The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  Silar stumbled to his horse and pried open one of the saddle bags with his cold-numbed fingers. A canteen of water was inside: near frozen and yet just the refreshment he required. He quaffed almost all of its contents, but was too nauseous to face any of the food he had packed. He turned back to examine his environment. A vast tangle

  of bare undergrowth swept over the ground before him, studded with the blackened tips of wooden posts. The general knelt by one to gain a better look. It looked as if it had been burned. More posts were evident within a clearing beyond, and yet more posts to the side of that. Silar trotted over to them and walked their circumference. There was no way that these could be pens for livestock or storage huts. These had almost certainly been houses at one time. A small brook tinkled quietly to his right, and it forked around a large rocky outcrop. He immediately recognised the feature

  from the map he’d spent so many hours staring at. “So this is Pryandar,” he whispered. What had happened here? Fire? Wielders? Whatever it was, it had probably occurred some years ago. His hopes began to sink with his discovery. Perhaps Talia had seen this place when she saw Morghiad, and perhaps she had been seen by those who did not want her to know. Whoever those people were, it was clear that they had not lived here for a while.

  The general pored over the debris for a few hours, but found nothing of note. Once done, he

  remounted Cardan and booted the animal into a trot towards the main road. There were other villages nearby and, surely, one of them would have a resident who knew about Pryandar’s fate.

  A comforting sight met him with the first settlement he found. Orange lamplight spilled onto a well-swept square, and small houses huddled around it amongst a fresh spray of snow. Even better, there was a tavern at one end. Silar rode beneath the archway to the building’s stable yard, and was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by one of the hands there.

  Dismounting as smoothly as he was able, he kept his injury covered with his cloak. Silar pressed a silver coin into the stable boy’s hand. “If you could see that my horse is fed and watered this evening, I’ll tip you an extra gold when I leave.”

  The boy’s large eyes widened until they became almost entirely white, and he nodded vigorously.

  The general stepped into the warm, ale-perfumed aura of the tavern. If only his queen could make such inns a mandatory requirement of all villages in this bloody country, it would be a much better place all-round. A pity she

  had become so sensible in the last few years.

  He ordered a pint of the inn’s most expensive produce and found himself a quiet table from which to study the tavern’s other patrons. The man immediately before him incited only images of drunken babbling and imagined tales of woe. A second man to the left brought images of brick walls, winding roads and fortress-like riddles. The third drinker was a woman with long, black hair. She watched him steadily from her dark corner, eyes glittering in the low light. Peculiar visions of rotting timbers and swells of

  water came from her. They did not make Silar feel at ease in the slightest, and the way that his mind had translated their meaning into something incomprehensible made him even more concerned.

  He moved his gaze swiftly to the barmaid, who was approaching with a very generous flagon of ale. His viewings of her were altogether far more enjoyable. “Sit with me.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me?”

  Silar had already anticipated the response that would get what he wanted out of her. “A more enjoyable

  evening than you’d have serving Master Finnt over there.”

  “You know him?” Her gaze softened.

  Sometimes Silar spent so much time imagining the course of conversations he would forget what had been said and what had not. Mistakes like those were exactly the sort that could result in misunderstandings and discussions on marriages that would never happen. “I know of him. Please, I could do with the company.”

  The young woman, who he presumed had a name that sounded like Larah, smiled and sat on his lap instead.

  The general’s deep blue eyes widened considerably. He had not anticipated that. Silar smiled as if he had, however, and wrapped an appreciative arm around her small waist.

  “You do not smell as good as you look, my lord.”

  “My apologies, it has been a long and hard journey getting here.” He dropped his eyes to her very pleasing bust, and lingered there for a moment. More visions sprang up in his mind but, in spite of his best intentions, they

  ended with the same disappointed look on Larah’s face as he had seen on far too many women already. He forced yet another broad grin over his features. Business... he had to get back to business. “I used to have family in a village not far from here. I am trying to find them – the place was Pryandar, do you know it?”

  She looked immediately to the floor, and Silar could see where the rest of their conversation would go. Bandits had razed the houses there; most of the villagers had been killed. He waited patiently while she iterated the things he had foreseen her saying. He

  considered himself a forbearing man, but sometimes his own skills irritated him. At least Artemi had come to expect his conversational leaps, which made life far easier to bear. They talked in further detail in order to confirm the things that Silar had assumed to be true, and all the way through he nodded and feigned interest or surprise. Of course, she had not heard of the Zennar family or the peculiar man named Felis Hesarde and his wife. Dead ends. Why was Talia’s murder surrounded by nothing but blank clues?

  He continued to entertain the

  honey-haired woman on his lap for a moment longer, remembering the days when he had pleasured a different woman each week. Something about it made him feel hollow, though not with regret or loss. It upset him that he had once found such pleasure in many women, when now all he desired was one. He looked to the ceiling with disgust at himself. Stupid thoughts! “Forgive me, my lady. I have to go

  now.” She blinked at him. “But...but... you need a bath!” “That is true. However, I must be on my way if I am to find out what

  has happened to my family. Thank you for being such wonderful company this evening.” She rose swiftly from his lap, and he found himself much less able to stand than he had expected. His muscles had weakened considerably, probably because of the great slab of iron stuck in his guts. He pulled his cloak a little closer. “Good evening.” The general made a small bow and exited to the frozen air of the stable yard. The stable hand ran up to him excitedly, babbling about the quality and quantity of feed Cardan had just consumed. Silar formed his most serious look of approval and gave the

  hand his money. Clearly unable or unwilling to show any gratitude, the boy ran back into the darkness without so much as a thanks.

  “You should have that injury looked at, my Lord Forllan,” said a woman’s voice.

  He spun rapidly to meet the eyes of his addresser, and found the blackeyed, rotting timber woman from the tavern watching him. Her skin was as dark as the soil and her hair bedraggled as if she had just climbed out of the earth.

  She smiled a dangerous smile. “Or perhaps you would rather let your

  beautiful queen attend to your hurts. She is quite beautiful, isn’t she?” The woman took another step forward, bringing her smooth, stone-like features into the lamplight. “But so terribly misled. Your place is not with her, Silar Forllan. You would do far better to side with me when this world is rent in two.”

  Almost every attack bell that Silar could conceive of rang loudly in his mind. This woman was most certainly not his friend. “Who are you?”

  “A friend,” she whispered. “But you already knew that, of course. I

  have studied you closely, my lord. And you do appear to have some very... useful talents. We shall need you at the end - when it comes.” The woman took another two steps towards him.

  “I have no reason to conspire with you over any end or any thing, for that matter.”

  “There will be
an end.” Her smile widened. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

  Silar had seen a great many things, none of them certainties. Rivers of blood flowed in his mind from her words.

  She took another step, and her

  position was sufficient for him to smell her. Her scent was of mould and canker. “If you join me, I can tell you who killed your red-haired lover. I can see how terribly you want to know – Blazes, I can almost smell it!” Her eyes rolled with a peculiar sort of ecstasy at the exclamation.

  He was certain that she spoke the truth, but the flurry of visions that surrounded her only brought warnings to him. Something terrible would happen if he bargained with this woman, something he would regret. “I’ll find out myself. You and I have no reason to be friends.” Bloody light

  of Achellon, but it hurt to say those words! After searching for so long for answers... he wanted to know. Talia was owed some sort of sacrifice on his behalf, surely? But he had to trust his instincts, and he knew that the regret he foresaw would only come about if someone else was hurt. He walked swiftly to his mount and clambered onto its back with not insignificant difficulty. “Good day.” The general booted his horse into a gallop, and dearly hoped that the earth woman would not follow him to the next village.

  A deep swig of ale slaked his dry throat. It was perfect: not too warm, and not too heavily chilled. He looked to his right, where Morghiad was throwing a leg onto the seat opposite. It was rather satisfying to know that his father found comfort in the airs and breaths of a bar. To Kalad it was a soft-lit, hop-scented sanctuary from the rest of the world. This place had no

  expectations of his abilities in fighting, and only minimal expectations of his behaviour. He took another draught, and moved his eyes back to examine his strangely youthful father. There was no surprise that they resembled each other enough to confuse a casual observer, but the kahr could see the differences. All of the little things that Kalad had come to dislike about his appearance were somehow improved in the original. If ever he had felt like the product of all the errors of his parents, it was now.

  He placed the tankard firmly onto the table and moved his eyes

  around the blue glow of the room. Several soldiers crowded at the end of the bar, nursing foamy pints and glasses of wine. All were female. He leant towards his father and whispered, “Which one would you choose?”

  Morghiad followed his line of sight with emerald eyes. “None.”

  “Not one of them? What about the one with the short bow?” She had a backside seemingly formed of two, round jelfruits, and a sweet mouth that was quite clearly made for kissing.

  A strange look formed across his father’s features. “Unbalanced.”

  Kalad reassessed the girl closely

  - well, she was more of a woman – probably at least three times his age. She wasn’t all that bad. “And the others?”

  “I wouldn’t like to comment.”

  How very diplomatic. The kahr grinned to himself. It was time to throw in the candle-bomb. “Well, I suppose you’re just like every other man in this castle. Don’t worry. I’ve gotten used to it. After twenty years of watching men drool and slaver over my mother, another one amongst them isn’t going to make much difference. Bloody blazes, but the army practice sessions are the worst. Try closing the eyes of

  ten thousand men when most of them could best you in two moves.”

  “I’m not attracted to the queen,” Morghiad said plainly.

  “What?” Kalad almost dropped his pint. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry – is it some sort of pre-requisite to be a soldier here?”

  “Ah, no. Of course not.” Had his father really meant that? Had all of the things his brother had told him been dreamy fabrications? And there must have been some sort of admiration there for he and his siblings to exist in the first instance. Kalad was fairly sure his mother was not ugly. “Ah... so

  what are your tastes?”

  Morghiad folded his arms at the table and leaned forward. “You know that blonde girl...” he said in a low voice, “...Hair like the sun. The one who visited last week? Wielder – grade nine, I’d say.”

  The kahr’s eyes widened in spite of his efforts to control them. “Selieni?” he hissed.

  “That’s her. I would be more than happy to share in her fires. Shame about the oaf she had with her.”

  Kalad’s mouth very nearly dropped open. His ale suddenly looked deeply unappetising. “Hah – ah, er...

  listen. A word of advice – don’t even think about her, or mention her. To anyone. Not discounting that Romarr is deadly, and he’d likely chop your head off just for looking at her. Just –ah, as a general rule, if you find yourself attracted to women here... don’t tell anyone else about it.”

  “But you asked.”

  “Yes, yes, I did. Very rude of me, really.” He emitted a faltering laugh, and attempted to drown it with more ale. It was bitter; the stuff had grown too warm in the time they’d been talking.

  The puzzlement only seemed to

  ingrain itself more deeply into his father’s features. “Are relationships not permitted for new soldiers?”

  Kalad clenched his jaw. “Yes – but... just keep it quiet if you do, alright?” After witnessing this new, beaming version of his mother, he did not particularly want to return to the glum one. It was odd, really. The mother who stared morosely out of windows and stood with an air of resignation was the only one he had ever known until very recently. He had not noticed these things until they were gone, of course, but he was fairly sure he did not want them back. “Let’s talk

  about something else. Let’s discuss your meteoric progress in sword fighting over the last few weeks...” The kahr pressed his father as much as he could, but succeeded only in drawing modest responses and vague explanations.

  At length, a barmaid came to replenish their drinks. “If you wouldn’t mind, my lord, but Baydie has enquired when you plan to settle your bill.”

  Kalad grimaced inwardly, and smiled outwardly. “I have some coin on me now. Why don’t I pay you two gold now and seven later?”

  “But my lord, you owe ten and

  three bronze.”

  He rubbed at his jaw briefly. Had he really spent that much time and money here? “Alright. Tell you what.” He fished inside his breeches for his money. “I have a note on me for twenty gold...” He handed it to her. “... So if you could give me the change...” Kalad waited patiently for her to count it out. “Ah, wait a moment – I have another gold here. Would you mind changing these coins for a ten gold note?”

  A brief flash of puzzlement moved across the barmaid’s forehead, but she dug around in her coin bag and

  produced the note.

  “Here you are.” The kahr added a triple crown to his handful of coins and passed them over with a grin.

  “Wait... ah my lord, there’s too much here. I make it twelve gold.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. I’ll give you another eight, then you can give me a note for twenty – and we’ll call it even.”

  “Oh, of course!” She smiled as they exchanged their monies. “Thank you, Kahr Kalad.”

  He watched closely as she swayed away gracefully, a small grin blossoming on his face.

  A noise of exasperation came from Morghiad’s direction. “Proud of yourself?”

  “Hmm?”

  His father’s face appeared almost to darken, and his eyes to glitter. “You con them out of money when you are one of the richest men in the country?”

  “I am not that rich. My mother hardly lets us have anything. She’s always saying how we need to learn the value of money, blah, blah, blah. Besides, if Baydie wants to employ serving maids who are prettier than they are numerate, that is his choice.”

  “Pay them back.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not like you can’t afford it.” There was an element of darkness in Morghiad’s face that was almost threatening. Kalad did not like the way it made
him feel.

  “No.”

  The green-eyed man stood. “Then we are done here tonight. I do not drink with thieves, no matter how royal.”

  The kahr shot to his feet and caught hold of his father’s arm. “Wait. Fine. They can have their blasted money. Though the fires of Achellon

  know they don’t deserve it for the swill they were serving out last month.” This had better please the child he was supposed to respect and emulate. Blazes, but such honesty never paid off in the long-run. Only fools could believe that!

  A waft of wisp-root flower brushed The Hunter’s nose as he

  inhaled a deep draft of the palace’s air. Other smells were present, too: leather, polished steel, cinders, horse and soap. He could discern Artemi’s scent amongst them, soft and comforting in its presence. And there was another, further smell of desperation and fear. It did not come from the queen, but from the young woman who stood before her. The woman’s name was Lady Chione D’Haran, and she was a wielder and murderer. She stamped upon the floor for the second time. “But he told me he was a grade six!” The queen sniffed. “It is your word against that of a dead man.”