Harp of Winds

17 The Challenge

Parric was drunk again. He had reached the point in his drinking where he knew he was drunk, but didn’t care. It had been his only solace in the long, dull days that had been crawling by, since the Windeye had rescued him from the mountain. Parric, sitting on a snowy log outside the great stone spire crowned by Chiamh’s Chamber of Winds, looked over his shoulder at the looming Wyndveil and shuddered, remembering that nightmare descent. He had always thought himself tough enough to cope with any crisis, but he had never fought a mountain before. Oh Gods, that journey . . . Struggling through the endless snow, burdened by a dying old man, with the storm hunting at their heels, and his own constant fear that those monstrous cats might be tracking them . . . Fighting fatigue and frozen limbs, and the paralyzing consciousness that one false step might mean a lethal plunge over the edge of a precipice . . . “Dear Gods!” Parric muttered thickly. “Is it any wonder I’m drunk?”

For the first time in his life, the Cavalrymaster had found himself unequal to his situation, and he was taking it badly.

“What am I doing here?” he muttered, for about the hundredth time. “I’m a plain, honest fighting man, I am; give me a sword in my hand, and a good horse under me and I can handle anything! But when it comes to mountains and giant cats and half-blind spooks who talk to the wind, and then turn into bloody horses in front of your eyes . . .” He closed one eye and squinted carefully and critically at the leather flask he was holding. “Not that he’s a bad little chap, mind you—and he makes bloody good mead . . . A bit sweet for my taste, but it has a kick like a warhorse! Maya would have liked it . . .”

And there, of course, lay the true reason for his drinking. Parric was homesick for Nexis, as it once had been, and would never be again. He missed the Garrison, and his responsibilities as an officer. He missed using his skills, and teaching them to new recruits. Most of all, he missed the companionship; the rough-and-tumble of weapons practice; the comradeship of drills and patrols; the drunken nights spent in the Invisible Unicorn with Maya, Forral—and Aurian. Parric was drunk because he was angry, frustrated, and, at the moment, helpless. Though he was terrified for Aurian’s safety, and desperate to reach her, the Cavalrymaster was forced to bide his time until the dark of the moon, as the Windeye had so poetically phrased it.

“Wait,” Chiamh had counseled. “You cannot go alone, across the mountains. Only wait until the time is right, and you can go to the aid of your friend with an army of Xandim at your back. I have a plan ...”

There was nothing wrong with the plan, Parric conceded grudgingly. Well, hopefully not. The Cavalrymaster knew nothing of Xandim customs, and had been forced to take Chiamh’s words on trust—as he had been forced to trust the Windeye’s assurance, gleaned from his Vision on the winds, that Aurian would be found at the Tower of Incondor. Despite his frustration, Parric found himself grinning as he thought of Chiamh’s plan. By Chathak—the lad didn’t lack for nerve! The Cavalrymaster recalled the night when he and the young Windeye had sat discussing plans in Chiamh’s cave at the foot of the spire. (If you could call it a cave—in Parric’s experience, a cave was a hole in a cliff, or a sheltered hollow in the rocks, not a place where the furnishings—bed, benches, and table—had seemingly grown out of the living stone.) For sheer audacity, Chiamh’s scheme had taken the Cavalry-master’s breath away.

“You cannot count on aid from the Xandim,” the Windeye had said, waving the mead flask vaguely in Parric’s direction. His large, shortsighted eyes had been squinting slightly, with drunkenness. “While my folk are fierce and swift to defend themselves against the Khazalim marauders, aggression has never been part of our philosophy.” Parric fielded the flask with practiced adroitness, and took a long swig as Chiamh continued: “From my Vision of which I told you, I know that your friends the Bright Ones must be helped. There is but one way to force the Xandim to fight for you—and that is to become their leader yourself.”

“What?” Parric choked on his drink, and spluttered. Blue flames shot high, as a spray of mead hit the fire. Chiamh thumped him helpfully on the back. “When the moon is dark, you must challenge the Herdlord for leadership, according to the way of our tribe,” he said. “There may be difficulties, of course, for you are an outlander, and not as we are—but our law states that anyone may challenge, and the winner must be accepted as leader—until the next dark of the moon, at least, when he may be challenged again, by some other. Until that time, his word is law.”

“But Chiamh,” Parric had protested, “I daresay I can fight as well as the next man, but what if—”

“Yes, I know. Phalihas has the advantage of his ability to change into horse-form—but if you are a horseman, as you say”—Chiamh shuddered at the word—“then you will have an advantage over him. You see, our tradition is that the challenge must be carried out in equine shape, so if you can get onto the Herdlord’s back and best him, the leadership will be yours.”

Parric frowned. “It’s not a fight to the death, then?” The Windeye shook his head. “Not necessarily—but in your case, it will be! As you are an outlander, the Herdlord will certainly try to kill you. Be warned. But to win the leadership, you need not slay Phalihas—only force him to concede defeat.”

“Oh, fine.” Parric sighed. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, he was thinking to himself. Tomorrow morning, the young idiot will have sobered up and forgotten all about it ...

Chiamh had done nothing of the kind.

The Cavalry master was jolted out of his drunken memories by the sight of Chiamh and Sangra, walking toward him through the snow. The Windeye looked cheerful as usual, but the warrior had a certain hard look in her eye that she had been reserving for Parric ever since he had taken up serious drinking. Didn’t the woman understand that this endless waiting was enough to drive any man into a flask? Parric turned to face her, determined to be friendly nonetheless. “How’s Elewin?” he asked her. Sangra’s expression softened a little. “Sitting up in bed, eating stew, and complaining bitterly about the accommodation,” she said, grinning. “Gods save us, he’s a tough old beggar! How Chiamh managed to pull him back from the brink of death like that I’ll never know!” She smiled fondly at the Windeye, and Chiamh grinned back at her through the flopping fringe of his hair, then turned his attention back to Parric.

“Come.” With unexpected firmness, he prised the flask from the Cavalrymaster’s clutching fingers. “It’s time to sober up, my friend. The dark of the moon is only three days away!”

Meiriel, shivering in her hiding place among the broken rocks at the head of the valley, was awakened from a doze by the Cavalrymaster’s whoop of joy. Snarling like a beast and muttering vile curses, she peered out to see what was afoot, and cursed again in disgust. Nothing. As usual. The three of them, Parric, the warrior girl, and the little Xandim man, were standing together in a group, waving their arms and talking excitedly. Talk, talk, talk—that was all they ever did! Imbeciles! Meiriel spat upon the freezing rocks. What was the point of following these useless Mortals all the way down the accursed mountain, if they did nothing! She needed them to lead her to Aurian—and Miathan’s blighted monster that lurked in Aurian’s womb . . .

The Healer roused herself, and blinked. By all the Gods, it was almost nightfall—what had happened? Her limbs had stiffened with cold and the expanse of trampled snow below her hiding place was bare. A burst of panic forced the heat back into her veins. Had she lost them? Had they gone without her? But no. In the mouth of the Xandim’s shelter in the base of the spire, she could see a slip of flickering gold where the firelight was reflected on the snow. Meiriel felt giddy with relief. As usual, they had done nothing. But this time, it was just as well.

Crawling on her hands and knees until she was well out of sight, Meiriel slunk back to her own cheerless shelter among the broken rocks. Thanks to the Xandim’s habit of burying his supplies in caches, so that the frozen earth could keep them fresh, she had found food and furs enough to ensure her survival. She could wait those wretched Mortals out, she told herself, if it took them forever! Sooner or later they would set off again in pursuit of Aurian—and when they did, she would be close behind. Someone had to do what must be done. In the fetid darkness of her lair, Meiriel chewed on a sliver of raw meat and smiled to herself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to watch again.

“So what do we do now?” Parric knew he was chattering to keep his nervousness at bay, and despised himself—but he couldn’t help it. The windsong keened across the shadowy vastness of the Wyndveil plateau like a soul in torment; the snapping tongues of the bonfires seemed to be reaching out for him; the hostility of the crowds of Xandim that surrounded him was a palpable wall of hatred and rage that combined with the dark and watchful presence of the standing stone that loomed above him . . . Parric was not an imaginative man, but this place made his flesh creep!

“We keep vigil,” Chiamh replied, to the question the Cavalrymaster had forgotten he’d asked. “Make good your questions now, Parric, for once the sun vanishes behind the shoulder of Wyndveil, silence must be kept until dawn, or the challenge is forfeit. And when dawn comes—you fight!”

Parric shivered. “How will you know when the sun sets?” he asked. “You can’t see it behind the cloud.”

The Windeye shrugged. “We are the Xandim—we simply know,” he replied,

Parric snorted. “Lot of nonsense, if you ask me,” he muttered, under his breath. Elewin had heard him, though, and chuckled. The old steward, despite Sangra’s protests, had insisted on coming, and was seated, a shapeless bundle wrapped in layers of furs, close to the fire. No doubt Elewin was feeling light-headed, Parric thought, from the medicines with which Chiamh had dosed him to keep his cough from breaking the silence of the vigil. Stupid old coot, the Cavalrymaster thought. I should never have let him come. If he messes everything up with his wheezing ... Instantly, he was ashamed of himself Parric knew that his nerves were making him irritable, but he couldn’t help it. This was not the way he would normally spend a night before a battle—no sleep, no food, no talk, and most important of all, no drink! He thought back to the good old days, when he and Maya and Forral would find a tavern before a battle, or sit around a campfire just like this one with a shared wineskin—several skins, if they could get them. Parric sighed at the memory of his

Commander. Oh Forral, he thought. Wherever you are, wherever warriors go when they die, I hope you’re watching tonight. Help me tomorrow if you can, because I’ll need au the help I can get, and I’m doing this for Aurian . . . The shimmering sound of a horn rang out across the plateau. The Windeye, casting an eye toward the heavens, nudged Parric and laid a finger to his lips, to signal that the silent vigil had begun. The Cavalrymaster sighed, and tried to turn his thoughts to more positive subjects. So far, everything had gone as planned. Yesterday, the Windeye had come down here to deliver his challenge to the Herdlord, who had accepted, as by law he must.

“It was not a popular decision,” Chiamh had confided on his return. “No Outlander has ever challenged before, and the people were outraged. Had the Herdlord not encouraged his folk to mock, rather than protest, I would have been lucky to escape with my life. Folk are already calling me Chiamh the Traitor,” He had shaken his head sadly, Parric, looking at him, had thought that the Windeye had been lucky to escape in any case. He had come back covered in bruises and cuts from hurled stones, and caked from head to foot with pelted dung, Sangra, on seeing him, had almost wept with indignant rage—a rage that echoed Parric’s own.

Chiamh had brought back a surprise from the fastness that had lightened Parric’s heart a little. He’d come staggering back up the valley, long after nightfall, carrying a long, leather-wrapped bundle. Ignoring Sangra’s protestations over his bruised and dung-spattered state, he had dumped his burden into Parric’s arms,

“I wish I could have found your own weapons,” the Windeye apologized, “but they were too well guarded. Still, at least you will not be forced to fight the Herdlord with your bare hands.”

When the Cavalrymaster had unwrapped the bundle he had found two swords, one for Sangra and one for himself. They were nothing like the quality of his own lost blade, for the pastoral Xandim possessed little skill at forging. Nonetheless, he was glad to have even this sharpened length of brittle, badly tempered iron between himself and the Herdlord’s hooves and teeth. If only the Xandim hadn’t found his hidden knives—but perhaps he could manage. Turning to the Windeye with a grin, Parric said, “Do you by chance have a grindstone—and any blades I could turn into throwing knives?”

The Cavalrymaster was brought back to the present by a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades, as though he were the focus of unfriendly eyes. He looked across to the foot of the other stone, where Phalihas and his companions were keeping their vigil. In the firelight, he caught the Herdlord’s eye, and scowled. Phalihas held the look, his own eyes glinting with anger—and already, it seemed, the battle had begun.

The brazen cry of a horn cut through the thick wall of mist like a shaft of sunlight—but it was the only indication that dawn had come. Parric stretched stiff limbs and rubbed his gritty eyes. By the balls of Chathak, he thought, that was the longest night of my life!. Until this solid mist had hidden the camp of his opponent, the Cavalrymaster had spent the night in staring contests with Phalihas-—and so far, the honors had come out about even, Chiamh handed him a waterskin and he took a sip—it was the only sustenance allowed him before the fight, though the Windeye had told him that a victory feast was in preparation down in the fastness. Well, Parric thought, I have every intention of enjoying that feast—and that will mean I’ve won! Heartened by the thought, he tipped the remains of the waterskin over his balding head, in the hope that it might wake him a little, and wiped his face on his cloak, Chiamh nudged him.

“It is time to begin’ he whispered.

Parric was puzzled—he had expected speeches, or some kind of ritual, “What do I do?” he hissed,

“Walk out onto the plateau. When the horn sounds, combat will commence—so be ready.”

“What? The horn sounds and I fight him? Is that it? Shouldn’t somebody say something, at least?”

Chiamh grinned. “I did that for you yesterday. Today you fight. Now hurry—and may fortune go with you!”

Parric had barely walked a dozen paces, cursing the fog, when the harsh cry of the horn pierced the grayness once more. “Damnation!” The Cavalrymaster reached with frantic haste for his sword, but before the blast had time to die away, there was a drumming of hooves on turf and a huge black shape came swerving out of the mist to his right. It was on top of him before he could complete the draw. Parric glimpsed the flash of a white-rimmed eye as he dodged and rolled, expecting at any second to be smashed by the pounding hooves. He heard the harsh rasp of tearing cloth, and felt a hot and bruising agony in his shoulder where the great slablike teeth had torn out a mouthful of flesh. Something dug into his side—Great Chathak, he’d rolled on his sword—and where was that blasted demon horse? Parric completed the roll and sprang to his feet, tottering on knees gone strangely shaky. His foe had vanished into the mist again, playing cat and mouse, Parric thought bitterly—and it had the advantage. He couldn’t see it, but with its sharper senses, it could hear him—and smell the blood that streamed down his arm from his bitten shoulder. The Cavalrymaster allowed himself a sour chuckle. His enemy had come at him from the right, to disable his sword arm—but the creature had not noticed that Parric was left-handed. Quickly, he reached to draw his sword—and his blood turned to ice. In rolling on it he had bent the ill-crafted blade—and the bloody thing was jammed in its scabbard! There was no time to think as hoofbeats welled up through the fog. The sound was deceptive—he had no idea from which direction it was coming, Parric barely had time to dodge as the black stallion hurtled past, carving up clods of turf with its feet. A flying hoof smashed into his knee, wringing a curse from the Cavalrymaster, but even as he swore, Parric was groping in his sleeve for a knife, flicking it swiftly after the retreating figure in the fog. A scream told him it had hit its target, and a grin split Parric’s face. The hours spent reshaping and balancing the blades with Chiamh’s grindstone had been well spent. “Take that, you black brute!.” he muttered gleefully.

Before the beast could come at him again, Parric reached down and slid another of the knives from his boot. The spilling of his enemy’s blood had buoyed him; once again, as it had always done, the battle urge overwhelmed him, singing in his veins, loosening his muscles and sharpening his senses. He no longer noticed his bruised and rapidly swelling knee, or the pain of his torn shoulder that dripped ribbons of blood onto the grass. Knife in hand, the Cavalrymaster stood peering tensely into the blind gray murk, awaiting the next onslaught of his enemy.

“Oh Gods, what’s happening now?” Sangra pulled at Chiamh’s sleeve.

Absently, the Windeye plucked her hand away and held it in his own, “I can see no more than you,” he told her, “but I imagine the Herdlord is using the mist to screen his attacks. From that scream, I’d guess that Parric has wounded him, at least. But whether our friend has also been hurt . , .” He shrugged, “Who can say?”

Sangra growled a bloodcurdling oath, and fell to loosening her sword in its scabbard with her free hand. “I hate this helpless feeling,” she muttered, “If only we could see . . .”

“Even if we could, we could do nothing,” Chiamh reminded her, “but I too would feel better if I knew what was happening. Besides, Phalihas is using this fog to his own advantage ...” His words were cut off by another rumble of hooves, and beside him, Sangra tensed, her strong, callused warrior’s hand nearly breaking the bones of his own, so hard did she grip it. The hoofbeats faltered; the thud of an impact came clearly through the mist. A man’s voice cried out in pain and on the heels of the cry came another enraged squeal of agony from the stallion. Sangra scrambled to her feet, taking Chiamh with her. From the Herdlord’s camp by the other standing stone there came the slithering ring of drawn steel as the shadowy figures of his companions leapt up in answer to her sudden movement.

“Sit down!” Chiamh hissed, and pulled the frantic warrior back to the ground beside him.

“A pox on this festering mist!” Sangra muttered. She turned to the Windeye with wide-eyed appeal. “Chiamh—you do some kind of peculiar magic with the wind, don’t you? Can’t you get this wretched stuff to blow away?”

The Windeye was as shocked as if she had hit him with a stone. “Me?” he gasped. “Sangra, you don’t understand—I can work with the wind, but I cannot make the wind work!”

“You’re right, I don’t understand!” Sangra glared at him. “But by Chathak’s britches, Chiamh—can’t you even try?”

Once more, the Windeye heard the sound of hooves, stepping warily now, with a faltering rhythm. Through the mist came the sound of Parric’s breathing, harsh, ragged gasps that caught in his throat, as though the warrior were in pain, and reaching the end of his endurance, The Herdlord is hurt, Chiamh thought—but so is Parric, Phalihas is circling, stalking, waiting, his moment... Oh blessed Iriana, help me... Help me bring a wind…

Without some kind of breeze to work with, even Chiamh’s Othersight would not function. He closed his eyes, trying to reach out with his other senses. . . The moist, turgid air resisted him, thick and gelid, heavy and dead. Using his mind, the Windeye pushed at it with all his strength. It was like trying to push the Wyndveil mountain. Chiamh felt his heart beginning to labor, felt himself trembling with exhaustion. Sweat poured down his face and trickled, tickling, along his ribs. Oh Iriana, he thought, Goddess, help me. I need a miracle . . . And the Goddess heard him.

There was the faintest of sighs, like a distant woman’s voice that whispered his name. Chiamh felt the gentle touch of a breeze, like cool fingers laid against his cheek. His heart leapt within him like a river salmon in the spring. More, it needed more . . . With all his strength, the Windeye pushed . . . And opened his eyes to see the mist dissolving, unraveling before his eyes in curling strands.

“Chiamh, you did it!” There was the sweet, firm pressure of a mouth on his own as Sangra kissed him—and for a moment, Chiamh forgot all about the challenge.

Parric shook his head and blinked. Is it clearing? he thought. Surely . . . Yes, by all the Gods—it is! The strengthening wind cooled the sweat on his hurt and weary body, and with the passing of the gloomy murk, the Cavalrymaster took new heart. His opponent must be tiring, too—and on his last pass, Parric had lamed him.

The stallion had come charging out of the fog, and Parric was under its feet before he had a chance to blink, The horse had reared above him, intending to crush his skull beneath those colossal hooves—and had met Parric’s knife, instead, slicing down the inside of its foreleg and aimed at its unprotected belly. The horse had screamed and wrenched itself aside, landing a glancing kick in the Cavalrymaster’s ribs and spraying him with gore from the injured leg—not hamstrung, as Parric had hoped, for his stroke had somehow gone awry—but limping badly,

Since then, the Herdlord had treated him with greater respect. For a time they had been circling blindly in the mist, but now , . . There, close by, was the looming form of the black stallion, its head hanging, its sides heaving, as it blew puffs of steam from its snorting red nostrils and glared at him with furious white-rimmed eyes.

Parric gasped. For the first time, he had a clear sight of his enemy—and for a moment he forgot that this was not a true beast, but one who could take on human form. As a horse, it was the most beautiful, magnificent creature he had ever seen. The Cavalrymaster looked in awe at the clean, powerful limbs; the finely sculpted head with its wild, dark, intelligent eyes; the tremendous curving sweep of the great arched neck; the liquid play of fine-etched muscles beneath the midnight coat that now was dull with sweat and blood, where Parric’s first knife had lodged in the thick muscle of the haunches.

Thank the Gods I didn’t manage to hamstring him! To destroy such a creature ... A horseman to the very depths of his being, Parric felt his heart melt within him in a surging wave of longing and joy—until this glorious creature gathered itself for one last, desperate effort, bared its great white teeth and charged.

Parric had been expecting something of the sort—and now instinct took over. As the horse came up to him, he sidestepped quickly, ignoring the grinding pain in his hurt knee, grabbed a handful of mane as the stallion hurtled by—and leapt. It was not a clean leap. The wrenched knee gave under him, and the Cavalrymaster found himself hanging on by his tightly tangled fistful of mane, one leg half across the horse’s back, and the other waving wildly in midair as he strove frantically to pull himself up. Seconds stretched out into an eternity as Parric, tensing his arms until his muscles screamed in protest, clawed himself onto the surging back, pulling himself up inch by inch from his perilous position in midair. At last he made it, found his seat and his balance—as the horse went berserk beneath him, The powerful body seemed to explode across the plateau in a series of jolting bucks that jarred every bone in Parric’s spine and rattled the teeth in his head. Twining his hands deeply in the long, flowing mane, he wrapped his wiry legs around the horse’s ribs and stuck to the stallion’s plunging back like a burr to a dog.

The creature reared, shrilling its fury—but Parric clung tightly, refusing to be unseated. It tried to run, and made an incredible effort, despite its injuries. The Cavalrymaster clenched his aching teeth and concentrated on staying on. From the tail of his eye, he caught blurred and dizzying glimpses of the plateau, the mountains—and the hundreds of Xandim, hidden by the fog until now, who had come to watch the challenge.

Dear Gods, Parric thought incredulously, how fast would he be if he were sound? Never in his life had he ridden such a beast!. Though the stallion’s abrupt, arrhythmic paces were giving his own wounds a fearful jolting, the Cavalrymaster was oblivious to the pain. He whooped aloud in his euphoria. “Father of the Gods! What a ride!”

But the stallion was tiring fast. His steps began to falter, and his sides were heaving as his breath wheezed in and out. Eventually, he came jerking to a halt in a series of stiff-legged bounces. With a sinking heart, Parric tensed as the horse dipped its head and rolled over, its long black legs flailing wildly. The Cavalrymaster leapt awkwardly to the side, to avoid being trapped beneath. He landed clumsily, and felt his injured knee give under him with an agonizing crunch. Curse it! He rolled quickly aside, out of danger-—but by the time he had struggled to his feet, it was plain that his opponent was finally spent.

Parric felt his throat tighten, as he watched the creature’s pathetic efforts to rise. “Perdition!” he muttered. “I didn’t want it to end like this!” But his attention was distracted from the struggling beast by an ugly murmur of rage from the watching crowd. The Cavalrymaster swore, and struggled once again to free his sword—but it was no good. The wretched blade was thoroughly jammed. Then a frantic figure burst through the milling ranks of the restive crowd, and came pelting across the grass toward him. Behind the Windeye, the crowd broke at last and came racing after him with weapons drawn.

Chiamh, to Parric’s surprise, ignored him completely. Instead, the Windeye came to a panting halt before the stricken Herdlord and raised his hands in a series of intricate, flowing gestures as he began to intone some words in the rolling Xandim tongue. It was as though the pursuing crowd had run into some invisible barrier. To a man, they stopped dead, their faces blank with horrified disbelief.

Parric glanced back at the Windeye—and his stomach turned over. Chiamh’s eyes had changed, horribly, from their usual soft brown, to hard, bright, blank quicksilver, giving his normal, rather daft expression a demonic, otherworldly cast. Parric shuddered. What the bloody blazes was going on?

At last; the Windeye reached the end of his blood-chilling chant. Tears streaked his face, and he looked as though he had aged a hundred years. As he approached the Cavalrymaster, sagging with weariness, Parric was relieved to see that the silver seemed to be draining away from his eyes, leaving them their usual, reassuring shade of brown. With his bruised ribs knifing him as he breathed, and his injured knee stiffening now, and hurting like perdition, Parric could not have run away if he had wanted to—and he didn’t want to, he told himself firmly. “It’s only Chiamh, you fool,” he told himself.

The Windeye took hold of his right hand—and it was all that Parric could do not to flinch from his touch—and flourished it aloft.

“Hear me, my people,” the Windeye cried. “This day a challenge has been given, and met, according to our ancient law. I give you, O Xandim, Parric—your new Herdlord Jeers and curses came from the crowd, and Chiamh blinked anxiously. “Quiet!” he yelled, abandoning his stately dignity of speech—and to Parric’s amazement, the roar of the crowd was instantly hushed, “You all saw what I did just now,” the Windeye continued. “I spoke the Words to trap Phalihas in his equine form, until the spell is removed again, I regret the deed, but it was the only way to ensure my own safety, and that of the new Herdlord and his companions. As yet, I have no heir to my powers ...”—he blushed self-consciously—” so I am the only one who can restore Phalihas to his human state—as I will, I promise, eventually, In the meantime, those who deny the new Herdlord will share the fate of the old one!”

Once again the crowd began to mutter restively, but he had them now. This time, Chiamh had only to hold up a hand for silence, and the Xandim obeyed. Parric, shaking now with pain, and hunger and exhaustion, was wishing heartily that the wretched Windeye would just shut up, and let him go somewhere quiet where he could put his feet up and have a large and well-earned drink while his wounds were being tended. But even he was forced to listen closely, as though bespelled by the Windeye’s words.

“My people,” Chiamh said sadly, “you think me a traitor for siding with Outlanders, yet I would not have done such a thing without a reason.” He straightened, eyes flashing, his long brown hair blowing back in the breeze. “O

Xandim—you must make ready for battle. The Khazalim have crossed the desert and formed an alliance with black sorcerers, and with our other foes, the warlike Winged Folk!. I have seen this in a vision—and I swear it is true!.”

Chiamh’s next words were drowned in an angry roar of protest, and once again, he was forced to bellow for silence.

“We are not a warlike folk! he said into the calm that followed. “Though we can defend ourselves fiercely at need, we lack the organization and battle skills that have permitted the Khazalim scum to raid us with impunity in the past. But this time it will be different!”

The Windeye turned to Parric, who was staring at him in amazement, “This Outlander can lead us, can teach us the skills we lack. He seeks companions who were captured by the Khazalim scum, and will offer us his aid until his friends can be released, and our lands swept clean again. At that time, he promises to relinquish the Herdlordship and leave us in our former seclusion, keeping the secrets of our folk for all time. 0 Xandim, for the sake of our lands and the future of our children, will you have him?”

This time, the roar of assent almost knocked Parric off his feet. “Chiamh, you’ve a way with words,” he told the young man gratefully. The Windeye shrugged modestly. “Who would have thought it—least of all, me!”

The crowd surrounded them, staring curiously at Parric. Some of the bolder ones reached out to touch him. Sangra, who all this time had been standing at bay with her back to the standing stone, defending Elewin with drawn sword, came pushing with the steward through the throng, her face aglow with relief. “Well done, Chiamh!” She pounded him on the shoulder.

Some of the Xandim had gathered in a knot around the former Herdlord. To Parric’s relief, they were assisting the exhausted, injured beast to climb shakily to its feet, “Now that the people seem to have accepted me, will you change Phalihas back?” he asked the Windeye,

Chiamh shook his head. “Too dangerous,” he said flatly. “Not everyone may be convinced—and in this state, Phalihas ensures our safety, for if he could speak, he would oppose you. Our former Herdlord is a proud and stiff-necked soul!” A grimace, like the memory of old pain, shadowed his face—then, with an effort, he brightened, “It will be time enough to restore him when we have done what we set out to do—but now, O Herdlord, you have a feast to attend!”

“Thank the Gods for that!!! Parric said feelingly. Then his face fell. “Chiamh—I won’t have to make a speech or anything, will I?”

“Where’s the problem?” Sangra teased him. “After a couple of wineskins, we usually have trouble shutting you up!”

Chiamh, his lips twitching to hide a smile, hastened to comfort the dismayed Cavalrymaster. “Don’t worry, Parric—I think I have said what needed to be said.” At last, his grin escaped him. “What would you do without me?”

“What, indeed?” Parric agreed. “And tomorrow, I’ll need you again, my friend—when we prepare for battle!”

Meiriel watched from her hiding place behind the standing stones as the last of the Xandim left the plateau, to accompany the new Herdlord to his feast. “Herdlord, indeed!” she snorted—but at least the wretched Mortal was finally doing something! The Mage smiled to herself. If Parric meant to use the Xandim to rescue Aurian, that meant he would be bringing her here—along with the monster she had spawned. “Why, thank you, Parric,” she crooned,

“you’ve just saved me a long, hard trip through the mountains!. And when you return with Aurian, I will be waiting!”