Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  Banking up, Pharen shrieked.

  Another raqine echoed the mournful sound.

  And that’s when Aselan realized the terrible truth. They have an incipient!

  As if in response, a searing red blast struck Aselan. It snapped him backward, but thanks to the straps fastening his legs to Pharen’s harness, he stayed mounted. Struggling against the pain that seared his right shoulder and the renewed throb in his leg, Aselan came up.

  Straight into another blast. This one seemed to have a split nature. A larger one struck his shoulder numb. And a thinner, smaller one seared along the harness. His heart raced, watching in terror as the leather seared apart.

  Cold air snatched him off Pharen. Flipped him through weightless nothingness. He plummeted toward the earth, wind tearing at his clothes and face. Death was seconds away. Tumbling, flipping, he was beat mercilessly by the air currents. Aselan struggled against the blinding fury in his shoulder. Against the panic that he would die and Kaelyria . . .

  Thump!

  The impact jolted him. He expected pain, but instead noticed a lifting sensation. It took a second to realize Pharen had come up under him. Fingers dug into the fur, Aselan struggled back to the riding position between Pharen’s shoulders. Agony screamed through his arm and shoulder. Broken straps wrapped around his wrists, he pushed his face into the pelt and breathed deeply his thanks to Pharen for the rescue.

  Aselan opened his eyes. Beyond Pharen’s sleek skull, a plume of smoke billowed from the mountain.

  The Heart!

  As the black cloud belched ash and flames, women and children crawled free of the opening, a narrow cave that seemed to have collapsed, breaking a hole to the surface. Their small frames clambered over the rocky incline. Injured. Leaving crimson trails in the lingering snow. A larger cavity formed in the face of the Tooth. More dragged themselves out with another column of smoke.

  But how?

  The tunnels were solid rock. They were safe.

  That’s when he noticed the snow shimmering and tree limbs trembling. Explosions.

  “No!” His word was swallowed as Pharen arced away, no doubt sensing the rumble of the mountain. The fire. The danger.

  “No! No, back,” he shouted, luring Pharen around, only to find the Rekken surging, falling upon the women and children. And there, among them was Teelh, who ran two Rekken through before a blast struck him down.

  Incipient.

  Aselan dove to attack.

  A searing blanket of fire rushed at Aselan. It pelted him and Pharen, who howled. The earth and sunlight fell away.

  • • •

  Many peoples and brigands had been dubbed savages, but those herding Kaelyria, the women, and children of the Heart into a circle truly embodied that word with their abhorrent treatment and the ruthless way they’d cut down many, including Teelh.

  “Circle up,” demanded a large-bellied man who wielded a dagger. He poked it at a little girl and snarled.

  The girl burst into tears, wetting herself.

  The Rekken laughed cruelly.

  “Leave her,” Kaelyria shouted, pulling the child close.

  The little one clung to her, arms tight around Kae’s legs. She nearly pushed her over.

  The savage now shoved a girl on the cusp of womanhood, then grabbed her hair and yanked her to his chest. “You of age?”

  “The child is not,” came Ingwait’s soft, challenging tone as she stepped forward.

  The man backhanded Ingwait, who stumbled into Kaelyria.

  Bracing the woman and shielding the little girl, Kaelyria felt fury climbing through her. “Have you no honor?”

  “Don’t speak to me, wench!” His hand reared—but froze in midair, along with the collective breath of those from the Heart.

  Three horses galloped into their midst. Riders dressed in black, their faces hidden beneath silver helms, inflicted fear upon the defenseless crowd. “Silvers,” some whispered. It must be one of them who restrained the man from striking.

  But these were not Silvers—the plumes did not arch in a single trail over their heads like a clipped mane. Instead, the plumes were black and red, stretching from ear to ear. One had a pure black plume. Capes black. Boots black, reaching to their knees, no doubt because of the cold. Not a single touch of silver on these. They wore bronze. The helmets. The buttons. The armor plating. The swords.

  “Who are they?” Entwila hissed.

  Kaelyria shook her head, having never seen these uniforms. A man in a navy longcoat with six bronze buttons and a high collar strode between the riders. His expression was impassive, but everything about him commanded obedience. “Where is the one called Kaelyria?”

  Her heart flailed like an animal caught in a trap.

  He turned, then drew in a breath. “The one called Kaelyria—step forth!”

  About to respond, she felt a cold hand clamp around hers. Ingwait. The matron gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  “I will not ask again,” the man barked as he paced their group the way wolves stalk their prey. He reached over and snatched a small boy. “I am told the Mistress of the Heart is compassionate. She would not want children to die.”

  Kaelyria swallowed.

  The man rolled his fingers, a small but frightening display as a red flame skittered across his knuckles. Her father had done that many times. She had done that.

  These men would no doubt end the child’s life if she did not step forward. She would never be the cause of harm to an innocent. “I—”

  “I am Kaelyria,” came a voice.

  Kae jerked, confused. Who had spoken? Her stomach plummeted when she saw Carilla from the cantina raise a hand.

  “Bring her,” the incipient snarled.

  “No,” Kae whispered.

  “Quiet,” Ingwait hissed.

  Two black-clad Rekken stomped forward, cuffing Carilla by the arms. They dragged her to the tall incipient and thrust her at his feet. She yelped when her hands snapped forward, planting into the icy blanket of snow. A red halo encircling her wrists, she was held in place.

  No. Kae couldn’t let this happen.

  The vise of Ingwait’s grip tightened. “Don’t be a fool. Ye tell them, and they’ll kill her now.”

  “If I don’t—they’ll do it lat—”

  Carilla cried out as her head popped up, straining so her face was bared to the incipient. A trail of red seared her chin. Tears slid down her cheeks, her skin mottling.

  The girl wasn’t straining. She’s burning!

  Kaelyria flipped her gaze to the incipient, who watched Carilla impassively. Only . . . He’s not wielding.

  It wasn’t him. He wasn’t the one hurting the girl.

  A scream pierced her ears.

  Carilla collapsed, the snow around her quickly turning red.

  Cries and shouts erupted from the Eilidan.

  “This,” the tall incipient shouted, “is not Kaelyria. Or should I say—was not Kaelyria.”

  Heart hammering, Kaelyria looked to the two mounted incipients. The one with the black helm. Warbling heat snaked around his fingers.

  “Would you like another demonstration, Mistress?” the incipient asked as he scanned over the crowd, his voice unnaturally calm. He adjusted his gloves.

  She must do something.

  “No,” Ingwait hissed, tightening her grip on her hand.

  “I must.”

  “They cannot kill us all,” Ingwait said.

  “If even one more dies because of—” Breath choked by searing heat, Kaelyria widened her eyes. Clawed at her throat. Felt the wielding dragging her forward. She fought, resisting. Stumbling. Angered to be treated this way. Terrified that they wanted her and would kill so needlessly to effect her capture.

  Tears burned as she staggered. The edges of her vision closed in from air deprivation. The suffocation of heat. Her head tilted back of its own accord. Staring up . . . up . . . past the shifting horse. She gasped and wheezed, hands to her throat. Tears blurred w
hat little of her vision remained.

  The black-helmed rider stared her down. A vicious gleam hung in his dark eyes. Eyes that were strange. Familiar—distantly familiar. I know him.

  Without a word, he brought his horse around.

  The chokehold broke.

  Kaelyria crumpled with a yelp, only to be seized by the Rekken, bound with ropes and chains, and placed on a sleigh. Four guards hopped into the back. Two facing her, hands on their swords. Two more watching the Eilidan, who were being herded away. They would not last long with winter biting their hands and feet.

  The ride proved unrelenting as they made their way down the mountain. With each passing minute, the jounce of skids on the forbidding mountain terrain, Kaelyria felt her courage and strength leach from her. Why had she been targeted? And by an incipient? Was this an effort against Aselan? To force him to surrender the Heart?

  Why would anyone want the mountain? There were no resources. Just rock, cold, and—raqine. Though the thought had merit, it also was foolhardy. Idiotic. Raqine could no more be controlled than the weather. Incipients should know that.

  Rocking of the sleigh took a toll on her. Stomach roiling, head throbbing, she leaned back against the wood. “Please—can we stop for a moment? I’m going to be sick.”

  “Then be sick,” one of the sentinels said indifferently.

  Bile rose in her throat. She groaned and curled onto her side, sliding down on the floor of the sleigh. Which only agitated the nausea. She’d never had a strong constitution in carriages or buckboards. Give her a horse and she was fine. Pressed into the corner, she hugged herself, cold, wet, and shivering from the churning nausea. And then it was surging. Burning. Rushing up her throat.

  Kaelyria lurched to the side and vomited over the edge. She sagged against the wood and spat. Her throat burned. Her eyes burned. Tears slipped down her face. She stayed there, expecting to throw up again. But her gaze slid to the mountain.

  Where are you, Aselan? Would the others be killed? Would the Legiera return in time to save them? What if he was killed, too? Then . . . nobody would come for her.

  Haegan.

  She snorted, the sensation stinging. Haegan was lost to his own fears, she’d heard. So far from home and the path of Abiassa that even if he heard she was in danger, he probably wouldn’t come.

  The road flattened, affording the sleigh a smoother path. She closed her eyes, reaching for Abiassa. For some explanation of what was going on.

  “Bring her!”

  Kaelyria lifted her head, surprised to find an encampment spread around the sleigh. Tents, horses, fires—and many, many more Sirdarians. Where had they come from? How had nobody in the Nine seen this happening? Where were the Jujak, the Pathfinders? Were things so terrible in the kingdom that nobody remained to respond to such threats? She marveled that so great a number could gather unchallenged.

  As the sleigh moved deeper in, she pulled herself onto the slatted seat. Before her in a tight circle around a larger, more forbidding tent stood several black-and-red tents of Poired’s army.

  Father . . . Grief struck anew as the guards ordered Kaelyria from the sleigh. They turned her toward that central canvas structure, which she now saw was marked with the upside-down eye of Sirdar. A chill swept her, and it was no longer because of the cold. Three men in black capes, including the black-helmed rider, stalked to the largest tent and ducked inside.

  Guards ushered her across the open area. Fear washed through her as she neared the opening. A warm glow came from within, and only as the men pushed her inside did she see the flame.

  The warmth was lovely. And terrible at the same time. Her gaze skimmed the interior, surprised at its luxury. At the pelts of great cats and icehounds. Cringing, she could not help but think of Duamauri and Sikir. She’d been separated from them when one of the walls collapsed, but she hoped the great beasts would find their way to safety.

  The big tent had four openings into other, smaller spaces. Quarters, she guessed, save the middle, which held tables and chairs. At the far side, a shadow shifted, drawing her attention to the black-plumed rider who stood with his back to her at a credenza, removing his gloves.

  A servant girl came forward, her face bruised and scarred—both healed and recent marks. She motioned Kaelyria closer. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t make him angry.”

  Kaelyria frowned, a defiant streak coursing through her. She didn’t care if she made the incipient angry. Whoever he was, he had attacked the Heart. He was responsible for the death of a child, for Carilla. And however many who died in the explosion that forced them from the ancient passages. Not to mention the Legiera—how many? For what? To capture her? Why?

  The nasally incipient who’d addressed them on the mountain returned. He grabbed her arm and yanked her into the tent where the dark-plumed rider stood, unmoving.

  “Go on, girl,” the nasally one said, pointing to a chair. “Sit.”

  “I will not.” Clenching her jaw, she steeled herself for punishment.

  The rider tossed his winter cape on a wooden chair and moved to the fire pit, where he warmed his hands and glanced at her over his shoulder. Snorted.

  “You may have to teach her a lesson, Master.” The lesser seemed too eager.

  Reaching up, the master lifted the helm from his head. With great ceremony, he set it on a pedestal. Ran his hand over the black feathers that glimmered like a dark halo.

  “What do you want with me?” Kae asked through gritted teeth.

  “What I have always wanted,” he finally spoke and turned to face her. “You, broken.”

  Kaelyria gaped. Stumbled back. “Cilicien.”

  22

  Farther from home, Tili and his contingent reached Dorcastle just before the high rise of the moons. They encamped on an open plain, where the approach of combatants could be easily spotted. As dawn cracked the night, Tili stood on the highest rise, assessing, thinking. Since departing Iteveria, they had gained followers long oppressed and now eagerly free. More stragglers from the north had swelled their numbers, which now sat near three hundred fighting men, let alone camp followers and refugees. Even now, two different groups approached. One from the northeast and one via the south, possibly from Luxlirien.

  Peering through an eyeglass, Grinda studied the northeast group. “Jujak,” he finally breathed with a smile. “I think that’s Ghor.”

  Tili appraised him. “That sounds good.”

  With a sharp nod, Grinda grinned. “One of the best officers I’ve worked with, and a good friend.” He returned the glass to his eye. “Not as sure about this other group. No weapons visible and clothing isn’t such that they could easily hide them. They are weary.”

  “As are we all,” Tili said, realizing the man beside him was one of the senior-most officers in their camp, though he was younger than the half-dozen arced behind them on the hillside. They had a recent shortage in the ranks. “Are ye prepared, Colonel?”

  “Major, sir,” Graem corrected, then nodded. “And aye—we stand ready.”

  Watching the incoming stragglers, noting the shorter, dark-haired man the others seemed to show deference to, Tili clasped his hands behind his back. “Think ye I became commander of the Nivari, the equivalent of the Pathfinders, by mistaking ranks?”

  Though the young Grinda was no Aburas or Captain Etan, he was coming into his own and had held his own in the battle at the palace. The eagerness in his expression faltered. “I—No, sir.”

  Movement flickered among the blackened tree trunks that stood as burnt sentries, all that remained of the once-thriving area after Poired’s scourge. Though Tili detected a form, he could not see who. He guessed one possibility—a certain female assassin, who’d been scarce since receiving news of her brother’s death.

  But he must redirect Grinda. “Would that war afforded us time to grieve, bury, and mourn the dead, but it does not. To my regret, Negaer and Rhaemos are gone. Both were exceptional leaders and irreplaceable, yet that is where we stand
—needing those positions filled so we may continue the fight. It is given to the ruler of a land to promote on the battlefield as needed.” Tili detected a subtle shift of the air nearby, and wondered if she’d left or merely advanced on them. “I believe ye are the senior-most officer, and what’s more, yer competent in battle and well-liked among the men. As Steward of the Nine, I need ye in charge, Graem. Do I ask too much of ye?”

  Grinda’s spine pulled straight. “No, sir.”

  “Then, Colonel Grinda, I suggest ye get your men in order. I’ve promoted Tokar—”

  “The boy? He’s never been in an army. He has no official training. How can . . .” Grinda snapped him a look, though Tili kept his gaze forward, then inclined his head.

  Tili had expected the objection. “We have two raqine,” he went on as if he hadn’t been questioned or interrupted. “If the prophecies are right—as they have been so far—more are coming. They will need a commander, or at least, someone to organize them. Since our young friend has been chosen by a raqine, untrained though he may be, he is the best we have for the job.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Now, do we have friend or foe here?”

  “Coe and Laerian, with me,” Grinda said as he stepped from the line of soldiers, hand on his hilt. “Who approaches?” he demanded as he joined the newcomers.

  Tili waited patiently as the group talked, then Grinda alone returned.

  “They have a hundred men and twice that in women and children.”

  Tili’s gaze roamed the land beyond the remnants of the razed village. “Where are they holed up?”

  “In caves in those hills,” Grinda said, pointing. “They’ve been through much, and they ask permission to join our contingent.”

  The people no doubt needed provision and protection. “Granted.” Tili turned, then hesitated. “Make sure they pass a Tahscan or two as they approach our camp. The last thing we need is an incipient among us.”

  • • •

  “How is the prince?” Tokar asked.

  Cradling a tin cup of lukewarm cordi as he mulled the state of the army and the two-hundred-plus mouths they must now also feed, Tili stared into the flames. “Still unconscious.”