Heritage Of The Xandim

by Maggie Furey

  Well, if Esmon wasn’t unduly concerned, maybe she should stop worrying about it. Shifting an indignant Melik, Iriana wriggled over onto her other side and tried to concentrate on the good things that had happened that day. She and Seyka had found this wonderful campsite for everyone. How satisfying it had been finally to feel herself to be an equal, functioning member of the group, instead of the blind girl who had to be guarded, helped and cared for. Iriana smiled in the darkness. Men were so pig-headed. It had taken her a long time to convince them, but today she’d succeeded at last. Then the strangest thought crossed her mind.

  Maybe, before I could convince them, I had to truly convince myself, deep down inside.

  However it had come about, she was glad that it had happened and proud of her achievement.

  And of course, Avithan’s kiss had changed things. She wanted it to happen again, and maybe again. If Avithan was willing, of course. Don’t take it too seriously, she warned herself. Not until you know whether he does. But her first real kiss . . . She felt as if she was beginning a new journey that night, and wondered where it would lead.

  By this time, Iriana was beginning to grow drowsy and, as was her nightly habit just before she fell asleep, she linked with Seyka for one last look around the camp and its environs. She found the bird hunting in the forest, but it accepted her presence and let her distract it easily enough, and she suspected that it had eaten already. Sure enough, a quick scan of its recent memory revealed two fat mice that had lately gone the right way - at least as far as the owl was concerned.

  Flying a sweeping arc through the trees, Seyka circled back over the campsite for her, and swooped low towards the tents. All at once, Iriana smothered a gasp as she saw a clot of blackness detach itself from the surrounding darkness and transform into a figure. It glided up behind Esmon and sliced a knife across his throat, then plunged the glittering blade deep into his chest. Iriana saw blood spray across the ground; saw his body slump and fall. There was no time to catch her breath, no time to absorb the horror and peril, for that sinister shadow was gliding rapidly towards the tents.

  ‘Wake up,’ she shrieked to Avithan in mindspeech. ‘We’re being attacked! ’ Desperately she hurled the images that she’d seen and was seeing into his mind.

  The dark killer bent down to reach for Avithan’s tent flap. Like lightning, a blade thrust out straight through the flimsy fabric of the shelter, piercing the assassin’s shoulder above his sword arm. With a curse he danced swiftly backward and, with a deadly economy of motion, transferred the weapon to his other hand. As he did so, Iriana caught her first good look at his face through Seyka’s eyes. A Phaerie, as she had suspected.

  On silent feet, he stole around the side of the tent and slashed downward - but just as the tip of his blade tore the moonmoth silk, Avithan’s sword jabbed out again and caught him in the side. Iriana heard him hiss with pain and frustration as he jumped back once more. Though he must have been in pain from his wounds, he gave no outward sign: only stood very still for a moment, thinking, then looked long and slowly around the camp. To her horror, he abandoned Avithan and turned towards her tent.

  Then his gaze lit on Seyka, perched on a nearby branch, and to Iriana, it seemed as though he was looking directly at her, not at the owl. Without warning, a bolt of dark power flashed across the clearing from his eyes to those of the bird, and Iriana’s vision went black in an explosion of intense pain. Horror, grief, disbelief: all these emotions struck through her in the space of a heartbeat as she searched frantically with her mind for the bird. But her mind could only confirm what her heart already knew. Seyka, beautiful Seyka, was dead.

  Stunned by rage and sorrow, Iriana had almost forgotten her own plight, and left herself with little time to escape. Switching to Melik’s eyes, she grabbed her knife and sliced open the rear of the tent. The cat, catching her panic, shot out ahead of her. She began to crawl through - but it was too late. The killer grabbed her ankle, his fingers grinding cruelly into flesh and bone, and jerked her backwards, out of the tent.

  The terrified cat had fled, and Dailika was in the bushes, out of sight of the clearing. Iriana was left utterly blind. She twisted herself around and flailed wildly with the knife, but it found no target and her assailant took it out of her hand with a cruel twist of her wrist. He dragged her roughly to her feet and struck her hard across the face. Had he not been holding her arm, the blow would have knocked her off her feet. As it was she staggered, her head reeling. No one had ever hit her before, and the fact that she had never seen the blow coming only exacerbated the shock and pain.

  Yanking her towards him, he pinioned her arms from behind. Iriana struggled until she felt the cold bite of a blade across her throat, then suddenly became very still. How had it all happened so fast? Never had she been so helpless; never so terrified. Now that her life hung in the balance, her blindness mattered more than it ever had before. From childhood, she had always found ways to circumvent, to compensate, to cope. Now, weaponless, all her animals dead or fled and a knife at her throat - now, for the first time she truly found her blindness to be a grave disadvantage.

  Behind her back, the shadowy killer laughed, a sound as cold as the steel that threatened to take her life. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I knew your little blind friend would bring you out of your lurking-hole. The best way to catch a cowardly dog is with a bitch in heat.’

  Iriana stiffened. He wasn’t talking to her but to Avithan. She didn’t need eyes to know that her companion had emerged from his tent, sword in hand. She was one of the few people who knew he’d trained to fight in secret with the Warriors’ Luen - but she was sure he’d be no match for one who could creep up so silently on Esmon and slit his throat.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Avithan snarled.

  ‘Make me.’ That same cold, grating laugh came from the killer.

  Iriana’s heart was breaking over Esmon, over Seyka; she was terrified to the depths of her being, for she knew how it would end - Avithan would attack and die, they would both die at the Phaerie’s hands. Yet this final threat to her companion froze the fear that had turned her knees to water into an icy, deadly fury. This murderous bastard thought she was helpless - well, he would soon learn otherwise.

  Though her wrath was cold, she struck with fire. With a roar, flame enveloped her assailant’s body. For an instant, just an instant, his grip loosened and the knife fell away, then to her horror the fire was gone; extinguished. How had he done that? Even as the thought flashed into her head, she kicked him hard in the ankle and slipped from his grasp.

  ‘Run, Iriana,’ Avithan yelled. ‘Hide. Warn Father.’

  Iriana ran. Not through cowardice, but sense. Blind like this, she would be no good to Avithan, and a downright hindrance if the Phaerie got his hands on her again. If she could only get to Dailika, find another pair of eyes, then maybe she could help her companion - her love.

  She fled in what she hoped was the right direction, but she was hopelessly disorientated. Suddenly there was no ground beneath her feet, and for the second time that day, she found herself floundering in the frigid stream. Gasping, she struggled up again and clawed her way out, and continued to fight through the bushes.

  The forest was a dangerous place for one who could not see. She ran into a tree with bruising force, and kept stumbling on the uneven ground, barely catching herself before she fell. Branches whipped across her face and snatched at her hair, and her heart was almost beating its way out of her chest with terror. All she could think of was Avithan at the killer’s mercy. She had to help him, she had to. Where were those bloody horses? Where was she, anyway? Without the vision of her animals, everything was so bewildering. She could be running right back into the arms of the killer.

  Yet she couldn’t stop. Some primeval instinct kept her moving, searching. ‘Warn Father,’ Avithan had said.

  It won’t save us, she thought, we’re too far away from anyone who could help. But it might save others from walking into this t
rap.

  Yet how could she manage it? Mindspeech would never reach as far as Tyrineld. Not even to Nexis, unless the link between the participants was exceptionally close. She had but one solitary, unlikely spark of hope. Maybe . . . With all her heart, all her power, all her strength, she tried to fling a desperate message back to the frontier town. To the only one she knew there. To the one who’d been her foster-father. Even as she did so, something - a fallen tree trunk, she realised - swept her legs out from underneath her. She fell hard, fast, and oblivion claimed her.

  Now that Iriana was out of danger, Avithan was free to concentrate on staying alive. Clearly, this cold-eyed Phaerie had some way of circumventing Wizard spells, for the bastard had smothered Iriana’s flames in an instant. All Avithan had to rely on was Esmon’s legacy of sword-training to avenge his murdered friend.

  Unfortunately, his opponent was a much better fighter. Avithan circled defensively, trying, as far as possible, to avoid that lethal blade. ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  ‘Your Death.’ The voice was granite hard and utterly without emotion.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can.’ With a deadly swiftness, the assailant moved, weaving a dance of death around Avithan, who could only try to defend himself as far as possible, hanging on to his life one moment - one breath - at a time.

  Had his night vision not been superior, and if he hadn’t already wounded the Phaerie twice, leaving the killer bleeding from shoulder and side, he would have been dead in no time. As it was, he could barely hold his own. He ducked and wove around the clearing, forced ever backwards by the cold-blooded ferocity of the Phaerie’s attack. The flash and flicker of the lethal blades filled his blurring vision, and the clang and clash of steel jarred his ears. His legs felt heavy as iron bars; his arms were soon numb from the repeated impacts as he tried to defend himself. Sweat dripped into his eyes; strands of his long hair plastered themselves across his face. His footing was uncertain, his boots slipping and sliding on the soft earth.

  Avithan’s only hope was that the Phaerie’s wounds would eventually slow him down, but that didn’t seem to be happening. Though that cold, mocking smile had become a grimace, though his breathing was harsh and laboured, his movements were still fluid, swift and lethal. Suddenly his sword flicked across the Wizard’s face, leaving a long slice down his jawline and a flash of shock and pain. Distantly, Avithan registered the pain of other wounds, to left arm, belly and thigh, but could not say when his foe had nicked him. He could hear the pounding of his blood and a distant buzzing in his ears that marked the onset of exhaustion, yet somehow he found the strength to keep on fighting. Not only was his life at stake, but Iriana’s, too. The more time he could buy her . . .

  Who am I deceiving? he thought desperately. He’ll wear me out; sooner or later one of these brutal blows will land, and that will be the end. Then he’ll hunt her down - she’ll be easy enough to track - and she’ll never see him coming.

  Her death would be cruel.

  And that thought was enough to distract him. Only for an eyeblink, but it was enough. The killer’s sword snaked past his guard: a hot, vicious pain exploded through his chest. No, no! Desperately Avithan tried to stop his weak knees from buckling, to keep to his feet, to raise his sword arm to defend himself, but there was no control any more. His throat filled with choking blood. He couldn’t breathe. His vision greyed and clouded, and the last thing he saw was the cruel triumph on the face of his foe, as he pitched forward and down, down into the bottomless black void.

  Iriana swam blearily back to consciousness with blood trickling down her face and a throbbing head. All was confusion. How had she come to be here? Where was here? She sought for Seyka, so that she could get a good look at her surroundings - and sat up abruptly with a stifled cry that could have been grief, pain, fear - or all three together. Seyka was dead. Esmon murdered. And Avithan . . .

  I’ve got to get back!

  How long had she been unconscious? Was she too late? Was Avithan dead, and the killer stalking her even now?

  She took a firm hold on her panicking thoughts, and cautiously felt the gash on her forehead. Good. The blood wasn’t crusting yet, so she hadn’t been out for long. Now, where was Melik? But the cat had run off in terror and search as she would, she could not reach him. She didn’t know how far away she was from the campsite, but she had to see what was happening, and she had to help Avithan. Frantically, she located Dailika, the only one of her animal companions she had left.

  When the Wizard linked, she heard the clangour of blades, and fear for Avithan warred with incredible relief that he was still alive. But she had tied the animals in the bushes, away from the clearing. Though it sickened her, she had only one option. For the first time in her life she overrode the gentle partnership they had always shared, put forth her mind in an iron grasp and took control of Dailika, forcing her to pull and jerk at her rope again and again, attacking it with hooves, teeth and all her considerable strength. The knowledge that she was hurting the poor creature and betraying a trust tore at Iriana’s heart, but she had no choice. She drove the mare without mercy, until finally the tether snapped.

  The mare stumbled backward and Iriana turned her and goaded her towards the clearing; towards the clash of weapons and the fearsome stink of spilt blood. The terrified mare fought back, striving with every sinew to run away from the horror. The Wizard was bleeding inside, knowing her actions for the betrayal of trust that they were, but she gave Dailika no choice, even as she herself had none.

  Dailika burst into the clearing, just in time for Iriana to see Avithan fall, and the Phaerie raise his blade for the killing blow. Ruthlessly she forced the horse forward - fast, faster, too quickly for the killer to turn. He never saw what hit him. Dailika ran him down, trampling him into the dirt beneath her hooves. Even as he tried to rise, Iriana turned the mare back and attacked again. Even as she reared over him to knock the sword from his hand, Dailika felt its bite as he tore her flank with the tip of her blade. Caught in the remorseless grasp of the Wizard’s will, goaded against her instincts to a kind of madness now, the horse pounded the killer into a bloody pulp.

  Iriana, weeping, loosed her grip on Dailika’s mind, and the mare fled screaming into the darkness. A trust and a bond, which had been there since the Wizard was a youngster and the mare a stilt-legged foal, had been irredeemably shattered tonight. Her grief a crushing force, she put her face in her hands and knelt - but only for an instant. There was no time for such indulgence. Avithan could still be alive - oh, let him be alive - but he could be bleeding to death in the clearing. She had to get to him. But how could she find her way back without her animals to see the path?

  Panic gripped her. Blind, lost and alone in hundreds of miles of wilderness. What if she fell over a precipice? Encountered a bear? Wandered aimlessly in circles until both she and Avithan died?

  ‘But I won’t.’

  Iriana fought down the terror and told herself to think. She used the fallen tree to haul herself to her feet. Her legs were bruised and abraded, a vicious pain lanced through her right ankle and her right arm throbbed from shoulder to wrist. Her face was scratched, the wet clothes from her earlier tumble into the stream clung to her soaked and shivering body, and kindly nature had clearly arranged a sharp stone in just the right place to cut her head open. Ignoring the aches and pains, she orientated herself by the tree trunk that had been her undoing. Now she had a rough - very rough - idea of the direction in which she needed to go.

  Though her heart urged her to hurry, Iriana stood very still and listened, trying to catch the distant sounds of the stream. How far had she run? Not that far, surely. Though her instincts were screaming out at her to run again - towards Avithan this time, instead of away - she knew she would never find him that way. Blundering around the forest all night would help no one. She listened again for the stream, trying to separate its bubbling murmur from the sounds of the forest all around, and turning her head from side to side t
o try and fix on its direction. As soon as she was sure she had it firmly in her mind, she followed the sound, concentrating with every fibre of her being and changing direction if it seemed to move or diminish.

  It wasn’t easy. Between the Wizard and the water lay an obstacle course of rough ground, briars and trees. Iriana stumbled, tripped and was hit by low branches. She realised for the first time that she’d been fortunate to have run so far without seriously injuring herself. Then, of course, she had been fuelled by terror, not registering the obstacles, the collisions, the falls. Now, as she tried to retrace her steps, the forest was making her pay. Far worse than any physical pain, however, was the unrelenting fear that Avithan might already be dead.

  ‘Please, Avithan. Please be alive. Just keep holding on - I’m coming as fast as I can.’ Desperately Iriana called to him in mindspeech, but there was not the slightest whisper of a response. All the time she tried to keep the sound of the tumbling water ahead of her, and finally she found the stream exactly as she had found it last time - by falling into it. It was deeper here than the previous place, and icy. Iriana surfaced, spluttering and spewing curses, and sloshed doggedly to the far bank, turning to the right to follow the watercourse up to the pool and nearby clearing. After a few moments she could hear the churning of the little waterfall, and the remaining horses nickering and stamping restlessly among the bushes. She was just opening her mouth to call out when it occurred to her, belatedly, that there might have been more than one Phaerie present. Who was to say that the killer didn’t have friends nearby?