Sword of Flames

14 Through Fire

“How many guards are there?” Anvar asked the Moldan.

“One round the corner, in the junction of the corridors,” Basileus replied. “Two in the doorway, and the rest inside the stillroom guarding the prisoners—a dozen guards in all.”

“A dozen?” Anvar gasped in dismay. How would he deal with so many? Aurian, who had been taught by the world’s greatest swordsman and had practiced the arts of combat for most of her life, might have considered such odds, but he knew his own limitations. But perhaps he could simply take them out of time… Even as he reached behind him for the Harp that was usually slung on his back, Anvar realized that in all the hurry and confusion he had left it behind in his chamber. He swore bitterly. How could he have been so stupid? And more to the point—what was he going to do now?

“Fear not, Wizard,” the Moldan told him. ” I will arrange a diversion. Be ready to act when I give the word.”

Anvar flattened himself against the wall and waited, swallowing to ease a throat gone dry with nervousness. Even as he tightened his grip on a sword hilt that felt cold and slippery in his hand, he could feel with his Mage’s senses, the tingling pulse of life through the silver veining in the smooth, dark stone that pressed against his shoulders. How in the world, he wondered, was Basileus going to distract the guards? What could an inanimate being such as the Moldan do to affect the outcome of the impending fight? It took all of Anvar’s self-control not to leave his body right there and then and send his consciousness ahead up the passageway to see what was happening. He knew better, however, than to make such a stupid error. What if more of the rebel Xandim should come this way while his body was unoccupied? No—he would have to trust Basileus, bide his time, and wait.

Schiannath could barely contain his anger at the base treachery of his compatriots. Even though he was helpless—lying, bound hand and foot, next to the stillroom wall—it did not stop his mind from struggling against his fate. Blood kept dripping down into his eyes from a cut in his forehead, and he was bruised and aching from the blows of fists and feet, for he and Yazour had sold their freedom dearly. But Schiannath was less concerned with his hurts than with the gut-wrenching fear of being captured and imprisoned, once again, by his own people. His return from exile had been like waking from the terrors of an evil dream—and now, it seemed, the nightmare was starting all over again. What would they do to him this time?

In an effort to control the panic that rose up in him like choking bile, Schiannath distracted his frantic thoughts by trying to make sense of what was happening. Why had the Xandim rebelled against Parric now? Even if the Herdlord was an Outlander, he had won his Challenge fairly by all accounts—and what was more, he had promised to relinquish his rule once his companions had been rescued. With the dark of the moon bringing the chance of a new leader tomorrow night, what was to be gained by this uprising? Was it really so important, this Xandim tradition that all aliens must die? As far as Schiannath was concerned, the oddly assorted band of northerners and their companions had been better friends to him than any of his own race—with the exception of Iscalda, of course.

Iscalda! What was happening to his sister now? It was a safe assumption that he and Yazour were not the only victims of this cowardly attack. What had become of Anvar, and Aurian, who had earned his undying gratitude for being the one to lead him, all too briefly it seemed, back to the acceptance of his people? Had they been ambushed, even as he and Yazour had been? Had they been captured? Were they hurt—or even dead?

What did the Xandim have against these Outlanders? Why did they hate anyone who did not belong to their own tribe? Then Schiannath thought of Chiamh, who was one of the Xandim—and yet, before he had learned better, the former outlaw had feared and mistrusted the Windeye as greatly as anyone else in his tribe. Schiannath looked up at the faces of his guards, who laughed and joked among themselves to fan the bright, false flames of their courage. He sensed fear in their studied indifference, their refusal even to acknowledge the presence of Yazour and himself—and knew it for an irrational, gut-level fear of any person or thing that was unknown or unpredictable, or even simply different.

Curse them all! Schiannath could not believe that this could be happening to him—not again—not so soon after the last time. The unfairness of it all made him burn with anger. Half-blind with rage, he struggled against the rough thongs that held him, scoring and abrading the tender skin of his wrists. But they had bound him tightly—they knew their job too well.

A movement caught the edge of his vision, and Schiannath turned his head to see Yazour also fighting to free himself. As their eyes met, the wild hope flashed through his mind that if they could stealthily move closer to one another, they might be able to untie each other’s bonds. But one look at their guard—a stranger to Schiannath—withered that plan before it even had time to take root. Standing close to the prisoners with his sword out of its sheath, he never took his eyes from them—not even for an instant. Schiannath ground his teeth and swore softly to himself. By the Goddess—there had to be something he could do!

Suddenly a cloud of greasy black smoke came billowing out of the empty fireplace, filling the room with an acrid haze. Schiannath stiffened as his guards cried out in alarm. Was there a way to take advantage of their distraction? But all such considerations were quickly forgotten as more smoke—more and more—kept pouring out of the dark void of the stillroom hearth, and the chamber was obscured by a heavy, choking miasma that clung to everything it touched. Though he and Yazour were closer to the ground than their captors and were therefore getting less of the noxious smoke, he could feel it attacking his own lungs now. His eyes began to sting and water as he fought, wheezing and gasping, for a breath that he could not take.

“Now!” The voice of the Moldan resounded loudly in Anvar’s mind. Taking a tighter grip on both his courage and his sword, Anvar rushed around the corner—only to find the corridor beyond quite empty of guards. The reason for their absence became clear a moment later, when he saw the clouds of smoke that were billowing out of the stillroom door, and heard the curses and panic-stricken cries that came from within.

“You’ve set the place on fire?” he asked the Moldan, aghast.

“No, Wizard—it is only smoke.”

Anvar took as deep a breath as he could manage while the air was still clear and braced himself to rush forward down the passage.

“Wait.”

Anvar ducked back around the corner with a curse. Just when he’d got his nerve up to go… “What now?” he demanded irritably.

“Remember that you are a Wizard—and skilled in the magic of Air,” Basileus pointed out with a trace of amusement. “You, of all people, need not breathe the smoke.”

“Plague take it! I should have thought of that,” Anvar muttered. With care, he constructed a shield of energy around himself that would permit clean air, but not the noxious smoke, to pass through. Thus equipped, he set off again down the corridor.

“I should hurry if I were you,” Basileus prompted. “With regard to the smoke, I might have let my enthusiasm get the better of me.”

The Mage didn’t need telling twice. Already, great black billows were rolling out of the stillroom doorway and obscuring the passage. Erupting out of the dark cloud came several running figures, who almost knocked Anvar off his feet as they pounded past. Evidently the Xandim guards had given up trying to deal with the smoke, and were beating a hasty retreat. Though he was glad to have them out of the reckoning, their panic boded ill for Yazour and Schiannath. Anvar broke into a run.

It was impossible to see anything inside the stillroom. Not even the night-vision of a Mage could pierce the dark, obscuring clouds. Much as he wanted to call out to the two captives, Anvar forced himself to remain silent. He had no idea whether or not there were any guards left in the stillroom, and the last thing he needed was to draw the wrong sort of attention to himself. Following the sounds of coughing, retching, and one weak voice (he could not tell whose) that cried for help, he groped his way across the room, tripping over benches and bumping into tables, until eventually he almost fell over the two bound bodies lying near the wall.

Schiannath and Yazour had not been idle. Once their guards’ attention had been distracted, they had seized the opportunity to roll and shuffle along the wall until they were close together. With difficulty, they had maneuvered themselves until they were back to back and had been trying frantically to untie each other’s bonds. But the knots in the thongs were tight and awkward to reach with hands that were bound, and increasing panic had made fingers fumble and shake. It soon became appallingly clear that they would never make their escape before they were overcome by the choking fumes.

Schiannath had looked into the face of Death so many times over the last year that familiarity had blunted part of its terror. Instead of giving way to his fears, he struggled all the harder to free himself and his friend—but there was no way to combat the insidious smoke. It crept burning into his eyes and throat and lungs until he was wheezing and gasping for breath, and blinded by his tears so that he did not see the dark figure that appeared out of nowhere to stoop over him.

“Hold on, Schiannath—I’ll soon have you out of here.”

“Anvar!” the Xandim spluttered. Had he not been so overjoyed, he could have wept with relief as he recognized the Mage’s voice. Suddenly Schiannath felt a disconcerting tingle run through his body, and the smoke that surrounded him disappeared. For the first time in long, agonizing minutes he could breathe again, and the shock of the transition came very close to a thrill of ecstasy. Then the thongs around his wrists parted to the keen, cold edge of a blade, and his hands were free again. Blotting his streaming eyes on his sleeve, the Xandim looked up to see the thinning black miasma held at bay beyond the walls of what appeared to be a bubble of clear air that encompassed Yazour, the Mage, and himself.

Yazour looked to be in a far worse state than the Xandim. He had barely been conscious at the time of Anvar’s timely appearance, but now he was taking great, deep gulps of air as though it were drafts of the finest wine, and a little color was beginning to soften the ghastly pallor of his face. Anvar knelt beside him, busily sawing at his bindings with his knife. “Get your feet free, if you can,” he told Schiannath, without looking up. “And hurry—we’ve very little time to spare.”

Schiannath wasted no time in asking questions. Once the two captives had been released, they scrambled to their feet, Anvar helping Yazour with a supporting arm around his shoulders while Schiannath took the Mage’s sword and went in front. As quickly as they could manage, they groped their way through the thinning murk toward the door.

Without warning, a figure burst out of the smoke behind them and swung a sword at Anvar’s head. Groggy as he was, Yazour’s battle-trained reflexes held firm. He heard the whistle of the blade, yelled, and let his knees buckle, dragging the Mage down with him to one side. The sword flashed harmlessly past Anvar’s right shoulder, to meet another blade in a spray of flying sparks and a resounding screech of steel on steel, as Schiannath, alerted by his companion’s cry, pivoted and struck. Caught off balance by the sheer force of the blow, the attacker stumbled, leaving himself wide-open to Schiannath’s thrust. For a fleeting instant, the Xandim warrior glimpsed his foe’s expression of terror and despair as he realized his mistake and crumpled to the ground, spitted on the point of Schiannath’s sword.

The conflict had begun and ended almost before Anvar had time to realize what was happening. He clambered rather shakily to his feet as Schiannath pulled his sword from his opponent’s body, gave the bloody blade a cursory wipe on the dying man’s tunic, and returned it to Anvar, picking up the fallen man’s sword for himself.

“Thanks.” The Mage took back his blade from Schiannath’s strong brown hand. “It’s a good thing for all of us that you’re so bloody fast—and you, too, Yazour.” He turned to the Khazalim captain, to help him up, but he was already on his feet.

“You must waste no more time,” Basileus warned Anvar. “Your companions are besieged, and the fight goes badly.”

“Come on,” Anvar told his companions. “Let’s get moving—Aurian needs us.”

Bohan had lost the wolves already. He was less concerned about the fact that he had also come within a hairbreadth of losing his life on the springy, slippery plank bridge that bent and bowed alarmingly beneath his weight as he crawled across it on his hands and knees. Though it was only a short crawl from the fastness window to the mountain ledge, much care had been needed to avoid a fall, and by the time he had reached the other side, the wolves, still carrying Aurian’s son, had vanished into the darkness.

The night was still black, with an hour or two of darkness yet to go before the dawn. The eunuch pressed himself against the steep and sloping face of the mountain and, forcing his thick fingers into a narrow, slanting fissure in the stone, clung with all his strength to keep himself balanced on the ledge that was scarcely wider than he could span with one great hand. He had already discovered, to his dismay, that the slender crack to which he clung narrowed away to nothing in the direction he wanted to go—and without a handhold it seemed impossible, because of his massive bulk, that he could keep his body balanced on the ledge. Bohan closed his eyes in anguish. What could he do? Every moment he lingered there, afraid to go forward and refusing to go back, those accursed wolves would be getting farther away with the child that he had promised to guard.

Though there was no rain now, the rocks were still wet and slick from an earlier squall, and a thin, frigid wind whined and snarled as it snaked across the Wyndveil’s bare flanks. Bohan, having spent his life in the broiling desert climes of the south, found himself shivering uncontrollably, and a knot of panic twisted in his breast. Though he told himself stoutly that he could stand any amount of discomfort from the cold, the growing numbness in his feet and fingers could only add to the peril of what was already an appallingly difficult climb—and the longer he waited, the greater would be the risk of a lethal fall.

There was nothing for it. Bohan could not bear the shame of letting his beloved Aurian know he had lost her child. He knew that he must go on somehow and find Wolf—or perish in the attempt. Slowly, he began to inch his way along the ledge, his right hand reeling out ahead of him into the slim crack in the stone; all his concentration centered on the narrowing fissure that provided scant purchase for his abraded fingers.

And then, abruptly, the crevice ended. As the eunuch’s groping fingers met with nothing but smooth stone he rocked for a horrifying instant, until his left hand, still securely anchored, brought his body back to lean, trembling, against the cold rock of the cliff face. But now he was putting too much weight on the fragile ledge beneath his feet. With a tearing crack, the lip of stone broke loose beneath him.

Parric, familiar with the sight of Magefolk at work, had been staying out from underfoot to give Aurian and Chiamh a clear field. While they were holding the attackers at bay, he had slipped upstairs to Sangra and Iscalda and told them to search the rooms and each pack up a bundle of necessities: cloaks, weapons, and any food that was lying around the chambers. He had known a retreat was inevitable and wanted to be prepared. Now it seemed that the time had come.

When the flaming arrows thudded into the door, he ran downstairs and grabbed hold of Aurian’s elbow. “That’s enough,” he cried. “They’re trying to smoke us out! We’ve got to go now, before it’s too latel”

“No!” The Mage wrenched her arm from the cavalrymaster’s grip. “You take the others on ahead. I’m staying here until Anvar comes.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Parric roared. “You don’t know where he is, how soon he’ll get here—or even if he’s alive.”

“He is alive! Have you forgotten that one Mage can feel another’s death?” Aurian rounded on the little man, her eyes blazing. “Don’t argue, Parric. Get the others out of here, and I’ll wait for Anvar.”

“Damn it, Aurian, you won’t! Look at it!” The door was thick, and it would take some time for the fire to eat right through, but tiny yellow tongues of flame were already threading their way up the scorched panels. Chiamh was using up the supplies of water from the upstairs chambers to try to douse the flames, but the fire was burning hot and strong on the other side of the door, and soaking the wood on this side could only delay matters for a little while. It was growing uncomfortably hot in the stairwell. The air was thick and acrid with a haze of choking smoke.

“If you’ll let me be, I’ll try to quench these flames with magic,” Aurian snapped. “Now get away from me, and let me concentrate.”

Parric, desperate now, racked his brains for a way to make the Mage see sense. It didn’t help that he was consumed by a burgeoning resentment of Anvar—and all that Aurian’s refusal to leave him implied. Reluctant as he was to hurt her, she was clearly beyond all reasoning, and there was no time to argue.

The Mage had turned her attention back to the burning door, and Parric seized his chance. He lifted his sword, to club her unconscious with the hilt.

A hand closed round his wrist.

“No.” Chiamh spoke very quietly, but there was a hard look in his amiable face that the cavalrymaster had never seen before. Then the amber eyes flared silver, and Parric felt the sword turn to burning ice in his hand. Swearing horribly, he dropped the blade, which clattered on the hard stone stairs.

“Will you be quiet?” Aurian snarled, without looking around.

Chiamh picked up the fallen sword and returned it to the cavalrymaster. “For shame,” he said softly. “You have no right to make such a decision for her. Go, if we cannot trust you. I will take care of her.”

Parric looked at the Windeye and shook his head. “No.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ll send Sangra and Iscalda, but I’m staying here. If you two idiots persist in this insanity, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

“Very well—but no more treachery.” Chiamh’s voice was still cold. Parric stifled his angry retort. Clasping his sword hilt until his knuckles turned white, he looked over the Windeye’s shoulder to see how Aurian was progressing.

The Mage had missed the tense exchange. She was struggling with problems of her own. It was a simple matter to control the flares and fireballs that she created with her own magic, but this was wildfire—a natural force that was undisciplined and untamable. Aurian bent as near to the smoldering surface as she dared to come, though the heat and acrid smoke stung her eyes and caught in her throat and lungs to make her cough. She was trying to use her powers to absorb the heat energy of the flames, to cool and shrink them, but soon she realized, with a sinking in the pit of her stomach, that the fire was already too far out of hand for that. Curse it, there had to be another way! If the door was eaten through, there would be nothing to keep the attackers at bay—and if Anvar should return now with Schiannath and Yazour, there would be a wall of fire between them and safety.

“Where are they now?” she asked Basileus, who had been keeping her informed as to the movements of her missing companions.

“Coming. Soon they will be here.” The Moldan hesitated. “What will you do when they reach this place?”

“I don’t know.” The Mage’s mental tones were edged with desperation. “Is there nothing you can do to help?”

“Alas, it seems that there is not. I have already tried to make a draft to quench the fire, but it only fanned the flames and made matters worse.”

“Yes, damn it—it would. But wait—hold on a minute…” The Moldan’s words had given Aurian the glimmering of an idea. “Chiamh,” she yelled. “Quick—get over here!”

“I am here.” The Windeye’s voice came from just behind her shoulder, making her jump. If his expression seemed a little strained, Aurian was too caught up with her plan to pay it much attention.

“Chiamh, you’re our expert with Air—do you think you could come up with some means of keeping the air away from those flames on the other side of the door?”

Chiamh’s eyes widened with surprise—then his slow smile of understanding brightened his face. “Ah,” he said. “Very clever, Lady. Let me see what I can do.”

As Aurian moved over to make room for him, the Windeye knelt to join her near the door. Despite the heat, he shivered a little as his eyes glazed over with the uncanny, reflective quicksilver hue, his vision blurring and shifting to the translucent, sharp-edged, crystalline aspect of his Othersight. Dimly, he felt the Mage put out a hand to help steady his sagging body as he sent his mind forth beyond the burning door. The silver strands of air on the other side were blurry with heat and turbulent as a tumbling mountain stream as they rose and fell swirling around the fire, forming the drafts and currents that fed the greedy flames. The actual flames were barely visible to Chiamh’s Othersight, appearing as faint and glimmering wraiths of their former selves. The impatient attackers who crowded the corridor at a safe distance from the fire could be seen as glowing phantoms, the auras of life energy that surrounded them glowing with the angry crimson of bloodlust and greed. The Windeye shuddered, knowing that sooner or later they would have to be dealt with—but first, the fire must be put out.

Straining with concentration, Chiamh tried to take a grip on the twisting tendrils of air and push them out and away from the devouring flames. But because his spirit was out beyond his body, using so much energy to stay in this unnatural state, his powers lacked impetus, and he had nothing but the force of his mind to grasp and mold the silvery strands. The turbulence caused by the fire added to his difficulties, lending the air a force and strength of its own with which to defy him. Nevertheless, Chiamh persevered, though diverting the powerful currents of air was one of the most difficult things he had ever done. Though he could not extinguish the flames, he could at least slow the fire’s advance and gain Anvar the extra moments that he needed.

Conditions were worsening in the stairwell. The moisture in the wood had been burned away now, and the flames were taking a stronger hold. The crackling of the fire grew louder, and Aurian was forced to help herself and Chiamh—and Parric, who waited, hunched and glowering, some three or four steps farther up—by creating, as Anvar had done, a shield around them to keep the smoke at bay.

The Mage, keeping her watch over the Windeye’s body, knew that Chiamh was in trouble. She could see the ravages of the mental battle reflected in his face. Lines of strain had etched themselves deeply around his eyes and mouth, and his long brown hair, soaked through with sweat, hung down in tendrils that she had to keep brushing out of his uncanny silver eyes. Though she began to fear that he might harm himself, she was reluctant to break into his trance lest she make matters even worse. She knew, however, from her own experiences of overextending herself, that Chiamh ran a grave risk of becoming lost in his own magic, with so much of his energy being sucked away to fuel his powers that he would have no chance of returning to his body.

“Anvar, where are you?” she sent out a desperate mental cry, and prayed that he would be close enough to hear it. “We can’t hold on here much longer.”

“We’re almost there.” Anvar’s reply sounded faint and weary. “We ran into a bit of trouble once or twice, but so far we’ve managed to fight our way through—probably because most of the Xandim are massed around your door.”

“Thank the gods you’re all right.” It cheered Aurian just to hear him. “Let me know as soon as you come within sight of our attackers.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Anvar responded wryly. “We’ve reached the corridor junction now.”

“Good. I’ll tell you when.” Aurian looked round at Chiamh, and was relieved to see that, though he was very pale, he looked awake and aware, and his eyes had returned to their normal shade. “I heard you both,” he told the Mage. “I’m ready.”

Aurian drew Coronach from its sheath. “When I give the word, we’re going out there to help Anvar,” she told Parric. Without giving him a chance to start arguing again, she turned back to the door, which, without Chiamh’s support, was now collapsing in a mass of flames.

“Now!” As she cried the word with both her voice and her mind, Aurian blasted the remains of the door with a bolt of energy that sent the flaming fragments exploding out into the corridor and into the mass of Xandim. They scattered, shrieking, beating at flying bits of burning wood and the sparks that lodged and clung in their clothing and hair. Aurian burst into the corridor screaming a battle cry, with

Parric and Chiamh close behind her. They tore into the disorganized cluster of Xandim like a pack of wolves.

Shia had sent Khanu ahead up the mountain to escort Wolf and his foster parents to Chiamh’s vale. Then, as Aurian had asked her, she had returned to the upper levels of the fastness, picking her way along the flywalk of narrow ledges of the cliffs behind the massive building in search of Bohan. Though she hated to admit it to herself—almost as if, in some irrational way, the admission would make her grounds for concern a reality—she was becoming increasingly worried about the eunuch. “Why can he not keep up?” Shia muttered to herself. “Great clumsy ox—probably got his feet in a tangle…” That thought halted her with a shudder. On these ancient, crumbling cliffs, even one mistake would be fatal. She was nearing the fastness when the scream ripped through the night.

A scream? Shia’s ears went back. It couldn’t possibly be, but… With a snarl, she went leaping from ledge to ledge down the cliff as though pursued by a hoard of demons. It was impossible to run on these narrow projections, but Shia, seething with frustration, scrambled down at a perilous speed, her claws extended to give her better purchase. When she reached the narrow chasm where the cliff came close to the fastness, her heart turned to ice within her. Bohan, his eyes bulging with strain in a face gray with terror, hung by his fingers from the last crumbling spur of the broken ledge that had clearly collapsed beneath the weight of his great body. Somehow, as he fell, he had managed to catch the edge of the broken stone, and was suspended there over the drop.

Even as she looked on in horror, his straining fingers slipped a little farther from the ledge. The cat darted forward and sank her fangs into the back of Bohan’s tunic, digging her claws hard into the stone to stop herself from slipping. The eunuch’s weight dragged at her, wrenching the muscles of her jaws and neck, but she held on firmly, taking as much of the strain as she could from his arms and hands. It was all she could do to help him. Bohan himself would have to gain a better grip and pull himself back—but he seemed paralyzed by terror, unable to risk what scant hold he had in order to inch himself to safety.

Shia’s mind flew back to the tunnels beneath Dhiammara, when she had almost plunged into the chasm fighting the spider-creature, and he had performed the same service to save her life. Bohan had been her silent but staunch companion since the day she had escaped from the Khazalim Arena, and had shared the days of her freedom ever since. He was her friend. She couldn’t let him fall. Move, you great lummox, she thought desperately. Pull yourself up! I can’t hold on like this forever.

Clenching her jaws around the mouthful of cloth, she edged back a little, knowing the futility of trying to haul up the eunuch single-handed, but with no other option but to try. The small, harsh sound of tearing fabric seemed to rip across the night, loud as a thunderbolt to Shia’s ears.

Bohan!

The eunuch looked up into her eyes and said, quite plainly: “Shia. My friend.” His fingers scrabbled fruitlessly at the ledge as the last of the fabric tore away—and then he was gone. Shia heard the thud of a body, striking the rocks far below.

Then there was silence, save for the keening of the wind.

Shia sat back on her haunches and howled her grief at the uncaring mountains.

Anvar’s world had become a nightmare of smoke and blood and flashing blades. Though Aurian had been training him in the use of a sword as they journeyed, this was his first real battle, and he discovered that as soon as he entered the mêlée, all of her carefully ingrained lessons simply vanished from his mind. All he could do was respond to the challenges of each separate moment: the next foe that came at him, the next sword that was raised against him. Warm blood dripped from a shallow cut in his forearm where he had caught the edge of a glancing blade, but in the heat of the fight he felt no pain. He blocked a blow, missed an opening and swore, turned his blade to meet the return stroke backhanded. He did not miss a second time. Aurian’s training held true, guiding his instincts to slip his sword through his opponent’s guard to rip the man’s belly. The Xandim fell, to be instantly replaced by another.

Anvar’s sword had taken on a life of its own, hacking and piercing, parrying and blocking, and he was aware of nothing save the foes that surrounded him, and the shadowy shapes of Schiannath and Yazour to either side. Dimly, he knew that they were using their superior warrior’s skills to help defend him, but there was no time now for thoughts of gratitude. His mind could only be fixed on his survival, yet somewhere, at the edge of his consciousness, he was always aware of the tall, flame-haired figure that he strove to reach on the other side of the frenzied, milling mob.

Aurian was coming closer now—or he was coming closer to her. With every minute that passed, there were fewer foes between them. The Mage dispatched an opponent and glanced up to meet his eyes. As the companions gathered together, Anvar felt the tingling force of the magical shield that she threw up around them, and saw the attacking Xandim drop back from the barrier of spitting sparks. With a surge of relief that the fighting might be over at last, he threw his power behind that of his soul mate, to extend and reinforce the shield.

“Back to the tower,” Aurian yelled, in a voice that would have done credit to Forral’s battle-trained roar. But even as the Mages met in the midst of the fighting, everything went horribly awry. Anvar glimpsed Sangra and Iscalda running down the tower steps, yelling something about a broken ledge, and wandered what the blazes they were playing at. Aurian, with heir closer link to Shia, received the message an instant sooner. Anvar saw her falter, her eyes blank, her face stark white. The enemy pressed in closer as the shield began to fail.

“No!” Even as the raw cry of grief was torn from Aurian’s throat, his own mind was battered by the impact of Shia’s emotion—and his own. Bohan? Dead?

“Look out, you fool!” a voice roared in Anvar’s ear. A sword flashed up to block the blade that was whistling down toward him, and a shower of sparks scorched his face, narrowly missing his eyes. Anvar scrambled his wits together and plunged his own blade into the attacker’s chest, whirling with the follow-through to see Yazour turn to face another foe who was coming in on his right. Beyond them Schiannath was protecting Aurian in a similar fashion, while Chiamh fought beside them, and Parric, flanked by Sangra and Iscalda, defended the tower doorway.

“Aurian!” he yelled—and was relieved to see her eyes come back into focus, glittering a wrathful silver. Snarling an oath, she flung up the shield once more, with such force as to hurl several of the Xandim back along the passage. Anvar rushed toward her and seized her hand to drag her to safety, lest in her rage at Bohan’s death she decide to take on the Xandim single-handed. Even in such a desperate moment there was comfort in that touch—and Aurian evidently had too much sense to prolong a fight against such odds. Taking advantage of their opponents’ terror and dismay, the companions raced for the tower stairs. When all had reached the safety of the upper landing, Aurian turned, eyes blazing, and flung a bolt of fiery energy at the sloping ceiling of the staircase below. Anvar’s mind was battered anew by a cry of indignant pain from Basileus as the roof collapsed in a grinding avalanche of rubble and dust.