Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  “The walls.” Negaer pointed to the castle. “They’re coming down.”

  “It’s time, Steward,” Draorin spoke firmly, his voice . . . odd. Hypnotizing. “Minds will be freed and the Dark One will not be pleased. My time to leave has come.”

  “Leave?” Tili frowned.

  “Your task is before you. Fight true, fight hard, Guardian.” Even as he spoke the words, Draorin took two steps backward and vanished.

  Shock gripped Tili in a fist-hold.

  “Blazes,” Tokar muttered, nodding past Tili. “Look!”

  Tili glanced over his shoulder and saw what his eyes would not grasp before—men standing like mountains at the four corners of the great city. “Steady,” he murmured, staring disbelieving into the face of the one on the east. Draorin. Sword held high. Cascades of light rushing off him the way water leaps from a cliff to the pool below. Arms taut with muscles.

  “Their swords are raised,” Vaqar spoke softly. “It is a sign of war.”

  Tili pried his gaze from the glowing Deliverers. Looked back to the castle. A roar from somewhere within rattled the ground again, as if some creature was trying to escape.

  The thick walls of the castle began crumbling—including the one he’d just pinned Astadia to. She yelped, wobbling over the precipice. Tili lunged and pulled her to himself. Shouts and shocks rippled through the street. The Jujak and Pathfinders closest to the gate shifted uneasily. Around them, the people of Iteveria screamed in terror and ran down the curved road, still giving his men wide berth.

  “The castle!” Tokar shouted.

  With the wall gone, Tili could see across the courtyard to the inner gate that barred entrance. He swung back onto his horse and urged the destrier forward.

  A hand, firm but gentle, slapped across his leg. Instinctively, Tili hefted his sword, but stayed the response when he met Astadia’s urgent expression.

  “You promised.”

  “I gave no promise,” he countered.

  Her eyes went soft. She leaned against the horse. “Please.”

  A thunderous roar writhed through the ground. Shook the mountain. Startled the waterfall beyond the castle, shifting the course for a fraction.

  Astadia seized his confusion and vaulted onto the back of his horse. Tili huffed, but could not focus on her impertinence.

  The road canted. Horses reared, frantic neighs mingled with the cries of the earth.

  “What’s happening?” Tokar asked.

  “We must advance now,” Negaer said. “Use the chaos to our advantage.”

  Tili looked to the courtyard again, noting a carriage racing around from behind the house. A flood of Silvers spilled out of the castle’s main entrance.

  Negaer’s gaze snapped to Tili. “The gate then?” he called, his mount stamping the cobbled road.

  Tili gave a sharp nod. “Tokar—the gate!”

  But even as Tokar took flight with Draed, the great beast banked west and sailed out of sight, Tokar’s objections and anger fading with them. Futility strangled Tili.

  “Advance!” Negaer shouted.

  Astadia’s arms encircled Tili’s waist as his horse reared again.

  Tili dug in with his knees, keeping them mounted. When the horse released the panicked state and landed, Tili jabbed his legs into the destrier’s flanks. They lurched toward the gate. He threw the strongest bolt he could muster at the golden barrier.

  19

  Flames leapt and danced along the crevices of the dungeon. Haegan curled his lip, anger churning as the wall the Infantessa created slid to the ground in a pool of slag.

  Exhaustion struck him, sending him to a knee. He hung his head, panting, sweat dripping from his hair and brow. Sliding down his back. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring at his father’s curled figure, dark strands concealing his eyes.

  “Father?” Haegan reached toward him.

  “She’s getting away!” a voice shouted into the cavern.

  Haegan looked there and found Trale where the Infantessa had last stood. “You betrayed me,” he said around a weak breath.

  “If you want to be technical, yes. But I also saved my sister’s life.” Trale nodded to him. “And you’re still alive, so I’m not seeing the point of arguing the finer points of betrayal. Let me redeem a little of my dignity—she’s escaping. You’re not.” He jerked his head toward the dungeon corridor. “Hurry. For some reason, the walls are coming down.”

  Haegan’s gaze flicked to the stones in the dungeon. Had his wielding destabilized the rest of the castle? Was it possible?

  “Did you miss the part where I said it’s coming down? As in falling apart!”

  Could he take it down from within? The thought brought Haegan to his feet as he stared at the ceiling.

  “Hey, Princeling!”

  Crossing his splayed palms, Haegan guided the Flames up the wall. They licked the mortar until it began to sag in defeat.

  “Haegan, c’mon.” Trale slipped into the dungeon. Took a running start and leapt across the chasm. Another piece of the ledge broke away. Then another. And another. The gap widening. “Um, that’s not good.”

  Haegan glanced to the side, seeing the impossible distance. “It was of no use regardless. I could not jump with him in my arms.”

  Trale quirked an eyebrow. “You couldn’t mention that before I came to rescue you?”

  “You’re an assassin. You should’ve figured it out.”

  Trale muttered something, but Haegan focused on wielding.

  “Planning to keep us warm until death, Fierian?”

  “Bundle my father,” Haegan said, concentrating on his work. Fingers and thoughts raking at the mortar, digging it out. Forcing it free. Never had he experienced this much control. This much intensity. But the Flames seemed to listen to his thoughts, obey his will.

  Think not for a moment this is about you.

  It was about the people. The ones trapped in the cages of their own minds. His father, who lay at his feet, catatonic. Haegan looked to Trale, who had gathered the scraps of cloth. “Give care—that’s the Fire King you touch.”

  Shouts rose from the passage.

  “I’ve got this,” Trale said, pushing to his feet. “You”—he wagged a hand at the wall—“do what you do. I’ll do what I do.” A dagger appeared in his hand.

  Light blinked at the opening.

  A red glow grew into a rage.

  “Incipient,” Haegan growled, turning, his anger tumbling through him at the sight of an agent of Sirdar. “Enemy of Abiassa and the Nine.” Fingers clawed, he held out his left and drew the right below and under it, tracing the underside of his arm, then shot the bolt across the chasm. Pure. Lightning fast.

  It struck the incipient in the temple. He flipped backward and collapsed.

  “Blazes. He didn’t have a chance,” Trale mumbled, looking at Haegan with both awe and dread.

  “He had a chance. He chose darkness.” Refocused, Haegan shifted back to the ceiling. He scraped away the stone. But as he did, he detected something . . . something violently wrong.

  His gaze rose, and he hauled in a long breath. The stench that had packed his sinuses . . . he’d nearly forgotten that. But it was there. Above.

  Realization dropped into his stomach like lead bricks. It was her. The Infantessa. He could sense her—the heat, the stench of her wielding.

  Right above me.

  Escaping.

  She’d get away. All the people she’d injured. The humiliation she’d put him through. The degrading treatment of his father. Once mighty. Fierce. Now a pitiful lump of whimpering flesh. Legs like sticks, not strong and muscular. Arms with more bone than strength. The face, gaunt and bony-angular.

  And she thought she’d get away with it. Her arrogance betrayed her belief that she was better, stronger.

  Haegan stepped back with his right leg. Braced. Drew both hands to his sides. Hauled in a hard breath and drove his gaze up.

  “Wha . . . what’re you doing?”


  Ignoring the assassin, Haegan slowly curled in his fingers, luring the heat from every inch of this cell and the surrounding dungeons, even from Trale, whose teeth began to chatter as Haegan pulled . . . pulled . . .

  Light to the left changed.

  Haegan mentally shoved it aside, guessing a torch had gone out, surrendering its heat to him. No longer would he be a prisoner. No longer would he live in darkness, clinging to selfish purposes. Enough.

  Enough.

  “No!” Trale shouted.

  In his periphery, a second too late, Haegan saw a red bolt slinging toward him.

  Trale was there the next instant, his body sailing in front of Haegan. The light deflected. With a strong gust, Trale flew backward. He hit the ground. Slid into the wall with a thick thud.

  Haegan blinked, staring at his friend. The bolt had seared his chest.

  The moment powered down to terrifying milliseconds. Trale had jumped in front of him. Taken the bolt in the chest. Died.

  “NOOOOOO!” The intense heat Haegan had gathered began to slip. His panic tripped his focus. He stumbled in his wielding. Then caught himself. “ENOUGH!” he roared. Rolled the intensity back to himself, crouched, and shoved outward. Upward.

  • • •

  A sea of red flooded the courtyard. Negaer and the Pathfinders rushed into the fray against incipients and Silvers. Though but a small unit of Sirdarians, it was challenge enough for a rag-tag band of soldiers who had journeyed hard, eaten little, and slept less.

  Tili rode through the gate, all too aware of Astadia at his back. Over his shoulder, he ordered, “Stay clo—”

  She slipped from the mount gracefully and bled into the sea of bodies.

  “Hiel-touck,” he muttered, noting his belt hung lighter. He cursed his own distracted mind. She had relieved him of the need to worry about her welfare. And his dagger. At least she hadn’t buried it in his back.

  Scanning the commotion, Tili assessed the battle. It was crowded and navigating on horseback proved difficult. He dismounted and pulled his blade from its scabbard. Nearby, Rhaemos engaged a Silver in fierce fighting. Even as he did, Tili spotted Vaqar moving—no, gliding through the Infantessa’s guards. His scimitar and another blade moved too fast to see, glittering in the sun, flinging the blood of their enemies over the castle, Pathfinders, and cobbled stones. It seemed so effortless. So . . . natural.

  “Steward!”

  Even as he heard the warning shout, Tili detected movement to his right. He swung sideways, a sword tsinging barely an inch from his chest. Adrenaline jumping, he used the attacker’s momentum. Shoved his arm aside and drove the man’s own blade into his gut. The Silver gasped. Stood in frozen shock, as if he disbelieved Tili had run him through.

  Steel sang through the air. And with a phlat, the Silver’s head rolled from his body.

  Startled, Tili gaped at the Tahscan grinning baldly at him, directly where the Silver’s head had been. How he’d come up behind the enemy so swiftly that even Tili had not seen him was anyone’s guess. “Ye could’ve taken my head as well.”

  “Next time,” the Tahscan promised, then whirled and merged into another fray.

  A blade shoved at Tili. He thrust away the shock and parried, but another Silver rushed him, red plume bristling. Two to one. He feinted left, drawing the Sirdarian with him, forcing the Silver to extend too far. Tili seized the mistake and arced his blade, catching the man along the belly.

  He bellowed and threw himself at Tili.

  The Sirdarian lunged as well. Tumbled. No. Wait. What? The man flipped onto his back, and a sprite of a girl landed on him, ending him.

  Tili fought the Silver, his mind ringing with the swiftness of Astadia’s moves, and somehow felt a challenge rise that he could not die at this one’s hands if she’d freed him of the second.

  Tili let him come again, this time, deflecting the blade to the left, leaving the Silver wide open. Tili ran him through. When he pivoted, he saw two men fighting. Ruthlessly, but only as his mind tripped over the details did he realize the wrongness of it. It wasn’t a Jujak and a Silver. It was two Jujak. Negaer and Rhaemos. “No!” He lunged toward the two fighting each other.

  “Inflaming!” Vaqar bellowed, tucking Tili back.

  Tili held his breath as the two officers fought. As swords nearly swiped away limbs. Skilled fighters, but with bald rage in their eyes, this would not end well. “Negaer!” he shouted and started forward.

  A Sirdarian surged at Tili. He crashed against the man, eyes still on the officers. “Rhaemos, cease!” Futility struggled with him, the Sirdarian annoyingly good. Focus. He had to focus. Tili thrust a bolt at the Sirdarian, who deftly avoided it—only to slide right into Tili’s long blade. Freed of the battle, Tili pivoted.

  Just in time to see Rhaemos and Negaer drive swords through each other.

  “No!” Tili roared. But it was too late. And there were too many. “Where are they coming from?”

  Even as another attacked, Tili sent a blast against the Sirdarian’s chest. The man clutched at his uniform, no doubt trying to free the frozen stance of his heart. As Tili fended off another Silver, he spotted a red tunic blur into a tight cluster of fighters. Astadia.

  A Sirdarian managed to hook an arm around her from behind. But she was quick. And had no bones apparently, for she slithered free of his grasp, grabbing the man’s arm. Wrenching it as she whirled away and to the side. Even from fifty paces off, Tili heard the distinctive crack. The man’s howl of pain was silenced by Vaqar, who cut him down. Toeing a dagger that had dropped from the man’s grasp, Vaqar flipped it in the air. Caught and slid it into his belt with at least a dozen others.

  Astadia spun to the next attacker and engaged.

  An incipient stepped toward her, hand curled as if holding a ball. In the split-second that Astadia saw it, she was too late.

  Instinct had Tili shove a bolt at the incipient. Though he’d aimed at the man, the wielding split like arrows, but unevenly. The first and larger struck the incipient. The second, thin and reedy, hit Astadia’s arm.

  The incipient stumbled but caught Tili’s volley. He grinned, though Astadia’s quick work with her street-fighting skills distracted him.

  “Augh!”

  The shout brought Tili around. He ducked at the wide, angry swing of the Sirdarian’s sword. The man was panicked. Uncontrolled. Tili swiped his foot out from under him—and as he did, the entirety of the earth there fell way.

  Two more Jujak, locked in battle with one another, vanished.

  Not again.

  Tokar and a Pathfinder were at blows, evenly matched both in agility and anger, unleashed on each other.

  “No!” Tili yelled at them.

  The ground collapsed. Tili yelped and scrambled backward, watching the earth yawn wide, as if bored with the battle taking place on its shoulders. Dark soil roiled and rattled. Rocks churned violently as if by the ministrations of a plow within the darkening chasm.

  Alarm speared Tili as he took in the courtyard. The scrambling Pathfinders. Bodies disappearing into the opening chasm. “Back! Back!”

  Blinking, Tokar turned. Bricks beneath his feet shifted. Canted down. His eyes bulged. Arms fanned out as the ground shifted again. He would fall into the emptiness!

  Tili vaulted forward, grabbing for Tokar’s arm. The boy’s fingers grazed his, but slid. Abandoning his sword, Tili used his other hand to tighten the grip, stopping Tokar’s descent.

  Astadia was at his side, pawing to help bring the boy up.

  Tokar scrabbled to safety, his face white and sweaty. A nervous laugh bubbled up his throat as he clasped arms with Tili in thanks.

  Back on his feet, Tili saw his sword dangling from Astadia’s hand. He met her gaze.

  She smirked and extended the hilt.

  Accepting his sword, Tili nodded at her. Then called to the army, “Move back to the road!” He waved them toward safety.

  Astadia trotted with him. “I have to get in there to find my brother.
”

  “And I the prince,” he said, grim faced, monitoring the relocation to the road.

  “What of the Infantessa?” Grinda asked as they regrouped at the gate.

  “No sight of her since we stormed in.”

  Tili’s gaze went to the castle. But even as he did, the earth slid from the side of the mountain, sloughing away the darkness. Skies blackened abruptly, bringing an ominous chill as clouds unleashed a deluge of rain. Cracking and popping threatened a mudslide.

  “Farther back!” he commanded as screams went up. Disbelieving as people fell with the bricks and the south side of the castle, which plummeted down into the sea, he grabbed Astadia by the shoulders, pulling her with him.

  She hauled in a ragged breath. “That’s where Haegan’s room was.”

  Tili frowned, not wanting to believe her. “Ye are sure?”

  “It was from his balcony I jumped to escape the witch.”

  Disbelief choked Tili choked. “From that height?” He glanced at the roiling chaos of the churning sea, hungrily devouring the collapsing castle. “Into that?”

  “Steward!”

  A horrendous roar rushed through the sky. The ground rumbled, angry, furious, pitching them this way and that. Astadia started for the palace doors.

  “Nay!” Tili grabbed her, but she wrestled against him. “’Tis not safe,” he shouted over the raging din of the skies.

  “My brother is there!”

  “To the—” Grinda’s voice was lost to the deafening howl of the earth’s agony.

  Strangely, Tili rose, the ground shoving him upward, over Astadia. It went down just as fast, then pitched Astadia. Eyes wide, she groped for purchase. Still, she stumbled.

  This was worse than trying to break a wild horse. They tripped, pain scoring his leg as cobbled bricks seemed intent on punishing him for spilling blood on them.

  Astadia reached for him and hauled herself up, glints of gold in her hair sparking. But even as he noticed, an entire shelf of earth rose behind her. Over her. Towered.

  Pulse pounding in his ears, Tili caught Astadia. Yanked her into his arms, and launched them backward, spiraling through empty air. Bracing as his shoulder collided with the writhing ground. His ears ached from the din.