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.