still. Must have hit his head. There was little room to manoeuvre, too many rocks, narrow path, a terrible drop. The primary head swerved for Temor. Byren sprang to his feet. No point in attacking one head with a hunting knife and leaving himself open to the other head. He searched for inspiration; nothing but rocks and snow.
The other men-at-arms got in each other's way. Orrade stood over Garzik, prepared to defend him.
The secondary head writhed as it flung Byren's sword away. The weapon clattered, falling over the edge, striking rocks on the way down. Enraged, the amfina's secondary head turned on Orrade. He was the only person who did not back off, refusing to leave Garzik undefended.
Byren cursed again.
Throwing his weight behind the chest-sized, balanced rock, he thrust at it with all his might. It teetered. Muscles straining, he put his legs into it. The rock slipped off its perch, rolled and landed on the amfina's back. Pinned by the rock, the creature's two heads writhed, hissing in fury.
One of his men cheered and threw Byren a sword. He caught it, the hilt slapping into his palm. Now they could deal with the beast.
He ploughed in, distracting the primary head as he dragged Temor out of striking range. There was blood on his forehead but he was coming around.
Byren placed him next to Garzik and straightened.
'So that's why the pass was unguarded,' Orrade muttered.
Byren laughed, then took another deep breath. 'Why waste men, when a beast will do it for the price of a few tethered goats?'
The new warlord was a clever man. Byren stood back and let his men hack the amfina to pieces. With no Affinity warder to say the words, Byren whispered them hoping to settle the beast's innate Affinity. Then he and Orrade carried Garzik to the camp fire. Of course, the boy protested all the way. They peeled off his bloodied clothes.
'It's nothing,' Garzik insisted.
'You're lucky the amfina is not poisonous,' Byren told him.
Orrade and Temor caught his eye. The amfina's bite was not poisonous, but it was prone to going bad. Garzik would have to be treated by a healer, and soon.
'I'll wash the bite out with wine and pack it with herbs,' Temor announced. 'With his woolens and bearskin coat it isn't deep, but anything that breaks the skin is dangerous.' The bleeding from his head wound had slowed.
Byren nodded. 'Treat yourself, too.'
'I'll help,' Orrade offered.
'We'll ask the warlord's healer to take a look at Garzik,' Byren said.
Now there was even more reason to get down to Unistag Stronghold. Byren inspected the stars. 'Be dawn soon. We'll move out at first light. We'll need to build a litter for Garzik. Exertion will only weaken him.'
'I'm sorry,' Garzik croaked.
Byren laughed. 'You jumped in to save my life. I won't forget. It could have been me with the bite or worse.'
Garzik grinned, but already his face was flushed and his eyes too bright. Byren's spirits sank. It would break Elina's heart if anything happened to him.
Leaving Orrade and Temor to look after Garzik, Byren moved off to walk around the campsite, stopping to speak with the men and see how they had fared. He was annoyed because now he would be greeting the warlord from a position of weakness, needing a healer's help.
In the darkest time of the night, just before dawn, Fyn stood at Master Wintertide's side fighting exhaustion. They were surrounded by many abbey masters who had come to witness the starkisses bloom. Being allowed to attend was an honour, but he could barely keep his eyes open. If he could just stay awake long enough to escort Master Wintertide back to his chamber…
Sweat trickled down Fyn's face. Hot water — pumped up from the spring in the abbey's courtyard — usually kept the garden pleasantly warm, but tonight Master Sunseed had turned the heat up to encourage the flowers to open. The heat, the long sled trip and the beating all took their toll. Fyn felt so tired he caught himself drifting into a half-waking state where time slid past him.
Through the roof's glass panels he could see the night sky ablaze with stars. They were so thick in places that they formed clouds of rainbow brilliance. Blazing starlight filled the hothouse, also enticing the starkisses to bloom.
In their natural state these flowers were extremely rare and only the size of a thumbnail. The abbey's starkisses would be the size of an open hand when their petals unfurled, but in the selective breeding they had lost their hardiness and could only survive in the hothouse.
'The blooming is late this year,' Master Wintertide observed. His gaze met Fyn's and held it briefly. Fyn's heart lifted. His old teacher understood that he needed to speak with him.
'There have been years when the starkisses did not bloom at all,' the history master said heavily. 'Why, in the year of — '
'They will bloom this year,' Master Sunseed said.
'Hopefully it will be a good harvest,' Willowbark, the healers' master said. 'Our stock of dreamless-sleep is running low.' Seven of his healers waited to collect the pollen.
'Late blooming is a bad omen,' Master Catillum said. Behind him three of his mystics played an eerie melody on their silver flutes to entice the starkisses to bloom. Fyn could have sworn the petals vibrated in time to the high notes.
After that no one spoke for a while. Fyn shifted from foot to foot. He found his eyes drifting shut and forced them open. Finally, he leant closer to Master Wintertide to ask, 'Can't they peel the blooms open, then collect the pollen?'
'They could, but the pollen would not have its power. The starlight and heat trigger its potency. Have a little patience.' Wintertide smiled. 'See, the first one is about to open.'
An expectant hush fell over the hothouse. Fyn watched the first flower's long white petals part with languid ease. As it opened an exotic scent filled the night, reminding him of oranges and musk. The scent made his groin throb and he felt himself harden. Luckily, his robe hid this. If it affected the others in the same manner, no one mentioned it. The mystics lowered their flutes and everyone pulled their cowls up over their mouths and noses, to escape the narcotic effect. Pure starkiss scent like this could cause hallucinations in those without Affinity and visions in those with it. Only mystics used the scent to induce visions and only under special circumstances.
Master Willowbark nodded to his healers. One monk stood by each starkiss waiting for the right moment to gently scrape the pollen from his flower's stamen. He had to leave just enough for the gardeners to ensure next year's crop.
The abbot sprinkled droplets of water, Halcyon's blessing from her sacred pool, on the plants and the harvesting began.
Master Wintertide let out a sigh of relief. 'I have seen many bloomings, yet I never tire of it. But now these old bones are ready for bed. If you're finished with Fyn, Sunseed, I'll have his help getting down the stairs.'
The gardens master waved them aside.
Fyn offered his arm to support Master Wintertide and they turned towards the door. At last he could unburden himself. Wintertide would know what to do. But he found the top of the stairs barred.
'That's the one,' Monk Galestorm said, pointing at Fyn. He was with the acolytes master, who Fyn now realised had missed the blooming.
'Fyn Kingson tortured the grucranes,' Galestorm accused.
A wave of outrage rolled over Fyn.
All the masters turned.
'So he's the reason our sentries have abandoned us,' Master Firefox said. 'His cruelty drove them off!'
'That's a very serious accusation.' The abbot looked from the acolytes master to the Fyn.
Galestorm nodded. 'My friends and I stopped him before he could injure more than one.'
'But it was one too many, for we are without our faithful sentries,' Master Firefox said, sounding rehearsed. Fyn marvelled that no one else noticed.
'It's not true,' he protested. 'I was trying to save the grucrane!'
