The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  Much of the international community had reacted with horror or disgust at his act,

  and some believed that he had destroyed a very sacred thing. To the king, however, it was one of his greatest accomplishments. He twitched at Morghiad’s response, and said, “Boy, I am going to find you a little whore if it’s the last thingI do. Maybe a pretty, noble one. I don’t know what it is you’re so afraid of, eh?”

  Morghiad allowed his shoulders to tense for a moment, but they soon loosened. “We can discuss the matter later. I am here to talk about security.” His voice remained level, though the words came out slowly.

  The other lieutenants shuffled their feet and fiddled with their coat buckles whilst trying to look elsewhere.

  “This is security, boy – the security of our succession! It’s going to take nine years to generate an heir so you need to get started

  now! Now, now, now!” Acher punctuated each ‘now’ with a slam of his fist upon the throne’s arm. His face had darkened.

  “Well, it took you over three-hundred years to procure me, so I rather think you are becoming over-anxious about the situation,” Morghiad said.

  Silar had not noticed before how much the kahr blended in with the colour scheme of the Hall. The uniform was an intentional match, but the hair and eyes... curious.

  Acher emitted a growl. “The women were not... suitable. It took me a while to find your mother.”

  “Perhaps you would have had better luck if you hadn’t persisted in executing them.” Morghiad shut his mouth before he uttered any more. It was no secret that the benay-gosa

  frequently rejected the king, but pointing that out was not a sensible thing to do.

  Silar re-adjusted his sword belt. The air suddenly felt very thick around him.

  King Acher leaned back into his throne and smiled with unbridled menace. “You think their superficial lives are worth something? Don’t want the woman to die, eh? It’s inevitable, boy. And don’t forget, you killed your own mother. You’ll be avoiding battles next to try and save one of these precious women’s blasted husbands!”

  Morghiad blinked and clenched his teeth together. “We have fought some... unnecessary battles in the last year, father.”

  “Unnecessary? Unnecessary?!” Acher exclaimed with his eyes wide. “This is something all of you lads must realise.” He

  settled more deeply into his throne. “Have you ever noticed the difference between us and the other living things? The birds, the deer, the wolves and even the mighty plains tigers? Come on, men. No? Shoot any of them with an arrow, remove it and they bleed and die. Chop a leg off - it doesn’t grow back. If they become diseased, they die. They are engineered to expire. Yet they are the superior beings. Our world is cursed. We need battles because there are too many of us, crammed into our tiny countries.” Acher’s eyes became distant. “Death. Is. Necessary.”

  Silar was finding it harder to breathe. Had the vents been shut?

  “If it is population that concerns you then perhaps breeding ought not to be such a high priority,” Morghiad stated matter-of-factly. “As for the Gialdin Day arrangements, I trust you will want extra men on the main gates and at the palace doors?”

  Acher pressed his lips together and sighed. “Fine, fine. Which battalion will be on duty?”

  “Beodrin’s. I will join him and-”

  “You will not. You will be at those celebrations, meeting the people you need to meet. And bring Lord Forllan too. He is a good influence.”

  Silar smiled feebly. A thin veil of guilt settled over him, and he was sure that he had woven it for himself. Had Acher always spoken to his son this way? Silar had not been party to many of their discussions, and he knew that Morghiad had been almost entirely raised by army captains, historians and strategists, so

  how much time father and son spent in each other’s company was a mystery to him.

  Morghiad nodded with affected interest and went on to list the provisions required by the army in order to see the feast day made safe. His father nodded absently, occasionally questioning the number of arrowheads or amount of pinh poison required.

  Beetan, complete with orange hair and gangly legs, turned up halfway through the meeting, and reeked very much of yesterday’s wine. Nothing was made of his less-thansalubrious entrance, however, and the meeting pressed on at its lethargic pace. A rough schedule was drawn up and handed between the men, but was not set and signed for another three, possibly four, long hours. At that point, King Acher caught himself and doubled over in

  “Damn nalka - such a bloody inconvenience,” he coughed. “Still, a new lover should lessen the effect, eh lads?” The king took another deep breath. “Meeting dismissed.”

  Silar caught up with Morghiad in the hallway beyond. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to be late. All that... it was my fault, I’m sorry, Morghiad.” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Don’t be late to anything again,” he replied, “If I am to stay captain, I’ll need your help to do it.”

  “You’re right. You do need my help. You need someone to see that your father doesn’t marry you off to some lizard.” Morghiad nodded, and Silar was sure he had

  seen a smile in the man’s eyes. “In all seriousness, I will do everythingI can to assist you, my friend.”

  But Morghiad showed no more signs of gratitude, and instead they paced to the practice hall in silence. It was a place equally as large as the Malachite Hall, perhaps even bigger, and required six entrances. Ninethousand men could stand in there at one time, with just enough room to swing a sword, but such size and large numbers of people meant that it took up to two hours to fill.

  The hall was of the usual basalt stone, rough to the touch and dark enough to consume all warmth that might have come through the high windows. Its curved roof, gently sloping floor and walls had been specifically designed to channel sound from the

  front to the back, so that Morghiad barely had to raise his voice to be heard there; it was quite a marvel in acoustic engineering. The practice courtyard was more pleasant, in Silar’s opinion, but he enjoyed the daylight - apparently unlike everyone else in this blasted place.

  Through the door, he could just make out the tables that held the blunted daggers and wooden swords for practice, and the entrance beyond that led to the changing rooms and showers. Those rooms were always inadequate, and could only ever hold two hundred men at a time. Like many of the other fighters, Silar preferred to bathe in his own rooms afterward.

  Morghiad caught his arm by the sleeve before he entered the room. “Silar, I need your advice. I want to make a... considerable

  change to the way things are done here.”

  “What manner?”

  “No more pinh on our blades, arrows or any weapon for that matter.” Morghiad had a determined set to his face, not that such an expression was unusual for him. He always looked like that.

  Silar could feel the cold fingers of unease creep along his spine. He wasn’t sure if his advice was going to have much of an effect. “Do you want to see your entire army annihilated? Why in blazes have you got this bullock-brained idea in your head?”

  “Some of the greatest battles in history were won by legions that did not use it. Lobesia was one of those.”

  Silar winced. His great-grandparents had fought in that battle.

  Morghiad continued, “If we all become better fighters, we won’t need it. Poison causes unnecessary suffering. I think it is dishonourable. Worse, I think it reeks of a last resort made by a weak army.”

  He had a point, but Cadra’s army had suffered its many problems for a long time. Morghiad’s hopes might have had merit, but the chances of them coming to reality were small. “These are all very noble reasons, Morghiad, but you have to look at it from the point of view of those men. How are you going to get them to believe that this is in their best interest?”

  “They will see what is right.” Morghiad’s grass-green eyes glinted.

  Silar gave a
quiet grunt. “I’ve heard... Some of the men.... they aren’t sure of you yet. Win them over first. Then maybe you can try something like this.”

  Morghiad’s hand dropped from Silar’s arm. He looked thoughtful, or as thoughtful as he ever did. “Very well.” The captain stood back and folded his arms. “I’ll work on that first.”

  Silar’s mouth almost fell to the floor out of astonishment. That stubborn, stone-faced kahr had listened to him? Something odd was going on with the man.

  Morghiad walked onward through the doors, and his bold strides ate up the floor beneath him. His cloak flowed behind in silence with its fibres that caught the light and devoured it. Silar was glad for the attention his friend took from the other soldiers, as it permitted him to stroll behind and measure their reactions to

  the captain. And they were wary of him.

  When Morghiad’s walk was complete, he stepped onto a raised platform and began speaking. “The city of Cadra is suffering from a sickness and this army has played a major part in it.”

  That was how he intended to win them over; by telling them they were the source of all evil? Silar felt as ifhe’d drunk a cup ofpinh.

  He went on, “The old captain was a fool. He preached discipline but practised none of it. He has allowed you to lose hope in your own abilities. He allowed you to lose direction. He allowed you to lose discipline.”

  Never mind a cup, Silar thought, a whole, blazed barrel of pinh was in his stomach! The room had taken on a deathly silence. Silar gripped his sword hilt, ready to

  move if someone went for Morghiad’s throat.

  “I do not want you to lose hope,” Morghiad continued, “I do not want you to lose your lives. This country needs each of you to survive every battle you face. It needs you to conquer every opponent. It needs you to return to your wives and families with enough strength left to fight a dozen more battles.”

  Silar loosened his grip a little.

  “At our last battle we suffered losses of over three-hundred men. Forty-seven men lost limbs. Each life was valuable. Each man was someone’s father, son, brother, husband or friend. The work you do in guarding Cadra and Calidell is vital. It is the single most important role anyone can play in the lives of strangers and family alike: that of protector. Calidell’s people depend upon each of you for their

  freedom. Most are unable to defend themselves. Do not presume that each of your lives rest easily on my conscience. I do not want to lose another man in battle again.”

  Silar took in a breath, and examined the faces of the men around. All had hard eyes that focussed only on the captain. Perhaps Morghiad had a better plan than Silar had anticipated. “You were all chosen for your ability. You have the potential to be an excellent army, perhaps a legendary army. But there must be more discipline. Calidell needs you to be strong. There must be no drinking the night before duty. There must be no drinking before a practice session. Any man found to be flouting this rule will be discharged. There must be no more casual love. If you do intend to take a lover, then you must do so with the

  intention of keeping them.”

  There were a few stifled chuckles across the hall.

  “Any man taking more than ten days in a year from duty in order to recover from nalka will be discharged. If you follow these rules - if you do the right thing - in recognition of your devotion to the sword I will make you a promise. I will give you my word-” He paused. “-I give you my word that I will only take you to battles that you deem, by vote, to be worthy and honourable, regardless of what my father demands.”

  Silar’s hand fell from the hilt of his sword. He had never heard of such an outlandish promise being made. Not only was this a direct challenge on his father’s power, but he sounded as if he were trying to turn a

  weapon of war into a sort of democracy. That could never work. Then again, if the army liked it... if they became loyal to Morghiad, none of that would matter and he would be safe. If he had them...

  There was noisy chatter across the hall or some time, but Silar could hear a novel tone in their voices. It was something he had not heard before.

  Morghiad had not moved a hair while the men spoke. It gave the impression that he was made of stone – steady, immovable and unfailing stone. “Will you follow me?” he asked.

  There was a moment of silence, and then three of the officers shouted in unison, “Aye!” then more joined, and more until the sound grew into an enormous roar that rocked the floor. He had done it. That’s it, Silar

  thought, everything is about to change.

  A half-day later, Silar found himself trudging along the perimeter of the castle gardens. The paths were formed of a pale grey gravel that crunched noisily beneath his boots, but that did little else of interest. He clasped his hands tightly at his back, and thought while the wispy ferns brushed at his legs. This was nothing like the lush, green gardens of his home - a place that was full of wildlife and sunlight. He missed it terribly. It was not that he was a prisoner here, and he had very nearly returned home just three years ago, but something else held him here. Perhaps it was his friendship, or the women.... but probably something to do with Morghiad.

  He could not help but feel as if he had seen something of it that day, though it was only a half-formed feeling. It was too much of a cliché to believe that his friend would become some sort of legendary, blazed king. Acher had already been a successful king by many measures, and it was likely that historians would one day describe the man as great. He had added more land to Calidell’s borders in the last three centuries than any previous king had done in lengthier reigns. He had performed the impossible in razing the white walls of Giadin, he had overseen the exile of dangerous wielders and had saved the lives of hundreds, possibly thousands of men. What could Morghiad do to top that?

  Perhaps he would open up this blasted castle to some damned light and paint it a colour other than follocking grey! Silar kicked at the gravel path in frustration. He realised he

  had come to stop before a small rose bush that still clung to the last of its white blooms.

  Morghiad really ought to have told his lieutenants what he was planning to say in that... controversial speech. Silar hated being left out of such matters - hated it utterly – but then, Morghiad had stopped to listen to his advice. Silar did have a role to play in this somewhere, but he needed to know what it would be. Perhaps his captain had been cooking up plans with him in them, plans that he might disagree with if he knew of their nature.

  He would have to interrogate his friend, he realised. A good spymaster has to do some of the dirty work too. You must never rely solely on your network. That was a useful gem among his mother’s teachings.

  Silar plucked the finest bloom from the

  bush and seated himselfupon one of the granite benches to appraise it. Morghiad’s decree would have to be followed, especially by Silar. His relationship with Lady Allain would have to be ended, and though the loss of her did not sadden him particularly, the idea of a future without the regular company of women did.

  There were two options available to him: he could either finish their affair tonight or enjoy a final, delightful evening with her. The trouble was, if every man in the army dropped their squeeze this evening, there would be no one fighting in two weeks’ time.

  Morghiad had advised each lieutenant to ask their men to stagger their leave-taking to avoid this problem, but the men had been so excited at his promise that it seemed probable many would demonstrate their devotion to

  Calidell as soon as they could. Silar could not help but find himself similarly swept along by this curious current of enthusiasm.

  The rose felt soft in his hands, like the skin of a woman. One more night with her. That would be it. Then he would be married to his sword like a proper warrior of the story books. He smiled at his last thought and stood to leave the gardens. They seemed to smell far sweeter than they had when he had arrived. The colours of the cherry blossom appeared more vivid, the grass more
vibrant and the sunlight brighter. He marched to one of the exits, and made his way rapidly toward the guest quarters.

  These rooms were not much smaller than his own, with walls that were decorated with monochrome weavings of geometric

  patterns. There was nothing here of depictions of plants or animals, as if the whole place had an aversion to living things.

  A four-spear bed lounged in the centre of Lady Allain’s chamber, and was swathed in black sheets like an overgrown soldier who had passed out on the floor. There were large windows with views of the garden, and sweeping white veils to cover them. A bathing room was situated to the right of the main door, and it contained a marble bath, a sink of similar grey and a rather stately throne of convenience.

  Silar seated himselfin a leather armchair that had been placed next to the fireplace of onyx, and swung a leg over one of the arms of the chair. The fireplace remained empty, as the last vestiges of summer had maintained enough warmth in the chambers to

  preclude the need for a fire. Silar prodded idly at the empty grate with a poker while he waited. Lady Allain would return soon.

  He glanced down at the white rose he had collected. It was quite perfect, and he was sure that he could not find a single fault in it. Even the thorns on the stem appeared to have been stolen from an idealised painting of such a thing. Perfection taken into consideration, it would be a small token to please the lady in light of his decision.