The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  taking time off to recover from a hangover, and that was not too bad a start. Exactly a third were suffering nalka as Silar had predicted. That man did have a knack of divining useful information from complicated situations.

  Morghiad placed the rolls at the back of the platform for later filing, and called his army to attention.

  “I am honoured that so many of you have chosen to devote yourselves fully to defending Calidell. As your absent brothers will be currently aware, becoming a worldrenowned army does not come easily. It will be a tough haul to become what we must, but every one of you knows that the payoff will be worth it. I intend to work you hard today. Be strong. This country depends upon your strength.” Morghiad always felt slightly

  ridiculous doing these speeches. He was never quite sure if he had been overdramatic with his choice of words, but it seemed to be the sort of thing men said in the histories he had read, and his tutor had been right about the advantages of speaking with ostensible conviction.

  “We’ll begin with one-on-two duelling. I will lead Lord Forllan’s battalion.”

  Morghiad went directly to Silar’s men to begin directing the fight. He slid his sword from the scabbard, and signalled for the two soldiers closest to him to approach. They came toward him steadily, and unsheathed their shining, fully sharp weapons. In the background, the rest of the battalion busily organised itself into groups of three.

  “You will be our enemy.” Morghiad nodded toward the taller man. He had a

  narrow face and beady eyes that would look shifty in most situations, while the smaller man had something of a paunch but looked to be well-muscled in his arms in spite of it. To add to the roundedness of his appearance, he had also shaved his head.

  Morghiad threw his sword into his left hand as the smaller man took up the position on his right. “Begin.”

  Narrow-face came forward at Morghiad with a diagonal cut. Morghiad parried with ease, but did not attack and instead left his new ally to do so. Bald-head moved like a snake, and made a bold strike across the neck of his opponent’s blade. But Narrow-face re-directed it and began a bout of counter attacks, leaving Morghiad to interrupt them with a halffeint and a series of down

  slices.

  The three men whirled about each other, swords whipping through the air with the noise of singing steel and edges that scraped along one another. Morghiad soon discovered that he would have to hold back and fight a greater battle with his own frustration. At least he was beginning to work up a good sweat; that was something.

  There were drips falling in Artemi’s chamber, and they were coming through the

  light well. They landed with a dull ‘flup’ sound as they hit the floor, though they did appear to be rather pretty as they fell. She had never examined gemstones before, but she had been told that they glittered as rain would in the sun. She caught one before it hit the ground and examined it in her hand.

  The water was actually very dirty, but perhaps that was to be expected when it had trickled several leagues from the surface to the cellars below. Rain water was probably the only thing that ever cleaned those wells. She shook the water from her hand and continued to ready herself for the next round of duty. Another day ofscrubbing the sheets of ungrateful nobles. She could hardly wait.

  Artemi tightened the laces of her bodice and tied them off at the base of her

  spine, but just as she had entangled her own fingers for the second time, Caala came bustling in.

  “Artemi, lass. I need you to cover for me. Don’t worry yourself about your usual duties today. Feodora has taken ill with another case of blazed nalka and I have to do her bloody shift. Will you see to the kahr’s bed linen for me?”

  Artemi unhooked her hands from the loops at her back. “I thought you told me to stay away from his sort.”

  Caala smiled and began to adjust Artemi’s lacing. “Morghiad’s a funny lad. Let us just say... I don’t think he’s a threat to you, though I daresay a pretty girl like you might turn him!” She punctuated her quip with a sharp tug on Artemi’s lacing. “In any case, he’ll be

  practicing killing people all day so you won’t

  see

  him.”

  Artemi raised her eyebrows. “Alright then. I’ll see to the ‘funny lad’ for you.”

  Caala went on, “Do you know where his rooms are? Just head to the guest apartments and turn left at that bloody big moth. You’ll enter an even bigger hallway with white marble floors. His room is on the left.”

  A thought occurred to Artemi. “Are the king’s rooms nearby?”

  “No. But watch out for him anyway.” Caala finished tying Artemi’s laces with a swift yank.

  “I’ll be on the lookout for bearded monsters,” Artemi said with a grin.

  The hallway outside Kahr Morghiad’s rooms was clean-aired and smooth-surfaced.

  Artemi examined the marble floor as she walked over reflections of herselfin it. Blazes, but it appeared to have gemstones lodged inside it! They did indeed look like glinting droplets of water, and she deeply wished that she could take a small section back to her rooms to admire.

  Sadly, there was work to do; a woman could not spend all day looking at floors. And just how many sheets did this man have? Was it really a job that would take up her entire day and preclude her from completing any other duties? She knocked once, and then pushed the dark wooden door open.

  His rooms were quite sparse, and in keeping with the rest, very grey. Three ivory veils draped across the windows, though Caala had not mentioned if she was expected to wash those as well.

  A wide bed dominated one end of the room, and its black, wooden spears almost brushed the ceiling. Artemi could not resist stroking the wood. It was so dense, so cold to the touch and so highly polished that it felt almost as if it were made of stone. A grand fireplace stood opposite, apparently carved from a single piece of silvery-grey granite.

  She approached it and ran her fingers along its fierce angles. The stripes of quartz in it tugged at her fingertips, while the rest felt gloriously smooth. Its height reached well above her head, and she could easily have stood inside it as she could stand in her own room.

  To one side of the fireplace was a brown leather chair, but the worn nature of its

  arms and back made it jar with the rest of the scene. But her eye was soon taken from it when she saw the objects that lay behind it. Books. Hundreds of them!

  They rested upon broad shelves that spanned the entire width of the chamber, and she was sure that she had never seen so many of them in a single person’s room before.

  Artemi stepped toward them, and took in their soft scents. Their aged spines seemed to tease her with promises of their forbidden content. All of the texts were bound in leather or hide, and all were good quality. Some looked as if they were older even than the Era of Floods. What a treat it would be to be allowed to touch them - to read the stories from their pages.

  She sighed and pulled her fingers

  through her hair. A few stories would not be worth losing her employment or pay over.

  Artemi made her way back to the fine bed and gazed over the pure, white sheets. They looked like soft clouds, loosely held atop a floating shelf. This was no cellar bedroll and red blanket. She closed her eyes and listened. She could not hear a sound, only perfect and uninterrupted silence. What wonderful tranquillity the nobles could enjoy! Artemi stamped down on the growing feelings of envy, or tried to, and began to strip the sheets.

  His shirt was slashed-through and dripping with sweat, and the hilt had begun to slip in his hand. His eyes stung, and his breath came rapidly. Finally, Morghiad felt as if he had enjoyed an excellent session. He had left the other men practising the basic forms some time ago, and had chosen ten good fighters to take on. The battle had begun fluidly, and he had met each assault with very little difficulty, but some of the other soldiers had taken it upon themselves to join in with the battle.

  At first, they had entered in jest, hoping their
growing numbers would overwhelm him and provide amusement for everyone there, but it their faces had quickly become earnest. The space around him was limited, and only so many could ever attack at once, which was an

  aspect of the situation that Morghiad had fully exploited.

  The speed and intensity of the fight had the blood thundering through his veins and his heart punching at his ribs to keep up with it all. He felt alive. Morghiad leapt past the shoulders of two fighters and, quite by chance, caught sight of the men around. They had stopped practising the forms. What were they doing?

  “Enough!” He sheathed his sword and made sure that his eyes moved across everyone in the immediate vicinity. “I see that practice has ended for the day. We’ll finish early then. Be off with you.” They stood around gawping at him. Had he grown horns? “What?”

  Tortrix marched to him, red-faced and perspiring heavily. “No one,” he breathed,

  “Has done THAT before.”

  Morghiad shifted his shoulders, but tried not to shuffle his feet in his boots. “Just having a bit of fun, Tor. Let’s get this hall cleared out.” He did not want people goggling any longer than they should.

  The older man blinked and flicked his eyes to the side while his lips formed a half smile. “A bit of fun. I see. Well, captain, it’s not often we observe the sort of ‘fun’ of one man facing thirty experienced swords.” Tortrix shook his head and clambered onto the platform. “Home time! Shift your backsides! Now!”

  The army began the slow process of draining from the practice hall, and Morghiad tried to wipe some of the sweat from his eyes, but only succeeding in further suffusing them.

  The shirt was irrecoverable, but at least it was not covered in his blood this time. There had been some embarrassing walks back to his room in the past.

  The six-thousand gossiping men took an eternity to disperse, but once they had, Morghiad made his way to the dark arches of the lower castle. The day’s rain had seeped into the very rock of the building, and it had made the walls and ceilings glisten in places. It smelled very much of moist earth and burning lamp oil. The chill of the lower hallways was starting to dig into his damp skin, which only made him quicken his pace. The gardens were close, and he fully intended to take advantage of air that did not smell of sweat or caves. Besides, the gardens could look rather attractive at this time of the year.

  Morghiad stepped into the cloisters that lined one edge of the garden, and inhaled the fresh air deeply. It was sweet, warm and sharp from the tang of the wet vegetation around him. He watched on as the rain began to thicken, until it beat down faster and harder upon the buckling plants beneath, and then he stepped out into the cascades.

  He closed his eyes and raised his face to the clouds. As if reacting to his presence, the rain thundered down at an even wilder rate. It washed through his shirt and over his body, and it carried some of the warmth of summer with it. Morghiad allowed the downpour to soak through every bit of clothing he had on, until he noticed his boots were filling up. That did not feel quite so good. He lingered for a few more seconds in the warmth of the shower, returned

  to the shelter of the cloisters and removed each boot to upend it.

  In boots that squelched noisily beneath his steps, he went directly to his rooms. With luck, the trail of water he left behind him would evaporate before some unfortunate servant would have to trouble themselves over it. There were really too many servants in this castle, always fussing over this and that. They had fussed a great deal over him at one time, and the female ones had been the worst. Thankfully, they had since learned he was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

  Leonor had been more like a mother than a servant. Perhaps female servants liked to mother everyone, and it was simply a part of their nature. Leonor and Ilena. Both mothers to him. Both gone, both missed. Morghiad had

  not been told much about his real mother, other than that he had inherited her hair and eyes. Her name had been Tylena, and asking his father about her tended to make him angry.

  His boots were squelching less now, which was something of a relief. Morghiad arrived at his door and pushed it open.

  A red-haired woman stood before him; her deep brown eyes were wide.

  “Oh,” was all he managed to say to her.

  Artemi didn’t move. Had she tightened up her bodice a little more today?

  He stood in front of the door like a sack of tanno fruit, and a drenched sack at that, with no idea of what to do next.

  She was the first to speak. “I was just... er... your bed sheets. They... um... Caala

  had to do someone else’s so I... I’ll be done shortly, my lord.” She made an awkward curtsey and began folding one of the sheets she had stripped.

  Morghiad continued watching her. He was probably staring. Had he stared for long enough for it to be rude? He regarded the floor in front of her for a moment, just in case.

  She had stopped folding and was looking at him. “Forgive me, would I find your... er... my lord’s bed sheets in the wardrobe?”

  Morghiad felt his cheeks redden. Why did people have to call him ‘my lord’ or ‘my kahr’ all the time? They may have been titles used for him since he had been small, but they still sounded ridiculous. “Yes, of course.” He unbelted his swords, seated himselfin the

  armchair and tried to relax into it. He must have looked like one of Cadra’s transients with his cut shirt and dripping clothing.

  Artemi walked gracefully to the wardrobe and opened it in an elegant movement. Her waist was really very small, and would probably fit into the crook of one his arms if he tried it.

  Morghiad moved his gaze hastily to the windows; he was staring again. Perhaps he ought to leaf through a book. He yanked the closest one from the shelfbehind him and balanced it on the arm of the chair.

  “So that is why the arms are so worn?” Artemi smiled as she laid out the new sheet. She was smiling. At him.

  Morghiad glanced down at the leather under the book, and decided that it was worn

  from the way he liked to sit on it, with one or both legs swung over. Not the way to sit before a lady, of course. Was a servant a lady?

  “Do you read at all?” He immediately regretted the question; he had not intended to embarrass her.

  “I love to. I only wishI could do more.”

  Morghiad hid his relief as best he could and closed the book. “Let me help you with that.” He stood and squelched to the other side of the bed, before making his best attempt at tucking in the bottom layers of linen.

  She hesitated for a moment, confusion in her features, and then worked her way down the other side. Artemi was somewhat more efficient and soon approached the corner closest to the kahr. He reached it first, clumsily

  folded the pointed edge and stuffed it beneath the mattress. It would probably do.

  Artemi let out the beginnings of a laugh and then hurriedly drew her face straight. “I’ll get into trouble if I leave it like that. Here.” She un-tucked the corner and held it out to Morghiad, which he quickly took, and moved her hands towards his. “It has to be pulled straight and then fold-”

  A raging torrent of fire ripped violently down Morghiad’s arm, searing with its whitehot tumult of anger. It very nearly rendered his limb numb as it burned and twisted toward his shoulder. Though no flames were visible, the sensation was unmistakable. Artemi had fallen back against the bed post.

  She looked terrified.

  The floor below Morghiad seemed to

  shake. It couldn’t be. He gathered his thoughts as rapidly as he was able. “How is this POSSIBLE?!” he thundered.

  Her eyes only widened further in fear, and she tried to sink away from him. Yet she looked so... so innocent this close.

  Morghiad kept better control of his voice this time. “What are you?”

  She looked around; her chest rose and fell sharply. “I don’t... what was that?”

  He permitted his brow to furrow, and he reached forward to touch her cheek. Hot
fire pushed through his hand and along the length of his arm. His whole body was alight.

  A tear rolled down Artemi’s face as she tensed. “What are you doing to me?” she whispered.

  Morghiad explored the sensation

  further. “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks. Please, I don’t underst -” She was shaking visibly.

  He examined her eyes closely. Long, dark lashes curved around them, but they were young eyes. Then he said softly, “You don’t know, do you? How is this even possible?” He withdrew his hand from her and flopped onto the edge of his bed. He needed to think.

  “What was that?” Her voice was gaining strength. “It felt like I... like I’d stepped inside the sun. Or the sun had stepped inside me. What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” he said darkly.

  She drew herselfup and straightened her dress. “ThenI should leave.”

  “No!” Morghiad rose to pace between the windows, regulating his breathing as best he was able. “What you felt was your own recognition that I am kanaala. You are a wielder. Not mature enough to use your power, but a wielder nonetheless.”