The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  As she leapt from the beam and somersaulted in the air, Renward gave the apparatus an idle shove. Artemi gasped when she realised her landing place had disappeared, and fell farther than she had anticipated. Irritatingly, her feet met with the floor instead of her backside. It was luck, pure luck that she had not embarrassed herself.

  Her eyes shot directly to him

  when she straightened, and they looked fierce enough to burn through rocks. A shiny new hilt, wrapped in red tape, jutted out from behind her shoulder.

  “I see you got yourself a new sword,” he said, smiling broadly.

  Artemi glowered and stalked past him toward the exit.

  He decided to walk in the same direction. “How did you afford it?” Not that it looked particularly expensive, but a new blade so soon should have been well beyond her means. Artemi was so poor that he could buy her and everything she owned with the coins that fell down the side of his bed.

  “Stop following me, you boil on a toad’s arse!”

  “Hardly words becoming of a young woman...” And it was very strange that she was a woman. She had hips and breasts and long hair like a woman would. Very strange that she should have those things. “...if certainly the speech I’d expect from a tavern whore.”

  “Well, you would know.”

  “You seem angry with me.”

  Artemi spun on her heels to face him, hair flaring about her. “You cheated!”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Renward forced his best smile.

  She prodded him firmly in the chest with her finger. “You knew I would win! You couldn’t even face me in a battle for it! You are a coward!”

  “Artemi, that trophy was won by the best man here. It’s not my fault if you did not turn up to the fight.”

  “I would have, if I’d had a bloody sword to use!” Her fury unchecked, Artemi turned once more and stomped away from him. His long, easy strides soon ate up the ground she put between them.

  “Rules of the contest. A warrior needs a sword to duel with.”

  She ignored him, and continued with her staccatoed, irate walk.

  “I could let you see it, if you like. Maybe touch it.”

  “Touch what?” she barked back at him.

  “Well, the trophy.”

  Artemi stopped, sighed and faced him with arms folded. “If someone like you can be allowed to win it, then it would be better to hold aloft a pile of wildebeest dung. I know it was you who broke my sword, Morghiad. No one else would be so underhanded.”

  Why did she still have to use

  that name? It was Not. His. Name. “You think I am unworthy because I am more cunning than you? The contest is about intelligence as well as skill. It’s not just ire and fire that make a good soldier. Besides, you should have bought a sword that was bettermade in the first place.” Of course, she could never have afforded much in the way of quality, but that was not his fault, either.

  “You are a cheat and everyone knows it! You will pay for this.”

  “Just as I paid for that little trick you played with the exam answers?”

  “That was years ago! And you

  deserved it.”

  “It very nearly ended my time here.”

  “A shame it did not.” Artemi strode off into the girls’ accommodation, where she knew he could not follow, and her flame hair became submerged in shadow.

  He considered calling after her on the subject of the money she would have had to procure for her latest blade, but thought better of it. His next opportunity for shaming her further would come soon enough. For now he would enjoy his resounding victory.

  Renward made his way back to

  the practice hall and walked the circumference of its walls. It had a surprisingly cool interior, made so by the huge, domed roof that sat atop it and the narrow, slit windows that brought in swift draughts. He eyed the beam that Artemi had been working on before his interruption. Acrobatics were not his forte, though he could make a good handstand when required. Most of that was just posturing and showingoff, anyway. He did not need to show off now.

  For some time he fought his way through the cadets who offered to train with him and worked up a good sweat.

  When they had all gone, his eye was drawn to the beam once more. Maybe just a little go...

  Renward leapt onto the bar, keeping his feet as light as he could manage. He began with the things he knew well: standing on his hands, pitching forward and landing on both feet. It was as easy as learning the most basic of sword forms. If Artemi could do handsprings and somersaults, so could he. He tried one, and promptly fell off the beam.

  Renward looked about himself. No one had seen. He clambered back on it again, and tried a second time.

  This time he landed on his back. Blazes! He tried another twenty times to get the move just right, but failed. Hah. Who needed to jump about in the air when they had a reach as long as he did, anyway? It was a fool’s pursuit. He picked up his pride and took it back to his rooms with him, but the sight that greeted him when he returned was not a pleasant one. In truth, he should have expected it. His trophy had been placed in the middle of the bed and on top of a burned pile of fabric. It looked like a small bomb had been detonated amidst the pile before the trophy had been placed there. The

  fabric was of all different shades of black, white, textures and sizes. It was also torn and ripped. His clothes. Artemi had visited his chambers, and she had blown up every item of clothing he owned. Burn the woman!

  He rushed to his chest, pulling each drawer open in succession. They had all been completely emptied. Next, he went to his trunk. She would not have thought of looking in there. Except that she had. Save for a few bed sheets, it had been cleared of clothing. The wardrobe!

  He flung open the doors, and smiled broadly as he spotted a shirt

  poking out from beneath a pile of blankets. She had missed one! He pulled it out to inspect it, but his elation was soon punctured.

  Written upon the shirt, in what he presumed was ink, was the word Winner. Oh, very funny, Artemi. Very amusing indeed.

  He threw the shirt on the floor and plonked himself onto the edge of the bed. The girl just would not accept her place or her defeat. He sighed. It did not matter. He had plenty of coin with which to purchase new clothing in the morning. The filthy clothes he wore now would have to do for the interim.

  Besides, what could irritate Artemi more than for him to fail to acknowledge her latest hoax?

  Renward set the trophy back on its shelf again, and after that he slept really very soundly.

  Artemi had smiled as she watched Morghiad running out of Fate’s that morning, still wearing the

  same clothes from the previous day. He would get worse than that from her in the days to come. That trophy had been hers from the moment she had stepped through the gates of the school. A perfect cadet she may not have been, but she was undeniably the best there. She could not count the number of times she had beaten Morghiad with her blade through the years, though they had not crossed swords in recent months. The tutors had forbidden it, claiming that such battles were growing... obstreperous had been the word they used.

  But that was not good enough.

  Artemi knew that he had broken her only sword in order to remove her from the competition, and she intended to demonstrate it to the world. Lord Calyrish of Haeron did not deserve the Fighters’ Trophy, and he certainly did not deserve to stomp about with his chest puffed so full of air.

  And so Artemi waited by the doors to the boys’ rooms. She was not permitted to go in there, of course, though she often did. Such journeys were sometimes necessary when setting up an appropriate trap for one’s adversary.

  It was late in the morning when

  Morghiad finally emerged from his rooms wearing his new clothes. They looked rather fine: suede boots, grey breeches and a loose-fitted shirt. Such a shame she would soon be cutting through them as well.

  Unexpectedly, he smiled at her as soon
as he noticed she was there. “Good morning, Miss Fevtari. And isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  He was bluffing. He had to be. Artemi made sure to narrow her eyes at him. “You owe me a fight, Calyrish. A good, solid fight.”

  “You are not worthy of a fight, peasant. Why don’t I just give you

  some money to send you on your way?” He fished inside the pockets of his breeches. “I was sure I had a sovereign or two in here.”

  “I am not interested in your money, you slow-witted, spoiled scraping off a dog’s backside!”

  He blinked at her. “That was quite a good insult. I’m still not interested. Give me a reason to fight you.”

  “To prove that you have earned that trophy.”

  “I do not need to prove that. I already own it. That is proof enough. I suggest another challenge.” He moved

  closer, his black braids whispering softly over his shoulders as they followed his overgrown head. “If you lose, you will accept that I own you.”

  The man had an obsession with property. It was curious that he so liked to call her his property when he so frequently claimed that she was a worthless creature. “And if I win, you will acknowledge that I was the one who deserved to have that trophy.”

  He frowned at her. “The poor do not win trophies.”

  “Then with your special, lordly powers, why don’t you grant me an exemption from that rule?”

  Morghiad folded his arms. “I could do that.”

  “And, since you seem so very convinced that you are the better swordsman, I should think you could offer me anything on the condition of my winning.”

  He laughed. “Fine. I’ll name you winner and name myself your property if you best me today. But it must be a fair fight. No tricks.”

  “That is how I like to do things, Morghiad.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  She grinned. Named her property? Well, that would be amusing. Morghiad was a stickler for terms in agreements. Though he would try to subvert the actual game, he was usually accepting of its outcome. He would have to obey her. Artemi liked the sound of that very much.

  By mutual agreement, which was somewhat difficult to reach, they decided to pitch the fight in the sand outside the confines of the school. A small gathering of trustworthy cadets were called to witness the spectacle, and the two duellers stood ready to do battle.

  Artemi held her new blade aloft and behind her head, ready to strike at

  Morghiad’s attack. Instead he waited for her first move. Blazed man!

  She leapt forward with a daring cut aimed at his left leg, and he met it cleanly with a parry of his own. A rally of strikes followed, metal singing against metal in the brilliant sunlight. Morghiad’s long limbs gave him the advantage of being able to reach her with his blade from a greater distance, but Artemi was a smaller target and quick.

  She jumped from his next swipe, sending sand into a spray from her heels that shot across his sword. Fires of Achellon, but it was hard to move

  quickly in the dunes! They progressed down to the base of the mound, spinning about each other and cutting at every opportunity that was available to them. Morghiad was aggressive and dogged in his assaults, not even taking the time to pace himself and save energy.

  That would be his mistake. Artemi continued to dance away from his blade as if she were the Kaolyn winds themselves, making her attacks whenever he revealed an opening by not moving fast enough to face her.

  “Leaping about as you do is terribly defensive, Fevtari.”

  “Don’t be angry because you cannot touch me, slow man!” She sprung clear of another slash, sliding through the sand as she landed and kicking up a shower of debris. The crowd of cadets who had followed them had to back away to avoid it.

  “You fight like a blazed dairy farmer!” he shouted.

  “How appropriate, because I am going to milk your blood!” Artemi rushed forward with a bold thrust of her blade, and made a cut through his new shirt. It barely scraped the skin beneath, however, and Morghiad shoved her sword away from him with

  a well-placed wave of his arm. As he did so, their skin came into contact. Artemi was unprepared for what came next.

  Fast as a thunderbolt, Morghiad seized a tiny streamlet of her power. It burst out from her in a jet of blue light, too small to be effective as a weapon, and yet bright enough to make the onlookers squint. Artemi’s surprise caused her to stumble backwards. She fully expected Morghiad to take advantage of this and renew his attacks, but he did not. Instead, he focussed on the stream of Blaze and started... tearing it apart.

  Fires of Achellon, was that even safe? Or possible?

  The stream imploded on itself, opening out into a tall void of blackness so indeterminable that Artemi could not look directly at it. It felt horrible, negative... wrong. Their fight had ceased, but she could see that Morghiad was looking into the abyss with curiosity. He began moving toward it.

  “No!” Artemi tried to block his path, but he had stepped through before she could get close to him. The hole in the air winked out, and he was gone. Blazes, what had happened?

  “Is he dead?” Ulena rushed forward from the small crowd of cadets. “Where did he go?”

  Artemi shook her head. “I’ve no idea – I don’t know.” Her heart was hammering away inside her chest. What he had done to the Blaze form – it should not have been possible! Burn him! She looked to the top of the nearest dune and sprinted up the side of it as fast as she was able. It offered a good view of the surrounding area and over the heads of the confused onlookers. But Artemi saw no sign of the Hirrahan lordling; only mile upon mile of empty, yellow desert.

  It had to be one of his tricks. He had found something in a book, and had decided to use it on her. Oh, that would be very like him! She readied her sword, just in case he should pop out from beneath the sand at her feet. Artemi waited, held her breath... and waited, but no attack came. What if she had killed him?

  There was a moment where she thought about taking back the trophy, but it was soon subsumed by guilt. Gilkore would have her head for this! She ran back to the group of cadets who had been called to watch the battle. “We need to find him, if we can find him.”

  The cadets all stared at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Even Ulena looked somewhat apprehensive.

  “I didn’t kill him!” No, she had not! Definitely not. This was just one of his ruses to get her into trouble. She ought to have expected as much. Light fry him in all its heat! He would probably try to claim this as his win, and then declare her his property or whatever it was that he was so fanatical about. He was nothing but a coward! A stupid, arrogant and egotistical coward!

  Artemi began heading back to Fate’s School of Warriors, making sure

  to keep her blade ready for anything that should come her way. When she arrived at the compound, she saw no sign of her duelling partner, and for the rest of the afternoon she searched. By the time night had fallen, all of the cadets who had been present at the fight had reported back no sign of him, and she had started to worry.

  She knew he was not hiding in his room. Sneaking in there during the daylight hours had not been easy, but she had done it often enough to know the most shadow-filled route. All that she had found there was a pile of his destroyed clothing and a separate pile

  of the new. She had been very tempted to put a small bomb in that as well, but decided against it. If he was dead, that would have been very disrespectful indeed. Artemi did hate him enough to do it, but some proprieties had to be observed.

  It was the end of the day, and the gates of the school would close soon. If he was not in the school, then he would have to be outside it. She hissed with annoyance at her decision. She would have to venture beyond the school gates at night. It was not permitted, and she had not forgotten the events of the last time she had been shut out of the school. Artemi was going to be better-prepared this time. She rolled up a blanket and slid her arms inside the warmest coat she owned. A pair of thick socks w
ould be sufficient to keep her toes from freezing inside her boots, and a scarf would keep the nightfleas out of her mouth. The sword was very definitely staying with her. Artemi was ready to face the night and find Morghiad. Hestavos was as silent as death itself when she stepped into the centre of it, with not a single living person to be seen. All around, the green copper lamps shed their empty light onto the

  yellow sand and orange stone below, forcing away the shadows and mixing colours to make the place look like a citrus fruit bowl. The only sounds were of howling wolves some distance away, and of the soft wind as it blew through the eaves of the buildings.

  She had only been out of the school and wandering the streets for an hour when she began to understand the futility of her search. No one stayed outside when full night came in the desert. It was too cold, and if he had any sense – doubtful though that was – he would have sought somewhere warm to stay. No... Morghiad would

  have paid for somewhere warm to stay! Hah!

  Artemi walked back to the more upmarket district, and sought out one of the better-looking inns. She knew that he would consider himself worthy of only the most expensive beds that Hestavos had to offer. The Gilded Rose looked like a particularly pleasant place, with bright red roses hanging in baskets at the front and a stone façade that could only have been imported from abroad.