The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  lips and freckles that had been mapped out in some unlikely, pre-organised design. But to her left was another cabin within the waves. Artemi was there, framed by the doorway, her redgold hair having grown long enough to stream down her back and surge along the floor. She was entirely surrounded by it, surrounded by flame.

  The lady did not call to him, but instead regarded him coolly from her cloud of fire. Morghiad started walking toward her. He could see her breast rising and falling with each breath, could smell the leather of her belts and straps, and could hear the song of the

  metal in her blades. Artemi.

  He needed the warmth and the fire. How long it had been since he had felt any heat! He moved closer, but she seemed to remain at the same distance from him. “Artemi!” Still she stared at him impassively. “What I did – it was...” Unforgivable. Left to drown. Artemi.

  His eyes snapped open, and he coughed heavily. There was a great deal of sand beneath his fingers, and his head ached from the heat of the sun above. A cold, wet and slimy thing swept over his cheek. “Argh!” He pushed it away, which resulted in the

  sound of a snort.

  Morghiad rolled over to look at the great beast that towered over him. “Well, there you are.”

  Tyshar pawed at the soft ground, which now appeared to be a beach.

  Standing upon legs that wobbled feebly, Morghiad gazed at the scene around him. There were quite a few horses scattered about the detritus, and they looked somewhat confused by their new environment. He could not see another survivor at all. Here he was: lord of the horses and the beach. He surveyed his new kingdom for a

  second time, and gave a final look of disgust at the sea. “Alright, Tyshar, it seems I have a woman whose forgiveness must be earned if I’m ever to sleep soundly again. She has her wolf, but she needs something more. The horses will serve as repayment for you, but where shall we go to find something to please her?”

  The beast continued with his noisy breathing.

  “Fine. The Fordan Mountains it is. And we’ll take the long way round. I do not wish to be aboard a ship ever again.” And with that Morghiad vaulted onto the back of his warhorse, checked

  his blade and rode forth to round up his rescued gifts.

  Another two winters passed with their deep drifts of snows, brisk winds and heavier skies of cloud in which Morghiad rode the full length of the Sennefhal continent. Tyshar’s hooves pummelled the lands of Wilrea and Quidarh, and tore through the deserts of Sunidara. They crossed the very peripheries of Hirrah under cover of night and thence made their way through the wild, open grasslands of Jurini. After that they thundered into

  the cool foothills of Forda’s blue mountains, where hawks shot through the pale skies and white deer darted over the snow.

  Spring there was a cold and feeble one, but it was the last before Morghiad’s banishment would come to its conclusion. He had provided a letter of apology to the woman he had rejected, but he still had not found a gift for the woman he had chosen to return to, and he was not altogether sure that her offer all those years ago had been a moment of true sanity. But he remained plagued by images of her in his sleep, and he knew that he would find no rest until he saw her again. Even if he was to be told to leave the country once more.

  He stopped inside a warm tavern with his cloak and hood drawn close. It was no secret that Calidell and Forda had some sort of disagreement, and he had already encountered some trouble for his resemblance to Calidell’s last king. His eyes, he had learned, were the most incriminating aspect of his looks, and he frequently sought to aim them at the floor.

  He made sure to keep his hood pulled forward as he seated himself, and waited patiently for one of the staff to serve him. The ale, when it arrived, was little more than brown water. But he drank greedily, and settled into his chair for a moment’s rest. The smell of burning firewood was a wonderful smell - for all that he could not feel the fire’s heat.

  “...General won’t know what has hit him. He can bring all the wielders he wants, but it won’t matter much if everything they make rots in the air about them.”

  “Is that really going to work?”

  “I’ve seen what she does.”

  Morghiad slowed his breathing to listen harder.

  “I’ve heard that general can foresee whatever you plan to do. How do you know he won’t see this coming? After all, they’ve had uncommon luck in winning every battle these last hundred years. It’s not sportsmanlike.”

  “Ah. Everyone has their blind spots. There’s no way in all of the fires of Achellon and infernos that he knows of Lannda. She is very clever. She studied under a man just like Forllan, they say.”

  “I bet she did!” There was the sound of clinking glasses, and the two men continued their gossip on topics

  that Morghiad found altogether less interesting. He waited amongst his own shadows until they left, and considered this new knowledge in silence. It was highly likely that Silar Forllan already knew all about Forda’s secret weapon, but what if he did not? And Artemi would almost certainly be at whatever battle was due to take place. What if this Lannda was a genuine danger to her? Morghiad would have to do something to get a message of warning to them, but he did not trust paper notes or doves.

  The more he thought about it, the more he realised he had no choice.

  He would have to break his banishment. Within days he had established when and where this battle would take place, and he had gathered far more details about Lannda than he wished to know. But that would be his gift to Calidell’s former queen, and burn him if he was caught for it! Morghiad rode to the border at the darkest period of night, when the clouds concealed the wan light of the moon and even the twinkling of the stars. He kept close to the shadows of valleys and concealed himself beneath the canopy of the sparse trees. If he had ever felt like a criminal, then it was now. A few miles of abandoned farms and windswept hills passed before he reached the edges of the Calidellian army’s camp. The entire area was swarming with their scouts, and he was fairly sure that he had passed several of Forda’s. As he watched, another soldier in dark green came perilously close to spotting him. A glow upon the south eastern horizon heralded the rising of the sun, and that meant his time was out. He would not be able to venture into the camp tonight.

  A copse of trees two miles distant served to shelter him as morning took hold, and it was while he lay in

  the heavy boughs of an ancient oak that he remembered something. His sword was not like others. Morghiad hopped from the branch and withdrew it swiftly. Its surface glittered in the weak sun, and it looked as if it had been formed from a billion tiny diamonds. “Come to me, then,” he whispered. He took off his scabbard, re-sheathed the sword and then withdrew it once more, but slowly. And this time it sang. It was not a sound he could pinpoint very easily, but it reminded him of a trick he had once seen a dancer perform using a pair of crystal goblets.

  He cleared that particular image from his mind and attempted to pull his clothing into a more acceptable state. And his hair... oh, there was not much saving that. Its black waves always refused to do whatever he wished them to, and he detested the way that female barbers seemed to enjoy ruffling it rather than actually cutting the damn stuff off. He may have been young, but he was no schoolboy. Blazes, younger than her youngest son!

  Only minutes passed before he heard the sound of approaching hoof beats, and as they drew closer he found that his blood seemed to grow thicker.

  He glimpsed her through the trees at first, a wave of hair the colour of old gold and fire trailing her gallop. Artemi D’Avrohan most certainly did not ride like a lady of the manor; she rode like a racing sprinter.

  He waited for her in an obvious clearing, attempting to look as relaxed as he was able beside his warhorse. He could not expect her to bend the law for him, but he did not want her to think him overly arrogant and unapologetic. Nor did he want her to see a coward. He settled for a plain

  expression that gave away no
emotion at all, and decided that she should be

  the first to speak. But the woman who rode into the clearing stole all voice from him immediately. He had remembered her as beautiful. This woman was something beyond that. She paused before addressing him, if only to remove her gloves and jump from her racer. Artemi dismounted with the lightness of a feather landing upon soft earth, and promptly placed her hands upon her hips. “You are a blazed fool! You had two months to wait! Two bloody months! Do you know what would happen if one of my soldiers caught sight of you? No more head on that

  neck, that’s what! I am already breaking my own laws in meeting with you, so tell me, please, what is so very important that it has brought you here now?”

  He cleared his throat. “Ah, I came to offer you some information. It might be useful in your battle.”

  She compressed her lips and clenched her jaw several times. “Alright,” she hissed. “What is it?”

  Morghiad moved a few steps closer. Perhaps it was not altogether appropriate given her mood, but he could not help it. “There is a woman named Lannda whom the Fordans have employed, and she-”

  “She can rot Blaze forms. Yes, yes, we know about her. Anything else?”

  “You know? Then you know about the melting glacier...”

  “And the saddlery,” she completed.

  Morghiad could not help but feel somewhat idiotic. “Ah.” He had made this damned journey for nothing! Why did she have to employ a man who already knew everything? And if the general was so wonderful, how was it that this battle had not been avoided altogether?

  Artemi sighed and stared at him for a while. She wore the expression of irritation which had so often plagued him during his dreams. After a moment she said, “How did you get that scar?” she was looking toward his neck, and the line that ran most of the way up to his jaw on the left side. It always became more obvious with two days of beard growth.

  Oh. That meant he had forgotten to shave. He was a mess. “There was a man in Sunidara who had few skills with a blade, but he would not stop trying to pick fights with me. I am not entirely sure why, though I’ve found

  these things usually have a link to your former husband. Anyway, the lunatic broke into my room one night and tried to gut me using a chef’s knife and a bucket of pinh.”

  “Sunidara?” She frowned. “You ought to have found friends there.” Artemi shook her head. “And are you otherwise in good condition?”

  “Yes.” He found himself drawn closer still. It was much like the dream, only she did not remain so far from him. “And are you... content?”

  She nodded briefly, but he could see the change in her eyes. He could smell the wisp-root in her hair. He

  pressed his fingers through some of those fibres and allowed his palm to rest against her cheek. The flames were so fierce and turbulent against his skin. It was almost unbearable. “I feel only cold after I did the things I did. Even in the sun. But you – you are the only heat I can feel now.” As he moved to kiss her, he fully expected to be pushed into the ground, but he was not. Instead his lips met with more fire, and he found his veins filling with the power of every wild storm of Blaze Energy that he was able to hold. It felt a thousand times hotter than an inferno, and yet was cool enough to

  make him need more.

  Artemi ceased the embrace before he could sate those needs, however. “It cannot be now,” she said softly, “Not with a Fordan army at my back.” She pulled away from him, producing the most gut-wrenching loss of heat from his body, and jumped onto the back of her horse. “You must be gone from here as soon as I am over that rise. You are no good to me dead.” She wheeled her mount around, giving it a short, sharp kick. “And thank you for the horses!” she called back to him as she rode off.

  Morghiad wondered if he was

  turning into one of those tormented souls he so frequently read about in melodramatic poetry. Every tiny section of his skin still fizzed with the power it had just held; every hair quivered with the sting of it. And his heart now pumped the blood about his empty veins with angry ice. He sighed heavily and went to stare angrily at a tree for some sort of relief, but none came. When he turned around, Tyshar was staring at him with a look that could very nearly be described as wry. Could horses be wry?

  He shook his head and made to leave as he had been instructed, but

  changed his mind as soon as his foot took one of the stirrups. That woman was going to receive his help, whether she thought she required it or not. He was, after all, still her bodyguard. Just not a very lawful one.

  And so he decided to remain hidden amongst his cover of trees until the battle commenced. Only then did he make his way to the top of a nearby hill, and from there he watched as the conflict unfolded. True to Artemi’s words, the Calidellian army were wellprepared for this secret weapon of Forda. Volleys of fireballs shot out from among the green ranks, and only

  one of every three would disintegrate with a strange sort of decay. It was not like anything Morghiad had seen before; it was not like his destruction of Blaze, or even the unravelling achieved by ordinary kanaala work. It was something more fluid than those things, and it appeared to turn the fires into a new scattering of singed energy that fell on the Fordans below.

  It was then that Morghiad began to work some mischief of his own. He delved into several of the Calidellian fireballs from his place of safety, and worked quickly to amplify them into something considerably more

  damaging. At the same time, he forced several of the Blaze weapons of the Fordans into nothingness. At least, he did that until he started to feel unwell. Truly destroying something made of the fires tended to upend his stomach as if he were back on the ships again. Fires and sparks arced through the sky well into the night, and he was too exhausted to do more than unravel forms by the last stages of the encounter. But he was sure that he had helped, and he could still see her tornado of fire within the web of the world’s wielders. Artemi had lived through it, and his duty was done.

  He lay upon the dark side of the slope for a while afterwards, staring at the smoke-filled skies. To his left, he could hear the victorious Calidellian army marching back to their camp, and he could see their progression of torches out of the corner of one eye. The Fordans appeared to be marching away to the left, though their light was altogether less bright. When he closed his eyes, the woman took over the visions of his mind once more, and she teased him with memories of their kiss. He had a strong urge to fight someone, or perhaps growl at another tree.

  Morghiad rose from his reverie

  and gazed back at the Calidellian camp. It was settling beyond the horizon, and he could imagine the drinking and parties that would be striking up amongst them. Artemi. It was no good. His skin felt as if it were burning with frustration and an itch he could not scratch. He reached inside his pocket for the tiny bundle of Blaze he kept for emergencies. He had not made an accessway since his expulsion from Calidell, but now was a singular occasion.

  Striding back to the copse, he checked that Tyshar was properly watered and had access to some

  grazing, and then walked back towards the army’s camp. A short hike to the top of a nearby hill was all that was required to gain a view over their tents, and it was not long before he located the larger ones that belonged to those in charge. Artemi’s had to be among them. Conveniently, he had acquired a small far-scope during his travels, and it served him well in identifying those who moved about between the guy ropes. He located the general, the king and his sister, and The Hunter, who appeared to be drowning himself beneath an entire barrel of ale. The giant, Koviere, towered over most of

  them, or rather swayed from his inebriation. Most of the former queen’s squad were present in that area, which had to mean that she was not far from them.

  Just then, Morghiad spotted a grey and white, furry shape curled up at one of the tent’s entrances. Of course, its owner could be Artemi or her son, but Kalad was hardly skilled enough with a sword to be permitted to atte
nd such a battle. And even if the youngest Jade’an was there, it would present Morghiad with an excellent opportunity to offer his apologies. The actions he had taken against the kahr

  still troubled him, and the callousness with which he had carried them out. It had seemed so... right at the time.

  He folded the far-scope away and buried it within his cloak, before returning his attentions to the Blaze bundle. The image of the wolf-guarded tent danced before his mind’s eye, and he imagined its interior beyond. Morghiad tore at the form in his hand, ripped its fires apart with ruthlessness and used the void their absence created to form his accessway. He stepped through to darkness, and then a glimmer of light. The glimmer grew to

  a suffusion, which then turned into the

  illumination of a Blaze lamp. Shards of frost had formed along the edges of his clothing and his breath came out in a mist, but he had made it through.

  A woman with gold-red hair flinched among the cushions before him, and her dark eyes widened. As Morghiad’s gaze travelled downward, he realised that, with the exception of two bandages, she was quite naked. She rapidly placed a partition about them, and re-enforced it with a sound wall. “I told you to leave!”