The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  “And how will I describe my condition to them? No. Just leave.”

  Tallyn sighed a long sigh. “If you must be so obstinate. But I shall be back again tomorrow to check on you.” He turned swiftly and left her rooms

  before she tried to argue with him. Bloody stubborn girl! It was an irritating aspect of her character, and yet the world needed just that sort of mule-mindedness to protect it.

  The darkness lasted an eternity, and yet it lasted no time at all. It was there, and then it gave way to a sombre sort of glow. The light grew stronger, but never became bright. Mirel hauled herself through the tear in the fabric of the worlds, landing in the icy embrace of mountain snow. Blazes, but it was good to be back! She buried her face in the soft, cold cloud of frost. The wielder laughed aloud, wildly, and pushed herself to her feet. She was completely naked, but did not feel the chill in the slightest. She sprinted down the narrow walkway, a pass at the side of the mountain, lighting Blaze forms to illuminate the shadowed route. She felt so strong here, powerful and unstoppable! Those blazed bores in

  The Crux had no idea of her true purpose, of what she was capable. She was a superior being in this world, and that meant she could finish Artemi once and for all.

  Mirel loped over the frozen rocks and into the valley below, soon reaching the edge of a dozy village. Pillars of smoke rose from the rooftops of most structures, arcing westward with the breeze. She slowed to a walk, and paced lazily into the main square. Or what seemed to pass for a square here. At the northern end a tavern glowed orange with its lamplight, and the smell of ale was clear on the cold

  air. She strode in through the worn, timber door.

  Every patron of the establishment turned to gawp at her as she entered. One man, a burly chap with a red nose and puffy cheeks, dropped his pint onto the table with a clattering slop. The ale soaked between the gaps in the wood immediately, drenching several of his friend’s laps. None of them moved to avoid it, however. A plan had already formed in Mirel’s mind: a plan for revenge. She walked toward the silent bar, snow melting from her feet on the soft boards. “You,” she said, pointing to a

  sturdy-looking man with two swords, “Mercenary?”

  “Yes,” he said in his Fordan accent.

  “Good. You will come with me.” She turned to the man next to him. Another fighter, by the looks of it. “You, too.”

  The mercenary coughed. “Just what is it you have in mind for us – ah, my lady?”

  “I need good fighters, and great lovers. You are those things, are you not?”

  He folded his arms. “I like my women to remain clothed in public, and I do not like to share them. Also...” He appraised her figure. “...I can’t think where you keep the money you’d need to pay me. No deal.”

  Mirel turned away and scanned the rest of the room. Mentally, she selected another six men who would be appropriate for her purposes. “You will come with me.” She filled herself with the perfect fires of The Blazes, and one of the men leapt from his seat.

  “She’s a bloody wielder! Kill it!” the man, evidently kanaala, shouted.

  The mercenary closest to her withdrew his sword, but Mirel threw her weight against his right shoulder

  before he could raise the weapon. She crushed his hand with a well-placed knee and took the blade for herself. A rapid release of holding forms trapped her approaching assailants in their stride. Mirel straightened, tied the mercenary and his friend with Blaze and sent a raging ball of ice at the kanaala. Evidently he was not very strong for, although he managed to deconstruct some of her weapon, it was still more than powerful enough to freeze the life from him. People started to scream then, piling on top of one another to reach the tavern’s exit. Mirel remained the only calm and rational

  being in there. She formed six tendrils of fire and wound each one around the men she wanted, pulling their writhing forms towards her.

  A chill breeze touched her skin from the open door. The mercenary had made a very good point; she required some clothes. Ice-Kill hurdled over the intervening tables and caught one of the women at the back of the crowd, a barmaid with slim hips and wildly waving arms. “Give me your clothes, child.”

  The barmaid spun round and gazed at her, wide-eyed. She did not move any further.

  “Now!” Mirel barked.

  The younger woman nodded slowly, and began stripping herself of the rather plain dress she wore. It was a dull, brown thing likely to stifle most movements, but it did look warm.

  “Shoes, too.”

  Shivering and terrified, the barmaid finally removed her footwear. “Is that... is that all?”

  “Yes, thank you, girl. You may go now.”

  The bare maid shot out of the empty tavern quicker than a rabbit with a wolf on its tail, and Mirel set about clothing herself. The dress was just as

  cumbersome as it looked, but a quick slash though the skirts lessened its obstruction. Much better. She turned back to her twisting, thrashing recruits. The prettiest one was a young boy with wild, black hair. Something about that and his clean-cut features was reminiscent of Morghiad. She reached through the Blaze forms to brush her fingers against his face. It was hurtful enough that Artemi had found a way of breeding with Mirel’s favourite king, but to have allowed him to die was a disaster! That woman would pay! It was her fault Mirel had been called to The Crux - her blasted, damned fault!

  The anger threatened to be allconsuming, but she did not allow it to control her. She released the young boy’s face slowly, and moved toward the tavern door. An ale-soaked, Calidellian newspaper lay on a nearby table. The assassin picked it up, but the numbers at the top made her draw breath. It was dated to the ninth month, 3272 PD. She turned back to her nearest captive. “How long since Calidell lost its king?”

  The young man ceased his writhing to blink at her.

  “How long?” she said more firmly.

  He looked nervously around for help from his trapped compatriots. “Tt-t-te-near ten years, my lady.”

  Surely she had not been gone that long? She had heard many of this world’s goings-on during her time in The Crux, but that place’s time never seemed to run as it should. “A decade... and their queen - she is still ruling?”

  He nodded slowly.

  That was not good. It meant Artemi would have had time to recover, gain strength and prepare. No doubt she had kept hold of Mirel’s blades, broken or otherwise. And it was likely that one of her little kanaala lackeys had been trained specifically to watch for Mirel’s stream. The darkhaired woman folded her arms. There was not much time before she lost her small advantage of surprise. “Alright, boys. We have to cross the Sky Bridges tonight. Follow me!” They did not have to put any effort into trailing behind, of course. The Blaze forms would do that for her.

  To find beauty, to know it and to see the most beautiful places and objects ought to be the purpose of one’s life. Beauty can be found in all things, Khasha had once read. But he was wise enough to know that was not true. In each of his childhoods he had thought of beauty as something defined and immovable. When he had grown to a teenager he had discovered that beauty was subjective, and that not everyone would find the same things beautiful as he did. But when he had grown older still he had learned that

  some things were beautiful to all, that there was a common understanding of it. And that understanding could transcend cultures, time and language. It was something all men and women knew. The most beautiful things, Khasha observed, were those of almost incomprehensible complexity and apparent simplicity. If it was convoluted and inexplicable, but served few purposes, it was probably beautiful.

  The new Gialdin was supposed to be such a place, and he had been only a little surprised to hear of Artemi’s association with it. What had

  really unseated him, however, was that she had married. The Fireblade cared for her comrades and loved her battles, but she did not love men in that way. Not unless they were made of steel and came with a hilt. A fascinating puzzle to solve.
Khasha kicked his horse forward through the golden trees, and ate the light as it surged through the canopy.

  The city was not slow in presenting itself, as its curiously swirling spires careered into the skies before him. He halted the horse to take a long, drawn breath. It was perfection made solid, dreams made material. The towers were impossibilities, and the water that flowed around them seemed to glow with the light of a silver sun. He pushed the horse to walk again, not removing his eyes from the spectacle. A smile crept across his narrow features as he drew closer. Nothing about this structure carried any sort of logic, it defied reason. He had visited the old Gialdin often, and had found it to be a victim of its own reputation. It had been attractive and glossy, but far too predictable.

  He stopped again at the fence of an outlying farm to pull out his sketch book. A quick few flicks of his pencil

  described the outline of the city before him, and a moment of shading began to portray the shapes. Something caught him mid-stroke, however, a flash amongst his thoughts. He closed his eyes to examine the pulsing glow of Blaze streams that arced through the world’s wielders. A new grade twelve was present, or rather, an old one had reappeared. That was very odd, though he had seen it happen twice before to another.

  Khasha forced his eyes open with a shake of his head and moved onwards, stowing away his sketches. He stopped again to gape once he

  reached the southern gate, which itself was a thing of wonder. Spines of white crystal clawed over the entrance, and a translucent fan of the stuff partially obscured the doorway. Khasha reached out to touch it as he passed, and was shocked by its lack of fire. Whatever had wrought this curiosity was not a force of Blaze. He offered a nod to the guards as he passed, appreciating the glimmer of the studs on their tailored uniforms.

  The interior of the city was not a disappointment. The arrangement of the smaller houses was nonsensical and pointless, the larger houses appeared to

  teeter on the brink of implosion and the roads carved between them in a lengthy caress. Khasha was rapt. After years of searching, he had finally found his universal beauty. A small, dark shadow ran past the corner of his eye. He turned his head to follow it, and caught sight of a boy running into a narrow alley. A disturbance in the crowd behind meant someone was chasing him.

  “He stole it! That little... Someone stop him!” shouted one of the pursuers.

  Khasha decided to intervene. He kicked his horse into a short-legged

  canter and followed the course taken by the young lad. The boy was a fast mover, and the Kusuru had to force his horse to twist round some awkward corners at speed. His mount responded well though, enabling him to gain some ground. When his quarry headed to the back of a conical building, Khasha moved to intercept the child on the other side. The boy was quick to dodge his horse though, very quick indeed. The assassin had to vault from the animal backwards, twist in the air and land in the child’s path. The boy stopped then, staring at him with wide eyes. He held a large kefruit in one

  hand.

  “Did you steal that?”

  The boy pursed his lips.

  Khasha placed his hands on his hips. “If you promise to give it back, I’ll keep you from the wrath of the city’s guards.”

  “It’s mine anyway!” The boy stamped his foot for emphasis.

  A few millennia had given the assassin little insight into the arguments of children, but he tried anyway, “Well, right now there’s an adult who thinks it belongs to them, and they’re bigger than you. Give the kefruit back.” Blazes, didn’t this child have any

  parents?

  The boy grimaced and handed the fruit to Khasha. The Kusuru nearly dropped it, however, when he sensed the child’s ability. What was he? A grade thirteen? “Thank you.” Khasha leaned forward to study his captive’s face more closely. It was evenly arranged and framed with black hair, but those large, dark brown eyes did look very familiar indeed. “Artemi’s boy,” he muttered under his breath. She really had borne children of her own. This was a day filled with surprises.

  “Only mum’s friends call her

  that. She’ll behead you if you’re not.”

  Khasha smiled wryly. “I’m sure she will.” He lifted the child onto the saddle of his horse and clambered on behind. A sharp neck-rein to the right brought them back onto the main thoroughfare, and they soon found the wronged fruit owner.

  The woman was broad and put quite out of breath by her chase. “That boy needs a good strapping!” she shouted as they approached.

  “And I’m sure his mother will see to it.” Khasha responded as he threw her the stolen fruit. He turned to his captive. “Now, give the lady your

  apology.”

  The boy folded his arms and drew a scowl.

  “Do it,” the assassin said in a more threatening tone.

  “Sorry.” It was barely even a whisper.

  Khasha leaned forward to whisper in the lad’s ear. “Louder, or I’ll see to your punishment myself. And, believe me, I’m old enough to know what works.”

  “I am sorry,” the boy said, loud enough for the whole square to hear.

  The woman nodded with slight disapproval, and moved on to whatever business she had. She had a peculiar waddle as she walked, and it was not long before she bit into her reclaimed food, straight through the peel. Khasha wheeled the horse around, and booted it into a canter towards the castle. But when he arrived, his eyes met with a very familiar face indeed.

  The Hunter blinked with excited eyes at seeing them. “Well, it has been a long time, brother! And I see you’ve brought something of use for me.” He addressed the boy, “You will come with me to see your mother. The whole

  castle’s been searching!” Artemi’s son slid off the saddle

  and walked sullenly towards Tallyn, who placed a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “So, Khashinka, what took you so long to find this place? I thought you’d have arrived the minute it was built.”

  He dismounted and took the reins in his left hand, leading the horse through to the courtyard. Light of Achellon, but it was beautiful! A giant fountain of glass threw out water in a series of unlikely directions. Khasha struggled not to reach for his sketch book. “I became caught up in the mysteries of a place formerly known as Asterid.”

  “I thought that place was destroyed a few centuries ago.”

  Khasha shook his head. “No. It was simply moved underground, and I believe your queen has something to do with it.”

  Tallyn shrugged. “Probably. She made this place, you know.” His eyes brightened for a moment; they always did when he mentioned his favourite sister. “So you found your legendary underground city?”

  “Indeed I did. And it is a very mysterious place, Tal. Barely comprehensible, but it is not beautiful.” The Calbeni chuckled. “A shame. I think you will be more content here in Gialdin.”

  They wandered into the curiously sweeping stables, where one of the hands took his horse and another servant took his saddlebags. It had been a long while since Khasha had been relieved of his own carrying, and he was not about to complain. He strode out of the undulating yard, up waves of steps, through the ivory corridors and gaped open-mouthed at their blueish glitter. Light funnelled through them as if it were subject to the whim of the structure’s new rules

  of movement.

  “... something of a reunion.,” Tallyn finished.

  “Hmm, what?”

  The Hunter made an exasperated noise at him. “Will you get your head out of your sky-bound dreams for a moment? Blazes, some things never change!”

  Khasha shrugged. “What were you saying?”

  “I said most of the family are here. Vestuna’s been back for a month, and Romarr just returned a few days ago. Not Dorlunh, though. But don’t mention his name in front of Artemi.”

  He gave Tallyn a questioning look.

  “You’ll work it out. That’s what you do.”

  The pieces of that puzzle started to gather in Khasha’s
mind. He archived them for later investigation. “I see that Mirel has also decided to burn this world with her presence once more.”

  “What?”

  “Her stream reappeared only minutes ago. From nothing. I’m surprised you missed it, Tal.”

  The Hunter wore a brief look of introspection. “That is her, alright. She

  must have done the same thing as Artemi.”

  “And what, pray, was that?”

  “Oh, that’s not for this young lad’s ears. I’ll explain later.”

  Her son pulled a grimace.

  After a series of light-filled passages and clear-glass ceilings had flowed past they swept into the throne room. And that was something to behold. It was a place where light grew, blossomed and multiplied. The air trembled with life. The walls were sleek and glistening, lined with wild rivulets of gilt and azure, the floors a more intricate continuation of the same

  theme. But they were a mere background for the focus of the room: the thrones. Fluted shards of glass shot out from each one, each presenting their own source of illumination. Artemi sat in the left hand chair, her hair spilling over her shoulders in waves of burnished sun and hot embers. She was as Khasha remembered: an anomaly in his study of beauty. While many would have described her as handsome, he could not be sure of it. Yes, her features were regular and her body conformed to an idealised set of measurements, but that did not make her superior to an ugly man when she scowled. She was a confirmation of what Khasha was beginning to believe: that people could not be beautiful as things, places and scenes were. The beauty of people changed with time and context. Gialdin would have been beautiful in any context, to anyone, at any time.