Sword of Flames

18 Horncall and Sunrise

Chiamh’s mouth was dry as he approached the two great standing stones that were known in the Xandim language as the Gates to the Vale of Death. Beyond them, in the narrow maw of the valley’s entrance, he could see the colorful tents of the Xandim, who were encamped in profusion on the green turf to either side of the Gates, leaving the broad expanse of the plateau bare for tomorrow’s Challenge. Before the great stones, mocking the gay hues of the scattered dwellings, the red light of the sinking sun gleamed like fire and blood on a grim, bristling thicket of spear points and drawn swords.

Though he was still distant, they had seen him. An angry murmur went up from the hostile crowd. The ugly sound, like the wrathful drone of a shattered nest of hornets, echoed within the narrow walls and rolled up the valley toward him like an overwhelming tidal wave of resentment and loathing. The Windeye paused in the spurious shelter of the last stand of trees, righting his reluctance to approach any nearer to that wall of pulsing, bloodthirsty hatred. He suddenly felt extremely grateful that he had the Mages with him, and Aurian’s friend the formidable cat (whose male companion was back in the valley with the two Skyfolk, guarding Wolf and his foster parents)—not to mention his other comrades, both Outland and Xandim. He needed their support as he had never needed it before, for he doubted that even his legendary Grandam could have dealt single-handedly with such a crisis as this, and Chiamh was already utterly spent following the mind-wrenching efforts and nightmare terrors of the Seeing he had performed for Aurian.

Had it not been the Time of Challenge, the Mage would not have allowed him to come at all. As it was, she had been furious with him—now that she had found out exactly what a Seeing entailed—for taking such a risk with himself—though, perversely, she had been more angry with herself for letting him do it in the first place, despite the fact that he had deliberately concealed the potential dangers from her. Fortunately, the Mages had been unable to follow his Seeing with their own powers and were forced to rely on what he told them of the Vision, so Chiamh had been able to conceal that horrifying final image. He only wished he could so easily hide the memory from himself.

Now, as he made his way toward the Place of Challenge, the impact of his discovery was truly coming home to him, and the Windeye found himself faced with an anguishing dilemma, brutally torn between two loyalties. He could no longer pretend ignorance—the fate of the Xandim now lay in his hands. How easy it would be to turn upon his new friends and betray them to the angry hordes. By simply performing the same binding spell on Schiannath as he had used upon Phalihas, Chiamh could vastly increase the likelihood that the Sword of Flame would never be found and his people would be safe. The Mages and their Outland companions would almost certainly be killed—but was such a sacrifice truly too much to ask when compared to the life of an entire tribe?

And have you forgotten the Evil Powers so soon? he asked himself. Without Aurian and the Sword they are sure to triumph—and what of the Xandim then? But the Evil Powers were strange to him, and far away, and had he not witnessed the very plain and immediate threat of the Sword with his own Othersight?

“Chiamh? Are you all right?” The Windeye came out of his reverie with a guilty start to see Aurian looking at him with a frown. “I knew you should have rested longer,” she said as she slipped a supportive hand beneath his elbow. “You look absolutely dreadful. I wish you’d at least let me give you back some of the energy you lost in the Seeing. You’re in no fit state to do this, and you know it.” Her eyes were shadowed with worry and concern, but with her usual courage she tried to lighten the moment. “We don’t want to lose you, you know. I’ve soared with you over the mountains, and raced the wind with you across the plateau—and I had rather counted on being able to do both those things again.” She smiled at him—her own wry, expressive smile that held all the love of one friend for another, and was especially for him.

Chiamh could not meet her eyes. You wanted to betray her? his thoughts goaded him. You want to see her lying dead? How many true friends have you had in your life, save these who are with you now? He looked past the Mage at Anvar, who seemed similarly concerned, and at Sangra, who had helped him through the worst of his fears when they came down the mountain in the storm. He saw Parric, whom he had risked his life more than once to aid, and Schiannath and Iscalda, whom he had already betrayed once on the orders of his Herdlord. He could not do so again.

The Windeye straightened his sagging shoulders and reached out to take Aurian’s hand. “I’ll be all right,” he reassured her with an effort. “This is a time of heavy burdens for us all. I will rest tonight, I promise—though I ought not, while we keep vigil.”

“Bugger the vigil,” Aurian growled. “I won’t let Phalihas and his men see you sleeping—but sleep you will, my friend. I’ll see to that. You deserve it, and you need it.”

“Just so long as you don’t snore,” Parric threatened, with a grin.

“What?” Chiamh raised his eyebrows in mock horror. “I’ll have you know that the mighty Windeye of the Xandim never snores!” Though the burden was still his to bear, his heart felt immeasurably lighter now that his decision had been made. He answered Parric’s comradely clap on the shoulder with a buffet of his own, and turned reluctantly away from the warmth of his friends toward the hostility of his enemies. “We must be moving,” he told his companions. “The sun is almost setting, and there is little time remaining to do what we must.”

It was as though an invisible line had been drawn between the standing stones across the mouth of the vale, from one tall, sinister monolith to the other. Beyond that impenetrable boundary of fear and superstition, the Elders stood. Behind them, ranked in line, were the regional chieftains of the nomadic Xandim hunters and the leaders of the small family communities of fisherfolk, salt-panners, and beachcombers who spent part of their year in residence down on the coast and traded their goods at regular gatherings with the inland tribes. Accompanying them was Phalihas, still trapped within the equine shape of a great black stallion. At the sight of Chiamh the former Herdlord tensed with rage, flattening his ears back against his skull while one huge hoof pounded restlessly at the ground, tearing the turf to shreds.

Ysalla, leader of the Elders, stepped forth: tall and gaunt and brittle as an ancient pine. Though her russet hair was more gray than chestnut now, and her weathered face was hollowed and lined with age, her manner was still haughty and imperious as she addressed the Windeye. “Well, tergiver-sator? The dark of the moon is upon us again. What word have you for us, upon this Night of Challenge? Does that skulking Outland scum that you have raised to power intend to keep his word to us this time? And what of your own promise? Will you free Phalihas? For we have ruled that under our ancient Law he was unfairly Challenged and may contend again, if he so wishes—but not under the geas of a foul traitor!”

Chiamh, though he shook inwardly, met her cold gaze without flinching. “True to my vow, I will release Phalihas.” He paused to give the murmurs and cries of the assembled Xandim a chance to die away. “And to meet him I bring forth another who would Challenge! Though the present Herdlord keeps his word and will not fight again, under the Law he may nominate another to stand in his place.”

“Another Xandim,” Ysalla snapped.

“He is another Xandim.” The Windeye’s expression of impassive calm did not alter as he beckoned Schiannath to his side, though he was almost overwhelmed by the cries of anger and outrage that erupted all around him.

“Traitor!”

“Injustice!”

“It is forbidden!”

“He would foist an outlaw on us now!”

“Schiannath has already failed!”

“He may not fight again!”

Chiamh lifted his hand—and a blast of howling wind swept all their words away. Into the stunned and resentful silence that followed, he spoke again. “May I remind you that Phalihas has also failed a Challenge, yet still you call upon the Law to let him fight again. The Herdlord, Parric, is willing to give up his position, but a resigning Herdlord has the right under our Law to nominate a Challenger—any Challenger that he may choose, so long as it be one of the Xandim—to take his place. You cannot deny that it is so.”

For a long moment Ysalla hesitated, plainly desperate to deny his words—but she could not. At last, she dropped her eyes from Chiamh’s unwavering gaze. “It is so,” she admitted through gritted teeth, sounding as though each word had been dragged by force out of the very depths of her soul. “If you restore Phalihas, then Schiannath may Challenge—and we, the Xandim, will abide by the result. But hear me, Windeye”—her eyes smoldered with the intensity of her loathing—“if Phalihas should prevail, then tomorrow’s dawn will be the last that you and your accursed Outland companions will ever see. By the Light of the Goddess, I swear it.”

“Before you make such a rash vow, you should be sure you are able to enforce it,” the Windeye replied levelly. “I, at least, can keep the promises I make.” With that he lifted his hands, grasped the air that shimmered around Phalihas, and twisted. The horse-shape blurred and altered—and standing in its place was the tall, strong figure of the former Herdlord.

“You…” Phalihas screamed, and hurled himself at Chiamh, his hands outstretched to grasp and maul. He fought the Xandim that held him back, all the while spitting out vile epithets and snarling like an animal in his rage. The Windeye stood unmoving, never taking his eyes from his would-be murderer.

Ysalla put an end to it. “Stop this, you fool!” she roared. “Do you want to ruin everything? If you cross into the Vale of Death—or if you shed blood upon the Eve of Challenge—you will be cursed, and may not fight tomorrow!”

Phalihas subsided immediately, though his eyes glinted with unsatiated rage. “Count the hours, Chiamh,” he told the Windeye. “You have not many left.”

Chiamh shrugged—a deliberate move designed to keep Phalihas angry and off balance throughout the night. “For certain, one of us has not.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Aurian, watching, felt her heart swell with pride.

The sun was dipping low behind the riven peaks of Steelclaw, streaking the gaunt and looming monoliths with crimson as the two camps of the Challengers settled down by the stones for the night’s uneasy vigil. There was little time left for talk before the darkness brought the rule of silence, and Parric hurried to catch the Windeye alone while Aurian and Anvar lit a fire, and the others were busy setting up their rough camp, arranging the watches between themselves so that two would always be there to guard Schiannath, and one other would be on hand to feed the fire and surreptitiously keep the Challenger awake should he falter. Chiamh was coaxing a reluctant, nervous Schiannath to eat the last meal he would have before his Challenge, but when he felt the cavalrymaster’s hand upon his shoulder, he quickly turned away.

Parric led them both into the shadows behind the great stone. “Look,” he began roughly, “I’m just a soldier, and not much of a one for words, but if I didn’t thank you before for all you’ve done for us, I want to do it now. And, well, I wanted to thank you for what you did the other night. When I’m wrong, I say it—and you stopped me from making one of the worst mistakes of my life when I tried to get Aurian away from the fastness without Anvar. I’m sorry for what I tried to do, and I’m in your debt because you never told Aurian I was such a bloody fool. The lass would never have forgiven me—I realize that now. You saved me from making a right old fist of things, and probably saved Anvar’s life into the bargain. I’m truly grateful to you.”

At that moment the last shred of sunlight vanished and the lonely wail of a horn rang out across the plateau, signaling that the hours of silent vigil had begun. Chiamh was prevented from making a reply, but his smile and his strong clasp of Parric’s hand managed to convey both friendship and approval as they walked back together to the fire.

Though they had all arranged to take watches, none of Schiannath’s companions save the chagrined Windeye—who insisted, afterward, that Aurian had bespelled him—got any sleep that night. In the case of Sangra and Yazour, their thoughts were astonishingly similar, though their backgrounds were so disparate. Each of them, in their own way, was longing for home. Sangra was thinking wistfully of the busy, muddy streets of Nexis: the taverns, the training, and the rowdy, rough-and-tumble companionship of the Garrison. Yazour sat shivering in his thick cloak, missing the shimmering, broiling heat, the rhythmic chirpings of the frogs beside the river, which made each night less still and lonely, the sound of his mother tongue—and the endless, glittering horizons of the desert.

Parric had a good deal to think about, in any case, since Annan’s revelations of that day had led him to see her attachment to Anvar in a different light. He was not, however, much given to that kind of introspection, and his mind soon strayed back to the more immediate issue. Schiannath. The cavalrymaster’s sympathies went out to the Xandim warrior, who sat, pale and plainly ill at ease, on the other side of the fire, forced to fight a battle of nerves through the watches of the night with Phalihas—a wily and experienced opponent, as Parric knew to his cost. Having been through the same grueling ritual, he didn’t envy the lad in the least, and couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern. Schiannath was an unknown quantity—save that he had lost to the former Herdlord once already, which didn’t bode well at all to the cavalrymaster. He only hoped that the young Xandim would prove equal to the test.

Aurian, who always observed Forral’s lessons about not looking at the fire while on night watch, sat tense and awake, shivering a little with weariness and the damp chill of the mountain night, and peering into the shadows beyond the massive standing stones. How could she possibly sleep? She had so much on her mind, following the revelations of Chiamh’s Seeing: how could that double-dratted Sword have turned up in her mother’s Valley, of all places? It seemed as though the fates were mocking her. And that was by no means the only matter to occupy her attention. Tomorrow would be so vitally important—not only to Schiannath and the Xandim people, but to the entire course of her future. Depending upon the outcome of this duel, she would either be making plans to head back north to find the Sword and confront Miathan at last, or fighting for her life and very likely losing more of her beloved companions in the battle.

At her side, she felt Anvar’s hand tighten on her own, in response to the pain that had consumed her at the unexpected reminder of Bohan. “I’m not dwelling on it, truly,” she assured him in the mental communion that was becoming increasingly easy now that they enjoyed a lovers’ bond. “I know that would serve no purpose. Besides, mourning is a luxury we can’t allow ourselves just now.”

“You’re right.” Anvar’s reply came into her mind, and Aurian blessed the fact that they could speak without words, on this night when they must remain silent. “But that doesn’t diminish our love for Bohan,” her soulmate added, “and one day, if all goes well, we’ll find a suitable way to honor him.”

“That’s a lovely thought, and very fitting.” In echo of her words, Aurian sensed Shia’s unspoken approval, and saw her golden eyes gleaming like gemstones in the firelight. The cat was also keeping watch, though she was more concerned for the two Magefolk than for the Xandim warrior. The Mage laid a hand on Shia’s sleek head and leaned against Anvar’s shoulder, enjoying the closeness of her two dear companions. “Can’t you two sleep either?”

“Certainly not. I am watching over you,” Shia replied firmly.

“Not a chance.” Anvar’s thought was rueful. “Not with so much at stake. Do you really think Schiannath can do it?”

“He’d damn well better do it,” Aurian replied fervently, “or we really are in trouble!” She stretched out her long limbs with a sigh. “It’s this endless waiting that’s the worst part.”

“Do you want me to do for you what you did for Chiamh?” Anvar asked her mischievously, indicating the slumbering Windeye.

“Don’t you dare! He’s going to murder me when he wakes up and finds out, but it’s for the best. Poor man—he was worn out after what he did for us today. He desperately needed to sleep.”

“And he deserves to! I was very impressed with the way he handled the Xandim Elders.” His mental chuckle sobered, and she sensed his hesitation. “But, Aurian… didn’t it seem to you as though he was keeping something from us, after the Seeing?”

“You caught that, too?” Aurian frowned. “I’d hoped it was only my imagination. But I trust him,” she added firmly. “Anvar, I’m convinced that Chiamh wouldn’t betray us! Do you doubt that?”

“Not I.” She felt the slight shake of Anvar’s head. “But what was he hiding, then?”

“I don’t know—but it struck me that whatever it was, it terrified him.” Aurian fell silent as she pondered the possibilities. “I think,” she went on slowly, “that if we were in peril, he would certainly have warned us. So the danger can only be to himself—and that worries me more than I can say.” She shivered. “I couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to Chiamh. I’ve grown very fond of him.”

“You mean I have a rival?” Anvar protested in mock alarm.

“Not that fond, you idiot!” Aurian responded to his attempt to lighten their mood. He was right—this was no time for gloomy, nebulous speculation. “You don’t have any rivals,” she promised him, “and if we didn’t have all these folk around us, I’d prove it to you!”

Schiannath, alas, was denied the comfort of mental communication. He was forced to keep his vigil in silence—and he was spending an uneasy night, with Phalihas, only two spear lengths away, glaring at him with an unremitting hatred that was far more intense than the usual attempt to unnerve an opponent. The young Xandim warrior shuddered, feeling the first uncomfortable stirrings of doubt. He dropped his eyes from the former Herdlord’s black gaze and knew, with a sinking feeling of shame, that he had already lost the first round. What if I can’t do it? he thought wildly. If I should die tomorrow, what will become of my poor sister?

He looked up again to see Phalihas staring avidly—not at him this time, but at Iscalda—with a sneering expression compounded of lust, calculation, and such downright arrogance that Schiannath found himself grinding his teeth in thwarted fury. The former Herdlord was making it perfectly plain that he, at least, had no doubts whatsover concerning the outcome of this Challenge.

Schiannath’s self-doubts vanished in a flare of incandescent rage that hardened just as quickly into icy resolution. Never!, he vowed to himself. Never again will Phalihas lay a hand on my sister, for I will defeat him. I must!. Setting his jaw, he sought again for his opponent’s eyes—and this time, such was the strength of his desperate resolve, that it was Phalihas’s turn to falter and look away. Not once, after that, did Schiannath take the pressure of his gaze from the Herdlord throughout that long, long night.

Iscalda sat, rigid with apprehension, beside her brother, keeping his cold hand clasped tightly in her own. She missed the byplay between the two Challengers, for she could not bear to look at them, lest she give way to the paralyzing thoughts of fear and doubt that constantly threatened to erode her courage. If Schiannath should be vanquished on the morrow, not only would she lose the brother whom she loved more than life itself, but her own subsequent fate at the hands of Phalihas did not bear thinking about. With her free hand she fingered her dagger in its sheath, and vowed to herself that if Schiannath died, she would follow him into the arms of the Goddess.

The blast of a horn shrieked its single warning note across the plateau. Aurian had been wrapped in thought, in that uncertain limbo between sleep and waking, and had not noticed that the sky was growing light. The clarion call brought her back with a start to a shivering body whose limbs were locked in stiffness. Just in time, she stopped herself from uttering a heartfelt curse.

“It’s all right now. In the moments between horncall and sunrise, you may speak.” It was the voice of the Windeye. He struggled out of the blanket she had laid over him and glared at her. “Was this your revenge, Lady, for the time I drugged your wine?”

“You needed the rest,” Aurian told him unrepentantly, and was glad that he had no chance to reply.

The companions gathered around Schiannath, who was stamping his feet and swinging his arms to move the sluggish blood in his cold limbs. The Xandim warrior looked deathly pale in the crepuscular light, but his haggard face was set with determination. Chiamh handed him the water flask, and he took a quick drink before dousing his face and head with the remainder. There was no time for more: a faint golden aura was already appearing above the eastern slopes, and he must be in position before the first rays of sunlight hit the plateau, or forfeit the Challenge.

Quickly, Iscalda embraced her beloved brother. “May the Goddess be with you,” she whispered, and tore herself away from him before her brittle mask of courage could shatter.

“And with you, my sister.” Schiannath swallowed hard and started forward—then paused to lay a hand on the Mage’s arm. His eyes held a desperate plea. “If—if anything should happen to me,” he whispered quickly, “I beg you, protect her from Phalihas.”

“I will, I promise,” Aurian assured him. Then he was gone.

The world was utterly silent in that moment before sunrise, as the two opponents stepped out upon the plateau. Then, where two men stood locked eye to eye in the tension that preceded combat, two mighty stallions—one midnight-black, one a darkly dappled gray—faced each other across the stretch of shadowed turf: tails streaming, manes flying in the wind as the great arched necks flexed and the finely sculpted heads lifted proudly. Muscles moved with fluid power in deep chests and strong haunches, as lethal hooves tore up the turf.

The third call of the horn was the triumphant cry of the rising sun. As its light blazed up on the horizon, the gray turf turned to dazzling green—save where the long shadow of Phalihas stretched out to engulf his opponent in a swath of darkness. Schiannath shrilled a strident challenge and reared, pawing at the air, lifting himself high into the sunlight above the black stain of his enemy’s shade. The glittering dew cast sprays of fire beneath pounding hooves as the stallions screamed, and charged.

As the two great horses hurtled toward one another, Schiannath lost all vestiges of human consciousness to the white-hot ecstasy of pure animal rage. He thundered toward Phalihas, intending to dodge and smash into him from the side—but the other had the same idea. Both beasts veered in the same direction—but Phalihas was older, and reacted more quickly to the new development. Wrenching himself around on his powerful haunches, he bore down on the gray stallion, teeth snapping, and drove his head into Schiannath’s belly, winding him and knocking him off his feet.

With unexpected agility, Schiannath rolled over and scrambled upright, trembling from that instant of panic when his feet had left the ground. Phalihas’s hooves pounded down on the place where his opponent had been—but they had missed their target. Schiannath’s head snaked out. The black stallion screamed in pain and outrage as a line of white fire ripped across his flank where the other’s teeth had slashed him. He whirled away, jolted back to cold sanity by the shock—for he had clearly not expected Schiannath to take first blood.

Schiannath came back at him and reared, his sharp hooves lashing close to Phalihas’s skull. Phalihas ducked beneath the flailing bludgeons, went for his enemy’s throat, but missed his hold. Schiannath’s hoof struck bruisingly against his shoulder as his teeth met in the deeply muscled chest and tore out a lump of flesh. Now it was Schiannath’s turn to scream and stagger back, bleeding. His rolling eye held a new respect for his opponent—and the steely glint of a grim determination to succeed at all costs against his foe.

Again and again the stallions charged each other, plunging and biting, kicking and slashing. Blood stained the trampled turf and the air rang with screams of rage and pain as first one and then the other penetrated his opponent’s guard. The two were evenly matched: Phalihas a little heavier, Schiannath slightly taller. The older stallion’s cunning and experience was offset by the greater endurance of the younger beast. Both were maimed and bleeding; both were streaked with a froth of white sweat and staggering with exhaustion, yet neither would give ground, and neither would give in.

To the companions, standing in an anxious huddle by the massive stones, the fight was an unbearable agony. Iscalda had never felt so helpless. She could scarcely bear to watch her brother being slowly torn apart before her eyes, yet watch she must, though her vision blurred again and again with tears that she angrily dashed away. In her mind she was out there on that bloody field with Schiannath—she felt the pain of every wound inflicted, and her heart bled as did his ravaged flesh. As the stallions’ battle took them farther and farther away from where she stood, she strained to follow them, squinting her eyes in an attempt to penetrate the intervening distance. If watching them had been a torture, not being able to see was infinitely worse. She felt a hand grip her own and hold on tightly, and was grateful for the support it offered—yet could not spare a glance to see who was trying to help her.

It must end soon—it must! Schiannath dodged a lunge from Phalihas—but not completely. The other’s teeth met with a click in his ear, and pain lanced through his head. He shook himself free with a squeal, blood running down his ragged forelock into his eyes, and staggered aside, his reactions and movements slower now, his thinking dulled and blurred by pain. His sides were heaving with exertion, and blood-streaked foam dripped from his open jaws. Catching a glimpse of his foe, Schiannath whirled stiffly and kicked out, his hind feet smacking into the other’s ribs with a thud that almost drowned the crack of bone. Phalihas tottered and almost fell, the breath going out of him in an agonized whistle as Schiannath stumbled, unbalanced by the kick. A wrenching pain stabbed up his left foreleg. He recovered himself with all his weight on the other, for the hoof of the injured limb could barely touch the ground.

The fight broke off as the two stallions stood, heads drooping, each of them desperately trying to summon the energy to finish his opponent. None of the Xandim would interfere from the sidelines—this battle must be fought out now, to settle the succession. The last Challenger left standing would become the Herdlord—and the other would die.

Schiannath knew he had reached the end of his endurance. With his foreleg crippled he had lost mobility—and worse, he could not kick. The injury had robbed him of a major weapon. It could only be a matter of time now, before Phalihas outmaneuvered him. Schiannath’s heart sank beneath a weight of black despair. He had tried, but he had lost…

Then, through the gray haze of blood loss and fatigue that fogged his brain, Schiannath’s sensitive equine hearing registered the sound of muffled weeping. Iscaldal With a jolt he remembered his sister, and the Lady Aurian and her companions, who had saved him from his dreadful exile. Their lives rested on his success. And Iscalda: he was fighting this battle not for himself, but for her! What right had he to give in? A thought came to him with this renewed determination: if he was in this woeful state, then his older opponent must be in a far worse case. That faint spark of hope buoyed his flagging spirits, and he felt one last reserve of strength trickle into his weary limbs. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he took a good look at his foe for the first time in what seemed to have Been an endless age. Phalihas stood trembling in all his limbs, wheezing and choking with the effort to draw air into his lungs. Blood was streaming from his mouth and nostrils, and his eyes were dull and glazed.

Schiannath stiffened to a thrill of hope. With the pain of his own injury, he had forgotten that last kick into Phalihas’s ribs. Had it done more damage than he’d thought? There was only one way to find out—but first he must expose himself. If Phalihas was only feigning, and saw that limp…

Setting his teeth against both fear and pain, he took a hesitant, nobbling step forward, then another. His enemy’s head swung up sharply: a new fire kindled in the depths of his dull eyes. Scniannath froze, heart pounding. Phalihas gathered himself—and charged. That was what Schiannath had been waiting for. As the black stallion came lumbering toward him, he sidestepped clumsily, and reared with a shrill scream of triumph that changed to choking terror as Phalihas’s head whipped round to close great slablike teeth around his throat. Schiannath felt himself toppling, dragged down by the other’s weight. In the last remaining second, he lashed out with one last desperate effort. His uninjured hoof came smashing down upon Phalihas’s skull—and the two of them crashed down together into darkness.

Iscalda screamed as she saw the stallions fall. She ran forward, tearing herself away from the strong hands that tried to hold her back. As she broke free, she was aware of others beginning to follow, streaming out behind her with shouts of excitement or concern, but her anguish for her brother lent wings to her feet—and with the start she had, she easily outdistanced them all. With an effort she stifled her sobs to keep her breath for running, but kept her eyes fixed, through a haze of tears, on those two dark shapes that lay so ominously still on the blood-soaked ground. The final stages of the battle had taken the stallions a long way out across the plateau. Iscalda pounded on with sweat trickling down into her stinging eyes, trying to ignore the catch in her side and her shortness of breath. Schiannath!. Though she had no breath to speak, the cry was wrenched in agony from her heart. Would she never reach him? It was like trying to run through water; like her childhood nightmare, when she’d fled in terror to evade pursuers, but for all her running and running she stayed stranded in the exact same place.

Ahead of her, one of the dark humps stirred. She stumbled; looked again. Surely she must have imagined that feeble movement? The low, slanting sun was in her eyes, obscuring all detail. No! She was not mistaken! One of the stallions was struggling weakly, trying in vain to rise. With a gasp, Iscalda redoubled her speed. One of them was still alive—but which one was it? Which?

Then she heard, ringing raw and shrill across the plateau, a stallion’s scream of victory. Iscalda would have known that voice anywhere. Schiannath! Unstrung with relief, her legs collapsed beneath her, and she fell to the crisp, cool turf weeping tears of gratitude.

Nonetheless, Iscalda was still one of the first to reach her brother. Aurian, thundering across the plateau on Chiamh’s back with Shia racing alongside, caught up with her just as she was struggling to her feet. The Windeye had kept his wits about him, and taken a moment to change to his equine form, and when the Mage saw the struggling girl, she was quick to go to her aid.

“Come on!” The Mage reached down a hand and all but yanked the exhausted Iscalda up behind her. Then they were off again with such speed that, in less than a minute, they were at Schiannath’s side. The stallion was in too much distress to recognize them. He was floundering, struggling and plunging and slipping in a pool of churned-up mud and gore, trying in vain to get to his feet. His dark-gray flanks were unrecognizable beneath a thickly plastered coat of blood and clay, and his rolling, white-rimmed eyes were glazed with pain and panic.

Muttering a shocked imprecation, Aurian swung off Chiamh’s back and ran toward the stallion, Iscalda at her heels. “Hurry,” the Mage yelled. “He’s so terrified, he doesn’t know what he’s doing! We’ve got to try to get him up before those idiots arrive.”

He would not let them approach him, despite the fact that the great cat was keeping well back, out of his sight. When they tried, he struck out wildly with teeth and an awkwardly held forelimb that was plainly injured. “Schiannath, it’s me, Iscalda,” his sister cried, but her words were lost in the sound of his angry screams. But if she could only get him to see her… She turned quickly to the Mage. “Aurian, if you can distract him, I’ll try to reach his head.”

Aurian nodded. “Be careful,” she said briefly, and ran toward the horse from one side, waving her arms and screaming like a banshee. Schiannath flattened his ears and turned toward her—and quick as a flash, Iscalda darted in and grabbed hold of his muzzle before the snapping teeth could reach her. Aurian held her breath. Already the crowd of Xandim were starting to arrive, and she knew that if Iscalda couldn’t reach him soon, she’d never do it with a lot of people crowding around. Schiannath plunged, trying to shake her off, but his sister hung on grimly, refusing to be dislodged. Putting her mouth close to his ear, she yelled: “Schiannath! Schiannath! It’s Iscalda! It’s all right, you’re safe now. You’re safe with us. Come back to us—please. You won, you’re safe…”

As her soothing litany penetrated the stallion’s terrified consciousness, his struggles ceased. Beckoned in by Aurian, the other companions arrived, gasping for breath, and helped the exhausted beast to find his footing while Chiamh and Yazour kept back the crowds with the aid of a snarling Shia. Once up, Schiannath stood there trembling with weakness, his head hanging low, but slowly, to the Mage’s vast relief, the light of intelligence began to creep back into his eyes.

Not that Schiannath was calmer, Aurian went cautiously forward to examine him with her Healer’s senses. When she had finished, she spoke to him quickly: “Schiannath, listen to me. You’ll be all right, and I’ll help you—but don’t try to change back yet. You’re too exhausted. Do you understand? Let me heal you first, and then you can think about changing.”

Chiamh, in the interim, was addressing the crowd. “O Xandim—I give you your new Herdlord: Schiannath, victor of the Challenge. May the Goddess grant that he govern you wisely and wefi—and may her curse fall swiftly on any who dispute his rule, which was decided fairly under Xandim Law.”

There was not much cheering. Judging from the expressions of the Xandim—some disappointed, some angry—Aurian knew that they had all been counting on Schiannath to lose. She wanted to spit in their faces. Ysalla came forward for the Elders, her face set like stone. “And what is the will of the Herdlord?” The savage mockery in her voice was like the lash of a whip.

In her mind, Aurian caught Chiamh’s anguished tones. “Can you help him, Lady? Schiannath must address them soon, or it bodes ill.”

“I can, but it’ll take a while,” the Mage replied in the same silent fashion.

“I doubt that we have a little while,” the Windeye pleaded. Already, a restive murmur was beginning to spread throughout the crowd.

Aurian felt the raw power of their hostile anger and came to a decision. “All right. Anvar, you shield our own folk as best you can. This bloody lot have energy to dissipate, so I’m just going to borrow—”

“Aurian—you can’t! The Mages’ Code—”

“Oh, bugger the Mages’ Code—just this once. It’s in a good cause. I’ve done this before, in the Nexis riot, and the Khazalim Arena. They’ll take no hurt at all…” Even as she was reassuring him, she was readying herself. Surreptitiously, she took hold of the Staff of Earth that was tucked, as always, into her belt. Laying the other hand on Schiannath’s drooping head, she reached out with her will to the aura of smoldering rage that hung over the crowd and took it into herself, forming a channel through which the purloined energy could be passed to the gray stallion by way of her hand. As she had promised Anvar, it took very little—and the crowd had more than enough to spare. Moreover, the exchange of energy had an unexpected benefit. As she drained away the power that fueled their anger, Aurian noticed a change come over the assembled Xandim. They seemed more relaxed: less uncertain, less unhappy, and definitely far less hostile. Fleetingly, she found herself wondering if the happy outcome to the Nexis riot had been entirely due to the coming of the rain—and then put the thought aside to ponder later.

As the transfer of energy came to completion, Aurian felt Schiannath’s trembling cease. His head came up alertly from beneath her outstretched hand. Though it still remained for her to heal him, his ears were pricked and his eyes were bright as he looked around the encircling Xandim and snorted sharply.

“All right,” Aurian told him softly. “Now you have the energy, you can transform yourself. Go to it, Herdlord—we’re all so very proud of you.”

Aurian stepped back a little, to give him room to change. The great gray stallion set himself, his dark eyes clouded with concentration—then his outline seemed to waver and shrink upon itself, until in its place stood Schiannath the warrior. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side. He was white-faced, bruised and battered, with his clothing ripped to shreds and bloody wounds all over his body—yet there was a regal dignity and power in his bearing that marked him indisputably as Herdlord. Aurian waited, watching, and wondering what he was going to say. Everything depended upon the next few moments, and the impression that Schiannath was about to make on his people. She prayed with all her heart that the young Xandim warrior would find the right words.

Lifting his head with weary pride, Schiannath looked around at the assembled ranks of Xandim. Suddenly he was the focus of hundreds of eyes, and he could feel their hostility and suspicion striking against him in a palpable wave. What have I done? he thought wildly. They don’t want me! Only the presence of Iscalda, Chiamh, and his Outland companions gave him the courage to stand steadfast. He took a deep breath to address his people, wondering, for a panic-stricken instant, what he was going to say to win them over. Then, as he looked again at the Windeye, who had once been as much of an outcast as himself, the answer came to him. Taking a deep breath, he began:

“Last year, a very wild, rebellious, and foolish young man lost a Challenge on this plateau, and was banished into the mountains as an outlaw. You all knew that wretch—you all, alas, can remember his errors and his escapades.” He grimaced wryly, and a tentative chuckle trickled through the ranks of watching Xandim.

Schiannath caught Iscalda’s eye. “That man is dead.” At his words, the laughter ceased abruptly. Suddenly, everyone was listening as Schiannath went on, more quietly but still clearly: “The Schiannath that you knew died in those mountains, as surely as if he had stepped over a precipice, or fallen prey to the Black Ghosts.” He bowed apologetically to Shia, who was rumbling fiercely, and heard a gasp of amazement from the crowd as the snarling instantly ceased.

Schiannath made the most of their awe. “It was I who bested Phalihas today, and I am not that misguided, feckless youth who was exiled from his tribe. Your new Herdlord has learned the hard lessons of patience and courage; honor, love, and responsibility for others. I ask only the chance to prove myself, as the Xandim must prove themselves in these difficult, perilous times. Under my rule, we need no longer fear our neighbors: the Black Ghosts and the Skyfolk. There will be peace between us, so that our peoples may flourish and support one another against evil—for evil is coming. For too long we have kept ourselves from the world, guarding our secret—but now the world is reaching out to us, and unless we fight, it will overwhelm us. In the north, a great storm is rising—a dire malevolence from which my Outland companions once fled. Even now it approaches, and were it not for the warnings of our brave and faithful Windeye, we would be caught unprepared. But for our own sakes, we must prepare. There must be no strife among ourselves now. Even as the new age dawns, you have been given a new Herdlord—a man whose nature has been forged anew in the fires of pain and adversity. Once I knew nothing but to take from my tribe. Now I want nothing but to give of myself and serve my people. O Xandim—will you accept me?”

There was an instant of breathless silence—and then Schiannath was overwhelmed by the cheers. Stamping their feet and rattling their swords upon their shields, they cried his name again and again as they flocked around him. Iscalda ran to her brother, her face shining like the sun with relief and pride.

Aurian had no idea that she had been holding her breath until she felt it all go out of her in a huge sigh of relief. She turned to Anvar with sparkling eyes, wanting to share the delight of the moment—and instead found Parric, who had approached, unnoticed, while Schiannath had been speaking.

“Well I’m buggered,” the cavalrymaster muttered. “I wish I had made a speech like that!”

“You would have—if they’d given you enough mead first,” she chuckled. Sobering, she turned to Anvar. “Wasn’t that amazing? I’m so proud of Schiannath that I could burst!”

Her soulmate nodded. “He’s quite a man—and it’s been quite a day! It certainly looks as though there’ll be no obstacle to our plans now.”

“You’re right…” Even as she said it, Aurian suddenly felt a premonitory prickle of unease. Looking around, she realized that someone was missing from the throng of celebrating companions. Chiamh stood apart, watching the Xandim honor their new Herdlord, his face gray and twisted with a look of utter despair. At the sight of him, Aurian shuddered. “At least I hope not,” she added, so quietly that no one heard her.