Sword of Flames

12 A Cry for Help

What Aurian liked best about the Xandim Fastness was the way in which the interior was completely at odds with the outside. Though the exterior of the massive structure stood foursquare and blocky, consisting of straight lines and sharp angles, it was revealed, to any with the eyes to see, that within those walls the building was not an inanimate human artifact, after all, but a living being. The passages and chambers had floors and walls that grew into one another with no visible join, ceilings that were vaulted and ribbed with what looked like arching bone. Everything from windows to fireplaces, from lintels to torch brackets, from the benches that grew out of the walls at comfortable human sitting height to the broad stone shelves that the Xandim covered with fleeces and heather to make comfortable beds, possessed a seamless fluidity of line that could only be organic in nature.

Chiamh had housed the Magefolk and their companions in a complex of rooms toward the rear of the fastness, in a square turret that rose above the main bulk of the building and abutted the cliffs that towered behind. There were two floors in the squat tower, each consisting of an interlinking cluster of small chambers reached by a twisting staircase with a heavy door at the bottom that blocked off access to the turret. The quarters were cramped but cozy and easier to heat than the vast, echoing rooms in the main part of the building, and everyone felt a greater measure of security in staying together. Even Parric, much to the evident annoyance of the Xandim Elders, had rejected the Herdlord’s official quarters in favor of lodging with his friends.

Aurian and Anvar shared two chambers on the upper story with Shia, Khanu, and the wolves; Bohan and Yazour occupied the room adjoining, and Chiamh slept in an annex beyond. Schiannath and Iscalda, still somewhat unsure of their position among the Xandim after their exile, had elected to remain with the Magefolk, and shared the lower floor with Parric, Sangra, and Elewin—before the old steward had passed away. Following Elewin’s death, Yazour had decided to move downstairs to be near Schiannath and Iscalda, with whom he had become fast friends. This alleviated some of the overcrowding on the upper story, for the great cats took up an astonishing amount of space, and the wolves preferred to claim a small territory of their own, away from too much human disturbance. They had a den beneath the table, where they had scratched up and shredded an area of the woven rush matting to create a bed that Aurian had augmented with the remains of her tattered, threadbare cloak.

Chiamh, considering the needs of the nonhumans of the party, had chosen these quarters with great care. The gap between the window in Bohan’s room and the cliff face was little longer than two spans, and he had constructed a rough but functional bridge across the intervening space from a sturdy plank lashed securely into position. Shia and the wolves could cross this and gain access to a series of narrow ledges and trails that led onto the broader reaches of the Wyndveil, where they would be able to hunt and roam as they pleased, without having to run the gauntlet of the Xandim camped both within and without the fastness.

Though Aurian and Anvar had not been in these quarters long, the small chamber tucked away in the depths of the fastness was already cluttered with signs of their occupancy. Leaning heavily on Parric’s authority as Herdlord, they were putting together a new set of gear for their northward journey. Piles of clothing lay across the bed and benches, including britches and tunics of soft leather; shirts of linen and of wool; boots of sturdy but supple hide; and long, thick mantles of woven wool, dyed in the mingled greens and golds of the grasslands, with additional cloaks of thin oiled hide that would pack small in a saddlebag, to wear when it rained.

To Aurian, the room looked warm and homely. A soot-smeared copper pot of water steamed gently at the edge of the blaze in the great fireplace. The table was scattered with plates and cups made of horn or bone; a jug of water, a flagon of ale and a flask of mead; small leather pouches of dried berries, blossoms and leaves for making a variety of teas; and emergency supplies of bread, cheese and fruit, because it was such a long trek to the stillrooms and the pantries.

The Staff of Earth and the Harp of Winds had been propped against the wall in the farthest corner of the Mages’ bed, safely away from curious hands and careless feet. Their mingled radiance, a changeful amalgam of green and shimmering silver, conflicted with the warmer saffron glow of lamps and fire to cast a rippling light like the sun through beech leaves across the faces of those assembled in the chamber. Even from her current position, several feet away at the far end of the pallet, Aurian could feel the magic of the powerful Artifacts beating against her back; a tingling, thrilling energy so very different from the fire’s heat that she could feel on her face.

The Windeye, lounging comfortably on the floor in front of the fire, smiled as he looked up at Aurian and Anvar, who were seated on the bed, with Wolf in Aurian’s lap, listening in wide-eyed amazement to Basileus recounting the history of the Moldai. Shia and Khanu had not yet returned from visiting Hreeza on Steelclaw, and Bohan was asleep next door. Parric and Sangra, unable to participate in the weird, four-way mental conversation of Mages, Moldan and Windeye, had gone off together to drink to the memory of Elewin. Chiamh, who had heard Basileus tell his tale before, was barely paying attention to the Elemental’s words. Instead he was peering with rapt fascination at the game the Magefolk were idly playing between themselves as they listened to the Moldan speak.

Aurian would lift her hand to let a small green fireball materialize like an unfolding blossom above her palm and, with a quick, flicking gesture, would launch it into the air. Obeying the dictates of her will, it would dive and dodge in a swift, twisting path between hangings, sconces, and furnishings. Anvar would follow suit with an incandescent globe of his own in blue fire, and would send it after Aurian’s fireball, trying to catch the glowing sphere as it darted to and fro across the chamber—the difficulties of fine control being compounded, of course, by the fact that both Mages were also paying attention to the Moldan’s words. Aurian was using this game to help her soul mate improve his facility with Fire-magic—never his strong point, and a form of power that could not be boosted by the Harp of Winds, whose element was Air. Chiamh, squinting critically up at Anvar’s wavering, sloppy efforts, which had a tendency to weave and plunge erratically around the room emitting a trail of cobalt sparks, decided that the Mage was badly in need of the practice.

As the Moldan’s tale unfolded, however, the participants gradually forgot about their game, and left their fireballs to bob aimless and neglected, clustering like a swarm of fireflies against the ribbed stone of the ceiling. There was no doubt that Aurian and Anvar were both enthralled, and Chiamh admired both the power and the cunning of the Earth-Elemental in being able to distract Aurian, in particular, from asking some very awkward questions. The Windeye only hoped that this fortunate state of affairs would last; but knowing the Mage as Chiamh had already come to know her, he suspected that she would not stay distracted for long.

Aurian, in fact, had a whole series of questions that she wanted to ask Basileus. Though she was still annoyed by the Moldan’s refusal to disclose the substance of his private conversation with Chiamh, she trusted the Windeye and was beginning to trust Basileus; moreover, she recognized immovable stubbornness when she saw it. As Anvar had slyly reminded her, such obduracy was part of her own character. Though the Moldan had assured her that what he had discussed with Chiamh was a matter for the Xandim, and noth-ine to concern her, it was her nature as a Mage to be curious and to want to meddle, nonetheless. That same curiosity, however, had led her to shelve the matter for the time being (she would probably stand a better chance of prying the information out of Chiamh, anyway) in favor of the incredible experience of conversing with a being who was as old as the hills themselves.

“And you say this mad Moldan is imprisoned under the Academy?” she asked Basileus in shocked tones.

“Indeed he is—and has been for many a long age. If Ghabal was mad before, I can scarcely dare imagine his state of mind by now.”

Anvar, who had been lucky to survive a confrontation with one of the powerful Earth-Elementals, and had also spent hundreds of hours down those very tunnels with Finbarr, was similarly horrified. “Gods, I hope Miathan doesn’t find it down there.” He shuddered. “Such a discovery might solve our difficulties where the Archmage is concerned, but it’ll leave us with worse problems than ever—if there’s even a city left to return to, that is.”

“Don’t go borrowing trouble,” Aurian warned him, referring not to the words that he had spoken aloud, but to the small, scared thought that she had picked out of her soulmate’s mind. Anvar, remembering his terrifying battle with the Moldan of Aerillia Peak, that had resulted in the Elemental’s death, had been wondering if Basileus knew what had taken place—and how the Moldan might react if he found out.

Before Anvar could reply, however, Aurian was sure she heard another mental voice—a thin, weak call that seemed to come from very far away.

“Did anyone else pick that up?” she asked sharply.

“Pick what up?” Anvar sounded puzzled.

“I could have sworn I heard, very faintly in my mind, a strange voice calling my name.”

“I heard nothing,” said the Moldan.

“Nor I.” Chiamh shook his head.

“I must have been imagining things.” Aurian rubbed her eyes. “Maybe it’s time we all got some sleep. We’ve another difficult day tomor—There it is again!”

Signaling the others to be silent, she closed her eyes, straining her mind to catch the elusive wisp of thought: that faint and faraway calling of her name. For a moment there was nothing. Had she imagined it? But no. Suddenly it came again:

“Lady… Lady Aurian? Oh, please be there. Please answer me—please.”

“There is someone there—and she’s calling for help,” Aurian told her companions. “It’s very faint, but with the Staff to boost my power, I can probably reach her.” Quickly, the Mage leaned back across the bed to reach the Artifact.

“Be careful,” Anvar warned. “What if it’s Eliseth? She might be trying to trap you again, as she did in the desert.”

Aurian scowled, not liking to recall the time the Weather-Mage had almost duped her into killing both herself and Anvar. “I almost hope it is Eliseth,” she said grimly. “Now that I have my powers back, she’ll find me a very different proposition from last time.”

As her fingers closed round the Staff, the Mage felt its power run glowing through her veins like molten fire. Her own magic blazed up fiercely within her, augmented by the strength of the Artifact. “Anvar, Chiamh,” she said quickly, “take hold of the Staff so you can link your minds to mine. Whatever this is, I want you to hear it, too.” As she felt their thoughts join her own, she closed her eyes and concentrated all her power on the faint and faraway whisper of thought.

When Aurian stretched forth her consciousness toward the distant cry, the mental voice seemed to leap toward her, as though the caller had been shut away in another room, and a door had suddenly been opened between the two. The summoner sounded desperate now, and close to tears.

“Here I am.” Aurian cut through the anguished pleading. “Who are you?”

“Lady Aurian? Is it really you? Oh, thank the gods! I didn’t think I’d ever find you. Lady—it’s me, Zanna. Vannor’s daughter…”

“What? How in the world have you managed to reach me like this?”

“Through a crystal, Lady. The ones you used to summon the servants in the Academy. I disguised myself as a servant and came here to spy on the Magefolk, but now the Archmage has captured Dad…”

With mounting horror, Aurian listened to Zanna’s story. How long had it been, she wondered guiltily, since she had spared even a thought for Vannor? She had always been fond of the merchant, and the thought of him, helpless and suffer ing in the cruel hands of Miathan and Eliseth, made her blood run cold. And as for Zanna… The Mage was utterly staggered by the courage and daring the young girl had shown—and appalled to discover that she herself had set the example that Vannor’s daughter had been trying to follow. Why, she’s little more than a child, thought the Mage—and was rapidly forced to revise her opinion as Zanna told her how Janok had met his end.

“But someone may discover that he’s missing at any time,” Zanna finished, “and I’ve got to get Dad out tonight—there’ll never be another chance. But how can I get him out of the Mages’ Tower, and even if I do, what then? Dad told me there’s a way out through the tunnels underneath the library, but the door to the archives is always locked, and I can’t get in—”

“Yes, you can,” Aurian told her quickly, “and I’ll tell you how to do it. But keep the crystal with you, just in case you need to speak with me again—and, besides,” she added with a smile, “I’ll want to know how everything works out. Now listen carefully, Zanna. This is what you must do…”

When she had completed her instructions to the girl, Aurian took leave of Zanna with some misgivings. She had tried to remain encouraging and positive, but in her heart she knew there was a great deal that could go wrong with Vannor’s escape.

“Try not to worry too much,” Anvar told her. “You’ve done all you can, and Zanna lacks neither common sense nor courage. Imagine, a young lass like that killing Janok!” His eyes lit up with savage joy, and Aurian remembered how he had suffered at the brutal head cook’s hands—and how, indeed, his ordeal had led to their own meeting.

Before she had time to reply, however, her thoughts were knocked out of her head by a stentorian mental bellow loud enough to rattle her brains within her skull.

“Aurian—quick! Your misbegotten Horsefolk are shooting at us!” The voice that roared through the Mage’s mind had come from Shia.

“Damn and blast them!” Almost before the words had passed her lips, Aurian had returned Wolf to his foster parents and was out of the chamber with Anvar a split second behind her. Chiamh came groping after them as quickly as he could manage, but he had more sense than to call on them to wait. Instead, he hammered on the door of Parric’s chambers to warn the Herdlord of impending trouble. Parric and Sangra, luckily not yet the worse for ale, came out at once, followed by a tousled Iscalda, rubbing sleepy eyes. Schiannath and Yazour, however, were nowhere to be found.

The Mages had scarcely reached the bottom of the stairway when they were halted by an urgent warning from the Moldan: “Wizards—beware. The Xandim have taken up arms against you and the Herdlord. They already hold the outer doors and are heading this way even as we speak.”

Anvar muttered a livid curse. As one, the two Mages dodged back upstairs, barring the door behind them. Already, Aurian was in contact with Shia: the cats, relying on their night-vision, had managed, so far, to dodge the arrows and had retreated partway up the cliff path. Apparently the Xandim bowmen were trying to pluck up enough courage to pursue them—a foolhardy business in the daylight, let alone in darkness. The Mage quickly told Shia what was happening within the fastness and warned her friend not to come any closer. “If they keep after you, head for Chiamh’s valley—once you’ve passed the standing stones, they won’t dare follow you farther.”

“Only if there’s no alternative,” Shia insisted. “I want to be near enough to help if you need me.”

On the first landing they met Chiamh and the others, looking grim. “Schiannath and Yazour are somewhere within the fastness,” the Windeye told the Mages. “They must be found and warned—if it’s not already too late.”

“It is not,” the Moldan told those who could hear him. “They went to the stillrooms by the back route. As yet they are undiscovered.”

When Chiamh passed on the message, Iscalda shouldered her way forward. “I will go. Schiannath is my brother.”

“Wait.” Anvar stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I’ll go. Basileus can guide me to them.” Seeing Aurian opening her mouth to volunteer, he was quick to forestall her. “No, love. I’m the obvious choice—you’re still recouping your energy after being wounded and then fighting on Steelclaw. I’ll be much quicker on my own.”

Aurian scowled. “Blast you,” she muttered. “I hate it when you’re right. Take care, then—and hurry back.” She went with him to the bottom of the stairs and hugged him hard before letting him out. Reluctantly, she closed the door and dropped the heavy bar into place, hoping fervently that he would be all right. “Basileus?” she called. “You take good care of Anvar, do you hear me?”

“Have no fear, Wizard—Iwill do what I can,” the Moldan replied. “But now you must organize your own defense. Anvar is not the only one in danger.”

Schiannath had been showing Yazour around the vaults beneath the stillrooms and, in particular, that part of the network of cellars where the Xandim stored their supplies of ale and mead. Though the actual kitchens of the massive building were very basic, because the Horsefolk preferred to do most of their cooking—and eating, for that matter—in the open air, each wandering band was expected to supply a tithe of the fruits of their hunting and gathering to be stored in the fastness, to feed those, such as the old and the sick, who dwelt within. These inhabitants, who usually could not hunt for themselves, worked to preserve the food so that a store of provisions was always on hand for emergencies such as drought or siege.

The old folk were also the brewers of the tribe, trading the results of their labors for other necessities from the hunters and craftsmen. Their stocks of liquor, though generally unguarded, were carefully tallied and fairly distributed in a system of barter that most of the Xandim were content to honor. Nevertheless, when Schiannath and Yazour, sitting swapping battle yarns late into the night, had run out of ale, the former outlaw had not thought twice about an expedition to the vaults to “liberate” some more. Had Yazour but known it, this was just the sort of misdemeanor that had always been getting his friend into trouble with the Elders and the Herdlord in Schiannath’s younger days.

Despite the Xandim’s airy assurances that there was nothing to worry about, Yazour felt a creeping sense of disquiet as they eased open the great trapdoor in the back of the farthest stillroom, and ventured down the flight of smooth stone steps that led into the vaults. At first, he simply decided that the ale he had already consumed was inflaming his imagination. It was cold underground, and the air had a dry, dead, heavy feel. As they walked along the low, arched passage at the bottom, the stealthy patter of their footfalls echoed over and over against the rounded walls, until they were surrounded by a sound like the beating of hundreds of soft wings. The amber flame of the torch that flickered in Schiannath’s upraised hand chased the silver veining in the stone with threads of gold, and sent their shadows leaping up the curving walls like Beings with a life of their own, reminding Yazour most unpleasantly of Aurian’s blood-chilling tales of the Death-Wraiths.

With every step he took, the young captain’s sense of unease was growing. At first he put it down to the uncomfortable, closed-in feeling of being underground, with the awareness of the gigantic mass of stone above his head; but when he and his companion reached the place where the vaults opened out around them into a maze of interconnecting cellars divided by great arches of pillared stone, his warrior’s sense of unseen danger increased. Anyone—or anything, he thought uncomfortably—could hide in this labyrinth of chambers, and sneak up on its prey unseen.

“The food comes first.” Schiannath’s whisper made Yazour jump like a startled rabbit. “They store the ale farther within,” the Xandim continued, oblivious to the effect he was having on his friend’s overstretched nerves. “They hope that we outsiders will get lost before we find it,” he chuckled.

As he walked on through the cobwebbed, cavemlike chambers stacked haphazardly with barrels, chests and sacks, Yazour inwardly mocked himself for being such an old granny. Look at Schiannath, he told himself. He isn’t scared of the dark! His attempt to buoy his faltering courage was singularly unsuccessful. Try as he would, he could not shake the crawling between his shoulder blades that told him he was the target of unseen eyes. But having followed his companion so far now, there was no way he could retreat without looking like a cowardly fool—and he would rather die than lose face before Schiannath—and, more importantly, before Schiannath’s sister, when she should come to hear the tale. The sooner they found the wretched ale, the sooner they could be gone—and so Yazour clenched his jaw, loosened his sword in his sheath, and continued to follow the Xandim.

Then out of nowhere came a puff of wind, and the torch went out. Darkness fell around them, so thick and heavy that it seemed as though some god had dropped a velvet cloak across the world.

“Plague take it!” Schiannath cursed, his words drowning his companion’s gasp of shock. Yazour, fighting panic, could hear the Xandim swearing softly as he groped for flint and striker—and then a tiny, metallic clatter as one or both implements fell to the floor.

“You clumsy fool,” Yazour hissed in a ferocious whisper, groping in his tunic for his own fire-making tools with hands that trembled. In the Reaper’s name, where had he stowed that blasted flint? He couldn’t stand the way this darkness pressed in on him—and without some form of light they stood little chance of finding their way out of the cellars at all.

Schiannath, it seemed, had been thinking along similar lines. “Well, at least we won’t starve down here,” he muttered.

The grim humor did much to restore Yazour’s courage. “If we could only find that accursed ale, it wouldn’t matter how long we had to stay. Which is just as well,” he added sheepishly, “since the idiot who called you a fool seems to have left his fire-making gear in his other tunic.”

Schiannath burst out laughing. Yazour felt a hand brush his sleeve in the darkness, and then his companion’s strong, warm fingers tightly clasped his own.

“It won’t do to get separated,” the Xandim said softly. “Now I’m going to move to my left, until we find a wall to guide us…” Using the wall to navigate, they turned themselves around and began the hopeless business of trying to backtrack their way through the cellars.

It was hard to keep track of time in the darkness. It seemed to Yazour that they had been groping their way blindly forward for hours—though he knew, from his lack of hunger and thirst and the reserves of strength he still possessed, that it could not be possible. Nonetheless, when he caught the first faint, faraway glimpses of torchlight bobbing enticingly ahead of him in the depths of the vaults, he could have fallen on his knees and wept with gratitude. A hoarse, glad cry from Schiannath proved that the Xandim had seen them, too. As one, still clasping each other’s hands, the two rushed forward together, yelling to attract attention. Yazour and Schiannath only discovered that they had drawn the wrong kind of attention to themselves when they ran headlong into a ring of bristling steel.

Anvar heard the thud of the bar dropping back into place behind him, and shivered. Suddenly he felt very exposed—and very much alone. “You and your bloody heroics,” he muttered to himself. Turning to his left, he sped off down the passage on flying feet. The sooner he got back behind the dubious security of that thick oak door, the better he’d feel.

With the help of Basileus, the Mage found his way through the snarl of torchlit corridors that branched like arteries within the heart of the fastness. The farther he went, the narrower, dustier, and less well lit the passages became, until he needed his night-vision and was forced to slow his pace because of the worn and cracked stone floor. In the same way that he had once guided Chiamh through his ventilation ducts, the Moldan sent a slip of glowing vapor ahead to mark the route at every intersection; but Anvar still found himself thinking ungratefully that the Earth-Elemental could have made his innards a great deal less complex. The Mage’s own innards churned with tension even as he ran. Though Basileus had promised to warn him of the proximity of any armed foes, he was half expecting to run into trouble around every bund corner. After what seemed an age, he had still not reached a turning that he recognized. “Are you sure this is the right way?” he demanded of Basileus.

“I am taking you through the old back corridors,” the Moldan replied testily. “Unless you would prefer the quicker route—which is swarming with Xandim warriors.”

“In that case, this route is fine—so long as we get there in time.”

“We are too late to prevent your companions from being captured, but as yet they are unharmed. They were followed to the vaults and ambushed there, for I had no way to warn them. I tried to conceal them by blowing out their torch, but, alas, it only made them walk right into the hands of their captors, believing they were being rescued.” The Moldan sighed. “The mistake was mine,” he confessed. “The ways of Mortals are still strange to me—though I believe that ultimately my interference has made little difference. Yazour and Schiannath are being held under guard in the stillrooms until the rest of you have been taken.”

“What? Why the blazes didn’t you warn me they had been captured?” Anvar protested.

“I am warning you.” Basileus sounded completely unruffled. “To worry you sooner would have served no purpose. Now, Wizard—stop and pay attention. The next two turnings will bring us to the stillrooms. You must prepare yourself to fight.”

In the stairwell of the turret, Aurian and her companions were also preparing themselves. She and Parric were guarding the door, listening with mounting dismay to the growing clamor of hostile voices on the other side. Already, their surrender had been demanded, and denied. Sangra and Iscalda waited with drawn swords farther up the staircase, while Bohan remained in the Mages’ chamber guarding Wolf. The Windeye was sitting slumped like a rag doll on the bottom step, his spirit gone from his body to ride on the slip of draft that blew around the edges of the oaken door, as he watched the enemy assemble on the other side.

“Lady, they are armed with swords, bows and axes.” His voice echoed hollowly in Aurian’s mind. “They carry torches, too. We cannot hold them off for long—especially not if they use fire. We must prepare to flee.”

Aurian gritted her teeth. “Curse you, Chiamh, I’m not fleeing anywhere. Not without Anvar.” Beside her she felt the cavalrymaster stiffen, and before he had a chance to open his mouth, she snarled: “Whatever it is, Parric, I don’t want to hear it.”

Chiamh’s eyes snapped open as he returned to his body. “I do not propose that we abandon Anvar. Nonetheless, we must prepare,” he told her firmly. “Our only possible exit from this trap is the way the animals take—across the plank and onto…”

Aurian’s blood ran cold at the thought of that fragile makeshift bridge, and the narrowness of the fingerhold ledges and crumbling goat trails beyond. Her curses drowned out the rest of Chiamh’s words—and were drowned in their turn by the crunch of an ax blade biting deep into the door. Before anyone had time to react, the panels juddered beneath another heavy blow.

“Come out, you traitorous freak, before I come in to get you and those skulking Outland scum that you’ve befriended.”

A third splintering crash sent a thin crack snaking down the wooden panel.

Chiamh’s mild brown eyes sparked bright with anger. “Galdrus! I might have guessed,” the Windeye muttered. “Come out, indeed! We’ll see about that.” His eyes flared silver as he twisted the whistling draft to form an illusion and strained to project it simultaneously to the other side of the door.

The Mage, in the meantime, was projecting her own thoughts—to seek the minds of the wolves upstairs. Quickly she projected an image of their danger, followed by a series of mental pictures that showed them picking up Wolf and taking him across the bridge, up the cliffs, and across the plateau to the cats in the safety of Chiamh’s vale. So long as they were quick enough to dodge the eunuch, they would be aft right, and she knew that Bohan, who had always vied with them jealously for the care of her son, would follow the wolves to safety—though (she prayed to all the gods) he would not be quick enough to catch them.

As an afterthought, she made brief contact with Shia, who, as Aurian had suspected, was still waiting with Khanu at the top of the cliff path.

“Are you mad?” the great cat muttered when the Mage had explained her plan. “Oh, never mind—I’ll come down to help them, before that clumsy great ox falls off the cliff or chops someone’s head off by mistake. Khanu will guard the cliff path—though your chickenhearted grass eaters have shown no signs of approaching us so far.”

Shia and the eunuch had always shared a special bond, and Aurian felt easier in her mind knowing that the cat was on hand to guide and help him. Having done the best she could for Wolf and Bohan, she stifled a pang of fear for the eunuch, who would be forced to scale those perilous cliffs in darkness, and turned back to assist Chiamh, who was clearly struggling with difficulties of his own.

Bohan was standing, rigid with tension, near the door of the Mages’ chamber, straining his ears for a hint of sound from the stairwell that would let him know what was happening two floors below. His sword, clutched in one enormous hand, looked like a toy against his massive bulk as he guarded the wolves who protected Aurian’s son.

From their den beneath the table, two pairs of eyes, flashing green with reflected firelight, observed the eunuch even as he watched them. The she-wolf crouched slightly behind her mate, shielding the cub that was their charge. It was not such an easy task as it seemed. In the past few days Wolfs eyes had opened properly, and he had turned into a small gray bundle of curiosity, exploring his surroundings on stubby, unsteady legs with the relentless fervor of all new creatures. And like all new creatures who have been cosseted and protected from birth, he had no idea now of the danger that faced him. He could recognize the shape and scent of Bohan, familiar and loved, who stood nearby, and he wanted to play. Time and again he tried to escape his guardian and reach the eunuch, and repeatedly the she-wolf stopped him with a firm paw and a soft but warning growl, making the cub whimper in frustration.

Bohan stiffened at the sound of Wolfs distress. He’d always hated to relinquish reponsibility for the cub to its lupine foster parents. Lacking Aurian’s Mageborn facility for communicating with the wolves, he saw them only as dangerous wild animals, and did not trust them. The main flaw in his thinking—that Wolf himself was such a beast—he discounted. The cub was Aurian’s son, enchanted, and one day he would be returned to human shape. If Bohan’s beloved Lady said so, that was good enough for him.

Wolf whimpered again, and the eunuch scowled, fighting the urge to scoop up the cub and put him safely in his deep tunic pocket, as he had so often done. He half stooped to peer beneath the table, and the male wolf met his approach with a warning snarl that made Bohan take a hasty step backward from sheer surprise. As a rule, the wolves seemed well aware of those with whom they shared their guardianship, and treated Aurian’s companions as part of their new pack.

With a sudden flash of bone-white fangs, the wolf leapt for the eunuch’s throat. Bohan, already off balance, threw himself backward, his sword flailing fruitlessly at empty air as he fell. In an instant of blinding terror, he waited for the ripping teeth to sink into his flesh—but his attacker was no longer there. The she-wolf, with the cub dangling from her jaws by the loose fur on his neck, was dashing toward the open window, her mate a flashing silver shadow at her heels. In a bound, they reached the sill and were gone.

Bohan’s mind roared out the bellow of rage and anguish that his mute throat could not voice. Aurian had trusted him to protect her son and he had failed her. Without pausing to think of the consequences, he ran to the window and climbed out onto the slender makeshift bridge.

A dew of sweat glittered on Chiamh’s brow, reflecting the eldritch silver blaze of his eyes as he fought to maintain his phantasm on the other side of the door. He had given up his demon—they were far too familiar now with that apparition—in favor of an image of Shia, who stood snarling before the door with her long black tail lashing and her eyes flashing crimson fire above her bared and fearsome teeth. At first it had duped the hostile mob—he had heard their cries of fear and alarm through the thick wooden panels, and for some minutes now the ax blows on the door had ceased. But the deception couldn’t last much longer. In order to maintain the illusion, he had to keep his mind within his body, but without being able to see what was on the other side of the panels, he had no idea of the accuracy of the image he projected, nor how he should make it act in response to what was taking place. It was extremely difficult, in any case, to work at all, let alone on such an ambitious scale, with the slender tendrils of draft that were the only air currents small enough to pass through the sides of the door frame.

All too soon, they saw through the deception. There was a chorus of jeering yells and angry curses from the other side of the door, and suddenly the ax came smashing down again, to bite into the weakening wood. Muttering a vile oath that he had learned from Parric, Chiamh braced himself and tried once more. The phantasm was Aurian herself this time: her green eyes blazing and the Staff of Earth in her hand emitting bolts of emerald fire. Again, the Windeye heard the stifled sounds of a scrambled retreat—but his relief was short-lived. He leapt back with a curse, his illusion crumbling away to nothing as blows rained down on the door, which was beginning to splinter under the repeated assaults. Now what?

The Windeye felt a cool hand on his arm and turned to find himself face-to-face with Aurian. Her presence startled him—he had been concentrating so hard that he had forgotten she was there. “Here—let me help.” The Mage raised her hand, her eyes narrowed in concentration—and the thunder of ax blows ceased. There was a sudden, ominous silence on the other side of the door.

“What did you do?” Chiamh gasped.

“I took your would-be woodman out of time.” Her eyes glittered in the gloom with a dangerous light. “That should give them something to think about for a while.”

Chiamh sagged against the wall, realizing only now how much his previous efforts had exhausted him. “Couldn’t you take them all out of time?” he ventured hopefully. “Just until we escape?”

“Would that I could.” Aurian shook her head regretfully. “I can only work the spell on one thing at a time, and within a very short distance. Once I had taken out a few of them, the rest would simply retreat out of range and wait to ambush us when we came out. We need Anvar to do more—with the Harp he has the power to freeze a number of enemies, as he did the other night. He left it behind, but it’s attuned to him, as the Staff is to me. There are rules governing the use of the Artifacts. I can’t wield it alone without wresting it from his control, and that’s not only dangerous in itself, but for other reasons it is the last thing we would want to do. Anvar can make much better use of it than I can, and he’ll probably have every opportunity, when he gets back.”

Their assailants had found their courage again. Both Mage and Windeye leapt back, retreating in a frantic scramble up the stairs, as a hail of arrows thudded into the door. “Blast them!” Aurian cried, as she heard the telltale crackle of flame. Already the smell of burning wood was drifting up the stairwell. Dark scorch marks were beginning to form around several spots where the heads of the flaming arrows had lodged in the wood, and thin skeins of smoke were drifting through the cracks in the door. Chiamh saw Aurian turn pale, and knew she must be thinking of Anvar trapped elsewhere within the fastness, and herself unable either to defend this one sanctuary against his return, or get out past the attackers to go to his aid.

Parric grabbed the Mage roughly by the arm. “Come on,” he yelled. “We can’t defend this place now that the bastards are using fire. We’ve got to get out of here!”