Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  Though his legs moved, Drracien felt air snatching at him, as if he was falling, flying.. Something unnatural that thrust him away. A strange white-blue light tore at his eyes. He squinted and shielded himself. “What is that?” he wondered aloud.

  “A Deliverer.”

  Drracien tried to hide his flinch from the Dark One, whose presence he’d stepped into from the Void. “A Deliverer—you’re sure? Where?”

  “Just outside Unelithia. With the steward.” Poired stood staring at the city, as he often did. How he could tell one point in the Void from another was beyond Drracien. “I want you to go there,” he instructed. “They don’t yet know of your new loyalties. Rout the Deliverer.”

  “Rout the—” Shock choked Drracien’s words. “Have you lost your blazing mind?”

  His head severed from his body. His abiatasso hovered over the split pieces, a searing, excruciating pain unlike anything he’d experienced tore at every fragment of him. A shriek rent the air—his own agonized scream. He writhed within his body, without his body. Confusion clamored and beat his mind. Focus lost, he thrashed, feeling as if his flesh burned off his bones.

  And then he collapsed in torturous defeat on the cold marble floor, sobbing.

  “Think not to question me or my orders. You may bleed my blood, but you do bleed.”

  Shuddering whimpers rolled through Drracien as he clawed onto all fours. That pain . . . His limbs. His mind. All wisps of smoke from the searing, crushing agony.

  “Go to the steward,” Poired ordered. “Find out what they’re doing. Locate the Deliverer. When you’ve found him, come to me.”

  He had lost his mind! Cradling his body, Drracien dared not lift his head. Dared not look at the Dark One.

  “I am not fool enough to think you’ve been cleansed of weakness. Not until I see the fire in your eyes, Drracien. You have an inordinate gift, but when you are fully immersed, you will be guarded. Diavel is never far. Neither are the Desecrators.”

  Something steeled in Drracien. Desecrators. He’d heard of them but relegated them to myth. Of course, he’d done that with the Drigovudd, and Haegan had awoken those giants with a few words. Who had awakened the Desecrators? Or had they always perverted and plundered, unseen?

  “They do my bidding, as I am bid by Sirdar. You are not the only one tethered to the will of someone you detest, but until your sister is returned to me, I will play at this thing he has forced.”

  “Sister?” Drracien hissed, struggling to his feet. “Dati?”

  Poired barked a laugh. “I would no more claim that weakling than her brother.” He nodded. “Now do as I said, and you will live another day.”

  This was living? This half death, this torture? For that is all he felt now. Pain. Distracting, tearing pain that plied at his thoughts. Refused to leave him alone.

  Alone.

  Yes . . . alone. He was alone, but for the pain. What friends he’d had for a short time would no sooner accept him now than they would Poired.

  There would always be pain. There would always be loneliness. He was accepted neither by the good nor the bad. Light nor darkness. His gaze traveled the twitching fabric of the Void and realized this was the best place for him, straddling two worlds. Two versions of himself. Here, he did no harm.

  • • •

  NORTH OF LITTLE HALL

  “They do not trust us,” Adassi said as they guided their horses into the long queue behind the Westerners. Dust from the supply wagons gave double purpose to their veils, though it did little to mask the bitter scents rolling off the steward’s contingent. Even the wagon drivers seemed determined to mistrust Vaqar and his people.

  “I would not have it any other way.” Vaqar sought the young steward, who rode safely protected by a dozen in front and more white riders in the rear.

  “What sort of man believes a story like ours with such ease?” Dwaith grumbled from behind.

  “One who has seen much,” Vaqar answered, his gaze flitting for the thousandth time to the two specks soaring high above the crawling snake of soldiers and camp followers. Raqine. Who knew what else the steward had seen? What drove him on his ever-northward journey?

  “Remind me why we’re joining them, delving deeper into the Nine? Shouldn’t we be going south? Or to the mountains—maybe frozen lands won’t reek so much.”

  It was a possibility. The warmer the region, the more amplified the scents. And they were continually battling incipients, which meant the stench could be intolerable.

  “They may not trust us, but do you trust them?” Haandra asked from beside her brother, who had spoken little since they’d broken camp two rises past.

  Trust? It was an embodied word, built of experiences and relationship. He had neither of those with the steward. And yet . . . “Her Messenger rides with him.” That was enough, watching the Messenger remain with the steward, always protecting. If the Messenger was him, there was no choice. “We follow.”

  “So you don’t trust him,” Haandra said, always one to put the truth between them, regardless of courtesy or propriety. Had Vaqar still been commander, she never would have spoken to him so boldly. And he was glad for it. She was a friend. A wise woman, despite her youth and beauty.

  “When I trust him, you will know,” Vaqar acquiesced. “For now, we follow.”

  “How long?” Dwaith demanded.

  Again, Vaqar eyed the Messenger, trotting so causally between the steward and a younger soldier. “Until He tells me otherwise.”

  Quiet fell among his people as the band struggled beneath the searing heat of the sun. His headache worsened with each league they covered. A tight pressure between his eyes and pulsing at his temples. Though he wore the cloth, the scents still proved difficult.

  Why? Why had Aaesh chosen him? To burden them with this curse. To bring to ruin fragrances he once savored. The smell of sowaoli petals. The sweetness of a cordi.

  “Smell it?” Haandra whispered, her voice alight. “Water.”

  It was one positive that came with the curse—they could scout water long before they could see it.

  “But where?” Adassi asked, squinting to the west where the sun settled into the horizon of a burned field.

  Too dry. Vaqar scanned northeast, noting the way land fell away. He closed his eyes. Took a breath and tugged down his cloth. Braced, he inhaled. Held the scents in his mouth and nostrils, then processed them. Grass. Trees. Flowers. “There. Beyond the rise.” He repositioned the cloth, relaxing at its protection.

  “Should we tell them?” Adassi asked, then shrugged. “It’ll show we have purpose.”

  “You mean it’ll show that we’re not out of our skulls,” Dwaith groused.

  Vaqar didn’t want to flaunt their abilities, yet, Adassi had a point. With a sigh, he slowed his mount. What if the steward didn’t believe him? He’d sensed as much when he’d explained the curse, though there had been a measure of reluctance in the steward’s disbelief. If Vaqar had told his people that, they would have insisted upon departing to find their own way. And in truth, why remain among the Westerners fighting a battle not their own when they could find fewer people in the Northlands, therefore fewer smells?

  At once, Vaqar felt a strange, heady warmth pulse and realized he was locked in the steady gaze of the Messenger. A remonstration seared the air between them, in spite of the distance.

  Wordless, the Messenger said plenty. Vaqar experienced it. He has me here for a purpose. And it did not necessarily follow that the purpose was to benefit Vaqar. “We will tell them of the water,” he said to his men.

  He and Adassi jabbed their heels into their mounts and trotted up the line to the steward. But as they neared the front, the white riders closed ranks around the steward.

  “Easy,” coaxed the steward.

  The gray-haired general broke rank and met them. “What do you want, Tahscan?”

  The line slowed to a stop. Adassi slanted a wary, angry gaze to Vaqar. The insult of being stopped like an intruder did
not sit well. Vaqar clenched his jaw and forced himself to nod to his man.

  Adassi’s eyes narrowed as he turned to the general. “We thought you might want to refresh your horses at the spring.”

  “Spring?” The general barked a laugh. “Maybe you’ve been too long in the sun, Tahscan.”

  Vaqar tightened a fist in his horse’s mane. But he detected something in the air. A bit sweet, a bit . . . burnt. Desperate hope. It was then he felt the gaze of the steward on him, but Vaqar kept his focus on Adassi. The one actually speaking to the general. The one ready to abandon the Westerners to their scorched lands and sniggering superiority.

  Soft and discordant fluttered another scent. Vaqar stilled, isolating the smell from the ones of disbelief. Did it annoy the Westerners so much that Tahscans were able to smell better? That they would feel vindictive?

  No, not vindictive. It was something . . . more. More desperate. Chin down, he angled to his right. Thinking, sorting, pushing his gaze to search for the source.

  “Where?” The steward nudged through the wall of white cloaks and green uniforms toward Adassi and Vaqar. “Where is there water?”

  The question, spoken in earnest and without ridicule, drew Vaqar’s gaze back.

  “Sire, there isn’t water for leagues,” a young white rider said around a laugh.

  “Please,” the steward insisted, pulling up alongside Adassi. “We are all tired and thirsty. Show us the water.”

  Without breaking eye contact, Adassi nodded to the east. “Beyond the knoll behind you.”

  “Captain Rhaemos,” barked the general.

  The burly soldier surged from the pack and galloped toward the knoll.

  Vaqar and Adassi guided their horses around and returned to the Tahscans at the rear of the column.

  “Maybe now they’ll trust us,” Adassi said in Tahsci.

  “I would not be so sure,” Vaqar countered gravely.

  “They are not worth our time,” Dwaith mumbled.

  “Perhaps not.” Vaqar sighed as he led the Tahscans toward the spring, looking for a decent place to camp.

  “It’s here!” the captain called.

  Shouts sped through the column as Vaqar crested the knoll and rode down to the small pond ringed by stunted trees. Removing his veil, he slid from his mount. He walked the horse to water, where it drank greedily. As he crouched to cup some of the cool liquid to his own lips, he detected it again. That discordant scent. Sweet desperation. His gaze tracked across the surface of the water to a small cluster of trees.

  “This comes in from the Bay of Winds,” Dwaith suggested.

  “Nay,” Haandra argued. “It’s too far north for that. This is a spring.”

  “Doesn’t matter where it comes from as long as we can soak our cloths, fill our skins and bladders, and refresh.” Jadrile bent and cupped his hand in the pool.

  Wind drifted across the water and carried that scent again. Vaqar let his fingers dangle on the surface as he probed the dark trees. It was a small copse, but enough to hide someone. Warning prickled the back of his neck.

  “You feel it, too,” Haandra said. “Something’s not right.”

  “Mm.” As Pathfinders and soldiers clogged the pond’s tiny banks, Vaqar stood. Smoothed a hand along the flank of his horse. “Wait here,” he ordered the others, who responded with not even a note of stiffening or surprise, though he smelled their alarm. If he met with trouble, they would be at his back in an instant.

  Staying close to the horses and revelry that pervaded the Westerners, Vaqar made his way around the pond toward the trees. In a flash, he broke away from the horde and sprinted to the copse, where he slid up along a trunk, giving his eyes time to adjust to the protective darkness.

  Then another smell hit his nostrils—blood. A smattering of dark spots on the leaves caught his attention. Scanning the foliage, Vaqar squatted. He reached for a stained leaf, not taking his gaze from his surroundings. Crouched there for the better part of an hour convinced him of two things—the quarry with the desperate scent was female, and though he could not isolate her location, she would eventually betray her position. This was another benefit of the gift: No need to race and panic through the hunt. Simply wait.

  A scent stabbed at him.

  He latched onto it. Even as his left hand moved toward the blood, his right freed the dagger from his boot. He threw it. The blade landed with a decidedly loud thunk. “I will not miss next time,” he warned as he pushed to his feet. “You are injured.”

  “It’s not my blood,” came a voice. Female. As he’d predicted.

  He lifted his fingertips to his nose and checked the blood with a sniff. Then grunted. It wasn’t human. And he hated that he could tell the difference. No man should have the ability to discern human blood from animal blood. “What do you want?”

  “Is the steward with you?”

  Why did she care about the steward? To kill him? Vaqar stared into the shadows, barely able to decipher her shape. But the way she stood. It was odd. “Why should I answer? If he were, I would place him and myself in danger.”

  “I just”—she grunted—“tell me if he’s here!”

  Vaqar said nothing, only drew in a deep breath to better isolate the scent of her threat.

  “I’ll release my bow,” she said in warning. “Then my dagger.”

  Another heavy draught. Anger. Fear. But mostly pain. “A bow,” he said, walking to the side, eyes on the foliage, not to see it, but to better work out what lay within the darker shadows. Looking straight on, he could not see her. A type of night blindness. But from his periphery, his eyes sorted more. “A recurve bow. Fifty pounds of draw weight.”

  “Sixty,” she gritted out.

  A smile pushed into his assessment. “You are leaning against a tree. Which tells me something I already know—you are injured—”

  “I said the blood wasn’t mine.”

  “Agreed.” He smirked. “But I smell the pain on you, the sweat, the desperation. The way you lean against that tree, the bow unsteady in your hands.”

  “Are you going to talk me to death?”

  “To death?” He snorted, paced a little more, then wagged his head. “No.” Again he paced back to the other side. Wagged his head. “But exhaustion?” He nodded. “Your balance is compromised, little bird.”

  “You know nothing,” she said with another grunt.

  An arrow spiraled from of the darkness and landed clumsily at his feet.

  Seeing her crumbling, Vaqar rushed in. Sliding down the tree. He reached for her. Though she shoved at him, her limbs failed, and he caught her. “Easy.” Held her firm. “They have a physician with them—”

  “No.” Her eyes widened in wild panic. “No, they can’t know I’m here. They’ll kill me.” She gripped his collar tight and twisted it across his neck in a choke hold.

  Surprise lit through Vaqar as his breath broke off. The strength that wasn’t there suddenly was, lit by her determination. And skill. She’d used his concern over her injuries against him. A blow to her temple would settle this now, but that blasted scent enveloping the girl stopped him. Instead, he shoved a hand up between her arms and broke her grip. She grunt-yelped and clawed away from him. Stumbled to her feet.

  “If you had strength, little bird, you might have a chance against me.”

  Sweat beaded dark brown hair that framed a pretty face—well, maybe. Once the bruises and cuts were healed, she might be pretty. “I’ll kill you.”

  Vaqar smiled down at her. “When you are better, perhaps.”

  Her eyebrow arched as she produced a scimitar. Not just a scimitar. His scimitar.

  “Impressive,” Vaqar muttered, ashamed and fascinated at the same time.

  “The steward.”

  “I will not give him to you.”

  “Then he’s here.”

  Vaqar tensed. “What do you want with him?”

  “’Tis none of your concern.” The blade wobbled in her hand.

  “My scimita
r. My business, little bird.”

  His blade flew into the air and Vaqar instinctively reached for the hilt. Arm up, he saw her tactic in the split-second before he felt the blinding pain stab through his ribs. Stars sprinkled his vision. Daylight blurred as he struggled to keep eyes on her. Where had she gone?

  He whirled, feeling himself going down. But not before he spotted her speeding through the copse as he lost the battle for consciousness.

  • • •

  Dusk brushed its long hazy fingers along the horizon. Tili pulled himself off his cot and peered out the thick wedge of the tent flap. He smiled at the sight of the small lake, the double moons peeking down on their watery reflections. With a sigh, he made his way to the wash basin and splashed his face. When he looked up, he stilled, surprised at his haggard appearance in the shaving mirror affixed to a tent pole, and at his great similarity in appearance to his mountain-dwelling brother, Elan. The beard. It was the beard. And it must go.

  He reached for the razor set, then hesitated. Glanced again in the mirror as he swiped a hand over the thick, soft beard.

  It wasn’t just the beard. The eyes. He’d changed.

  Who hadn’t in the fight for survival? Who was he anymore? Tili, son of Thurig the Formidable? Commander of the Nivari? Brother? Son?

  “Steward?”

  That, too. Tili lowered his gaze at the voice of the general outside the tent. “Enter.”

  The tent flap thwapped back and the general ducked in. “Sir.”

  “The camp is quiet,” Tili noted.

  “Aye,” Negaer said as he stood at attention. “Many bathed, all have eaten and imbibed of the water.”

  Considering his beard once more, Tili debated hacking the thing off. He hated it. Made his face itch.

  “If you shave now, you’ll only have to do it again on the morrow.”

  Tili snorted. “Aye.” He grabbed a towel from the stand and dried his hands. “What brings ye, General?”

  “I think we should break camp and continue north.”