that? We trade with the Khazalim, farther south—we don’t know this lot at all. Bunch of savages, or so I’ve heard!”

Parric took a deep breath, counted to ten, then swearing a vile oath, he grabbed the smuggler captain by the throat. “Then why the bloody blazes didn’t you take us to the Khazalim?” he grated. Idris freed himself with a struggle and stepped back hastily, giving Parric a dirty look as he straightened his jerkin. “Because,” he said, “I’m not going any farther south in this weather—and I’m not taking that bloody Mage another inch! She’s been a pain in the arse all the way here, and she’s nearly had the crew in mutiny, with her orders and complaints! Besides, her sort are bad luck—look at the storms we’ve had, if you doubt it! I’m sorry, mate, but she’s all yours—and I wish you luck:with her!” With that, he got into the last boat. His men rowed away, fighting the boiling surge of the breakers, and leaving Parric fuming helplessly on the shore.

“Parric . . .” Sangra interrupted the Cavalrymaster’s heartfelt swearing. Taking his arm, she drew him away from the others. “Cursing won’t do any good, love. We must get the supplies they left us under cover, and Elewin needs a fire. He’s in a bad way.”

Parric nodded, knowing that she was right. During the unending misery of the storms, the old man had almost died from cold and seasickness—and Meiriel had refused to help him, haughtily insisting that it was not her business to waste her powers on Mortals.

They found an overhang—it was too shallow to be called a cave—among the rocks of the cove, and sent Meiriel and Elewin inside. Sangra began to haul the supplies into shelter, while Parric gathered driftwood. Looking at the sodden pile, he knew no Mortal could ever get it to light. And Elewin looked terrible. The Steward huddled, wracked with coughing, in the back of the shelter. Seeing his gray fitce and bloodless lips, Parric felt a pang of alarm. Remembering Aurian’s talents, he suggested to the Mage that she use her magic to light the fire.

Meiriel looked at him as though he were a cockroach—a particularly stupid cockroach, at that. “I can’t do Fire-magic,” she declared. “I’m a Healer, not a Fire-Mage.”

Something snapped inside Parric, He leapt forward, seizing the Mage and twisting one arm up behind her back. With the other he drew his knife, laying the blade across the exposed white skin of her neck. “If you’re a bloody Healer, then do your job,” he snapped. “Heal Elewin now—or I’ll slit your worthless throat!”

“Parric, don’t move!” Sangra’s quiet warning broke the tableau. The Cavalrymaster glanced up to see several strangers blocking the entrance to the shelter. They were warriors—there was no doubt about that. Their rain-darkened hair was long on both men and women, tied back for battle in intricate braids. Though they were small of stature, there was wiry strength in their knotted muscles, witnessed by the great swords that they carried. They were clad alike in jerkins and breeches of supple leather, and the men were clean-shaven. One of the women stepped forward, and spoke some words in a fluid, rolling tongue.

“That’s torn it!” Parric muttered. “I can’t understand a bloody word they say!” He felt his knife move against Meiriel’s throat as the Magewoman laughed harshly.

“I can,” she shrilled triumphantly. “She said put down your weapon, Parric. She said that we’re their prisoners.”

The horse floundered, pitching Aurian forward and almost jolting her over its neck. She reacted quickly, throwing her weight back in the saddle as she pulled on the reins to help her stumbling mount regain its balance. Murmuring encouragement, she patted the neck of her weary stallion, grimacing as her hand came away coated in a layer of sweat and dust. Although the horse rallied bravely at the sound of her voice, she knew he was at the end of his strength. The Mage looked ahead, to where a line of distant mountain peaks marked the end of the desert, and cursed under her breath. They had traveled all night and dawn was breaking now, but those snow-bright pinnacles never seemed to draw any closer. Aurian wondered whether they had any hope of reaching safety before the horses dropped beneath them.

It was the third night of their journey from the final oasis and the companions had made the best speed they could, given the dreadful conditions of heat and thirst. They had been able to carry little water, and had been forced to travel at a slower pace than they would have liked, to conserve the strength of Shia and their mounts. There had been one consolation, however. The sky was covered by low, bulging swags of lurid yellow cloud that hid the sun and allowed them to travel during fart of the day, although they were still forced to get under cover at midday, when the light was at its brightest. Unfortunately, Aurian thought, glancing up with a shudder at the ominous sky overhead, those clouds presaged the coming of the storms.