The conflict had begun and ended almost before Anvar had time to realize what was happening. He clambered rather shakily to his feet as Schiannath pulled his sword from his opponent’s body, gave the bloody blade a cursory wipe on the dying man’s tunic, and returned it to Anvar, picking up the fallen man’s sword for himself.
“Thanks.” The Mage took back his blade from Schiannath’s strong brown hand. “It’s a good thing for all of us that you’re so bloody fast—and you, too, Yazour.” He turned to the Khazalim captain, to help him up, but he was already on his feet.
“You must waste no more time,” Basileus warned Anvar. “Your companions are besieged, and the fight goes badly.”
“Come on,” Anvar told his companions. “Let’s get moving—Aurian needs us.”
Bohan had lost the wolves already. He was less concerned about the fact that he had also come within a hairbreadth of losing his life on the springy, slippery plank bridge that bent and bowed alarmingly beneath his weight as he crawled across it on his hands and knees. Though it was only a short crawl from the fastness window to the mountain ledge, much care had been needed to avoid a fall, and by the time he had reached the other side, the wolves, still carrying Aurian’s son, had vanished into the darkness.
The night was still black, with an hour or two of darkness yet to go before the dawn. The eunuch pressed himself against the steep and sloping face of the mountain and, forcing his thick fingers into a narrow, slanting fissure in the stone, clung with all his strength to keep himself balanced on the ledge that was scarcely wider than he could span with one great hand. He had already discovered, to his dismay, that the slender crack to which he clung narrowed away to nothing in the direction he wanted to go—and without a handhold it seemed impossible, because of his massive bulk, that he could keep his body balanced on the ledge. Bohan closed his eyes in anguish. What could he do? Every moment he lingered there, afraid to go forward and refusing to go back, those accursed wolves would be getting farther away with the child that he had promised to guard.
Though there was no rain now, the rocks were still wet and slick from an earlier squall, and a thin, frigid wind whined and snarled as it snaked across the Wyndveil’s bare flanks. Bohan, having spent his life in the broiling desert climes of the south, found himself shivering uncontrollably, and a knot of panic twisted in his breast. Though he told himself stoutly that he could stand any amount of discomfort from the cold, the growing numbness in his feet and fingers could only add to the peril of what was already an appallingly difficult climb—and the longer he waited, the greater would be the risk of a lethal fall.
There was nothing for it. Bohan could not bear the shame of letting his beloved Aurian know he had lost her child. He knew that he must go on somehow and find Wolf—or perish in the attempt. Slowly, he began to inch his way along the ledge, his right hand reeling out ahead of him into the slim crack in the stone; all his concentration centered on the narrowing fissure that provided scant purchase for his abraded fingers.
And then, abruptly, the crevice ended. As the eunuch’s groping fingers met with nothing but smooth stone he rocked for a horrifying instant, until his left hand, still securely anchored, brought his body back to lean, trembling, against the cold rock of the cliff face. But now he was putting too much weight on the fragile ledge beneath his feet. With a tearing crack, the lip of stone broke loose beneath him.
Parric, familiar with the sight of Magefolk at work, had been staying out from underfoot to give Aurian and Chiamh a clear field. While they were holding the attackers at bay, he had slipped upstairs to Sangra and Iscalda and told them to search the rooms and each pack up a bundle of necessities: cloaks, weapons, and any food that was lying around the chambers. He had known a retreat was inevitable and wanted to be prepared. Now it seemed that the time had come.
When the flaming arrows thudded into the door, he ran downstairs and grabbed hold of Aurian’s elbow. “That’s enough,” he cried. “They’re trying to smoke us out! We’ve got to go now, before it’s too latel”
“No!” The Mage wrenched her arm from the cavalrymaster’s grip. “You take the others on ahead. I’m staying here until Anvar comes.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Parric roared. “You don’t know where he is, how soon he’ll get here—or even if he’s alive.”
“He is alive! Have you forgotten that one Mage can feel another’s death?” Aurian rounded on the little man, her eyes blazing. “Don’t argue, Parric. Get the others out of here, and I’ll wait for Anvar.”
“Damn it, Aurian, you won’t! Look at it!” The door was thick, and it would take some time for the fire to eat right through, but tiny yellow tongues of flame were already threading their way up the scorched panels. Chiamh was using up the supplies of water from the upstairs chambers to try to douse the flames, but the fire was burning hot and strong on the other side of the door, and soaking the wood on this side could only delay matters for a little while. It was growing uncomfortably hot in the stairwell. The air was thick and acrid with a haze of choking smoke.
“If you’ll let me be, I’ll try to quench these flames with magic,” Aurian snapped. “Now get away from me, and let me concentrate.”
Parric, desperate now, racked his brains for a way to make the Mage see sense. It didn’t help that he was consumed by a burgeoning resentment of Anvar—and all that Aurian’s refusal to leave him implied. Reluctant as he was to hurt her, she was clearly beyond all reasoning, and there was no time to argue.
The Mage had turned her attention back to the burning door, and Parric seized his chance. He lifted his sword, to club her unconscious with the hilt.
A hand closed round his wrist.
“No.” Chiamh spoke very quietly, but there was a hard look in his amiable face that the cavalrymaster had never seen before. Then the amber eyes flared silver, and Parric felt the sword turn to burning ice in his hand. Swearing horribly, he dropped the blade, which clattered on the hard stone stairs.
“Will you be quiet?” Aurian snarled, without looking around.
Chiamh picked up the fallen sword and returned it to the cavalrymaster. “For shame,” he said softly. “You have no right to make such a decision for her. Go, if we cannot trust you. I will take care of her.”
Parric looked at the Windeye and shook his head. “No.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ll send Sangra and Iscalda, but I’m staying here. If you two idiots persist in this insanity, you’ll need all the help you can get.”
“Very well—but no more treachery.” Chiamh’s voice was still cold. Parric stifled his angry retort. Clasping his sword hilt until his knuckles turned white, he looked over the Windeye’s shoulder to see how Aurian was progressing.
The Mage had missed the tense exchange. She was struggling with problems of her own. It was a simple matter to control the flares and fireballs that she created with her own magic, but this was wildfire—a natural force that was undisciplined and untamable. Aurian bent as near to the smoldering surface as she dared to come, though the heat and acrid smoke stung her eyes and caught in her throat and lungs to make her cough. She was trying to use her powers to absorb the heat energy of the flames, to cool and shrink them, but soon she realized, with a sinking in the pit of her stomach, that the fire was already too far out of hand for that. Curse it, there had to be another way! If the door was eaten through, there would be nothing to keep the attackers at bay—and if Anvar should return now with Schiannath and Yazour, there would be a wall of fire between them and safety.