Aurian knew only pain, a crimson sea in which she twisted and struggled, striving desperately not to drown. A wave of agony would take her, lift her screaming, and finally cast her gasping on the shore—only to be picked up and snatched back by another wave of pain, and lifted into torment once more. Her only link to reality, it seemed, was the slender thread of Nereni’s calm voice, soothing her and chanting advice—and the burning gaze of the Archmage, whose presence loomed above her like a black and ominous thundercloud over the crimson sea. Once, during a brief interlude from pain, Aurian’s misted vision caught the chilling gleam of a dagger, ready in his hand for when her child should come.
But birthing, for Magefolk, was never easy—and this babe did not want to come. The child’s mind had caught Aurian’s terror, and with all the stubbornness of his Mageborn heritage, he struggled against his fate.
“Aurian—for the Reaper’s sake—push!” Nereni’s voice was swept away by the tide as the Mage was swept up by another great wave of pain. She was snatched back by slaps that stung her face, and caught a bleared glimpse of Nereni, tousle-haired, white-faced, and frantic. “Aurian, you must help him. Help him to be born, or you both will die!”
“No.” Aurian turned her face away from Nereni. “Not for this. Not for Miathan. I won’t.” The Mage’s mind fled her body, fled the sea of pain, fled through an endless gray waste seeking Forral. Always, he had helped and comforted her. “Forral,” she shouted desperately. “Forral . . .”
From somewhere ahead, she seemed to hear the echo of a reply. Aurian strained toward the distant sound—but suddenly her way was blocked by a vast black shadow.
“You may not seek him here. It is forbidden.” With a chill, she recognized the bleak and dusty voice of Death,
“Let me come to him,” Aurian cried, struggling vainly against the cloud of icy blackness that constrained her.
“Aurian—go back.” Death’s voice was inexorable—but not unkind, “Now is not your time, nor that of the child you carry. Go back, brave one—return and bear your child.” With that, he cast her effortlessly forth, and Aurian went spinning down into blackness.
Biting his lip, Yazour cast desperately around in his mind for a way to save Schiannath from the attacking Winged Folk. Wounded as he was, how could he reach the top of the tower? Then the night was split by a shrill, wailing cry from the rooftop, and a dark, crumpled shape came twisting down through the air to smash into the snow. The young warrior, his heart in his mouth, collapsed over Iscalda’s neck, limp with relief to see an explosion of dark feathers as the body hit the ground—and then Yazour stiffened, as the howl went on and on. Looping up through the woodland around the side of the spur, the wolf pack burst into the clearing, drawn and maddened by the scent of blood. The warrior’s first panicked thought was for the mare, but the starving wolves had sufficient to occupy them. The stream of shaggy bodies divided, some pausing to tear at the Skyman’s bloody corpse, while others went for the contents of the Winged Folk’s bundle—the chunks of venison that lay strewn across the snow. Yazour saw a thread of light as the tower door opened a crack, then shut hastily once more. The warrior grinned to himself. So, the guards had no taste for fighting the wolf pack? Now that gave him an—
Yazour’s grin vanished abruptly as a scream ripped out from the tower above, Aurian! Forgetting Schiannath, Yazour drove his heels into the white mare’s sides and forced her out of the spiny undergrowth and across the clearing at full gallop, riding down any of the wolves who stood in his path. With the maddened pack snapping at his heels, Yazour rode the mare at full speed into the tower door. The brittle old timbers splintered beneath Iscalda’s weight and she leapt inside, springing lightly over the shattered planks, Yazour lying low along her neck to avoid the lintel. Behind her, the wolves came pouring into the tower, attacking any human in sight. Drawing his sword, the warrior waded into the startled guards, cleaving a path toward the staircase. But due to his wounded leg, he could not leave Iscalda’s back, and the mare was hampered by a knot of attacking soldiers. The wolves, however, were more mobile, Yazour, fighting for his life, caught a glimpse of great gray shapes leaping up the staircase, and bit down on a curse. The wolves would reach Aurian before him!
Down, down, Aurian plummeted, screaming, to fall back into the sea of pain. She was brought back to herself by loud and terrified cries from below, which were drowned by the snarls and howls of wolves. At that moment, her agony peaked—she was drowning at the crest of the crimson wave—then abruptly the great sea drained away, leaving her spent and gasping, the only crimson now the blood that pulsed behind her closed eyelids. Distantly, Nereni’s voice cried: “A boy!” And then Aurian heard the woman’s terrified scream, and Miathan cursing.
The Mage wrenched her eyes open to see a stream of lean gray shapes come hurtling through the door. Then for an instant, the world wrenched itself apart in a blinding flash of dark-bright power, as though reality itself had been hurled upward like a child’s handful of jackstraws, to come down again and settle in a brand-new pattern.
The terrified wolves hesitated in the doorway. Nereni screamed again, and dropped the child into the furs as though it had burned her. Miathan, distracted for an instant by the animals, turned back to the hapless babe, unseen among the bedding, and as he lifted his dagger ...
Aurian realized that she was free at last. Reacting quickly, she reached for her powers, lost for so long, and summoned the wolf pack. Newly freed from its fetters, her magic blazed up within her like a fount of glorious fire. At her bidding, the great gray shape of the foremost wolf leapt forth, striking Harihn’s possessed body and hurling him to the floor. The dagger went flying in a glittering arc as the wolves closed in. Aurian had time for one last glimpse of Harihn’s face, stark terror in his eyes, his soul his own once more. With a snarl of rage, Miathan’s bodiless form fled the chamber, as the wolf ripped out Harihn’s throat in a fountain of blood. Downstairs, Aurian could hear the dwindling screams as the remainder of the wolf pack finished her guards. Nereni was cowering in a corner, sobbing and hiding her face. Aurian, trembling with reaction and sickened to her soul by the carnage, hauled herself upright, driven by one last desperate imperative—to see whether Forral’s child had survived its horrific birth. Hardly daring to breathe, she turned the furs gently aside—and what she saw there tore a scream of agonized despair from her very soul.
Aurian’s mind refused to accept .the reality of what lay before her. Her sight blurred and darkened as she crumpled, and her spirit fled wailing into the blackness.
22
The Darkest Road
He had been dreaming that the mountains had come alive, Anvar groaned, and opened his eyes to utter blackness that even his Mage’s vision could not pierce. What the blazes happened? he thought hazily. One minute he had been heading toward the door of the tower; the next, everything was disintegrating around him ... Memory flooded back, and with a gasp, the Mage sat bolt upright—or tried to. He couldn’t move. He was sprawled, facedown, on a rough, uneven surface that sloped away beneath him so that his head was lower than his heels. His left arm, trapped under his body, was completely numb. Anvar hoped that the lack of feeling was due only to constricted circulation. His right arm was outstretched in front of him, his hand still with its stranglehold around the Staff of Earth.
The Mage took reassurance from the fact that he had not lost the precious Artifact. Extending his will, he summoned the Staffs power, until a faint green glimmer lit his surroundings. Anvar’s breath caught in his throat. For an instant, his mind went blank with shock. All around him was a mass of broken rock that was trapping him with its weight. Eventually common sense penetrated Anvar’s panic, and it occurred to him that far from being crushed, he could feel no pressure at all. Then he remembered. The tower room. The High Priest’s knife hurtling toward him … And his shield. In his haste to destroy his enemy, he had forgotten to lower it again. A wave of giddy relief surged through the Mage. Close to hysteria, he laughed aloud, then shuddered at the narrowness of his escape. If Blacktalon hadn’t thrown that knife . . . Then it occurred to Anvar that his relief was premature. The shield had saved him from being crushed, but he was still trapped beneath the ruined tower, pinned down by solid rock. And his air supply must be running out... With an effort, Anvar forced himself to stay calm. It was ridiculous to panic! With the Staff of Earth, he could easily blast his way out of this predicament. Well, the sooner, the better. Taking a deep breath of the stale, stagnant air, he concentrated his will . . .