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their lashing and howling falling away. The churning dense clouds seemed to withdraw as if gathering strength for one last onslaught.
Into the calm walked Smoky. His sandals slapped the wet stone. The magus – and Kyle held little doubt the being was at least that – watched the little man with apparent amusement. Smoky knelt and did something with his hands over the stone floor. Flames shot out from his hands along the wet rock. The line of fire darted forwardvery like a snake nosing ever closer to the entity. The magus watched all this with a kind of patient curiosity. His head edged down slightly as his eyes shifted to follow the flame's advance.
Once the line of fire reached close to the magus's sandalled feet, it split into two branches that encircled him. The being's heavy gaze climbed to regard Smoky who flinched beneath its weight. The magus flicked his fingers and the flames burst outwards like shattered glass. Smoky flew backwards as if punched. He slid across the slick stone to lie at Greymane's feet. ‘That's something you don't see every day,’ Kyle heard the little man gasp. The magus was immobile but Greymane didn't take his eyes from him to acknowledge Smoky. ‘We ought to call him the mage said, pushing himself up.
The magus slowly raised his arms straight outwards from its body as if he were a bird about to take flight. Greymane took a breath to speak but stopped, glancing sharply to one side. Three figures, two men and one woman, all wearing wind-whipped dark cloaks, approached up the colonnaded walk. Three whom Kyle knew for certain had not come with the party. Greymane cursed under his breath. Smoky blew on his hands and kneaded them together.
The Guardsmen edged aside for these three. The lead one Kyle knew for Cowl, hatchet-faced, bearing blue curled tattoos at his chin and a thatching of pearly knife-scars at his neck. His seconds Kyle assumed to be Keitil, a dark-faced plainsman like himself though from a place called Wick. And Isha, a wide solid woman with long, coarse dark hair woven in a single braid. All three were Veils, covert killers – mercenary assassins.
Greymane shot a look to Smoky who shrugged, saying, ‘The Brethren must've gone to him.’
‘I see you've made some headway,’ Cowl called to Greymane.
The renegade hunched his shoulders and bit down any response. He finally ground out, ‘I don't want your kind of help.’
Cowl waved a gloved hand. ‘Then by all means – bring it to a close either way. If you can.’
Greymane shifted his gaze to the immobile magus. ‘Your solution's always the same. It requires no thought …’
‘Something's up,’ Smoky warned.
The magus had bent his head back to regard the clouds above. He edged his arms up further, straight, hands open, fingers splayed. The thick wool sleeves of his robes fell away revealing the blue swirling tattoos of spirals and waves encircling both arms – from his hands allthe way up to his naked shoulders: the assembled symbols of Wind.
‘No!’ Kyle choked out. A Spirit of Wind! He must be! A Blessed Ancestor – so claim his tribe's teachings. Kyle lurched forward, opened his mouth to call out. A warning? A plea?
But Cowl shouted, ‘Get down ’
The magus stretched his arms high, reached up as if grasping the clouds. His hands clenched into fists then the arms snapped down.
A fusillade of lightning lashed the Spur. The barrage seemed to drive the stone down beneath their feet. Men howled all around, true terror cracking their voices. Kyle fell as the rock kicked back at him. The continuous flashing blinded him. He lay with his arms over his head, shouting wordlessly, begging that it end.
The storm passed. Thunder crashed and grumbled off across the leagues of plains surrounding them. Kyle raised his head, blinking. He felt as if he had been beaten all over by lengths of wood. All around Guardsmen dragged themselves upright, groggy and groaning. Incredibly, Greymane still stood. Kyle wondered whether anything