Sword of Flames

6 The Storm Breaks

The little band of Xandim cavalry were but a scant handful of days from their destination, and excitement was growing within them as they neared their homeland. They had climbed high now, into the great mountain range, and were looking forward to the day when they could look out across the roof of the world and see the familiar shape of their own sacred Wyndveil Peak, glimmering in the distance like a promise.

Spirits were high around the fire that night, and the talk and laughter were loud, but even though the flask was passed round again and again from hand to hand, the Xandim maiden declined her share and crept away from the crowd of warriors who had crammed themselves into the bright circle of the campfire’s glow. After so many months of near solitude, Iscalda still found herself overwhelmed, on occasion, by such a press of people, and she wanted to be alone for a time—at peace with the immense stillness of the night. On quiet feet she crept past the sentries and ventured a little farther beyond the glare of the flames until the soft hum of voices had receded and the stars above her were bright once more.

Iscalda unbraided the rippled flaxen banner of her hair and pushed her cloak back from her shoulders, letting the wind that swirled down from the snowpeaks stroke her arms with fingers of ice, raising tingling gooseflesh along the bare skin. She shivered pleasurably, luxuriating in the sensation of being clothed in human flesh once more. For her, this trek back through the mountains to her homeland had turned into a wondrous voyage of discovery. She had been trapped in her equine form for so long that she had almost forgotten simple, ordinary sensations such as the smooth slide of linen and the rough drag of wool against her skin; the savor of hot food in her mouth and the supple weight of a leather cloak around her shoulders; the heart-lifting, all-enfolding warmth of strong arms pulling her into an embrace; and the delight of shared laughter with a friend. Sights, sounds, scents, emotions—they had all seemed like thrilling new experiences, tasted for the very first time. In these last few days Iscalda had felt like a child again, running out, full of excited expectation, into the morning of the world.

“Lady—do you not feel cold?”

Iscalda jumped at the sound of the soft voice that came from behind her and, whirling, came face-to-face with Yazour. He had been the last person she had expected to hear addressing her in her own language. During the journey she had been chiefly occupied with renewing old friendships among her own people, and had forgotten that Chiamh the Windeye had extended a spell of tongues around the strangers so that they could be understood. With a startled exclamation, she took a hasty step backward and pulled her cloak around her shoulders once more.

The young warrior inclined his head in apology. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“No?” Iscalda inquired tartly. “You creep up soft-footed as a Black Ghost of the mountains, and suddenly speak from out of the darkness. What, then, did you expect?”

Yazour laughed. “You have me there. What I meant to say was that I did not come out here with that intention. In fact, I left the fireside to satisfy a much more mundane and pressing need, but as I was returning, I saw you standing there, alone in the darkness.” He hesitated. “Lady—I must confess that I was driven to approach you by curiosity. Since our rescue, we have had no chance to speak privately with one another, and…”

“And?” There was an edge to Iscalda’s tone. Already she knew where this must be leading. When he did not reply, she went on for him. “And you remembered what I was when you first met me, and wanted to know whether, as a woman, I had retained the instincts of a lowly beast—to be at the beck and call of any passing man—”

“No!” Yazour’s protest interrupted her. “Lady, you misjudge me. I simply wondered how it could be that the most magnificent horse that I had ever seen could have been changed, as if by magic, into the most beautiful woman. I wished to understand the nature of your race—yet, as your warriors talked with one another around the campfire, something—a fear of giving offense perhaps—has held me back from asking, especially since my people and yours have been foes for so long. But I felt, because of the long days of our captivity that we spent together in the cave, that you and I might share some fellow-feeling. Your thoughts then, I know, can not have been those of a mere beast. The night you took me to the tower, you understood my need, and when I saw you tonight, I thought that you, of all people, might understand again, and forgive any offense that an outsider and former enemy might convey with his prying questions.”

Iscalda was mollified, if not a little surprised, by his words. “In a sense, you were wise not to ask the warriors,” she mused. “Once, your questions—your very presence in our lands—would have meant instant execution. Yet you do not seem like an enemy to me, Yazour. And if what I hear from Chiamh is true—that our people soon will go to war—then the secret of our dual nature, which the Xandim have guarded so jealously for so long, may soon be out in any case.” She smiled at him. “Ask, then, Yazour—and I will try to satisfy your curiosity.”

The young warrior spread his hands helplessly. “I scarcely know where to begin,” he confessed. “I—well, there was one thing that puzzled me…”

Iscalda laughed. “You want to know where the clothes go?” Even in the dim light she could see his skin take on the darker hue of a blush. To rescue them both from his embar rassment, she went on quickly. “The garments just seem to be part of us and change as we do—into horsehair, perhaps—who knows? You might try asking the Windeye. Leather, wool, flax—fastenings of thong or carven horn or bone—anything that once was living matter—changes with us. Weapons, buckles, personal adornments of metal or polished stone, do not change, however. If we wish to take such items with us, they must be carried by another, in human shape. It’s sometimes inconvenient—but at least the clothes are always there when we change back to our human form, and that’s the most important thing.”

Yazour smiled. “Given the barbaric climate of these mountains, Lady, I cannot fail to agree with you.”

Iscalda had noticed that the young man always seemed to require more garments than her own folk, and yet he always seemed to be shivering. Chiamh had told her that the sun burned much hotter where Yazour came from, but she found that impossible to imagine. She was robbed of her chance to question him, however, for he was already speaking again. “How came your people to be as they are, Lady? What is their history?”

Now it was Iscalda’s turn to shrug. “That I cannot answer. No one knows where we came from, or how we came to be—not even the Windeye. It seems that we were always here, and always as we are.”

“And yet you knew that you differed from other races,” Yazour said thoughtfully.

“I believe so.” Iscalda nodded. “That is why we have always kept secret our ability to change our shapes. Forgive me, Yazour, but your own people, the Khazalim, have always been notorious for enslaving other races. Imagine what useful slaves we Xandim would make, if the truth were known!”

“No one shall enslave you, Lady!” The vehemence of Yazour’s reply startled Iscalda. “The secret of the Xandim will always be safe with me. Even were it otherwise, I am an exile from the lands of the Khazalim and may not return on pain of death. I owe no allegiance to the Khisu whatsoever.”

Iscalda felt her heart clench with pity for the young warrior. She too had been an exile, and she knew the bitterness and sense of loss that he must be feeling. She bit her lip. “You know, do you not,” she said quietly, “that even if you wished to do so, you would never be allowed to return to your lands alive, now that you know our secret?”

Yazour nodded gravely. “I had guessed as much. But it makes no difference. My way lies northward now. Where Aurian and Anvar go, I will go also—and if I survive the approaching conflict—” He shrugged. “Well, then we will see. But one thing I can promise you: I will never return to the land of my birth.”

“Never?” Iscalda sighed in sympathy with the young warrior. “That seems too harsh a fate…”

“Iscalda! What are you doing out here beyond the sentries?” Iscalda recognized the familiar outline of Schiannath, walking toward them, silhouetted against the glow of the distant flames. “At least you had the good sense not to wander off alone,” he added, but as he drew nearer and discovered the identity of her companion, Iscalda heard a note of doubt creep into his voice. She was stung into a swift defense of her companion.

“Must you treat me like a child, Schiannath?” The words came out more sharply than Iscalda had intended, and she strove to reach a more conciliatory tone. “I know that no one should be out alone, unguarded, dear brother, but following our long period of isolation, so many people overwhelm me at times. I crept away to be alone with the night, but Yazour discovered me and thought much the same as you. When he found me here, he kindly stayed to bear me company.”

“Indeed,” Yazour concurred. “But in truth, Schiannath, I was also glad of the opportunity to make the acquaintance of your sister in her human form at last.”

Schiannath came up between them and put an arm around each of their shoulders. The honeyed scent of mead was on his breath, and as he rested his weight upon her, Iscalda realized that he must have been drinking heavily from the flasks that each Xandim warrior carried—ostensibly, in case of emergencies. “You mistake me, my sister,” he told her, his voice slightly slurred. “Yazour, as far as I am concerned, you are not an enemy. You may be an Outlander—but did the Goddess herself not instruct me to befriend you?”

“What?” It was the first time that Iscalda had heard of this. She had a vague, equine memory of meeting the great cat in the pass—a recollection of terror and blood and rage—the buried, instinctive urge to defend her beloved brother at all costs from the predator. She also remembered Yazour—a still, dark huddle, with his lifeblood sinking into the chilling snow.

Her brother went on to explain how, in the pass beyond the Tower of Incondor, the Goddess Iriana Herself, in the form of one of the great Black Ghosts of Schiannath’s home mountains, had given him instructions to befriend and succor the wounded warrior. Iscalda listened, incredulous, as his tale unfolded—until, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yazour’s mouth quirk in suppressed amusement. Goddess, indeed! The young warrior knew, or suspected, more about this matter than he was revealing, and Iscalda intended to get to the bottom of it—but not now.

“So, you see,” Schiannath was saying, “I trust you in the company of Yazour. I befriended him at first because I was told to, but later he earned my true respect. The rest of the Xandim, however, are another matter.”

At that, Iscalda switched her attention back to her brother’s words. “What have they to do with it?” she demanded.

“They will view me as another Outlander, and suspect me accordingly,” Yazour put in, his voice sharp with hostility. He was right, Iscalda realized.

“Exactly, Yazour,” Schiannath added. “They have no idea of what lies behind your inclusion in our party—and what reason have they to trust the word of my sister and myself, who have only lately been accepted on sufferance and through the most unusual circumstances, back into the Xandim?”

Iscalda looked at her brother through narrowed eyes. Clearly, he was not as drunk as she had thought. Despite the absence of light, he turned to look deep into her eyes. “There is, however, another complication, Iscalda—and one that you have not considered.”

“And what is that?” The Xandim maid felt the first true stirrings of alarm.

Schiannath sighed. “Your betrothal to Phalihas.”

“Nonsense!” Iscalda snapped. Her anger, however, was not directed at her beloved brother. It stemmed from a sudden, sinking fear. “The Herdlord is defeated now,” she protested. “Schiannath, you know I only agreed to the betrothal in the hope that I might have sufficient influence to protect you—and much good it did either of us, in the end. But Phalihas is defeated now. His reign and his power are ended. The Windeye would not permit him—”

“The Windeye cannot prevent him,” Schiannath said heavily. “I have just been talking to Chiamh. This is the heavy news that I had come to break. Iscalda, under Xandim Law you were betrothed to Phalihas. While you were exiled, the betrothal was void—but now that you have been accepted back into your tribe, the betrothal still stands. Should the Windeye ever allow Phalihas to revert to his human form—and how can Chiamh refuse?—you, of all people, should know the alternative—then you will belong to our former Herdlord, as you did before.”

“Will he never come?” Basileus muttered irritably. Restless within the great mountain peak that comprised his body, the Moldan kept his vigil, awaiting the return of Chiamh, the Xandim Windeye. For the first time in all the endless aeons of his existence, the giant Earth-Elemental was finding it difficult to resign himself to patience—for these were the most momentous times he had known in many centuries.

The world was changing: the course of history was turning relentlessly toward a newborn age. The ancient Artifacts of Power were waking, and three of the four Great Weapons had already been loosed upon the world. The Mageborn were at war once more, and the fate of the future hung trembling in the balance, awaiting the discovery of the final Artifact—the Sword of Flame, the great master-weapon designed long ago by the far-seeing and powerful Dragonfolk, to be their legacy of hope for the future. Into whose hands, the Moldan wondered, was the Sword destined to fall at last? The answer could spell either the hope of freedom for Basileus and all his Elemental kind—or it would herald the onset of slavery, annihilation, and the start of a new Age of Darkness.

Magefolk! Basileus felt the slow burn of anger deep within his core. Long ages ago, the ancient Wizards had imprisoned all his kind in these immobile shells of stone to prevent them from using their vast, arcane, and unpredictable powers of the Old Magic to influence the fate of the world. Any future hope of freedom for the Moldai and the other Elemental races, such as the Phaerie, depended upon the Artifacts of Power—or, more precisely, upon the intentions of those who wielded them.

High up on the slopes of the Wyndveil, rocks ground together and the flanks of the mountain trembled as the Moldan expressed his frustration. There was so much at stake, yet he could do so little to influence the outcome of the approaching conflict! It was scarcely surprising, Basileus reflected sourly, that he could find no rest.

The Moldan was not the only watcher on the Wyndveil. Had Basileus been paying less attention to his inner thoughts, and more to what was taking place upon his outer skin, he might have noticed the lurker on his peak. Night after night, while the moon went through its changes, the madwoman had lain in wait, spying upon the Xandim Fastness from her hiding place among the rocks above. She knew they would return, the ones she sought—and from this vantage point she would have early warning of their coming.

Wild-eyed, wasted with hunger, and pierced through and through with cold, Meiriel kept her lonely vigil, concealed in a hollow in the frost-cracked rocks well away from prying Xandim eyes, feeding on little more than the hatred and desire for revenge that had sustained her for so long. Soon, now, her wait would be over. She had found friends—new and powerful friends—who would help her wreak her vengeance. The one who had caused the death of her beloved soul mate, Finbarr, would soon be here, along with that accursed monster, the half-Mortal abomination that she had borne. Aurian was coming, and when she arrived… Meiriel ran her tongue across the sharp points of broken teeth. “I will rip out her heart and drink her blood,” she whispered.

Parric struggled with warring feelings as his tight-knit band of Xandim warriors picked their way through softly falling rain, across the final projecting ridge of the Wyndveil to strike the trail that led toward their Fastness. “What in the world is wrong with me?” the little cavalrymaster wondered. Why, he ought to feel happy and triumphant after his achievements! Had he not done what he’d set out to do? His journey to the sprawling, hostile Southern Kingdoms had been a nigh-impossible gamble, yet against all the odds he had succeeded in finding Aurian… “And what’s more, I will bring her home with me, to join our fight against the Archmage,” he muttered.

At the sound of the cavalrymaster’s voice, the powerful black stallion that he rode flattened his ears back and turned his head to roll a wicked, white-rimmed eye at his conqueror and foe. Resentment burned behind that gaze: hatred (not unjustified, Parric admitted) for the one who had consigned this once-proud king to the humiliation of captivity and servitude. The cavalrymaster must never forget for a moment that his mount was Phalihas, one of the shape-shifting Xandim, who had not only occupied a human form but had once been Herdlord—the Xandim leader—before Parric had challenged and defeated him, and Chiamh had trapped him in his equine shape.

Phalihas, sensing his rider’s distraction, tried to dislodge Parric with a series of jolting bucks. Swearing, the cavalrymaster tightened his seat in response and rashly urged the beast to a faster pace. While the horse was preoccupied with picking a footsure way through the treacherous terrain, the creature would have little opportunity to be causing trouble.

Trouble. It always came back to that. “Why must everything be so bloody complicated?” Parric fretted. Back in his old role as cavalrymaster of the Nexis Garrison, Parric had been equal to anything. When it came to soldiering, his skills could scarcely be bettered. But ever since Forral, his friend and commander, had been murdered by the corrupt Archmage, the foundations of Parric’s world had been slipping. Even Aurian, whom he had come so far to rescue, had seemed so altered…

The cavalrymaster shook his head in dismay, then chided himself for being unfair. You fool, he told himself. Of course she’s changed. After what that poor lass has been through… At this point, his imagination failed him. Treachery, battle, and death Parric could understand, but when it came to magic, he was utterly lost. Even now, he could scarcely bring himself to contemplate the fate of Aurian’s firstborn—Forral’s son. Cursed by the Archmage to take the form of the first beast his mother saw after bearing him, the child had been transformed into the shape of a wolf cub.

Parric gritted his teeth against a surge of anger and wished that he could have Miathan at his sword point, to make him pay for the atrocity that he had committed upon a helpless child—especially since the boy was all that was left of Forral. In his secret heart, the cavalrymaster had been hatching a plan to care for Aurian. It would have been a pleasure, not a duty, to raise the son of his friend and commander—and though he could never really hope to take Forral’s place as a father to the lad, he was determined to do his best. The boy would have taken the place of the son that Parric had never (knowingly, at least) fathered. But how, in the name of all the gods, could a man be a father to a wolf cub? Besides, one look at Aurian had disabused the cavalrymaster of such unrealistic notions.

Parric sighed. It was his own fault, he acknowledged ruefully. He had always thought of Aurian as an untried young girl when she was in the presence of Forral. The swordsman had always been so confident and capable that those around him seemed diminished by comparison. But the steel-eyed, grimly resolute Aurian that Parric had found in the Tower of Incondor had stunned the cavalrymaster, and shaken him to the core. She had matured, true, but that was only to be expected. What Parric had not anticipated was the aura of power that surrounded her, wrapping her about in a cloak of numinous force. He had not expected the hardness in her eyes, the chiseling of bitter experience on her face, and the flat practicality that led her to leave her newborn son in the care of others while she went off in pursuit of more urgent goals. It wasn’t right, somehow—though he acknowledged that her actions had been necessary.

Parric cursed himself for entertaining such unjust thoughts. Had he not served and fought with pragmatic female warriors such as Sangra and Maya? Was Aurian not a better swordswoman than either of them—and a Mage besides? So why was he swamped by this irrational protectiveness toward her? It was almost as though the shade of Forral haunted him. But that was ridiculous, Parric told himself, as he tried to shake himself free of his doubts. Soon he would be back at the Xandim Fastness, and would have more urgent matters to consider. There, too, he would see Aurian again—and surely, once they had spent more time together, he would recover his former sense of ease with her.

Aurian and Anvar arrived at the Xandim Fastness with their escort of Winged Folk and landed, damp and shivering in their nets, in a mist of fine spring drizzle that was becoming heavier by the moment.

“Ugh!” Aurian stepped carefully from the tangle of meshes and tried to pull the clinging folds of her wet cloak more closely around her shoulders with her free hand. The attempt was made awkward by the fact that Wolf was cradled in the other arm, snugly asleep against the warmth of his mother’s body. Above the Mage, more Skyfolk circled, waiting their turn to land, bearing the net that contained the cub’s lupine foster parents within its enclosing meshes. They looked a bedraggled sight, with their wet fur clinging spikily to their bodies, and Aurian could sense from their thoughts that both of them would be infinitely relieved to get their feet back onto good, solid earth once more. The Mage never ceased to be amazed and humbled by the extent of their forbearance and their loyalty to herself and her child. Which made it all the worse that they were out here being soaked and chilled, along with Aurian’s other companions. Already the Skyfolk, who hated the discomfort of wet plumage, were growing restive. With an impatient sigh the Mage turned back toward the Xandim Fastness, anxious to get her party into shelter quickly, and out of the damp, inhospitable night.

Anvar, aware of the restless mutterings of his winged escort, was squinting through the drifting veils of rain. “Where the bloody blazes is everybody?” he muttered irritably. “Even if they haven’t posted guards, they should at least be keeping some sort of watch. According to our winged scouts, Parric and his lot should certainly have arrived by now.”

“What useless humans,” rumbled Shia, shaking a spray of moisture from her fur. “Anvar, will you help us, please?” The cat sounded thoroughly disgruntled. She and Khanu had been landed quickly—due, Anvar suspected, to a good deal of nervousness on the part of their winged porters. The Skyfolk had dropped the net all in a tangle and retreated to a safe distance, and Shia and Khanu, without hands to unwind the mare’s nest of knotted rope, were securely enmeshed. Anvar, wiping rain out of his eyes, went to disentangle his friends.

“I’ve just spoken to Chiamh,” Aurian reassured them. “He was asleep—they all were. They didn’t expect us so soon. He says that the last part of the journey over the Wyndveil was grueling—they were exhausted by the time they reached the fastness. He’s rousing them now and they’re sending out an escort.”

“About time,” Shia muttered. “Lazy two-legged—” Her head swung sharply. “What was that?”

“What?” Anvar frowned. All his concentration had been centered on unraveling the snarled net.

“I thought I heard somethi—”

None of them had any more warning than that, as a black shape streaked out of the darkness toward Aurian. Hampered by the child in her arms, the Mage had neither the time nor the opportunity to react. Even as he leapt to his feet, Anvar saw the dark form close upon her, saw her crumple, heard a terrified squeal from the cub. Then the shape was gone.

“Follow it!” Anvar bellowed at the Skyfolk, who were still standing nearby, paralyzed with shock. Two of them took off in pursuit. Shia and Khanu burst free of the tangled net and went bounding after them, with the two wolves—who had been landed too late to help the Mage—close upon the heels of the great cats.

“Aurian!” Anvar bent over the limp form of the Mage, who lay motionless, facedown on the waterlogged turf. Sliding his arms beneath her, he turned her gently but was unable to make out any details in the gloom. Her skin was dreadfully cold. Somewhere in the background, he heard the sound of running feet. Then he was surrounded by Xandim who milled uselessly about him, unable to keep their torches alight in the rain, and blocking what little light was available even to Anvar’s night-vision. Frantic, Anvar gathered all his rage and fear and threw the energy into a brief, bright flare of Magelight that sent the Xandim reeling backward, covering their eyes and screaming in panic.

“What in Chathak’s name is happening here? Get out of the way, you fools! Let me through!” To his relief, Anvar recognized the voice of the cavalrymaster.

“Aurian was attacked,” the Mage cried. “Quick, Parric—help me get her inside.” He heard the cavalrymaster curse, and then the little man was at his side. “Is she badly hurt, Anvar?”

“I think so.” He lifted Aurian from the rain-soaked ground and followed Parric quickly as the little man cleared a path through the milling crowd. How badly she was hurt he didn’t dare think—but in that brief flare of Magelight, Anvar had seen that her tunic was soaked through with dark blood that was welling around the blade of a jagged knife, sunk deep into her chest.