Sword of Flames

7 The Mountain King

Aurian was drifting, somewhere out beyond her body. From above, she could see the pale, still form that was laid out on a bed of cloaks in the great entrance hall of the Xandim Fastness. Is that me? she wondered. Can it be—really? She felt dreamlike—oddly detached. She knew that she had been badly hurt; she knew her son had been stolen. Curiously, none of that mattered now. She viewed everything from outside, from above, from beyond…

From her high vantage point the Mage could see Parric, one of her oldest Mortal friends, kneeling over her body, his face contorted with grief. She could see Chiamh, the Xandim Seer, propped against the wall in a nearby corner, his face blank and expressionless as he rode the winds to track her lost child. His whole attention was not given to his task, she knew. Always, a shred of his consciousness remained with her, in the Great Hall, worrying about her recovery. And there—even in this soothing limbo she felt a stab of wrenching pain—was Anvar. Her lover had wasted no time in weeping. Instead he was hunched over her lifeless form, trying with every shred of his power and love to pull her fleeing spirit back into her body.

Poor Anvar. What chance did he have? Now Aurian understood what Forral must have felt when he was slain by the Wraiths, and had seen her, much younger then and much more innocent, trying to forestall the inevitable. Gods! How much it would have spared her, then, if she could only have understood the reality. This farewell to mortality was so easy! You only had to let go, and…

A fleeting glimpse of a memory passed through Aurian’s mind. A small boat, a moonlit river, and white foam glimmering on the churning waters of a lethal weir. An icy plunge, and a thought: It would be so easy, just to let go and leave all of this behind…

It was enough to shock the Mage out of her drifting dream. Oh, gods, it couldn’t be. What the blazes are you thinking of? Aurian scalded her drifting spirit with angry thought. You can’t die now! Yet could she prevent it? She felt terror twist her heart within her. A vision of Forral stood before her, veiled by drifting mists—but even beyond the obscuring veils she could see the pain on his face and the glimmer of tears in his eyes. Resolutely, Aurian turned away from the shade, stifling the longing within her. “Go away,” she gritted. “I can’t give up now!”

“He may not go—not this time. He has come for you—to meet you and escort you to my realm.” The ghastly voice pierced Aurian to the core with an ever-deepening grasp like talons of ice. The Mage shuddered. She had heard that voice before—once, long ago, in a dusty, sun-hammered courtyard in the lands of the Khazalim. “What do you want with me?” she whispered.

Death laughed. “What could I want, little fool? You have overplayed your gamble; overstayed your welcome in your world. Once before, you defied me—but this time you are mine!”

The massive, shrouded figure loomed huge and dark in Aurian’s vision, but with a strength born of desperation she ripped herself free from the grasp of his icy claws, though a howl of agony was wrenched from her lacerated soul. “No!” She shrieked her defiance in his face. “I hold the power of the Staff of Earth now. Wrought as it is with the High Magic, it gives me sufficient power to resist you, even in your realm! If you want me, you’ll have to fight me every step of the way!” Aurian fought to hide her astonishment at her own words. She hadn’t known that, about the Staff! How did she know it now?

Death hissed a chilling curse. Turning to Forral, he beckoned the warrior with a snarl. “Defiant as always,” he muttered. “She was your love, swordsman—you take her! Do this, and she will be yours for all eternity.”

Forral looked sadly at the Specter and shook his head. “Not now—not like this. Not unless she wants me.”

“Of course I want you, you great fool!” Aurian took refuge in sharpness to keep back her tears. “But remember what you once told me, about living my life out in the mundane world? And what about our child?” Though guilt smote Aurian—a physical force in this unearthly world, like a spear through her heart—she forced herself to continue. “I love Wolf, too,” she said softly. “And I must get back now, to save him. He is all that remains of you and me.”

Forral smiled sadly. “Not all,” he told her. “Never believe that. But he is a child—lost, threatened, and afraid. If I could protect him, and you, I would—but I can’t. You’re right, love. You should go back.”

“Can I?”

Forral forced a smile, and the Mage understood the measure of the great man’s courage. “I always said you could do anything you wanted to,” he told her, and turned back to the looming figure of Death. “You heard the Lady. If you want her, you can bloody well get her yourself.”

There it was—that same old flashing, unquenchable grin that Aurian had always loved. She grinned back at him, sharing one last instant of communion—then tore herself away and went spiraling back down toward her body. She had almost reached it when, to her horror, she felt her momentum slow. Death was pulling her back—back into the mist.

“It is not for you—either of you—to decide.” The Specter’s voice was implacable, like the slamming of the lid on a tomb. “Your time is over, Aurian. You must pass Beyond…”

“You can do nothing to force me.” The Mage was sure of it now. “I must go back to Anvar, fight the Archmage, and, especially, save my child.”

“Can I not?” Death hissed. Again, Aurian’s soul was torn by the grasp of icy claws. The Specter’s voice grated: “You may possess the Staff, O Mage—but one thing you have forgotten. We made a bargain once, and you still owe me a life. That debt must be repaid…” The words ended in a startled shriek as, once more, the Mage felt herself released.

“Wizard, go back to your body.” The voice had no business here—it was alien—this was none of its concern! In the limbo that enfolded her, Aurian felt fear, and found herself reaching for a nonexistent sword hilt.

Death seemed equally startled. “This is not your business!” he snarled.

“True, it is no business of mine—except that I can see what is important and what is not,” the voice retorted. “This is no time for you to reclaim your debt, O Gray One—and well you know it. Your concerns may differ from those of the Living, but your greed for this one bright soul would prove to be all our undoing. It cannot be permitted at this time. Why must you take her now? Sooner or later she must come to you in any case.”

In the shadows of her consciousness, Aurian could see a massive shape—unspeakably old, powerful beyond all imagining—and utterly alien—hovering between herself and the Reaper of Souls. For a terrifying instant Death seemed to hesitate; then: “Very well,” he snarled. “I will spare her—for now.” The grim Specter vanished, leaving Aurian alone in the void with the alien Presence.

“I am Basileus,” the shadow said. “I am the body and soul of this fastness. I will speak with you later—but now you must return. Flee, little Wizard, toward the one you love. He will help you!”

What, back to Forral? For an instant, Aurian was confused—then all became clear to her. “Anvar!” she cried joyously, and arrowed her spirit toward his seeking mind, searching, searching for him in the gray nothingness of Beyond. And suddenly, to her joyful astonishment, a brilliant green light shone before her: a clear and powerful beacon to guide her through the veils that kept her from her love.

“Damn it, I’m losing her!” Anvar cried in anguish. Aurian’s face was gray-white. Blood and froth bubbled horribly from her wound with every gasping, shallow breath she tried to take. Her heart was faltering and stumbling like a runner at the very end of a race, and only his stubborn will—and that of Aurian, perhaps—was keeping it going at all.

As if through a haze, he became aware of someone at his shoulder—Chiamh.

“I’ll look for the child later,” the Windeye said. “Now, you need me here.” His eyes still silver with Othersight, he bent over Aurian’s still form, his hands moving, knotting, molding the air above her. “This is bad,” he muttered. “I can keep her breathing a little while, but—” He looked up at Anvar, his silver gaze sharp and piercing. “Do you go forth and seek her with your mind, beyond the Veil,” he commanded. “Use her Staff, that once you carved and that she imbued with power. It may link you. I—I will get us some help, if I can.” So saying, he sank down, head bowed, deep in trance. Even as Anvar reached across to find the Staff among Aurian’s scattered belongings, he heard the Windeye whisper a single word: “Basileus.”

Anvar clasped Aurian’s cold, limp hands around the Staff and held them there with his own. He poured forth his mind, his will, and his love into the Artifact—and his spirit went forth into the void, seeking the one he loved with all his heart.

And he found her. Already she was coming to him, hurtling back toward the light of the Staff, streaming tatters of gray. Her wraithlike form was hideously maimed, as though she had been scored again and again by the grip of giant talons. Anvar shrieked her name—felt his own name, cried in Aurian’s voice, reverberate in his mind, harsh with terror and anguish. He held her tightly, and she clung to him as the emerald glow of the Staff fell about them like a benison.

There was no time for their reunion now; no time for love or fear. “Aurian,” he told her urgently, “I need your help. Your Healing is beyond me—I still lack the skill. You must come back now and join with me in the power of the Staff as we did in the desert. Give me your Healing powers, so that I can help you.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Is that possible?” she breathed. Then he saw her jaw tighten. “It had bloody well better be,” she muttered. The world spun, and—

Anvar was back within his mundane form, kneeling over the Mage—but this time he felt her mind, in deep and intimate linkage with his own. He shared her shock as she perceived the damage that Meiriel’s treacherous knife had done to her chest—and felt his own heart miss a beat—for until that moment he had not known the identity of Aurian’s assailant. But there was no time to think of that now.

“We’d better hurry,” Aurian whispered. “I didn’t realize there would be so much to do.”

Without the Staff of Earth they would never have managed it. Without Aurian’s skills, which had been taught her by the very one who had tried to take her life, the Mage would not have stood a chance. Anvar, trusting, simply gave his power into Aurian’s hands, and his hands into her will, and let her do what she would with the fusion of his strength and her knowledge. And after a dreadful, bloody, exhausting age spent rebuilding sliced muscle and damaged tissue, Anvar felt her mind slip free from his own. For an instant he felt the clutch of panic round his heart—then Aurian opened her eyes. “Oh, how I love you,” she whispered. “You did good work, my partner in Healing—and in all things.”

From her nest of cloaks, the Mage looked up to see Anvar grinning like a lunatic for the sheer joy of her safe return. Though as yet she lacked the strength to reach up and touch him, her heart went out to him.

“The skill was yours,” he told her, “and I love you, too.” He clasped her hand tightly. “But are you—will you be all right now?”

Briefly, Aurian’s gaze became unfocused as she scanned inwardly with her powers; then she looked up and nodded, with a weary little smile. “All mended. I’m just sore—and so very, very weary. I must sleep for a while, to regain my strength and let the Healing settle, and then”—her grip on Anvar’s hand grew fierce—“then we go after that bitch Meiriel—and my poor son.”

Anvar frowned. “I can scarcely believe it was Meiriel. Are you sure, my love? Parric was convinced she was dead…”

“I wish to all the gods she was,” Aurian snarled. “But that mistake will be rectified. Is there any news?” she demanded. “Has anything been done?”

Anvar squeezed her hand in comfort and shook his head. “But we’ll—”

“You live!” Shia’s voice echoed joyously in the Mage’s mind as two great cats, their coats flattened and streaked with rain, came hurtling into the hall. Shia nuzzled her with care, long black whiskers splashing icy drops onto the Mage’s face as she purred her happiness.

Aurian, despite her worries, somehow managed to summon a smile for the cat. “I live,” she agreed. “Though the gods only know how. But”—her mental voice was shadowed with fear—“what happened to you, Shia? What news of my son?”

The great cat dropped her head. “We failed,” she confessed miserably. “Our foe threw up a barrier of magic through which we could not pass, and we lost her trail. The Skyfolk, too, seemed equally at a loss. I think the magic veiled her from their sight. Then we sensed that your life was in danger. Even from such a distance, we could feel your mind slipping away…” For an instant, Shia’s mental voice trembled. “Khanu and I returned while the wolves began to quarter the mountain, to see if they could track Wolfs abductor.” She looked away from the Mage. “Aurian—I believe our enemy had assistance. We could have been mistaken, but Khanu and I were convinced that we picked up a faint trace of strange cats—our own folk. I am ashamed…”

“Hush,” a voice interrupted. Looking around, Aurian saw the Xandim Windeye. “Do not blame yourself,” he told Shia, while including the Mages in his mental range. “Things are not all bad. No matter how she tried to hide herself, we do know which way the madwoman went. She may have been able to veil herself from normal vision, but with my Other-sight I pursued her on the winds—I was forced to return to help Aurian when I sensed that her life was threatened. But when last I saw the witch, she had made no attempt to harm the child…”

His voice was soothing, reassuring. Much too reassuring, given the circumstances. Aurian’s scalp prickled with suspicion. “And the bad news?” she demanded. “Come on, Chiamh—what is it that you aren’t telling us?”

Chiamh sighed. “The madwoman took the babe up onto the high Wyndveil slopes and headed toward the Dragon’s Tail ridge. Shia was right—two strange cats were nearby, pacing her like shadows. She has taken your son to the dreaded Steelclaw Peak. Even if they trace her, the wolves will be unable to follow. None but the Black Ghosts may walk the slopes of Steelclaw—and live.”

The stricken silence of the Mages was broken by Shia’s growl. “None but the ghosts, you say? But Chiamh, I am one of your Black Ghosts! Never fear, Aurian, Khanu and I will go to Steelclaw. I have unfinished business there, especially if Gristheena and her people are aiding your foe. Be assured that I will bring Wolf back.”

Meiriel scrambled across the exposed Field of Stones toward the broken ledges of the Dragon’s Tail ridge, alternately blessing her Mages’ sight, which allowed her to pass safely through the darkness, and cursing the wind that wrapped clinging tendrils of hair around her face and drove the rain stinging into her eyes to obscure the very night-vision that she needed so badly.

Despite the storm, despite the hardships of the climb, Meiriel’s heart burned with a savage joy. At last, she had struck down her enemy, the slayer of her beloved soulmate! Her magical shield had foiled her pursuers, and perhaps—Meiriel thrust down the nagging hint of doubt at the back of her mind—it had also shielded her from feeling the pang of Aurian’s death, which she had been expecting every moment since she’d fled. Yet surely her thrust had been fatal—and now she had Aurian’s child, that accursed, unnatural monster, to dispose of at her leisure. In the distance, Meiriel heard wolves howling, and dismissed the chilling sound with a shrug. Instead she looked down, her sharp eyes seeking the hidden way that led down from the plateau, to the shattered ridge. As soon as she reached Steelclaw, and was certain that she had shaken off pursuit, the child would be at her mercy…

“Twisted serpent of a Wizard—, think not”

“Who’s there?” Meiriel whirled, her voice shrill with panic. Though softly spoken, the words had been clearly audible above the whine of the storm.

“You are mistaken, Mad One. Your treacherous attack was not as accurate as it seemed. Aurian will live—even now she is being healed—and if you have not lost the last shreds of wisdom, you will keep her child alive as hostage—or as bait.”

“Who are you?” Meiriel shrieked. Sobbing with terror, her joy extinguished, the Magewoman half scrambled, half fell down the sloping edge of the plateau and crawled onto the broken ridge that led to Steelclaw. Once she had left the Wyndveil behind, the voice tormented her no more.

Crossing the Dragon’s Tail was a nightmare. Meiriel was forced to creep across inch by painful inch on hands and knees, her palms and shins lacerated by the razor edges of broken rock and leaving smears of blood behind them to be washed away by the merciless downpour. The storm shrieked its derision at her, buffeting her frozen body on the exposed ridge and clutching at her with powerful fingers, threatening at every moment to pluck her from her precarious perch and hurl her into the dark depths that plunged down on either side. Because of the energy and concentration needed, she had been forced to abandon her magical shield—but that was of no consequence now.

Meiriel gritted her teeth and pressed doggedly onward, though her mind still reeled from the mysterious message that she had received upon the Wyndveil Peak. Whence had come that voice? Was it some kind of trick, and if so, from whom? What did it mean? Could it really be true, that Aurian was still alive? Meiriel cried aloud in pain and rage, and spat upon the rain-slick stones of the ridge. Supposing it was true? Did she dare take the risk? The voice had been right about one thing. If Aurian was truly still alive, Meiriel would need that babe—one way or the other.

By the time she had reached the far side of the ridge, the Magewoman had managed to gather her wits once more. Even if Aurian should come here, Meiriel still had a trick or two to fall back on, not the least of which was her newfound friendship with the savage denizens of this shattered peak. When that fool Parric had left for the south with his makeshift army, Meiriel had headed for the sanctuary of Steelclaw, to be well out of the way of the Xandim and their keen-eyed scouts as they crossed the Wyndveil.

The Magewoman had had no idea of the Xandim legend that the Dragon’s Tail was impassable and, besides, the unstable ridge was always shifting and being resculpted by wind and weather. She had, with difficulty, succeeded in making the crossing, and during her wanderings on the other side had met with the Black Ghosts of the mountain. There had been so many that she had been forced to use her powers to defend herself—and in the course of her magic had discovered the possibility of communication. On meeting their First Female, Meiriel had discovered that she and Gristheena were of a like mind. The great cat had been wounded, and was still smarting from a recent defeat by some outlaw. Her position as leader was currently very tenuous, and she had been glad of the Magewoman’s powers to back her authority. And Meiriel? She had needs of her own.

Tonight, the Magewoman could not have managed without Gristheena’s assistance. Meiriel glanced across at the two great cats who were pacing her—one a guard, the other with a dangling cloth-wrapped bundle held delicately in its massive jaws. Meiriel smiled grimly at the sight. Thank all the gods that she had not been forced to bear that burden across the broken ridge! Without the use of her hands as well as her feet, she would most certainly have fallen.

Calling to the cat to stop, the Magewoman approached it and poked the bundle with a bloodstained finger. A thin, protesting whine came muffled from within. Meiriel nodded to herself in satisfaction and started tramping again, down the rough trail toward the broken core of Steelclaw. She must return to Gristheena as soon as possible, and then—well, she would see.

“Curse this blasted rain—I can’t see a thing!” Anvar muttered.

“Neither can we,” one of his winged bearers retorted bitterly, “and we are the ones who must do the flying and risk life, wing, and limb among these treacherous peaks.”

“Oh, stop whining!” Anvar muttered, made ungracious by worry—but quicker and louder, Chiamh said: “Most courageous are the warriors of the Skyfolk who volunteered for this perilous mission. You have earned unending gratitude from us, the allies of your Queen.”

Anvar felt the Windeye’s elbow dig him sharply in the ribs, and he hastily added his thanks to Chiamh’s own. It had been a nice touch, he thought gratefully, for Chiamh to obliquely remind the Winged Folk that the Mages had rescued their monarch. He only wished the Windeye could have done something about this wretched storm. “Have you any idea where we are?” he whispered.

There was a glimmer of silver from Chiamh’s eyes as the Windeye turned to scan the darkened landscape with his Othersight. “We are perched on one of the shattered peaks overlooking the heart of Steelclaw,” he replied in mind-speech. “The core is guarded, but not this high, for our winged friends have placed us where the great cats cannot climb. The noise of the storm will shield us from scent and sound, but keep silence, in any case, as much as possible. And have a care for your footing in the dark. This will be a good vantage point—our foe, when last I looked, was headed this way. She must certainly come here if the cats are her allies. Once she arrives, the Skyfolk will take us down quickly—and our trap is sprung”

“Then Gristheena is mine.” Even in mindspeech, Shia’s voice was a savage growl.

“And mine!” Khanu echoed.

Anvar caught the odd little thought symbol that was Shia’s equivalent to upcast eyes, and smiled to himself in the darkness.

“I would not smile if I were you,” Shia told him gruffly. “Aurian is going to murder the pair of you when she wakes and discovers that Chiamh slipped that sleeping draft into her wine.”

“I don’t care,” the Windeye protested. “She would insist on coming with us, and she was in no condition to do it. Besides,” he added, “if we bring Wolf back safely, she will be too glad to slaughter us.”

“You’re right,” Anvar told him. “Probably, she’ll just damage us severely.” Though he was scarcely in the mood to jest, he welcomed the good-natured chaffing. It helped ease his nerves, which were strung tighter than a crossbow.

“Hush!” Khanu interrupted. “I hear something!”

If Anvar could see nothing in the thick brew of storm and darkness, Chiamh, with his Othersight, saw it all. The dark, shelved, broken crater at Steelclaw’s heart; the great projecting ridge of obsidian that glimmered here and there with clusters of firefly light as the life-forces of the cats gathered and shifted, moving here and there. And across from the blackly glittering tongue of the ridge, he saw the dark, featureless mouth of a tunnel. From its maw a faint ghostlight emerged, red and roiling, half-veiled and shot through with spars of lurid darkness. The Mad One! Chiamh held his breath, watching as the sickly gleam of her unlight emerged from the tunnel and began to cross to the ridge, coming right out into the open. Then:

“Now!” he whispered. The nets, on which the companions were still standing, were whipped up around them and pulled tight. The Skyfolk took wing and swept down into the crater.

Hreeza, shivering in the pouring rain, was beginning to wish that she had never come. This was no fit task for one old cat! She must have been thinking out loud, however, for a voice spoke scoldingly from nearby: “For one old cat, perhaps—but we are many. You wanted this, Hreeza. This was your great vision, and you have given us life and purpose again. Have courage in the miracle that you have wrought!”

Hreeza chuckled dryly. “Some miracle—a bunch of skinny-ribbed, patch-coated old vagabonds!” she snorted. But warm courage flooded back into her veins, and her old heart soared with pride. “Sentimental fool!” she told herself—but it felt good, nonetheless. Now, if only they could put their plans into action.

Back in Aerillia, Hreeza had thought the most difficult part of her mission would be persuading that little snippet of a Queen to provide winged bearers, and to let her go in secret. Once that part of the plan had been accomplished, however, and Hreeza had found herself dangling above the clouds in a swinging net, she had abruptly changed her mind. Surviving this, the old cat was convinced, would be the really tricky part. She had been wrong, though. After several days spent sneaking about in the rain and cold—always hungry and living in constant terror of being caught—Hreeza would gladly have climbed right back into that net—so long as there was the promise of a warm fire and a lavish meal at the end of the journey. Her convalescence in the Skyfolk citadel, the old cat thought disgustedly, had made her soft.

Nevertheless, Hreeza had persevered. She had crossed and recrossed the areas on the outskirts of her people’s lands, hunting the elusive chuevah: the lonely outcasts who had been ejected from the clan because of age, or sickness, or unfitness to hunt. Since the brutal Gristheena had begun her rule, there were more than there had ever been. One by one she had found them: timid, hunted, broken-down creatures, some barely holding on to the thread of life. She had cajoled them, persuaded them, tempted, badgered, nagged, and browbeaten them. She had hunted for them, found them shelter, and at the last had gathered them together into the most unlikely army that had ever been. And now she had brought them back to the heart of Steelclaw—to challenge Gristheena’s might, or die in the attempt.

At the time of gathering and persuading her draggled forces to assert themselves, the old cat had thought that this must definitely be the hardest part of her task. Now, as she looked down into Steelclaw’s crater and saw the assembled masses of those who had once been her own people, she realized, with a chill of horror, just how wrong she had been.

“You old fool!” Hreeza muttered to herself. Whatever had possessed her? In the certain knowledge that she would not be able to hold her little band of chuevah together for long—either they would be discovered, so many of them together, or they would lose their courage one by one and slink ashamedly away—Hreeza had decided that she must strike as soon as possible. When she had heard from her spies that there would be a great meeting of cats in the crater, she had blessed her good fortune. But looking at her opponents now—all felines in their prime, well muscled and well fed—Hreeza’s heart misgave her, and she began to think that the trip through the air in that net must have addled her wits. If she did this thing, she would be leading her wretched band of followers, who had come to depend on her, to certain death.

Hreeza sighed. Maybe those whom she had called cowards had the right of it. Maybe it would be better to slink away, head bowed, and simply vanish into the night. Maybe she should take her followers and find them a new home, in another land. There was space in the mountains near Aerillia, and now that she could speak with the Winged Folk, perhaps an accommodation could be reached…

Then into the arena below, escorted by two great cats, came a two-legged shape, shuffling and bowed, and reeking of madness and evil. Hreeza twitched her whiskers forward in curiosity and opened her mouth to better scent the air. What in the world…? Then her sharp ears caught the sound of a high, thin whimper, piteous and faint. The whiff of a scent reached her, so distinctive and redolent of memory that Hreeza felt her heart turn over. In Aerillia, she had played with Aurian’s enchanted son—had even minded him, as she would the cub of another cat, when the Mage was otherwise occupied.

All thoughts of flight, of surrender, fled from Hreeza’s mind. Leaping to her feet, the ancient warrior let out such a roar of outrage and challenge that the very mountain trembled. As though she were young and fleet again, she leapt down from the heights of her lurking place. Like a great black river in spate, her chuevah followed: hair bristling on their bony spines, eyes glowing bright in heads held high and proud, and voices uplifted in their song of battle.