“Where are they now?” she asked Basileus, who had been keeping her informed as to the movements of her missing companions.
“Coming. Soon they will be here.” The Moldan hesitated. “What will you do when they reach this place?”
“I don’t know.” The Mage’s mental tones were edged with desperation. “Is there nothing you can do to help?”
“Alas, it seems that there is not. I have already tried to make a draft to quench the fire, but it only fanned the flames and made matters worse.”
“Yes, damn it—it would. But wait—hold on a minute…” The Moldan’s words had given Aurian the glimmering of an idea. “Chiamh,” she yelled. “Quick—get over here!”
“I am here.” The Windeye’s voice came from just behind her shoulder, making her jump. If his expression seemed a little strained, Aurian was too caught up with her plan to pay it much attention.
“Chiamh, you’re our expert with Air—do you think you could come up with some means of keeping the air away from those flames on the other side of the door?”
Chiamh’s eyes widened with surprise—then his slow smile of understanding brightened his face. “Ah,” he said. “Very clever, Lady. Let me see what I can do.”
As Aurian moved over to make room for him, the Windeye knelt to join her near the door. Despite the heat, he shivered a little as his eyes glazed over with the uncanny, reflective quicksilver hue, his vision blurring and shifting to the translucent, sharp-edged, crystalline aspect of his Othersight. Dimly, he felt the Mage put out a hand to help steady his sagging body as he sent his mind forth beyond the burning door. The silver strands of air on the other side were blurry with heat and turbulent as a tumbling mountain stream as they rose and fell swirling around the fire, forming the drafts and currents that fed the greedy flames. The actual flames were barely visible to Chiamh’s Othersight, appearing as faint and glimmering wraiths of their former selves. The impatient attackers who crowded the corridor at a safe distance from the fire could be seen as glowing phantoms, the auras of life energy that surrounded them glowing with the angry crimson of bloodlust and greed. The Windeye shuddered, knowing that sooner or later they would have to be dealt with—but first, the fire must be put out.
Straining with concentration, Chiamh tried to take a grip on the twisting tendrils of air and push them out and away from the devouring flames. But because his spirit was out beyond his body, using so much energy to stay in this unnatural state, his powers lacked impetus, and he had nothing but the force of his mind to grasp and mold the silvery strands. The turbulence caused by the fire added to his difficulties, lending the air a force and strength of its own with which to defy him. Nevertheless, Chiamh persevered, though diverting the powerful currents of air was one of the most difficult things he had ever done. Though he could not extinguish the flames, he could at least slow the fire’s advance and gain Anvar the extra moments that he needed.
Conditions were worsening in the stairwell. The moisture in the wood had been burned away now, and the flames were taking a stronger hold. The crackling of the fire grew louder, and Aurian was forced to help herself and Chiamh—and Parric, who waited, hunched and glowering, some three or four steps farther up—by creating, as Anvar had done, a shield around them to keep the smoke at bay.
The Mage, keeping her watch over the Windeye’s body, knew that Chiamh was in trouble. She could see the ravages of the mental battle reflected in his face. Lines of strain had etched themselves deeply around his eyes and mouth, and his long brown hair, soaked through with sweat, hung down in tendrils that she had to keep brushing out of his uncanny silver eyes. Though she began to fear that he might harm himself, she was reluctant to break into his trance lest she make matters even worse. She knew, however, from her own experiences of overextending herself, that Chiamh ran a grave risk of becoming lost in his own magic, with so much of his energy being sucked away to fuel his powers that he would have no chance of returning to his body.
“Anvar, where are you?” she sent out a desperate mental cry, and prayed that he would be close enough to hear it. “We can’t hold on here much longer.”
“We’re almost there.” Anvar’s reply sounded faint and weary. “We ran into a bit of trouble once or twice, but so far we’ve managed to fight our way through—probably because most of the Xandim are massed around your door.”
“Thank the gods you’re all right.” It cheered Aurian just to hear him. “Let me know as soon as you come within sight of our attackers.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Anvar responded wryly. “We’ve reached the corridor junction now.”
“Good. I’ll tell you when.” Aurian looked round at Chiamh, and was relieved to see that, though he was very pale, he looked awake and aware, and his eyes had returned to their normal shade. “I heard you both,” he told the Mage. “I’m ready.”
Aurian drew Coronach from its sheath. “When I give the word, we’re going out there to help Anvar,” she told Parric. Without giving him a chance to start arguing again, she turned back to the door, which, without Chiamh’s support, was now collapsing in a mass of flames.
“Now!” As she cried the word with both her voice and her mind, Aurian blasted the remains of the door with a bolt of energy that sent the flaming fragments exploding out into the corridor and into the mass of Xandim. They scattered, shrieking, beating at flying bits of burning wood and the sparks that lodged and clung in their clothing and hair. Aurian burst into the corridor screaming a battle cry, with
Parric and Chiamh close behind her. They tore into the disorganized cluster of Xandim like a pack of wolves.
Shia had sent Khanu ahead up the mountain to escort Wolf and his foster parents to Chiamh’s vale. Then, as Aurian had asked her, she had returned to the upper levels of the fastness, picking her way along the flywalk of narrow ledges of the cliffs behind the massive building in search of Bohan. Though she hated to admit it to herself—almost as if, in some irrational way, the admission would make her grounds for concern a reality—she was becoming increasingly worried about the eunuch. “Why can he not keep up?” Shia muttered to herself. “Great clumsy ox—probably got his feet in a tangle…” That thought halted her with a shudder. On these ancient, crumbling cliffs, even one mistake would be fatal. She was nearing the fastness when the scream ripped through the night.
A scream? Shia’s ears went back. It couldn’t possibly be, but… With a snarl, she went leaping from ledge to ledge down the cliff as though pursued by a hoard of demons. It was impossible to run on these narrow projections, but Shia, seething with frustration, scrambled down at a perilous speed, her claws extended to give her better purchase. When she reached the narrow chasm where the cliff came close to the fastness, her heart turned to ice within her. Bohan, his eyes bulging with strain in a face gray with terror, hung by his fingers from the last crumbling spur of the broken ledge that had clearly collapsed beneath the weight of his great body. Somehow, as he fell, he had managed to catch the edge of the broken stone, and was suspended there over the drop.
Even as she looked on in horror, his straining fingers slipped a little farther from the ledge. The cat darted forward and sank her fangs into the back of Bohan’s tunic, digging her claws hard into the stone to stop herself from slipping. The eunuch’s weight dragged at her, wrenching the muscles of her jaws and neck, but she held on firmly, taking as much of the strain as she could from his arms and hands. It was all she could do to help him. Bohan himself would have to gain a better grip and pull himself back—but he seemed paralyzed by terror, unable to risk what scant hold he had in order to inch himself to safety.