The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  She studied him, anxiety still in her features. “You think he’ll try to wield?”

  “No. He’ll try to use you for his own pleasure.”

  Her face lost any obvious expression.

  Morghiad went to the wardrobe and pulled out a bulky, folded item: his army blanket. “Take this. It’s not quite as warm as the cloak, but it will serve you well.”

  There was significant surprise in her features. “Do you mean for me to keep it?”

  “Of course.”

  She gave him one of her smiles. “Thank

  you.”

  He could not be sure why she was so impressed with something as basic as a blanket. Even the most deprived citizens had blankets. Perhaps her head would explode if he gave her money. “You are dismissed, Artemi.”

  She grinned broadly, curtseyed and

  left, streams of red-gold hair flourishing behind her. Morghiad slumped onto his bed, fully dressed, and fell into a deep, dark sleep full of troubled dreams.

  Silar awoke with a start. He still had dreams about the night Artemi had run to him, eyes full of fear, even though a good three months had passed since. He hoped never to see that look in her face again. It had been difficult accepting that he still cared for her, that he still desired a witch. Blast her for being the

  prettiest witch in history! He gritted his teeth and threw off the covers. The low winter sun filtered through the casements of his windows, leaving pools of hard yellow light on the stone floors. A fierce frost had left miniature fingers of ice clinging to the outside of the glass. Silar dragged on some clothes and ran a hand through his hair.

  Sword practice was repetitive, but it was an excellent way to work through one’s frustrations. Silar trotted down to the halls with vigour, sword at his side. He hoped they would be doing some really exhausting, tough, sweatinducing exercises. The anger was there for it, and so was his energy. The hall was already mostly full when he arrived. All of his men were there; very few took time off for nalka these days, which did make things easier. Passerid

  nodded to him, glad to be back in action again. Apparently there had been quite a fight between he and Morghiad over Artemi. At first learning of the wielder’s presence, Passerid had tried to chop Morghiad’s limbs off, which was unwise given that the sergeant only had one hand at the time. Then he had done his best to drown Artemi in a bucket of poison, and she had only escaped thanks to the training she had been provided with. Morghiad had been forced to chase him through the castle halls, fight him, and then lock him in one of the cells until he saw reason. Passerid was still undergoing some limited punishment, which had been kept private. He seemed a well-pacified little bird these days.

  Silar walked between his men, assessing their numbers and posture. They

  were in excellent order - a band of men to be proud of. He approached Morghiad who was standing, arms folded, facing out of one of the vast windows. There was an air of darkness about him today that was... unsettling. The last month had changed his friend subtly on the exterior: he had smiled four times, perhaps laughed twice, frowned on numerous occasions and even glowered. But Silar wondered what that meant for the man inside - likely his whole personality was breaking apart! Meditation revealed nothing more to Silar than what he had already seen, and it probably had something to do with Artemi. Trust a woman to destroy a man from the inside.

  “I cannot believe winter is already here,” he said to the captain.

  “Hmm.”

  The black-haired man did not

  move or avert his attention from the window.

  “Well, you’ll be happy to hear only three men are absent from my lot today.”

  Morghiad only compressed his lips in response.

  Silar tried another tack. “Is she alright?”

  He snapped his head round to Silar, but kept whatever he was about to say to himself. He stalked off toward the front of the hall.

  Silar was not sure how to proceed when his friend was in this sort of mood. It was unchartered territory, so instead of pursuing the matter further, he went back to stand with his men.

  The session was just as Silar had hoped: tough, gruelling even. He pushed his

  men as hard as he pushed himself, and after three hours the entire room sang with the heat of nine-thousand exhausted bodies. Just when Silar felt as if his muscles were about to snap, a furious roar bellowed through the masses around him.

  “...not good ENOUGH! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

  Silar pushed through the nowmotionless soldiers towards the source of the voice. Morghiad stood in a clearing, covered in sweat, sword in hand. His eyes had a look of rage that Silar had only seen in the most battlecrazed of men, never mind the typically expressionless kahr. Morghiad had never raised his voice in anger, not once in the decade Silar had known him. Had he finally succumbed to some sort of madness? The

  recipient of his outburst had already made his exit, probably afraid for his life.

  Some awareness returned to Morghiad’s eyes gradually, and he sheathed his sword. To them all he said, “Leave. Today’s session has finished,” and then the man stomped out of the hall, crowd parting easily before him.

  Everyone else was as agog as Silar. Passerid caught him by the shoulder, and though he did not say anything, his expression conveyed what he was thinking.

  “I’ll speak to him,” Silar said.

  Silar made sure any practice swords were properly stored before leaving the hall. He wanted to give Morghiad a good chance to cool his mood to something less frightening. Once he had completed every superficial task

  he could see, Silar made his way towards the kahr’s rooms. He thought of where to start with mining Morghiad’s problems, since he was difficult to delve at the best of times, and now he would be more of an impenetrable brick than ever. And there was no point in waiting for himto speak his mind openly. One could wait an eternity for that to happen. Perhaps the best approach would just be to talk of something else. Silar did not really want to know what Morghiad’s problems were, but he wanted the man to sort himself out.

  He reached the giant marble hallway and spotted a blue-clad figure waiting before Morghiad’s door. She turned at his approach.

  “Silar.” Artemi smiled thinly as he neared. “He threw me out of his rooms. He won’t even let me speak to him.”

  Silar nodded. “There was... an upset during practice today. Perhaps you should retire to your room until tomorrow.”

  She blinked. “What happened? Have I caused this?”

  He compressed his lips. “I don’t know exactly. He lost his temper.”

  “What? He was angry? What did he do?” Curiously, she looked excited by the news.

  “He unleashed his wrath on some poor fool; gave him the chiding of his life. Now get yourself somewhere safe, and don’t come back to his chambers until tomorrow.”

  She gave him a sour look. The girl didn’t like being told what to do at all. She really needed to learn some discipline. Silar thought briefly about putting her over his knee,

  but quickly scrubbed the image from his mind. After a short deliberation she walked off down the hall in a rather impressive silence. Definitely the walk of an assassin, he thought to himself.

  Silar pushed open the large wooden door without knocking and stepped inside. His friend was leaning against the window, shirt cast to the floor, and the mark of the Sete’an royal family was plain on his right shoulder blade. He did not react to Silar’s entrance in any way, and Silar leaned against one of the bed posts to view the fireplace. The enormous grating was utterly empty. Then again, the room would have been chilly even with a fire.

  “I would rather be alone. Please leave, Silar.”

  He stayed rooted to his spot. “I’ve never noticed how plain it is in here,” Silar said.

  Morghiad whipped around.

  “Go.”

  “I will not.” Silar remained motionless.

  Morghiad paced with stiff strides across the room and back. His br
ow conveyed his frustration. “I stand at the pivot, Silar. I must do what is right and yet, I fear that doing so will cause terrible wrongs.”

  “Your men will still follow you if you are honest with them. You have proven that much with Passerid and Jarynd.”

  Morghiad met his eyes. “Those two are right to fear her. You should fear her. I should fear her.”

  “But we know she is trustworthy,” he stated.

  “Yes. Though, she is wilful. And sharp. She should be caged. Yet, I cannot imprison her. And I cannot allow harm to come to her.

  You understand this?” Concern touched his eyes.

  “I understand, Morghiad.”

  They remained in silence for some time, and Morghiad resumed his stance at the window. Silar realised he was not going to get much more out of the man. It struck him that Artemi might have better luck, though she seemed to have become fiercely loyal to the kahr following his numerous moves to protect her. The least he could do would be to ask her how Morghiad reported the incident. Sometimes a simple, direct question was all that was needed, as his mother liked telling him.

  “Did you tell her to come back tomorrow?” Morghiad asked.

  Silar grunted in the affirmative and made his way to the door. He noted the

  cadet’s sword lying upon the dark chest of drawers. It was now full of dents and chips, one of which indicated a blow of considerable force against a sharp object. “It’ll be time to get her a proper one soon,” he remarked.

  Morghiad approached and pulled open a drawer. He lifted a pile of folded clothing and drew out a long, thin object wrapped in red fabric. The fabric unravelled from it under gravity, revealing a black, polished scabbard with an almost undetectable curve. The thin sword withdrew like silk on the wind, and Morghiad handed it to Silar.

  The handle was far too small for his hands, but he could tell that it was beautifully weighted. He had not seen a blade of this style before, much narrower even than the Kemeni fought with. It did not even have a tang. “This

  steel is very fine,” was his only comment.

  Morghiad nodded. “It is how her weapon is most frequently described in the histories, or as close as I could get. The blacksmith almost fell off his chair whenI told him what was needed.”

  Silar gave it a couple of loose swings. It seemed to fly on the air. “Have you given it to her yet?”

  “No. But I will, soon.” “That girl has learned a lot in very little time.”

  “She has mastered in three months what most take years to achieve.” He resheathed the sword and placed it back in its hiding place. Silar wondered whether Morghiad cared more for the Artemi of the past than the present, even though they were supposed to be

  the same woman. Who could predict how that would change when she reclaimed her identity? This truly was dangerous ground, and Morghiad knew the implications of it. Silar bid a good afternoon to his friend and left. Now was the perfect time for a deep, hot bath. And a drink. Or both.

  Artemi paced the perimeter of the main cavern in the cellars. It was delightfully warm in there these days. She had never seen Morghiad

  act in such a dark manner before. It was wonderful that she could now expect the occasional smile from him, and she even appreciated his frowns. He was much more pleasurable to look at when his face wasn’t all cliffs and rocks, but this anger was something else altogether and it was a concern. She was doubly upset that he had pushed her away so easily; she had thought he considered her a friend. Artemi certainly saw him as one of her few friends, albeit a slightly odd one. He probably could do with some support from her. At least she now had a vague idea of the sorts of things that amused him. Yes, she would just go and check on him. That did not count as going against Silar’s orders - just walking past the kahr’s rooms and checking was allowable. Biting her lip, she ascended the steps from the

  cellar.

  Morghiad opened the door before her knuckles hit it a second time. His face was as grim as ever, but betrayed less emotion than it had done earlier. He had clearly been bathing recently, as his hair still dripped with warm water. The man seemed calm enough.

  “Good,” Artemi said, and walked back down the hallway.

  “Where are you going?” he called after her, leaning from the doorway.

  Artemi turned and kept her smile suppressed. “Lord Forllan instructed me not to return to your room until tomorrow. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  Morghiad laughed. “You are a very headstrong woman. Come.”

  She smiled in response to his laughter,

  which made him quite handsome for a stone. Artemi entered his chambers and seated herself on the bed. That would have been a bold move a few weeks ago, but this place felt much more like a part of her home now. Morghiad rubbed his hair through with a towel and regarded her for a moment. He seemed to do that quite a lot. At first she had found it rather unnerving, but it now seemed reassuringly normal to be stared at like a curiosity.

  “Come here,” he demanded.

  And like the pet she was, she obeyed. At least she had control over what she could say. “What happened this morning?”

  He held her eyes for a moment before speaking. “I allowed my anger to get the better of me. I’m beginning to think you are a bad influence.”

  Artemi’s mouth dropped. “Me? You have been surrounded by emotional people your entire life. Why is it my fault?” She folded her arms.

  “Because you-” He hesitated.

  “Because it is.” He started to grin. It could have been a cheeky grin on any other man, but Artemi was not quite sure how to categorise it on him. Men were impossible, even when they did communicate! He turned to the corner and picked up a long, thin, black object. It looked like

  “I have a gift for you, Artemi. I hope you like it.” He handed her the sword.

  She turned it over in her hands. The casing was impossibly smooth and polished so highly she could see her face in it. With her right hand she gripped the velvet-swathed hilt, and

  with her left she removed the scabbard. It slid out with precision resistance, revealing a solid, but thin, blade. Morghiad took the scabbard from her and placed it in the corner of the room while she examined the blade closely. It had been made from layers and layers of the thinnest steel, their striation making a vivid pattern. She ran her thumb along its edge, which immediately drew blood.

  “It should stay sharp for a few years before it needs re-whetting,” he said.

  Artemi nodded absently and spun it in the air. It held its position perfectly.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” he asked.

  She frowned. “Nowhere. It just felt like the right thing to do.”

  Morghiad crossed his arms at his chest

  and resumed his odd stare.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “No one has ever...” It was difficult to get the rest of the words out. “Thank you, Morghiad.”

  He gave her a single nod and then went to pick up his own sword.

  “Now let’s see how you use it.” He spun his sword in his hand with practised ease. Morghiad came at her with a powerful downwards strike. She swept his blade sideways with little difficulty and made a quick diagonal swipe at him. He avoided it and recovered with two more attacks. Artemi fought off each one without trouble, her sword seeming to lead the way for each of her moves.

  “Faster,” he demanded, and the speed of their actions increased considerably. It was tough keeping up with him; the man always

  appeared to have fireworks powering his muscles. She found herself on the defensive, being pushed backwards. She jumped towards the bed, hoping the higher ground would help, and made a bold strike at him. Instead the blade missed him, swept sideways and cut clean through one of the bed posts. It fell to the floor with a solid thunk. Artemi grimaced with embarrassment.

  “Try to be a little more aware of your environment,” he said with some resignation. He lunged at her once more and she parried quickly. They continued their bat
tle over the bed, Artemi still on the defensive. Eventually she grew tired of following the basic rules, and swung around the post as if to make a strike. When Morghiad blocked it, she kicked one of his feet out from underneath him. As he

  stumbled back she swept at him again. He blocked it partially, but her sword still proceeded to gouge deeply into his shoulder.

  In dismay, Artemi dropped her sword. “I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” She pulled his shirt from the area to check it was healing well. A small amount of blood seeped out from the swiftly closing wound.

  He pushed her away. “Mistake. I’m still standing and still holding my sword. I could have easily struck back with an injury like that. Never. Ever. Drop yours.”

  She nodded and stood with some shame.

  “Artemi,” he said softly.

  She gazed up at his deep, emerald-like eyes.

  “You have performed brilliantly this

  evening. I would like you to start training with the rest of the army.”

  She didn’t know what to think... or say, for that matter. The idea terrified her.

  “I will have to tell them you are a wielder,” he said calmly.

  Her eyes widened as far as they would go. “Are you insane? Then I won’t just have two men who want me dead, I’ll have severalthousand!”