Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate Read online

  Distracted by the light and their master’s cry of outrage, Mornelithe’s dark beasts loosed their grip a little.

  Darkwind moved.

  Faster than a striking viper, he whipped the climbing-stick that never left him from the sheath on his back, and hooked it into the beast’s throat. He never gave the creature a chance to realize what had happened; he yanked the hook toward himself, giving Gwena the opening to kick and buck herself free of it as the creature tried to both right itself and disengage the hook that was tearing its flesh from inside. The Companion scrambled out of the way, sides heaving, legs trembling, blood pouring from a dozen puncture wounds, to collapse at Elspeth’s feet.

  The creature paid her no heed; all of its attention was taken up with Darkwind.

  Elspeth hovered protectively over Gwena; the Companion was shaking like an aspen leaf in the wind, but her wounds were already closing. She leapt up to stand between Gwena and the beast, but there was no need for her protection. She had wondered about Darkwind’s peculiar weapontool; now she saw how an expert used it.

  Darkwind’s face was contorted into a snarl of rage as he attacked the creature, forcing it to go on the defensive; the spiked end of the tool drove into an eye, blinding the beast, as Darkwind backed it into a rock and it staggered. He slashed in a broad flat stroke, laying the beast’s belly open, and it fell forward to protect itself. It screamed, and Darkwind reversed the stick, hooking the beast’s mouth and tearing at the tongue and lips. It tried to buffet him with its wings, screaming as its eye and mouth dripped thick, brownish blood; he simply hooked the membrane of the wings and tore them, while he ducked under claw-strikes, or fended them off with the spike. Every time there was an opening, he darted in and stabbed again with the spike; he wasn’t yet doing the beast lethal damage, but he had to be causing it a lot of pain. It bled from a dozen wounds now, and Darkwind showed no signs of tiring.

  Screams of bestial pain from across the court made her dare a glance in that direction. Hydona, bleeding, but still full of fight, stood defiantly between Falconsbane and her children. Her wings were at full spread, mantling over her young, every feather on end. Treyvan clung to the back of the other beast, trying to sever its spine, each strike succeeding in removing a foot-long strip of meat from its neck. The creature screamed and tried in vain to throw him off, leathery wings flailing. No matter the gryphon was half this beast’s size; he was going to win. Treyvan was astride the beast’s back even if it tried to roll, his claws gouging deep and holding fast with its every swift move, then moving upward as if he was walking up the thing’s back like it was a rock, driving deep holes in with every step, and taking a clump of meat with him at every opportunity. Elspeth swallowed in surprise; she had imagined what the gryphons’ fearsome natural weaponry could do, but actually seeing it was another matter.

  Falconsbane seemed to be ignoring both the beasts, his attention fixed on the Shin‘a’in. A moment later she knew why, as a flight of arrows sang toward him, only to be incinerated a few arm’s lengths away.

  Another scream in her ear reminded her that there was equal danger, nearer at hand. Darkwind’s beast was holding its own against him now, and even regaining a little ground, its one good eye mad with rage and fixed on its target. Even if Treyvan won his contest, he could still lose if this beast killed Darkwind.

  She had to help him, somehow-

  One good eye—

  She acted with the thought; dropped one of her knives into her hand from its arm-sheath, aimed, and threw, as one of the beast’s lunges brought that good eye into range.

  It missed, bouncing off the eye-ridge. The creature didn’t even notice.

  She swore, and dropped her second knife, as Darkwind slipped on blood-slick rock and fell.

  Crap!

  The beast lunged with snapping jaws, managing to catch his leg in its teeth. He screamed and beat at the beast’s head with his stick, trying to pry the jaws apart, stabbing at the eye.

  Suddenly calm, Elspeth waited dispassionately for her target to hold still a moment—and threw.

  The creature let Darkwind go, throwing its head up and howling in agony—and instead of scrambling out of the way as Elspeth expected, Darkwind lunged upward with the pointed end of his staff, plunging it into newly-revealed soft skin at the base of the thing’s throat, and leaning on it as hard as he could.

  The creature clawed at the stick, at him, falling over sideways and emitting gurgling cries as he continued to lean into the point, thrashing and trying to dislodge it from its throat, all with no success. Darkwind’s eyes streamed tears of pain, and he sobbed under his breath, but he continued to drive the point deeper and deeper.

  It died, breathing out bubbles of blood, still trying to free itself.

  Across the stretch of scorched earth, Treyvan had clawed his way up his enemy’s back to the join of neck and spine. As Elspeth looked briefly away from Darkwind’s beast, Treyvan buried his beak in his foe’s neck, and jerked his head once. The beast collapsed beneath him.

  Treyvan’s battle shriek of triumph was drowned in Falconsbane’s roar of rage.

  Before anyone could move, the Adept howled again, his eyes black with hate, his hands rending the air as he clawed at it. Elspeth did not realize he was making a magical gesture until an oily green-brown smoke billowed up from the ground at his feet, filling the space between the ruined walls in an instant, completely obscuring everything that it rolled over.

  Poison! That was her first, panic-stricken thought, as the cloud washed over her before she could scramble out of its path. There was a hum of dozens of bowstrings as the Shin‘a’in loosed their arrows.

  But though the thick, fetid smoke made her cough uncontrollably and brought tears to her eyes, it didn’t seem to be hurting her any. She reached out a tentative Mind-touch for Gwena.

  :I’ll be all right,: came the weak reply. :Don’t move; the nomads are still shooting.:

  And indeed, she heard bowstrings sing and the hiss of arrows nearby. But not a great deal else.

  “Darkwind?” she called. “Are you all right?”

  “As well as may be, lady,” he replied promptly, pain filling his voice. He coughed. “Stand fast, I am going to disperse this. I have enough power for that, at least.”

  A moment later, a fresh wind cut through the fog, thinning it in heartbeats, blowing it away altogether as Elspeth took in deep, grateful breaths of clean air and knuckled her eyes until they stopped tearing.

  She looked first for Falconsbane; he was no longer there, but where he had stood were dozens of arrows stuck point-first into the earth—and leading away from the place was a trail of blood.

  That was all she had time to recognize; in the next moment, a surge of powerful energy somewhere nearby disoriented her for a moment. She might have written it off as a spasm of dizziness, had she not seen Darkwind’s face.

  He stared off into the ruins, his mouth set in a grim line.

  “He used the last of his energies to set a Gate-spell back to his stronghold,” the Hawkbrother said, bitterly. “Shaeka. He has escaped us.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  This isn’t finished yet.

  Tension still in the air knotted her guts like tangled yarn. And it wasn’t just Falconsbane, either. Something was going to happen. There was unfinished business here—but whose it was—she couldn’t tell.

  The trail of blood ended in a little pool of sticky scarlet, directly in front of an archway in a ruined wall, or so said the Shin‘a’in who had followed it to its end. There wasn’t any reason for them to lie, and although they did seem a bit too calm and detached for Elspeth’s liking, she assumed she could trust them. Darkwind apparently did. He made no effort to see for himself, but simply allowed the Vale Healer to continue working on him, although his lips moved with what Elspeth suspected were curses.

  Elspeth swore under her breath herself as she tested Cymry’s legs for any more damage than simple bruises and sprains. Skif’s Companion was suffer
ing mostly from shock; somehow between them, the Companion and Darkwind had managed to shield Skif and herself from the worst of Falconsbane’s blows. That was nothing short of a miracle.

  Gwena’s talon-punctures had been treated, and would soon heal completely on their own. She was in pain, but it wasn’t as bad as it could be, and she said so.

  Skif was in the hands of one of the Shin‘a’in, the one who had introduced himself as the Tale‘sedrin shaman, Kra’heera, and who had seemed oddly familiar to Elspeth. Skif had evidently suffered no worse than a cracked skull that would keep him abed until dizziness passed, and several broken ribs that would keep him out of the saddle for a while. He was unconscious, but not dangerously so. Nyara had satisfied herself on that score even before Elspeth and had taken a place by his side with Need in her hands. Since the blade’s Healing power was working on the cat-woman’s hurts, and might well aid Kra‘heera’s efforts with Skif if Nyara managed to persuade the blade, Elspeth saw no reason to take it away from her.

  She herself had gotten off lightly, with scratches and cuts; but Darkwind and Treyvan looked like badly-butchered meat. When Hydona had flown limpingly into the Vale to fetch help, the Vale’s own Healer had timidly come out of protection to treat them and bandage them, then had scuttled back to safety like a frightened mouse. Elspeth didn’t think much of him; oh, his skills were quite excellent—but she didn’t think highly of any Healer who wouldn’t stay with his patients until he knew they were well. Darkwind saw her thinly-veiled scorn, though, and he’d promised an explanation.

  It better be a good one.

  The Shin‘a’in were still searching the ruins for Falconsbane, though Darkwind was certain that he was long gone out of reach, and Elspeth agreed with him

  Of them all, only the gryphons were happy, despite wounds and pain. Somehow Need had transmuted the power of Falconsbane’s magic into something that burned the little ones clean of his taint. Need might not think much of her own abilities, compared with Elspeth’s potential, but Darkwind was impressed. Transmuting was evidently a very rare ability. The adults had taken the young ones to the lair and curled up in there, refusing to budge unless it were direst emergency.

  Beside her, Darkwind leaned back against the rock supporting him, and stared at the red-shouldered hawk perched above the door of the lair, her head up and into the wind, her wings slightly mantled. He looked haunted, somehow. As she studied his face, Elspeth thought she read pain and anxiety there, though it was hard to tell what the Hawkbrother was truly feeling.

  But when he looked at Dawnfire, that was when the feeling of tension solidified.

  It’s her. That’s what isn’t finished. She can’t stay the way she is—

  She wrapped Cymry’s foreleg to add support, and looked over at the bird herself.

  Dawnfire—what were they going to do about her? She was still trapped in the body of a bird.

  Even the Shin‘a’in seem to feel sorry for her—or something.

  The Shin‘a’in were returning from their hunt by ones and twos, all of them gathering as if by prearrangement on the area below Dawnfire’s perch, all of them silent. They seemed in no hurry to leave, and Elspeth mostly ignored them in favor of the task at hand despite the growing tension in the air. Even if something was about to happen, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

  Then Cymry’s nervous snort made her look up.

  As far as she could tell, all of the Shin‘a’in had returned and now they were standing in a rough circle below Dawnfire. All but the shaman, that is; he had left Skif and now knelt beside Darkwind, with an odd expression as if he were waiting....

  This is it. This is what I’ve been feeling—this is the cause of all the tension and pressure—

  Were they glowing slightly, or was that only her imagination? There seemed to be a hazy dome of light covering them all.

  One of the Shin‘a’in, a woman by the build, finally moved.

  Kra‘heera grabbed Darkwind’s shoulders and physically restrained him from standing up, as the woman put up a hand to Dawnfire. The bird stared measuringly at her for a moment, then stepped down from her perch onto the proffered hand, and the woman turned to face the rest.

  Like all the others, this one was clad entirely in black, from her long black hair to her black armor, to her tall black boots. But there was something wrong with her eyes ... something odd.

  Darkwind struggled in earnest against the shaman, but he was too weak to squirm out of Kra‘heera’s hands. “Be silent, boy!” the shaman hissed at him as he continued to fight. “Have you any life to offer her? Would you watch her fade before your eyes until there is nothing left of her?”

  Elspeth paid scant attention to them, concentrating instead on the black-clad woman who had taken Dawnfire. There was something very unusual about her—a feeling of contained power. Elspeth Felt the stirring of a kind of deeply-running energy she had never experienced before, and found herself holding her breath.

  The woman raised Dawnfire high above her head and held her there, a position that must have been a torment after a few moments, and as she did so, the entire group started to hum.

  Softly, then increasing slowly in volume, until the ruins rang with the harmonics—and Dawnfire began to glow.

  At first Elspeth thought it was just a trick of the setting sun, touching the bird’s feathers and making them seem to give off their own light. But then, the light grew brighter instead of darker, and Dawnfire straightened and spread her wings—and began to grow larger as well as brighter.

  Within heartbeats, Elspeth couldn’t even look at her directly. In a few moments more, she was averting her face, though Darkwind continued to stare, squinting, into the light, a look of desperation on his face. The light from the bird’s outstretched wings was bright enough to cast shadows; the black-clad Shin‘a’in seeming to be shadows themselves, until the bird appeared to be ruling over a host of shades.

  The Shin‘a’in shaman caught her staring at him. He met her eyes, then returned to gaze fearlessly into the light, and seemed to sense her questions. “Dawnfire has been chosen by the Warrior,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  Oh, thanks. Now of course I understand. I understand why a hawk is flaming brighter than any firebird; I understand why Darkwind looks as if he’s at an execution. What in Havens is going on?

  Gwena looked at her as if the Companion had read those thoughts. :It’s business,: she said shortly, :And not ours.:

  And I suppose that’s going to tell me everything.

  Darkwind’s eyes streamed tears, and she longed to comfort him, but she sensed she dared not; not at this moment, anyway.

  The light was dying now, along with the humming, as she looked back toward the circle of Shin‘a’in.

  The bird on the female fighter’s fist was no longer a red-shouldered hawk; it was a vorcel-hawk, the emblem of the Shin‘a’in Clan Tale‘sedrin, and the largest such bird Elspeth had ever seen. The light had dimmed in the bird’s feathers, but it had not entirely died, and there was an other-worldly quality about the hawk’s eyes that made her start with surprise.

  Then she recognized it; the same look as the female fighter’s. There were neither whites nor pupils to the woman’s eyes, nor to the bird‘s—only a darkness, sprinkled with sparks of light, as if, rather than eyes, Elspeth looked upon fields of stars.

  That was when she remembered where she had heard of such a thing. The Chronicles—Roald’s description of the Shin‘a’in Goddess.

  Her mouth dried in an instant, and her heart pounded. If she was right—this was a Goddess—

  And Dawnfire was now Her chosen avatar.

  And at that moment, she found she couldn’t move. She was frozen in place, as a string of bridleless black horses filed into the clear area, led by no one, each going to a Shin‘a’in and waiting.

  The Shin‘a’in mounted up, quite literally as one, and rode out in single file; the woman and the hawk last, heading for the path that wound around t
he ruins and led down into the Plains. Those two paused for just a moment, black silhouettes against the red-gold sky, sunlight streaming around them, as they looked back.

  Darkwind uttered an inarticulate moan. It might have been Dawnfire’s name; it might not.

  Then they were gone.

  Sunset did not bring darkness; Darkwind and Treyvan used their magecraft to kindle a couple of mage-lights apiece, and they all crowded into the lair. Right now, no one wanted to face the night shadows.

  Darkwind looks as if he’s lost. Not that I blame him. He and Dawnfire were ... were close. Whatever happened to her, I have the feeling she’s pretty well gone from his life.

  “Where’s Nyara?” Skif said, struggling to sit up, the bandage around his head obscuring one eye.

  “Right there.” Elspeth glanced at the niche among the stones by the door that Nyara had been occupying since the fight, Need on her lap, only to find her gone. And she didn’t recall seeing the girl move.

  Darkwind glanced up at the same time, on hearing Skif’s voice; their eyes met across Nyara’s now-empty resting place.

  “I didn’t see her leave,” Darkwind began.

  “Nor did I,” Elspeth replied grimly. “And she’s got my sword.”

  :What do you mean, your sword?: Need’s Mind-voice asked testily, the quality hollow and thin, as if crossing a bit of distance. Elspeth had started to get to her feet; she froze at the touch of the Mind-voice, and a glance at Darkwind showed he had heard it, too.

  :I’m not your sword, Elspeth, I’m not anybody’s sword. I go to whom I choose. And frankly, child, you don’t require my services anymore. You’re a fine fighter; a natural, in fact. You’re going to be a better mage than I am. And you are ridiculously healthy in mind and body. Nyara, on the other hand.... : A feeling of pity crept into the sword’s tone. :Let’s just say she’s a challenge to any Healer. And if she’s not going to fall back into her father’s hands, I figured I’d better take an interest in her. she needs me more than you ever would.: