by Ronie Kendig
The earth and everything in it belonged to Abiassa and succumbed to Her will. Bowed to Her touch. So it should not have surprised Haegan when the ground rumbled and rocks began falling like rain.
He extended a shielding hand toward his father and trusted that Abiassa would not let them get hurt. Fear squirreled in, and he felt the event lessening.
Haegan closed his eyes to his surroundings. Closed his mind to his fears and doubts, reaching for the Flames. A deafening roar engulfed them. Haegan pushed, wielding the pure source of Abiassa’s righteous anger.
But a pressure pushed back. Resisting. Haegan stumbled and went to a knee.
18
EMATAHRI CAMP
Shouts snapped Thiel awake. She stopped short, feeling aches throughout her body. Her naked body. She grabbed the blanket as it slid away. She clutched it to her throat, watching Cadeif’s bare back duck through the tent flap and vanish.
Choked at the realization of what’d happened, she whimpered. “No no no.” Her head ached. Everything ached. Why? Why had he done this? They were . . . Why could she recall nothing?
Clothes. She needed clothes. She glanced around and spotted her belongings in a pile on the floor. Thiel yanked them on, wincing and grimacing. Hating Cadeif. Hating their blasted barbaric ways. Disgusted he would do this. Grief clawed her at what he’d stolen.
“We were friends!” she shouted. Her head pulsed with an agonizing pain. She hunched beneath it, then pushed herself out of the tent.
Ematahri darted in and out of dwellings.
Crack!
Chortling throttled the air.
Crack! Crack!
Thiel’s mind caught up with the confusion in the camp. “Chima.” She rushed in the direction of the cage. She’d passed between two trees when a peeled shaft whirled at her. Ducking, she barely avoided the rogue bar.
“Kill it,” someone shouted.
“Before it kills us,” another hollered.
Ematahri surrounded Chima’s makeshift prison, some trying to hold the cage together, but most using spears and jav-rods to poke and prod the mighty raqine into submission. The fools were poking her into fury.
“Oy! Leave her alone. Yous what’s the beasts!” Laertes growled from another cage.
Eyes red and roiling in the dull morning, Chima shook her shoulders. Snarled. The noise emanated through her throat and rumbled the ground. Using her forepaws, she cracked two more bars. Chima rolled her shoulders again, then lowered her snout, only to lift it and let out a mournful yet fierce howl.
The sound, one Thiel had never heard before, froze her. Scared her. What was she doing? “Chima!” Thiel called to the great beast. “Chima! Easy, girl.”
The raqine’s spine had risen. Hackles.
“What’s wrong with her?” Raleng demanded. “One minute she is fine, the next—this!”
“I’m sure spears aren’t helping.” Thiel glowered at the Ematahri sliding the tips into the pen again. But Chima’s behavior was unusual.
Another howl-shriek blasted. Chima shook not just her shoulders but her entire body.
“Something’s wrong,” Thiel said, half to herself.
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Raleng said.
“Let her out,” Thiel said as she hurried to the gate.
Ruldan stepped before her. “Not on your life.”
Crack! Thunk!
They both ducked, looking over to find Chima snapping her wings against at the wood bars.
“Don’t think this will hold her—and she resents it. They aren’t meant to be caged. They come and go at the will of Abiassa.”
“You might believe in some god, but we don’t.”
“Everyone believes in something, and right now—you’d better believe Chima will break free.” But what had set her off? Why was she so upset? “What did they do to her?”
“Nothing, she was sound asleep—curled like a cat—when suddenly she comes up with a roar. Or whatever that thing does. Next thing, she’s pawing the cage and screaming.”
She wants something.
To be free.
“Free her.”
“I want my clan alive, thank you very much.”
“Keep poking her and they won’t be.”
More saplings splintered. A piece nicked Raleng’s cheek. The warrior growled and wiped at the trickling blood.
Chima backed onto her hind legs, then lurched at the rods above her, howling, chortling.
“Archon!”
Thiel whirled and spotted a runner sidling up to Cadeif, who stood in the shadows behind her. How long had he been there?
“Another Sirdarian contingent arrived. Now they’re all packing up.”
Cadeif scowled, shot a look at Thiel, then stormed toward the main hub of the camp. The Sirdarians’ departure was apparently unexpected.
Thiel hurried after him to find out what was going on, calling back to Raleng, “Free her or she will free herself.”
Cadeif spoke before he halted beside a cluster of red-and-black clad officers. “We have not settled all our terms, General.”
General? But Jepravia was a colonel.
The camp swarmed with activity as the Sirdarians hoisted packs and loads onto their horses. The large man Cadeif confronted turned toward him, and Thiel took a step back, recognizing General Onerid. Poired’s right hand.
But he had been part of the attack on and razing of Hetaera. Did this mean they had been routed? Or were they moving on to fresh prey?
Lazy, apathetic eyes shifted to Cadeif. “Our schedule is not determined by the ineffectiveness of the Ematahri.” Onerid nodded to Jepravia, who strode away, shouting orders.
Cadeif grabbed the general’s arm and hauled him around. “We had a deal. You agreed—”
No swords had been drawn, but Cadeif pulled up straight. And only then did Thiel see the red dagger of angry fire pressed against his neck.
“Release me, you savage,” Onerid snarled as he wielded, “or this will end what little life you have left.”
Furious, Cadeif complied, skating a look around, his warriors watching. “Why are you leaving?”
“Plans change,” the general said, stalking away.
“I heard you are going east.” Cadeif strode along at the man’s elbow, Thiel an unnoticed third.
“Not that it is your business, but the petulant boy you failed to subdue is proving difficult to kill.” The general huffed. “And we are not going alone—the Ematahri are coming.”
Cadeif slowed. Then stopped. “No. We remain here. That is not our fight.”
“Oh, you will fight, or every last one of you will fertilize this ground with your blood.” Onerid stared daggers at him. “Had you completed your task then, we would not be dealing with this trouble now.”
Why did they care about Praegur?
“We thought him contained, but he has grown stronger and is a very real threat.”
Thiel swallowed, a bitter truth dawning. Haegan. Her own loss, her own despair was not important. “Haegan,” she repeated out loud, turning back toward the pen where Chima’s chortling reached a fevered pitch.
Another truth punched her in the stomach. Chima had bonded with Haegan. Chima answered the summons of no man—save one: the Fierian. Haegan.
“Haegan needs her,” Thiel whispered, now running toward the cage. And she saw that Chima’s anger had unwittingly shifted the cage that held Laertes to an awkward angle, which afforded the quick-as-a-mouse boy an exit. He took it as Thiel sprinted past an Ematahri, freeing him of his dagger, then dove into the gate of the pen. She hacked at the lock mechanism.
Chima rammed her head into the gate, pitching Thiel back. She stumbled, landing hard on the ground. She pushed the hair from her face and huffed. On her feet, she again worked at the lock, but Chima barreled at her again.
Thiel was shoved back, but this time, managed to keep her feet. She glowered at the raqine. “Do ye want out or not?” She sawed, noting Chima rearing. “No no no,” Thiel said, sawing faster.
Unbelievable. She’d be slammed flat between the two beasts—the raqine and the Ematahri.
Chima struck first. With a blow that lifted Thiel off her feet, thrust backward, but she’d grabbed the cage door. It snapped outward, but the upper hinge caught and yanked Thiel to a stop, jarring her shoulder. Even as the pain registered, she felt the incredible heat of anger roiling off Chima, who leapt free with that terrifying howl. She shrieked at the warriors and soldiers who rushed her, rods and spears extended. She swiveled her head, screaming and rustling her fur. Then with a finality that startled even Thiel, Chima’s wings snapped out with a crisp thwap.
Heat wakes tossed the men aside.
That’s new.
Laertes ran to Chima, who—surprisingly—shouldered him onto her spine. Thiel staggered toward her, knowing where Chima was headed. To whom she was headed. She climbed on even as the raqine crouched to shove off.
“Stop her,” came Cadeif’s booming order.
Thiel steeled herself, afraid to look back. Afraid to see the fury that had turned the man she once cared about into the savage his reputation dictated.
Chima flapped hard, the weight of Thiel and Laertes slowing her.
• • •
“Am I right that inflaming does not affect ye?” Tili asked the Tahscan, as their column of men and horses approached the gate to Iteveria. Vaqar started to answer with a wry expression, but Tili cut him off. “Beyond the stench.”
Vaqar inclined his head. “We are not influenced, not as most are, but it does feel as acid in the nose.”
Tili gritted his teeth. “Then I must beg yer mercy.”
Vaqar looked to the general then back to Tili.
“I need ye to place yer people throughout the column as we advance. The city is in disarray. If the Infantessa is inflaming her own people, we cannot expect ours to remain unaffected.”
The warrior’s eyes widened marginally. “As I said, you have my blade—and that of my people.”
“Thank ye.” He looked to Negaer. “Warn them. We need to keep our minds sharp.” Tili nudged his destrier and galloped to the front of the column, where Tokar and Praegur waited with the raqine. “We need them to tear down the castle gate.” With a lifted arm, he started up the cobbled road.
Amazingly, the chaos Tili had noted in flight carried on as they rode through the city at a steady clip—not so fast they’d trample people, but not slow enough to be targeted either. They advanced unhindered, pockets of bickering and fighting civilians moving aside to clear the way, like water parting around a boulder in a stream. Unease squirmed through Tili as he shifted beneath his armor. Not one person had looked at him.
“Blazes,” a Pathfinder muttered. “They’re like walking dead.”
“The Infantessa has their minds,” Draorin said.
Tili wasn’t sure whether to take that literally or figuratively. He glanced back down the steep hillside with its switchbacks to where the last of the column entered the road.
Above them, green bounty stuffed up against a lush mountainside. A waterfall crashed violently down the slope and plunged into a vast sea. Incredible. Beautiful.
Yet . . . it delivered a prick of dread.
“Is anyone bothered that we’ve encountered no Sirdarians or combatants?” Tokar growled.
“Aye,” Tili said.
“Sir!” A rider clopped toward them from the rear.
Tili glanced toward the voice, wondering what trouble sent a scout up the line.
“Sir, it’s the girl.”
Scowling at the red welt on the Pathfinder’s cheek, Tili had another bad feeling hit him and skipped his gaze toward the center of the column, where he’d placed Astadia with her hands tied and four Jujak. “What of her?”
The man’s face reddened. “She’s demanding to see you, sir. Or she’ll start killing people.”
Tili’s gaze shifted to Vaqar, who—as always—watched him. “I’ll deal with her after we reach—”
A shout went up, followed by another. Whispers rippled from the rear, and Tili knew there would be no “after” if he did not deal with this—her—now. With a huff, he turned his horse and plowed through the column.
He found her in a small square, the line of his soldiers’ progress broken and halted beside the tableau she had created, arms hooked around the throat of a Jujak, as she held him tight against her, a shiv pressed to his throat. Incredibly, her bound wrists had not hindered her in the least. Her gaze connected with Tili’s and heated. “I will not be tied and led like an animal.”
Tili steeled his temper. “Then stop behaving like one.”
Anger flashed. “My brother is in there. I came to your camp for help.”
“And ye are interfering with that help—we are preparing to breach the gates.”
“I want to go in.”
Rejection on the tip of his tongue, Tili hesitated. His gaze wandered to the palace. Why was he even here? This isn’t my battle. I wanted none of this.
And yet here he stood on the precipice of war. None had forced him.
Someone else’s fight. Go home, Tili.
He should.
“A moment ago,” boomed the firm voice of Vaqar, “you wondered why we have encountered no resistance.”
Tili started, looked to the towering warrior. “Aye.”
“She fights, but not with swords. Perhaps with Flames, but mostly”—he tapped his temple—“she fights with thoughts.”
“She has their minds,” Draorin’s words returned.
Tili’s heart thudded. “Inflaming.” His own doubts and longing to return to Nivar.
“So I tell you and you don’t listen,” Astadia bit out. “But he tells you—”
“Aye,” Tili barked, snapping his gaze to hers. “He doesn’t hold shivs to our throats to make his point.”
Without blinking, she shoved the Pathfinder forward and dropped the weapon to the ground.
He gestured to the Jujak she released. “Cut her loose.”
A look of incredulity crossed the man’s face, but he obeyed.
“Let’s go,” he ordered and drew his mount around, but not before he saw the shock ripping through her young face.
But she didn’t hesitate for long. Astadia seized her chance. Jogged toward Tili. Caught his arm and hauled up behind him, stifling a small cry.
“Give me trouble,” he tossed over his shoulder as her arms circled his waist, “and I will deal with ye myself.”
“What is he?” Astadia asked, ignoring his threat and thrusting her chin at Vaqar.
“Tahscan.”
“No dung, Steward.” She huffed, and he glanced back at her, surprised at her impudence. “You forget—these are my people.”
“Then why did ye ask?”
“The mask—”
“Oh. It’s a cloth,” another Tahscan said as their progress was slowed. “Used to block the stench.”
She sniffed. “What stench?”
“Inflaming.”
She made a skeptical noise, then paused, silent for a moment. “Is he earnest? They can smell it?”
“He has no reason to lie.” Tili considered her. “I trust ye to help us so we can find yer brother, but have I cause to be concerned for my men regarding ye?”
“Only if they try to assault me again.” She shifted closer, her curves pressed to his spine, and he really wished she wouldn’t. “Trust me to find my brother—and I assure you, he will be with your petulant prince.”
He glanced to the side, surprised to find her green eyes so close. “Yer eager words betray ye.” Once they reached the top of the column, Tili eyed the main gate. No sentries. But surely it was protected. Warily, he dismounted.
She scowled. “If you expect me to pretend to care for your prince, then your overblown ego and muscles have guided you wrong.”
He grinned up at her. “Overblown muscles?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Her ch
eeks pinked. “Just let me get into the palace. I can bring them both out.”
Tili smirked, glad to have her off kilter for a second. But the truth remained. “Ye stay here.” He nodded to Negaer, who stalked toward him.
Her expression darkened. Body tensing, she jumped down beside him. “Have you been inside that palace, Steward?” She had a point, but he had a war. “Do you even know what my brother looks like?”
“Haggard, dangerous?” When he saw her anger flare again, Tili opted not to test her abilities further. “Ye stay here. We will not risk yer life—”
“Don’t you dare say because I’m a girl.”
“Then ye’re not a girl?” he asked, skating a look teasingly at her borrowed clothing. The air changed. And with it, Tili saw her move, but not soon enough.
Her forehead rammed into his face. Pain exploded through his skull, but he had long ago learned to respond regardless of pain. He caught her arm. Twisted it at the same time he gripped her nape and rolled her neck, forcing her head down and around, so that she faced away from him. He wrenched her arm back tightly against his chest and pinned her to the nearby wall.
She cried out.
“Try that again.” Guilt gripped Tili. He guessed she’d injured herself. Knew her shoulder needed ministrations. And used it against her. But he’d have done it with any enemy. “Ye want me to treat ye as I would my men?” He pressed her to the plaster. “This is what I’d do to a disrespectful soldier.”
He released her arm enough that she wouldn’t will him to kill her to escape the agony. But the pain twisting through her pretty features nearly undid him. He sighed. Eased off. “Blazes, girl.” As he shuffled back, hating what he’d had to do, he shook his head.
She spun around, cradling her arm tightly, eyes wet with tears and fury. Her scowl was as rabid as a hound’s.
“Ye are worse than Thiel.”
“Steward,” Negaer said as he and Rhaemos joined them.
Tili shot a warning look to Astadia, and she jerked her gaze down. Enough submissiveness for him to trust she would not try to flee. Or was that a ruse?
The ground beneath his feet rattled. Vibrated so hard that Tili reached for the wall to stay upright “What’s happening?”
Draorin now stood with Negaer and Vaqar.