“But someone may discover that he’s missing at any time,” Zanna finished, “and I’ve got to get Dad out tonight—there’ll never be another chance. But how can I get him out of the Mages’ Tower, and even if I do, what then? Dad told me there’s a way out through the tunnels underneath the library, but the door to the archives is always locked, and I can’t get in—”
“Yes, you can,” Aurian told her quickly, “and I’ll tell you how to do it. But keep the crystal with you, just in case you need to speak with me again—and, besides,” she added with a smile, “I’ll want to know how everything works out. Now listen carefully, Zanna. This is what you must do…”
When she had completed her instructions to the girl, Aurian took leave of Zanna with some misgivings. She had tried to remain encouraging and positive, but in her heart she knew there was a great deal that could go wrong with Vannor’s escape.
“Try not to worry too much,” Anvar told her. “You’ve done all you can, and Zanna lacks neither common sense nor courage. Imagine, a young lass like that killing Janok!” His eyes lit up with savage joy, and Aurian remembered how he had suffered at the brutal head cook’s hands—and how, indeed, his ordeal had led to their own meeting.
Before she had time to reply, however, her thoughts were knocked out of her head by a stentorian mental bellow loud enough to rattle her brains within her skull.
“Aurian—quick! Your misbegotten Horsefolk are shooting at us!” The voice that roared through the Mage’s mind had come from Shia.
“Damn and blast them!” Almost before the words had passed her lips, Aurian had returned Wolf to his foster parents and was out of the chamber with Anvar a split second behind her. Chiamh came groping after them as quickly as he could manage, but he had more sense than to call on them to wait. Instead, he hammered on the door of Parric’s chambers to warn the Herdlord of impending trouble. Parric and Sangra, luckily not yet the worse for ale, came out at once, followed by a tousled Iscalda, rubbing sleepy eyes. Schiannath and Yazour, however, were nowhere to be found.
The Mages had scarcely reached the bottom of the stairway when they were halted by an urgent warning from the Moldan: “Wizards—beware. The Xandim have taken up arms against you and the Herdlord. They already hold the outer doors and are heading this way even as we speak.”
Anvar muttered a livid curse. As one, the two Mages dodged back upstairs, barring the door behind them. Already, Aurian was in contact with Shia: the cats, relying on their night-vision, had managed, so far, to dodge the arrows and had retreated partway up the cliff path. Apparently the Xandim bowmen were trying to pluck up enough courage to pursue them—a foolhardy business in the daylight, let alone in darkness. The Mage quickly told Shia what was happening within the fastness and warned her friend not to come any closer. “If they keep after you, head for Chiamh’s valley—once you’ve passed the standing stones, they won’t dare follow you farther.”
“Only if there’s no alternative,” Shia insisted. “I want to be near enough to help if you need me.”
On the first landing they met Chiamh and the others, looking grim. “Schiannath and Yazour are somewhere within the fastness,” the Windeye told the Mages. “They must be found and warned—if it’s not already too late.”
“It is not,” the Moldan told those who could hear him. “They went to the stillrooms by the back route. As yet they are undiscovered.”
When Chiamh passed on the message, Iscalda shouldered her way forward. “I will go. Schiannath is my brother.”
“Wait.” Anvar stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I’ll go. Basileus can guide me to them.” Seeing Aurian opening her mouth to volunteer, he was quick to forestall her. “No, love. I’m the obvious choice—you’re still recouping your energy after being wounded and then fighting on Steelclaw. I’ll be much quicker on my own.”
Aurian scowled. “Blast you,” she muttered. “I hate it when you’re right. Take care, then—and hurry back.” She went with him to the bottom of the stairs and hugged him hard before letting him out. Reluctantly, she closed the door and dropped the heavy bar into place, hoping fervently that he would be all right. “Basileus?” she called. “You take good care of Anvar, do you hear me?”
“Have no fear, Wizard—Iwill do what I can,” the Moldan replied. “But now you must organize your own defense. Anvar is not the only one in danger.”
Schiannath had been showing Yazour around the vaults beneath the stillrooms and, in particular, that part of the network of cellars where the Xandim stored their supplies of ale and mead. Though the actual kitchens of the massive building were very basic, because the Horsefolk preferred to do most of their cooking—and eating, for that matter—in the open air, each wandering band was expected to supply a tithe of the fruits of their hunting and gathering to be stored in the fastness, to feed those, such as the old and the sick, who dwelt within. These inhabitants, who usually could not hunt for themselves, worked to preserve the food so that a store of provisions was always on hand for emergencies such as drought or siege.
The old folk were also the brewers of the tribe, trading the results of their labors for other necessities from the hunters and craftsmen. Their stocks of liquor, though generally unguarded, were carefully tallied and fairly distributed in a system of barter that most of the Xandim were content to honor. Nevertheless, when Schiannath and Yazour, sitting swapping battle yarns late into the night, had run out of ale, the former outlaw had not thought twice about an expedition to the vaults to “liberate” some more. Had Yazour but known it, this was just the sort of misdemeanor that had always been getting his friend into trouble with the Elders and the Herdlord in Schiannath’s younger days.
Despite the Xandim’s airy assurances that there was nothing to worry about, Yazour felt a creeping sense of disquiet as they eased open the great trapdoor in the back of the farthest stillroom, and ventured down the flight of smooth stone steps that led into the vaults. At first, he simply decided that the ale he had already consumed was inflaming his imagination. It was cold underground, and the air had a dry, dead, heavy feel. As they walked along the low, arched passage at the bottom, the stealthy patter of their footfalls echoed over and over against the rounded walls, until they were surrounded by a sound like the beating of hundreds of soft wings. The amber flame of the torch that flickered in Schiannath’s upraised hand chased the silver veining in the stone with threads of gold, and sent their shadows leaping up the curving walls like Beings with a life of their own, reminding Yazour most unpleasantly of Aurian’s blood-chilling tales of the Death-Wraiths.
With every step he took, the young captain’s sense of unease was growing. At first he put it down to the uncomfortable, closed-in feeling of being underground, with the awareness of the gigantic mass of stone above his head; but when he and his companion reached the place where the vaults opened out around them into a maze of interconnecting cellars divided by great arches of pillared stone, his warrior’s sense of unseen danger increased. Anyone—or anything, he thought uncomfortably—could hide in this labyrinth of chambers, and sneak up on its prey unseen.
“The food comes first.” Schiannath’s whisper made Yazour jump like a startled rabbit. “They store the ale farther within,” the Xandim continued, oblivious to the effect he was having on his friend’s overstretched nerves. “They hope that we outsiders will get lost before we find it,” he chuckled.