Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  Pale blue, a shaft of light—so bright, so searing—shot into the sky and divested its path of debris, sending detritus spewing in all directions.

  Covering Astadia with his body, Tili tensed at the expulsion of brick and earth that rained down. Pelted them. Popped him in the head.

  An explosion of heat unlike anything he’d experienced blasted his spine. The backs of his legs. His head. Its force shoved him. Lifted him. Astadia’s fingers dug into his side as they were flipped over and tossed away from the castle.

  In the split-second he faced the direction of the blast, Tili saw something he couldn’t believe. A raqine within the shaft.

  Dirt peppered and scraped. Astadia bucked beneath his bulk. But he dared not move, dared not look. Whatever was happening, they might not survive it. The rage seemed to continue forever, until finally, all fell quiet.

  Tili relaxed a little. He lifted his head and peered back—but rock again showered them. Muttering an oath, he jerked his head down. Covered their heads with his arm. The world seemed intent in its rage. Astadia tensed in his grasp again with a yelp, her breath skating along his neck, frantic.

  A shriek rent the air, followed by a massive whoosh.

  Then quiet fell. Deathly. Haunting.

  Tili waited. Waited . . . waited as the quiet grew deeper. Slowly, he slid his arm from his head. Looked at Astadia beneath him. Her gold-green eyes were rimmed with terror. He breathed a smile, trying to reassure her, but failed. “Ye well?”

  She gave a shaken nod but didn’t move.

  “Injuries?” He let himself touch her cool cheek. It warmed at his touch, which lingered a little longer than proper.

  A slight shake was all she offered, her breathing coming in jagged spurts.

  “Steward!” came a shout.

  Tili peeled off Astadia, folding back on his haunches and extending her a hand.

  Her gaze skidded around as she ignored his help.

  “Blazes and fury,” someone muttered. “Look!”

  Tili rose and turned to the castle.

  Correction. To the mountain that had shed itself of the monstrosity once called a castle. A hole gaped where Castle Karithia once stood. But the winding curve of the courtyard remained, holding in protective custody the one who had wreaked this havoc on her own people and city. The Infantessa stood there, her face death white. Hair disheveled.

  “How in blazes did she survive?” a Pathfinder said, hefting his sword, his intent clear and probably mirrored in the heart of every remaining fighter.

  “Why isn’t she running?” Astadia asked.

  “Can you not smell it?” Vaqar said with a half laugh. “Fear. She is afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Them,” Vaqar replied, nodding toward the enormous beings who remained in a wide arc around the castle ruins. Massive and terrifying, the Deliverers gripped their swords between both hands, tips aimed at the Infantessa. Steel threatening her with death.

  “They’re not striking,” Tili noted.

  Slowly, Astadia skulked forward. “Why aren’t they killing her?”

  “More like, why are they letting her live?” Tili said, catching Astadia’s hand so she didn’t move closer and draw the Infantessa’s attention.

  “Leaving her to us?” a Pathfinder suggested.

  “Aye,” another said. “Payback for what she did to us.”

  After a breath, a shout vaulted as they rushed the Infantessa, who looked as defiant as ever. And old. So old her skin might fall off. Even Tili found himself closing in.

  “She is mine!” roared someone.

  Tili searched for the voice.

  A shadow fell on them.

  He looked up, as did the rest of the contingent, and a familiar beast filled his field of vision. “Chima,” he whispered in disbelief. It was her he’d seen in the blast of light. How had she gotten into that . . . dungeon? She’d been in the den at Nivar.

  Hackles raised, eyes fiery red, Chima hovered over them. Stationary, she flapped twice then angled her shoulder to the right and a form slid from her back.

  Two more solid thwacks of those wings thrust Chima upward.

  Tili focused on the man she’d deposited. Tattered clothes. Tall. Shoulders square. Head inclined.

  “Prince Haegan.”

  “King Haegan,” someone corrected.

  Haegan’s clothes may be tattered and his appearance haggard, but there was a vicious intent in his bearing and gaze. This was not a prince or king come to face an enemy. This was the Hand of Abiassa. Her warrior, foretold through the ages. Hoped for by some. Doubted by more, including himself.

  “The Fierian,” Tili said.

  Praegur was at his side now. “He has embraced his role.”

  Haegan strode through the crowd, his beggar clothes too small. Reeking. Torn. Several Pathfinders wrinkled their noses and pulled away.

  “Come to face me, Fierian?” the Infantessa shrieked, her face red as she glowered wildly.

  The expression Haegan wore was not fury. Or indifference. Or frustration. This was raw focus. Determination. Intent. As he made his way to her, he paused beside Vaqar, watching the Infantessa, who hadn’t budged. Perhaps unwilling or unable to move. She trembled with rage. With terror.

  It did not seem fair that the Deliverers would restrain her.

  Haegan looked to Vaqar, spoke quietly with him before the Tahscan handed him a blade. With a nod of thanks, the Fierian turned to the Infantessa. His fingers fluttered.

  The Infantessa released a gasp and collapsed to her knees in a fit of exhausted torture.

  Only then did Tili realize it was not the Deliverers who held her in the halo. It’d been Haegan. New respect spread through Tili at that realization. When had Haegan stepped so resolutely into his abilities? It had not been so long ago he was a blaze waiting to happen.

  The Infantessa shook her head. “If you think you can kill me—”

  “Too long,” Haegan’s voice boomed, “have you held people trapped in their doubts and fears. Too long have you crushed hopes and dreams.”

  “You were weak!” she spat, her lip curling. “Look at you now. I made you strong!”

  The prince seemed not to hear. “Because of your cruelty, because of the great harm delivered against so many, against me, against my father . . .” His voice sounded so unlike him, so deep. Fierce. “You have decided your fate, Nydelia.”

  “My fate—yes, my fate. Do not think for one minute you control it, Fierian,” she snarled. “I kept you here, wrapped up in your own selfish desires—”

  “Desires?”

  “Yes, your desire to have it your way, to run from a path that didn’t make you happy, afraid it would disrupt your plan to be liked by all.” She snorted. “It’s disgusting how easy it was to keep you here, to distract you, and hold your thoughts hostage!”

  Broad shoulders and muscles seemed barely restrained. When had Haegan grown into such a man? He stepped back as silence reigned, lifted his chin. His dark-blond hair curled past his shoulders and tussled by the hot wind. “I will show you the same mercy you gave to those who could do nothing for you, Nydelia.”

  “Try.”

  It happened in a flash. So lightning-fast, Tili wasn’t wholly sure what happened. Whether it was the blade that cut the life from her. Or the hyper-focused blast of Flames that seared her heart. Mayhap both. Which one killed her first, he could not tell. He did not care. One minute she was there, defiant and snarling like a rabid dog. The next she was but a lump on the ground.

  Tili’s gaze skidded back to Haegan, who hung his head. No exultation over killing his enemy who had enslaved so many. No victory shout. Just a heaving, exhausted breath beneath shoulders that lifted, then sagged. Grief played across his features as he dragged his gaze to the Pathfinders. To the Tahscans.

  Finally, a victory cry rang among the people. But there was no victory here. And that shone in Haegan’s eyes.

  Chima returned, landing in the center of the courtyard. From her
claw-like paws, she released a bundle, setting it down carefully and backing away, her white-hot eyes on Haegan. Her chortle warbled in a soft, pliant manner as she dipped her head. It amazed Tili to think Chima had finally chosen a rider. She had been obstinate for so long. Sitting, she drew in her wings, which crinkled softly as she folded them along her spine.

  Haegan, sword in one hand, embers in the other, stared at what she’d delivered.

  “What is it?” whispers quietly snaked through the contingent.

  Revulsion heaved as he realized the truth of that bundle. By the prince’s sagging shoulders and the droop of his head, the grief and exhaustion—

  No. That wasn’t exhaustion. “Defeat,” Tili muttered.

  Vaqar’s sword clattered to the ground as Haegan swayed. Staggered closer, then dropped to a knee. The pale fire around his fingers snuffed out as he slumped amid the rubble.

  A second later, a gut-wrenching shout snapped through the air. Legs bent beneath him, Haegan threw his head back, arms held out. Hands fisted. Face of fury and anguish. Strange and pure, glowing and glittering, a blue halo of light erupted around him. It arced into the heavens, then back down, billowing out at the gathered soldiers and citizens.

  Startled by the wave of light and heat, Tili braced, expecting to be seared alive. Warmth rushed him. Invigorated him. Strength soaked into his muscles. Healing into his wounds. Peace into his mind. But even as his vitality grew, he watched in his periphery as men and women along the path collapsed. Standing, they were strong. Before their bodies could hit the ground, they were dust.

  A panicked murmur ripped through the Pathfinders. Yelps rose as a few of their own met with the same deadly fate. Tili shifted, watching as the bow of the pale blue wave slid over the city, like water that climbs the shore, reaching . . . reaching . . . Down the hill. Across the lands.

  “What was that?” Astadia asked, trembling, touching his arm.

  Shaking his head, Tili turned back around. Disbelief and awe warred as he watched the Fierian stare at the pile. What was it?

  Haegan sobbed.

  Pushing himself, Tili took the first step forward.

  “Careful,” came a low warning from Vaqar.

  When he reached the prince, he staggered at what lay in the pile. “The Fire King,” Tili said, closing the distance between them. His mind struggled with the sight. With the truth he’d spoken without realizing. The Fire King lived. A putrid odor so engulfed the air that Tili’s exultation turned at once to grief. To smell so horrible, Zireli must have died days ago. Tili took a knee beside the prince.

  Haegan didn’t respond, his gaze so fixed on his father, on the tragedy of the death.

  Tili touched his shoulder.

  Still no reaction or hint of awareness that anyone else existed.

  “Haegan.”

  The prince blinked. Lifted his gaze. In his pale blue eyes, the same color as the wave that glided through Iteveria, there hung a distance. As if Haegan were not here. His thoughts elsewhere.

  “Prince,” Tili said quietly, avoiding the corpse beside him, “we should get ye to safety.”

  “Safety.” He grunted and looked to his father. “He . . .”

  Squeezing Haegan’s shoulder, Tili tried to reassure him that words were not necessary. “Losing a father—”

  Haegan’s fiery gaze crackled. “He’s not dead.”

  Stunned at the vehemence, Tili frowned.

  Haegan nodded. “Look—even unconscious, he draws the Flames from around him.”

  Surprised to see an ever-so-subtle dance of a heat wake around the tips of Zireli’s fingers, Tili punched to his feet. “Bring a stretcher!”

  20

  Back at the wagons, Tili monitored the army as they tended the wounded, took a census, and enjoyed respite after the battle. That’s when he saw him. Blond hair rustled on the hot wind. Light brown eyes stared back at Tili.

  The first thread of hope sprouted in his chest at the sight of the lad. “Where is she, Laertes?” he asked, tempering his impatience.

  The boy shrugged, his eyes wild and frantic. “She . . . We was going up and up, the wings flappin’ so hard. Next fing what I know’s, she’s yanked backward.”

  “Chima?” Tokar asked, joining them.

  “No, Thiel.” He flashed his palms. “She right near took me, too.”

  “She fell?” Stomach clenching at the thought, Tili shook his head. “Nay, she was trained to ride from childhood.”

  Laertes’ eyes filled. “They pulled her off.”

  “Who?” Tili asked, though he feared he knew the answer.

  “Them monsters. The Ematahri.”

  Then Thiel remained a prisoner of the Ematahri. “Ye didn’t go back for her?” Tili challenged.

  “I couldn’t! The beast wouldn’t turn back. She flew and flew, not caring that I beat her or how I screamed.” Tears broke free and trickled down his cheeks. “I tried! I tried, I did.”

  Grieved and confused, Tili wrapped an arm around the lad. “’Tis not yer fault. All will be well.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s too thickheaded to die,” he said, pushing his thoughts to the two who had been recovered. He could not bear to consider how easily he might be wrong. “I must see the prince.”

  “Aye, you should tell the prince what happened to her—”

  “Not yet,” Tili snapped, then patted the boy’s shoulder. “Not yet, Laertes. He needs rest. And peace.”

  • • •

  Exhaustion tore at Haegan, yanking hard with each laborious breath as he stared at the young boy seated with him in the wagon. He knew him. Had known him once. But not so much now. Men were talking, hovering over him as he sat on a cot. How he’d gotten to the cot, he didn’t know. Yet he was here. Sitting. Aching to lie down and rest until . . . eternity. But he wouldn’t rest, not until—

  “My father.” He whipped his head up and looked around, dizzy and disoriented as he met unfamiliar faces.

  A face wreathed in brown—hair, eyes, beard—broke into his visual field. “There beside you, Prince.”

  “Tili.” The name came easy enough, but locating other pieces of information proved too difficult.

  “Aye, Twig.” There was a smile on his lips and in those words.

  He looked where Tili nodded, another cot within reach, and found a bundle of blankets. A man hovered over a skeletal frame. The gaunt face.

  Haegan’s grief collapsed, much like the cavern in that—“Dungeon.”

  “Ye are both safe now,” Tili spoke softly but firmly. “Come, Laertes. Let him rest.” He waited till the boy left, then nodded. “We are setting out north toward Dorcastle, then Ironhall. A long drive. Nothing for ye to do but rest.”

  “Nothing but . . . rest . . .”

  “Aye.” A hand guided him backward, and Haegan relented only because he had no strength to fight. And he didn’t care. He just didn’t care. His father was near death. And . . .

  No, don’t think. Don’t remember. Just . . . sleep.

  “My brother!”

  Haegan flinched at loudness of the voice, a female voice. “Thiel?” He reached out and made contact with someone.

  “Nay, ’tis not,” Tili muttered. “Rest, Prince.”

  “I just want to know where my brother is!” she shouted. “Ask him!”

  “Get back,” Tili said, and his voice held warning.

  “It’s a simple question,” the girl argued. “Just ask him where Trale is. I must know.”

  The only image that name conjured was searing. Death. Haegan curled away from the voices, away from the torment.

  • • •

  Catching Astadia by the shoulders, Tili whirled her around and nudged her from the wagon. “Leave off,” he hissed.

  Wild and angry, she stumbled back then lunged forward. Defiance etched into the soft contours of her face, hardening it. “We had a deal—my brother!” She slapped his chest. “Ask him!”

  “He is half out of his mind with exh
austion and trauma.”

  “But you and your men are leaving Iteveria. Trale was in there”—she stabbed a hand at the ruins of Karithia. “And I’m going to find my brother with or without—”

  “Without me? What would ye have me do?” he railed. “Karithia has fallen. Quite literally, if ye can’t remember. ’Tis unstable and in ruins.”

  “So you’re saying I should just give up on my brother.”

  “I’m saying”—breathe, relax—“we have no way of finding anyone in that rubble. ’Twould take months, which we do not have with the Dark One breathing down our necks.”

  She slapped his leather vest again and shoved hard.

  Hands hauled her up and away from him, the Pathfinders taking her assault of his person none too lightly. She flailed like a fish out of water. “Let go! You can’t stop me from going in there.”

  Tili’s heart tripped at the thought of her actually trying to dig through that heap. “If yer brother was in there, though it pains me to say it—he’s dead now.”

  “No!” she spat. “You can’t know that. If you want to turn tail—”

  “I’m not turning anything. Half the structure is gone. The other half is surrounded by a great chasm. ’Tis deadly.” He willed her to understand the risk of even going near that place. “If ye go in there, ye’ll die.”

  That hardheaded glint of hers returned. She lifted her chin. “Then let me die, but I won’t leave—”

  “He is dead.” The words, spoken in a numb and dazed tone, came from behind.

  Tili pivoted, glancing up into the wagon where Haegan sat, upright again and braced against one of the tarp supports that arched overhead to provide protection from the elements. He pushed to the edge of the cot, determination gouged into his bruised and cut face.

  Tili hesitated, then looked at Astadia, who’d gone deathly still. And pale. His heart staggered at the sight of her so broken and undone.

  “We were trapped in the dungeon,” Haegan said, his gaze fixed on some point in the past. “He betrayed me to the Infantessa—he said it was to save you.” His eyes flicked up, focusing on Astadia for the first time. “But then he came back to help me. An incipient tried to kill me. Trale . . .” Haegan heaved a sigh and let it out, his gaze unfocused once more. “Trale protected me from the strike. It killed him. Instantly.”