The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  Artemi moved back onto the bedroll and pulled the red blanket over her. Her cheeks felt flushed. She felt enormously guilty at having witnessed their act, but she also felt... hot. Artemi put a hand to the top of her thigh, and tested the heat with her fingers, but she whipped them away in an instant. She was not going to be a victim of lust; she would not be any idiot’s lover!

  Sleep eluded Artemi while she attempted to catalogue the things she had seen, but when it finally came to enfold her in darkness, she was so exhausted that nothing could have prevented it. A stampede of warhorses hammering through the caverns could not have disturbed her.

  The fresh shirt supply was becoming dangerously short.

  Silar shut the wardrobe door with a slam, and shrugged into his clothing with a grimace and a grunt. It was the best he could hope for to do some light drinking, and perhaps end the day on a good note.

  Boots on, he stamped out of the room and down a narrow corridor to the left. It branched off in several directions along the way, and undulated with steps that seemed to follow impossible directions. Finally, after

  descending a particularly pitched set of stairs, Silar approached the castle’s bar. Much like the great halls, it was oversized, and designed to cater for more people than he dared to count. A polished wooden bar ran down the centre of most of the length of the room, surrounded by swarms of serving women who crossed to and from the barrel taps in a sea of blue and brown.

  Few men attended the bar in their uniform, but Silar supposed that halfwere from the Calidellian army. The other halfwas made up of noblemen and women, merchants, travellers and people of the city. His eyes scanned the throng for faces he recognised. Beetan and Beodrin were there, of course. They rarely missed an opportunity for drinking. Rahake and Tortrix were the only other

  lieutenants whom Silar could make out.

  He recognised a few of the soldiers in and around them, and could hear the tones of excitement in their voices. They had to be talking about the events in the practice hall earlier.

  Silar pushed gently through the crowd until he reached Rahake, who was ordering in the ales for his companions.

  “One for you, Forllan?” the dark man asked.

  “Aye, if you will.”

  “Pint of your best for the young lad, here.” Rahake placed two bronze coins onto the bar.

  The barmaid swept them away with practised ease, and hurried to the barrels without offering the men the smallest of smiles. Rahake appraised Silar with obvious curiosity in his eyes. Those were dark eyes, dark enough to match the man’s ebony skin, and though his build was narrower than Silar’s, he still had the shape of a good swordsman. Silar often felt like an ignorant child around the man. No one really knew how old Rahake was, but it was claimed that he had seen over three-hundred battles in his time.

  “So, your friend made quite a bold move today,” Rahake said.

  Silar adjusted his sword belt, and put an elbow on the bar. “Yes. It was certainly bold. Don’t ask me about the ins and outs of it. I wasn’t given any warning. What do you think about his changes?”

  Rahake looked down at the collection of drinks before him and frowned. “I think he

  has done a wonderful thing for us. I have fought enough futile battles to know that kings don’t always choose the right enemy. As for his ideas on discipline, I am glad I do not have practice or duty tomorrow.” He gave Silar a sly wink and took a deep swig of his ale.

  The barmaid plopped a full tankard in front of Silar, and did it so roughly that some of the head spilled onto the bar. He muttered his thanks and took up the drink. It felt very good indeed as it coursed down his throat.

  “Looks like you needed that, my lord.” Rahake nudged him playfully.

  “Like you won’t believe.” Silar took another gulp. “You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with women. They offer you so much, tease you with their beauty and then beat you into the floor until you wish you were a

  squirrel.”

  “A squirrel?” Rahake raised his eyebrows. “Makes sense, I suppose, if you like trees. Yes, women have never appealed to me all that much. Some are nice to look at, I‘ll grant you. But I’d prefer a good set of broad shoulders any day.” He gave Silar another wink.

  Silar found it quite odd to be admired by a man, but he also found it flattering after a fashion. Rahake had always been openly interested in men, and he especially seemed to like the fair-haired ones. Silar rolled his eyes, and invited Rahake to join him with the other lieutenants.

  “Aaah, more beer! That’s whatI like to see.” Beodrin clutched at his tankard with glee.

  Tortrix took his with a little more

  reverence; it was his battalion’s turn to guard the day after tomorrow, and now all sorts of good behaviours were expected of him. Tortrix was a quiet man and a brilliant fighter – lightning fast – he was not tall, but his sheer presence made him appear a giant to everyone, especially the new recruits.

  Beetan took his ale in turn, and then pulled a face, “Pfft! This head is far too big! You may be old and wise but you’ve been cheated again, Rahake.”

  Rahake chuckled into his pint.

  “Last drink before the big sober-up, lads,” Beodrin said solemnly.

  “To the great, big sobering-up of Calidell’s army!” Rahake held up his tankard.

  “I’ll drink to that!” Beodrin laughed and joined him. Beetan, Tortrix and Silar raised

  their mugs as well, making a satisfying chink as they hit each other.

  Silar downed the remains of his pint, but soon realised that he needed another. The rest of the men would want a top up too, so he scrabbled around in the bottom of his pockets and made his way back to the bar. The crowd seemed to have thickened in the few minutes since he had last passed through, which forced him to elbow the obstructing bodies from his path. As they cleared, a dark and solitary figure became apparent. Morghiad.

  He was standing at the bar, nursing a mug of wine and listening with some considerable disinterest to the proprietor.

  Baydie thumped his fist on the wood and laughed aloud at something. Clearly he had not heard about Morghiad’s plan and its

  inevitable impact on beer sales. “...And then she fell on her arse!” Baydie finished.

  Morghiad retained his usual expression. That stone face of his was simply unnecessary at times.

  Baydie looked up at the blond man approaching. “Ah, Silar. Good to see you! One of these days my stories will bring a smile out in our kahr’s face. One bloody day.”

  “Keep trying.” Silar grinned.

  “Wine? I’ve got some filthy stuff from Hirrah. Top notch.” Baydie wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

  “How could I refuse? A mug of your finest for me and four pints of ale for the others.” Silar leaned on the bar opposite Morghiad and gave him a long, hard stare before speaking. “How are you feeling after

  your big speech?”

  Morghiad held his gaze for a moment, and then looked down at his wine. “I didn’t forewarn you. I’m sorry.”

  Silar grunted. “How long had you been cooking this up for?”

  “Not long. A couple of days.”

  A band began playing their lively music at the opposite end of the bar.

  Silar very nearly knocked over the drinks that Baydie was stacking up in front of him. “A couple of days?! Is that how you’re planning to govern your country? You just come up with an idea one minute and decide to execute it the next?” Perhaps Morghiad wasn’t planning to use him as strategically as he had assumed.

  “It felt right.” Morghiad took a sip of

  his wine.

  Silar emptied his coins onto the bar surface and pushed them in Baydie’s direction. He kept his voice low. “I’m concerned for you. Is there something else wrong?”

  “No.” Morghiad met his eyes.

  “Not that you’d tell me if there was.” Silar picked up his own wine and took a deep draught. It was excellent stuff. Baydie could always be relied up
on for under-the-counter fine wines.

  Morghiad seemed to hesitate before opening his mouth. There was something on his mind. “You have parted ways with Lady Allain?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “That foul look on your face,” Morghiad said.

  Silar laughed a little before letting his smile fade. Did he really appear to be that sullen? Blazes!

  Morghiad pressed on: “...And of course you wouldn’t be here otherwise. I imagine you would have savoured what time you could with her.”

  Damned man was trying to predict his actions. Silar was supposed to be the one extracting information! He had a small clue at least: Morghiad had deflected his question with one about Lady Allain, and that meant a chain of thought in the kahr’s mind had made the connection with the answer. What were the options?

  The Allain family could be making trouble, or perhaps Acher’s pressure over his lack of a female companion had become too

  burdensome. That could be it, though his father’s demands had never worried Morghiad before. Silar could try women as a general subject - that would be a good opening gambit. “Women can be a thorn in one’s side, can they not?”

  Morghiad set his mug down. “Stop trying to probe me. I know your methods.”

  Beetan chimed in at that moment, grabbing Silar’s shoulder, “Rahake’ll give you a good probing if you ask him nicely! Thanks for the ale, my lord.” The orange-haired man looked very pleased with himself. “And an excellent speech today, lord-captain.”

  Morghiad responded with a nod as Beetan took up the four beers and transported them back to his group, swaying a little as he went.

  “Morghiad. I think about a third of your army is going to be out of action in ten days’ time.”

  The kahr’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Then we had better be prepared.”

  “I will be one ofthose off-duty.” Silar added.

  Morghiad returned to his drink. “I need that brain of yours, Silar. Make sure you’re not out for too long.”

  So Morghiad did have plans which involved him, after all! He knew it! His elation was short-lived, however; he was beginning to get a headache.

  Rain slicked the deep green stone of the city, and further darkened the spine-towers of the castle. It hammered down upon the rooftops, it cascaded from the grooves in the tiling, and it trickled down the sides of the light wells. It pelted the glass of Morghiad’s window, and it gave his eyes no choice but to focus on the gloom of the low-hanging clouds outside.

  He had been rather distracted lately.

  Focussing on a particular task had been difficult and maintaining any sort of control over his emotions had been... challenging. The environment around him felt disrupted somehow, as if there were a break in the air or earth that he could not see.

  He closed his eyes and tried to feel for all the distributaries that bifurcated from the vast, central torrent of Blaze Energy. His senses found thousands of them, and he knew that each stream represented a wielder somewhere in the world. Some distributaries were small, and those ones would barely draw anything from The Blazes, but most of the rest were middling in size.

  There were, however, three very large courses that emanated from the main. Morghiad was confident he was powerful

  enough to handle each of the women that they represented, but one particular stream gave him cause for concern. It was the fourth-largest, but he had observed it during his time training as kanaala, and had noted the speed of its growth with each month that passed. It was a hard thing to admit, but he feared how much larger that stream might become.

  Cadra and Calidell were safe from these women of course, as Acher had long ago banned wielders from entering the country. Any that were born locally were destroyed before they could cause harm to their families, or more typically their lovers, but the most dangerous were those that were not even aware of what they could do.

  As kanaala, Morghiad was part of a team that regularly swept Cadra in search of

  wielders who may have slipped through previous searches. They were easily detectable within a few tens of yards to him, farther if they were especially powerful. He did not relish taking the children, however. There had been some difficult situations involving the younger ones.

  He had not sensed any in the city for months now, and perhaps it meant the efforts of the last few-hundred years had paid off. The blazed women were probably dying out.

  Morghiad scanned along the bookshelf for some entertainment. There were a great deal of books on battles - not terribly exciting to read but quite important, nevertheless. He enjoyed the histories more, especially those that described the impossible decisions made by former kings and how, frequently, the outcome

  was down to luck or situation.

  His favourites by far were the stories and poems of legendary warriors. He had amassed quite a collection over the years. Some were utter fiction, of course, but some, he believed, had a true root in history. A red, leather-bound tome with a dull shine drew his gaze. It was perhaps a thousand years old, the pages were flaking at the edges and the whole thing was considerably foxed.

  He seated himselfin his armchair and gently laid the book upon his lap. The title read, “Chronicles of the warrior, Artemi,” in heavily stylised lettering. The book was a classic, which Morghiad imagined most people had read during their childhoods. A great deal of it was poetry about the red-haired swordswoman and her exploits, and the tale had made the

  name popular amongst parents of lookalike offspring. That pretty, young servant girl was evidence of the tradition. He pushed the image of that flaming hair girl, as he had come to call her, from his mind again. It was becoming troublesome.

  Morghiad let out a heavy breath through his nose and allowed the book to fall open on a page of chance.

  “...And taking up the blade from her thrice-made enemy,

  The lady cast Blaze upon the brownhaired head,

  Blue and white and blistering as ice,

  It curled, tapered and began the air to splice,

  The fires of Achellon had never

  wrought such heresy,

  Yet still her foe re-stood, and staggered, called and bled,

  ‘You shall not defeat me out of jealousy!’

  Still moving, Mirel caged up the fires and said:

  ‘Come here and die today, my Artemi,

  I bring to you your destiny...’”

  Morghiad had never quite been able to work out where jealousy came into it. He flicked through a few more pages, but looked at little more than the pictures. Cadra was in one of them, looking a bit smaller and flatter. Grey, defensive walls still prodded the clouds in an accusatory manner with their great height,

  but there was much less mess within them.

  He snapped the book shut, and winced as soon as he remembered its age. That redhaired girl in blue... He wondered what she would look like in full battle garb, sitting astride a warhorse. No.

  Morghiad stood and placed the text back in its gap, and tried to think very hard about other things. A practice session was scheduled for the day and he ought to get ready for it, though there was a good chance the session would be unattended. He would just have to grit his teeth together and work through it, even if he was alone in that vast place.

  His clothing was only a simple white shirt and fitted trousers – not the standard uniform of the army, but his had become lost somewhere in the laundries. What he had on his back would have to do. He buckled his sword to his waist, added a short sword to the belt and placed a dagger in the tops of each of his boots. Morghiad departed the cool airs of his bedroom and stepped into the ice of the broad hallway beyond. The door whined as it shut behind him, and he had to admit that he appreciated the sound. Such things would give him warning if an assassin came for him in the night.

  The gallery that gave access to his rooms was broad, equally as high as the Malachite Hall and simply decorated. He remembered when he had arrived here as a young boy, thinking everything
had been made for a giant. It was not customary, or safe, for Calidellian kahrs to grow up in the castle, and so he had spent his first years secreted away on a farm in western Calidell. Morghiad often wished that he could remember his time there. When he reached the practice hall, it soon became clear that Silar’s prediction was correct. It was a third-emptier than normal. Morghiad watched in contemplative silence as the lieutenants gathered roll calls from the sergeants. Silar was there too, looking utterly devoid of his usual grins or good humour. He was probably ten days into abstinence now, and clearly had begun to feel the first pains. “How many present, Silar?” Morghiad asked. “Six hundred and fifty-five, my lord.” Silar barely squeezed the words out. “Very good. Now you must leave.” Silar grimaced with disappointment. “I am still perfectly capable of swinging a sword

  -”

  “You are no use to me in that state.

  Go, and I’ll see you in a few days.” Morghiad took the papers from Silar’s hand. “I’ll look after your men.”

  There was a brief pout, but Silar nodded and withdrew to the rear of the hall. He sat on one of the tables for a moment, apparently examining the ceiling, and then staggered out of the room.

  After that, Rahake, Beetan, Hunsar and Beodrin circled Morghiad to inform him of their counts, and then broke away to their men. Next, Tortrix, Pavon, Baculo, and Eupith handed their numbers to Morghiad. Fivethousand, seven-hundred and forty-six men had made it in. Another seven-hundred and three made up Luna’s battalion, which was defending the city today. Only two were suspected of