The Xandim were a hardy, active outdoor folk who preferred the freedom of temporary shelters in the sweeping foothills or the open plains to fixed settlements and walls of stone. As humans they hunted, fished, gathered, and traded—when in equine shape, their food grew in abundance around them. They had a basic written language of signs, but rarely bothered with such niceties. Instead they told stories, the taller the better, and sang many songs. Their history was simply passed down by word of mouth, much to Chiamh’s frustration. He was certain that most of it was muddled, and much was missing.
The Windeye arrived, soaked, bruised, and gasping for breath, at the massive, arching gate of the fortress. The building gave him a feeling or unease, as though unseen eyes watched him from under its eaves. He looked nervously up at its looming structure. The unusual silver veining in the rough brown stone gleamed softly in the afterglow of dusk, and in the deceptive ghostlight, the towers and windows, balconies and buttresses of the building’s fascia seemed to suggest, to Chiamh’s imperfect vision, the dignified lineaments of a craggy old face. For the first time, he wondered why he had never thought of viewing the fastness with his Othersight. The Goddess only knew what such a seeing might reveal—but there was no time now for such frivolous experiments.
First, he needed news of the outland prisoners. Had they arrived yet? His visions were accurate as to context, but they could be confusing and uncertain where time was concerned. And although he was the Windeye, Chiamh lacked sufficient standing with the Herdlord to enter the dungeons. The rescue of the strangers must be contrived after their trial, when they could be reached.
Besides, the Windeye wanted to know more about them, before he committed himself further. Luckily, there was a way to find out what he needed—so long as the strangers were already there.
It was time for the change of sentries—an informal business at best, for the independent Xandim took badly to formality and regimentation. Chiamh sighed. What a time to arrive, when he would have twice as many guards to deal with! As he approached the sentries, Chiamh recognized the ranking officer as Galdras, a muscle-bound idiot whose head was thicker than the stone of the fastness, and his heart sank. Lacking intelligence and imagination, Galdras found great sport in mocking the nearsighted Windeye. But the guards had already seen him, and he had no option but to go on. Doing his best to assume the dignity of his station, the Windeye straightened his shoulders and walked up to the group of warriors who stood gossiping at the gate.
As Chiamh had expected, the mockery started before he had even reached the top of the steps.
“Come out of your hole, have you, little mole?” Galdras jeered, earning a laugh from his companions. Chiamh clenched his teeth. “Let me pass,” he said softly, “I have urgent business within.”
“Oh! The Windeye has urgent business within! What is it, Chiamh—have you come for your laundry, by any chance?”
Chiamh ignored the sniggers as the guards mocked his appearance, filthy and tattered after his headlong, tumbling rush down the mountain. Cursing the blush that heated his cheeks, the Windeye lifted his chin and marched determinedly inside—and fell flat on his face on the threshold, his legs entangled in the butt of a spear.
“Oops—sorry, Great One,” Galdras snickered. His eyes grew wide with feigned terror. “Please don’t turn me into a horrible beast!”
The Windeye picked himself up, rubbing the knee he’d cracked on the edge of the stone steps as the guards howled with laughter. Chiamh’s face burned. His only thought was of escape, before his tormentors baited him further.
“Do you intend to let them get away with that?”
Chiamh whirled, seeking the voice that had whispered in his ear. The guards were convulsed with laughter—surely it had not been one of them? The voice had sounded much deeper—older, somehow, than their sneering tones. Galdras had noticed his hesitation. “Yes?” The word was an open challenge. “Did you want something, Chiamh? Directions to the bathing rooms, perhaps?” Putting his nose in the air, he held it between his fingers, and his appreciative audience laughed all the harder.
“Face them, you fool. If you walk away from this, they will torment you for the rest of your days!”
Goddess, thought Chiamh, only the mad hear voices! He tried to flee into the fastness, but as his foot touched the threshold—
“GET BACK THERE AND DEAL WITH THIS!”
It was no whisper this time—the roar nearly knocked him off his feet. Surely the guards had heard—but no. They were still holding their noses and making stupid jokes. Suddenly Chiamh had had enough. Wherever the voice had come from, it was right! Though the storm had faltered, the wind was still gusting round the corner of the building—there was more than enough for his needs. Chiamh’s vision glazed and then cleared as he summoned his Othersight. Seizing a great double handful of the shimmering wind, he twisted it into the form of a hideous, slavering demon—and flung it into the faces of the jeering guards.
Galdras fell to his knees screaming. Some men drew their weapons, their faces slack with fear, while others tried to flee—but were trapped in the corner of the great stone bastion at the side of the door. Chiamh laughed. Before the howls of the guards could draw the attention of those within the fortress, he gathered the vision back to himself—and flinging his hands wide, freed and scattered the winds, dispersing the demon.
The guards picked themselves up slowly, their faces an ugly mix of anger, resentment, and humiliation. By the stench, more than one had soiled himself. The Windeye chuckled. “Perhaps you should direct yourselves to the bathing rooms,” he said brightly, and went inside.
The Othersight left Chiamh as he entered the fastness—and with it went his heady sense of triumph. His revenge had been sweet and well merited, but its aftermath left him with a sinking sense of shame. I was not given my powers to abuse them, he thought, remembering the fear and hate on the faces of the guards. I may have taught them not to mock me, but I made no friends today
“Nonsense, Little Seer. They were not your friends, am never would have been. They feared your powers and so they mocked you—but today you taught them to respect you, which is all to the good!”
“Who are you?” Chiamh cried, drawing curious glances from passers-by within the corridors of the fastness. There was no reply—already he had learned not expect one. “I’ll get to the bottom of this,” he mutter “if it’s the last thing I do!” But this was not the time indulge his curiosity. First, and more importantly, Windeye had to find the prisoners! Chiamh looked around the entrance chamber of fortress, and shuddered. Goddess, how he hated the place! His body was damp with the clammy sweat of fear. As always, he was aware of the tremendous mass a stone surrounding him, which left him feeling stifled and crushed. As he stumbled along half blind, he felt lost and insecure—for bereft of the winds in this enclosed stone tomb, Chiamh was forced to depend on his wretched imperfect eyesight.
In happier times, the torchlit corridors of the fastness would be almost deserted. Even the Herdlord spent little time within, and most of the Xandim progressed from, birth to death without ever setting foot in the place. The edifice was guarded by warriors who took it in turns, for no one wanted to be stuck here permanently, and that was all. Now, however, the sinister winter that locked the land had altered the place beyond recognition, the Xandim had brought their most vulnerable kin—young, the sick, and the aged—to shelter within stout protective walls.