Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  “Blazes, that doesn’t help us if we find him what’s got the bigger army coming at us,” Laertes said.

  “He wiped out hundreds of people with one shout,” Colonel Grinda said, the words weighted with implication.

  Laerian, a lanky soldier in his early thirties, nodded. “Decimated them without an effort. Just boom! And they’re dust on my boots.” He shook his head. “Scary that.”

  “It is as the prophecies foretold,” Colonel Grinda said. “He’s a scourge.”

  “He is yer future king,” Tili reminded them, “and the Hand of Abiassa. As the colonel stated, he is able to destroy entire cities with a shout. ’Twould not question either, were I ye.”

  “How can you justify—”

  “I justify nothing,” Tili countered. “I recite facts only. We are sent to protect the Fierian, and that is what we will do.”

  “For how long?” Tokar asked. Then shrugged. “It’s an honest question.”

  “We protect until we do as we agreed. To date, we have completed Gwogh’s first mission—retrieve the prince. Now, we see Haegan to Vid,” Tili said slowly, processing his own thoughts. In earnest, even he wasn’t certain when it would end. When he would no longer shoulder the burden of steward. “Surely there will come a point when we know it is over. Then . . . She may release us.”

  A sharp whistle pierced the night.

  Grinda shot to his feet and started running. “Enemy sighted.”

  Tili sprinted, overtaking the colonel shortly before the wagon perimeter blockade. “What is it?” he asked the sentries, who lay across the top of the wagon supports, scanning the surrounding area.

  “Looks like a scouting party to the west,” one said.

  Another added, “And coming fast.”

  Tili glanced to Grinda, who handed him an eyeglass. He peered through it, but could not make out who rode at a breakneck pace.

  “Refugees don’t travel fast,” Grinda offered.

  “Unless they’re being pursued.”

  For a moment, Grinda didn’t respond. But then he shook his head. “Not enough thunder,” he said, speaking of the telltale rumble of the earth beneath an army’s approach.

  Tili agreed.

  “Silvers then,” Tokar suggested, since Poired’s elite branch traveled in small packs.

  Silence smacked at the all-too-real possibility. “Think you they are fool enough to fall upon a camp the size of ours?” Grinda said, glancing at their surprisingly large cluster of tents.

  “Arrogance is their hallmark.” Tili locked in gazes with the colonel.

  “Ready the men, Majors Laerian and Ghor!” Grinda shouted, eyes still on Tili. “Think you we have the accelerants to fend them off?”

  Behind him, the camp buzzed in preparation and anxiousness. “We’ve picked up a few along the way—perhaps.”

  “Pathfinders, to your mounts!” Grinda commanded, then stormed to his horse.

  Tili hustled toward his tent and removed his vest, dropping it at his feet. Quickly, he unbound it and made haste to don his leather armor.

  “What is it?”

  He startled to find that Astadia stood close. A dangerous gleam glinted in her eyes and made him hesitate. Her voice had been soft yet . . . excited. She’d made herself scarce for the last two days of journeying, and now that war breathed upon them, she appeared? Was it bloodlust in those wide eyes? “Riders fast approaching. Probably Silvers.”

  She grinned. Aye, bloodlust. She pivoted, her long, dark braid nearly smacking his face. In a sprint, she was quickly lost in the chaos as their contingent prepared for yet another fight.

  Tili shook his head and slung the belt around his hips. He tucked the dagger into its sheath and shouldered into a boiled-leather vest as he stepped into the night. A commotion arose from the far end of the camp, where the wagon bearing the Fire King and Haegan rocked. Guards were there, reaching. Calling.

  Laerian crossed his path.

  “Major,” Tili said. “We need a detail on the Fire King.”

  “He’s half out of his mind—”

  Angered, Tili flung a spark at him. “Ye will not speak of yer king as such. Remember who abused yer king. Hold fast to the man who stands for ye. Who bled, who fought. He is yer king. Forget it not!”

  Laerian’s jaw muscle twitched. “Aye . . . sir.”

  Weariness scratched at Tili. “Take Tokar and Praegur—they’ll fight to the death for both the king and the prince. Nobody goes near the Celahars without my express permission.”

  Laerian gave a nod then trotted off to carry out the order.

  “Hoa!” called the Pathfinder atop one of the wagons. “Sir—someone from our camp is going out to the enemy!”

  Tili stilled, looking in that direction. “What? How close?”

  “Half a league and closing.” The man growled quietly. “Whoever that is, they’re about to get themselves killed.”

  “Archers! Ready!” came the order from Grinda, who had lined up the Pathfinders.

  Tili scrambled up to the sentry, took the monocle, and peered through it. He traced the striated land, searching the long shadows cast by the rising sun for whoever had broken rank. A traitor? A slight frame moved in synchronization with the horse that tore across the plain. Small build, hair bound in that whip-like braid. “Hiel-touck.”

  “Nock!” Grinda shouted down the line.

  “What is it?” Laerian asked, returning from his errand.

  “The assassin.” Tili hopped off the wagon, his heart thudding hard at the thought of her getting speared by their own arrows, and hurried to the colonel.

  “Draw!” Grinda continued.

  “They’ll kill her,” Tili snarled. “Can ye . . .” There was naught to ask. He could not stop their defense for one assassin. One who may be a traitor. Why else would she run out to the enemy?

  Yet . . . what if she was not? “Can ye protect her?” he asked Grinda.

  The colonel glowered. “She’s rogue!”

  She’s out there, alone. Tili swiped a hand over his face. Looked to the darkened field, where he could see naught but more of the same.

  “I think . . .”

  Tili glanced up at the sentry who’d spoken, this time with hesitation.

  “This . . . I don’t . . .”

  “What?” Tili demanded, seizing hope.

  “They keep vanishing,” the sentry said.

  Tili pivoted. Stared out across the open area. Only accelerants could make themselves invisible behind wakes that displaced light. “Incipients?”

  “I think not,” Vaqar said, his gravelly voice startling Tili. “There is none of their stench.”

  “Stand down! Stand down!” came the call from the top. “They’re ours.”

  Tili looked west. “Ours?”

  “Archers, hold!” Grinda ordered.

  “They ride under the banner of the Fire King.”

  Tili’s agitation hadn’t waned. He stalked to the front of the line and strained into the distance. Who could—

  But then he saw. The gray cloak and beard. Tili released the breath trapped in his throat. “’Tis Gwogh.” He scowled. Gwogh rarely brought good news.

  Ready for a confrontation, the Pathfinders stood tense and alert, their gazes sweeping not only the incoming party but the farther distance. They waited, painfully tense, as the group of six delivered Gwogh in a swirl of dust and irritation.

  “Steward,” boomed the throaty voice of the councilwoman who had pronounced him as steward in Hetaera and traveled with them a short while ago. “We are much relieved to see you alive.”

  “As we are ye, Councilwoman,” Tili said, wondering if there was a penalty for lies when you were steward. “Welcome to Dorcastle, what is left of it. How came ye to find us here? As ye well know, this is not Vid.”

  “Chance, or Abiassa’s hand. We have ridden far and wide in search of accelerants to add to your number.” She considered the men gathered with Tili and settled on Graem. “Captain Grinda, I trust you are we
ll.”

  “Councilwoman Kedulcya,” Grinda greeted her with a curt nod.

  “He is colonel, now,” Tili amended.

  “Is he?” She arched her eyebrow, silver-gray hair glinting the morning light. “Congratulations, Colonel. Where is General Negaer? I would have words with him.”

  “Fallen, Councilwoman—at the Battle at Karithia, along with Colonel Rhaemos.”

  Kedulcya jolted. “I . . . I am sorry, Graem. It must have been a sore blow after so recently losing your father.”

  The colonel’s stiff façade faltered. “I thank you, ma’am.” He nodded deeper this time. “My father died defending what he loved, as did General Negaer.” He paused, glanced at Tili. “Be it known to you that we have recovered the Fire King?”

  Surprise temporarily smoothed the woman’s features. “I had not heard but guessed as much since you are traveling north,” Kedulcya said with a smile. She slid from her mount and handed the reins to the young woman who had accompanied her before.

  Tili cleared his throat. “Colonel Grinda, please escort the councilwoman to the command tent.”

  As the young officer led her away, she put her hand on his arm in an almost maternal gesture. “Your father would be very proud of you, Graem.”

  “I believe he was, ma’am.”

  Their familiarity bespoke a relationship, a connection that awakened in Tili an awareness—nay, not awakened, but enlarged the awareness that he was an outsider. All of them belonged to the Nine. He did not.

  “General Grinda and Kedulcya were long fierce allies.” Gwogh’s voice rumbled like rocks in a bowl. “I wondered for many years if they were not connected.”

  “Bloodlines?” Tili asked, surprised.

  “Mm,” Gwogh said. “So you got the Fierian and the Fire King.” He clamped a hand on Tili’s shoulder. “I had no doubt you were the right man for this,” he said, as they walked after the others.

  “You’re a bleedin’ blister,” Tili muttered, shaking his head.

  Gwogh’s bushy brows rose into his wiry hair. “Blister?” he said, a laugh muddling his objection.

  “Aye, ye show up when the work is done and annoy me with festering platitudes.”

  With a rueful smile, Gwogh patted his back. “I have heard through the rumblings how well you fare, Thurig as’Tili.”

  “Don’t be usin’ my surname to soften my anger, Gwogh.”

  “It was meant as a true and honest compliment of how you have defended—”

  “I fought for a friend.” Tili let out a heavy, anchoring breath. “’Tis all.”

  “It’s more than enough. More than many would have done with the opposition you faced. The mantle of steward was not lightly placed on your shoulders, Tili.”

  “Aye, but ’twas placed.” Why was he so annoyed? “Here I am, far from family, far from home. Fighting a bleedin’ battle not my own.” It mattered not. He must fight. He would fight. This was a war that went beyond borders. Still . . .

  “Oh, I disagree. This battle belongs to every man, woman, and child on the planet.”

  Tili shifted to Gwogh. “The Fire King—”

  “How is he?”

  Heaving a sigh, Tili battled the weight that crowded between them. He nodded to the wagon where father and son rested. “Haven’t seen anything like it. What is left of him is not enough to be called Zireli.”

  With a grave nod, Gwogh turned to a man who had ridden with him, and whose thinning, scraggly hair and face were carved in years. “Then it is good that I routed Pao’chk from the caves or Andouir.”

  “Good to see ye again,” Tili greeted, recalling the healer had last tended Haegan when Thiel had delivered the unconscious prince to Nivar. It seemed so long ago.

  Pao’chk gave a nod. “Also, we have the Drigo,” he muttered, lifting his hand to something approaching across the plain.

  Tili shifted a look over his shoulder and saw shapes emerge from a deep arroyo that cut through the land. To the unsuspecting, they would seem simply as very tall men. But Tili knew better. “Unauri!”

  “Aye,” Gwogh said, as one of the Drigo’s great strides brought him near with astonishing speed. “Thankfully, they are not in their vudd state, which would draw attention and alarm. The band of seven caught up with us as we crossed through Luxlirien. This is Arnoff, a magnificent healer.”

  Black eyebrows that were more like forests bulged over Arnoff’s thick brow. “Feel him,” the giant mourned, his eyes sliding closed then open again.

  “Come,” Tili said, unsure what else to say to the giant and pharmakeia, or to Gwogh.

  “Tell me of the battle at Karithia.”

  “’Twas bloody, frightening, and fierce.” Tili stalked across the camp to the wagon and pointed to where two Pathfinders stood at attention. Their gazes shifted anxiously as the giant thudded closer. “The prince and king are there.”

  “Ye have no shelter other than the back of the wagon?” Pao’chk clucked his tongue.

  “We found moving them to tents disturbed the Fire King’s fragile equilibrium. It seemed best to change as little as possible as we journey.”

  “They need proper shelter,” the old man insisted.

  “I beg yer mercy,” Tili snapped, growling at the absurdity of the comment. “Would ye like us to hew stone and build a fortress here? Think ye the Dark One and his incipients will sit idly by while we put the Celahars up in luxury?”

  Gwogh’s face tightened. “It was not meant as a slight. Traveling, the shifting of the wagon, and the constant motion could slow their healing.”

  “Had we a castle and peacetime to settle them, ’twould be done. But we have Sirdarians and Silvers tracking or attacking every other day, and that was before Karithia, not to mention the incipients inflaming, working our thoughts against us, the refugees needing food and provisions. Had not the Tahscans arrived—”

  “Tahscans?” Gwogh scowled.

  Tili slowed at the reaction. “Aye. And a good thing that.”

  Gwogh searched the camp with gray, probing eyes. “How many?”

  “Nay,” Tili said.

  Gwogh’s gaze flicked to his. “What do you mean nay?”

  “What do ye mean how many?”

  “I must know their number. Tahscans have never been allies of the Nine.”

  “Aye, and I fear ’tis still true, though these ride with us,” Tili said with a sigh. “But we have a common enemy to defeat—Poired. Everyone is an ally when we have a common enemy.”

  “Trust them not,” Gwogh said as he caught the iron handle and hauled himself into the wagon. “They have but one oath—to Tahsca and their steel.”

  “And we have our loyalties, but as ye said—I am the right man for this, and I chose to make allies rather than another war.”

  • • •

  Storms tore through his mind. Fires leapt and danced to a virulent, poisonous song in his veins. Etching words and prophecies into his flesh. Haegan pushed away from the darkness. Reached toward the light. A sliver. A crack. He forced himself at it.

  A shape loomed over him. Blurred, then came into focus. Eyes widened, then relaxed as the man smiled. “Good to have ye back, Fierian.”

  Memories, lopsided and faint, swirled the man’s aged face. “I know you,” Haegan rasped.

  “That ye should,” the old man said, lifting a cup of a warmed liquid, scented with tingling spices. “I tended ye after the Great Falls.”

  “At Nivar.” Haegan sipped the concoction and felt a dart of energy at the same time a weird haze rushed his mind. He groaned and nudged it aside.

  “Good, good,” the healer said. “That tells me yer abilities are in full balance.” He shifted to a table, mixed a few more bottles, then held out a new cup. “Yer weakness is temporary. Sip slowly, and yer strength will return.”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Wrong?” the healer scoffed. “Absolutely nothing. But ye are a human harnessing the power of Abiassa and—well, that takes a toll on the body. Ye’ll
be back to full power in no time.”

  Alarm struck. “Full power?”

  The healer nodded, then swiveled on a stool. He bent toward the other cot, lifting a wool blanket up to a bearded chin.

  Haegan knew that face, too. “Father.”

  “Sadly, the Fire King is a very different story.”

  “What’s wrong with him? Can you heal him?”

  “What ails Zireli is deep in the abiatasso. For that,” Pao’chk said, lowering his head, “I can but treat symptoms.”

  The wagon canted left. Then right.

  Haegan braced, surprised to find a Drigo lumbering into the cramped space, oblivious to the tight quarters. Where would he sit or stand? He held a stone pestle and mortar as he went to a knee, the boards creaking and groaning violently beneath his weight. Then he lifted the mortar and a greenish-black concoction to the king’s pale lips.

  “What is he doing?”

  “What only a Drigo healer can.” Pao’chk shrugged. “I have studied for the last forty cycles, but I will never have an advantage over a Drigo youth who can heal.”

  Haegan liked the sound of that. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot. “Earlier, you said you can’t treat what is wrong with my father—but I, too, was under her inflaming. Why am I healing and he’s not?”

  Grief scratched at the pharmakeia’s bearded face. “Yer father . . . I fear he has too long been under her influence, her dark wielding.”

  “But the Drigo,” Haegan said, clinging to a crackling hope that sparked in his chest, “can he heal him?”

  “That is for Abiassa to answer. But”—Pao’chk shrugged again—“it would take a miracle.”

  “Then make a miracle!” Haegan hadn’t meant to snap, and he felt marginally guilty as the Drigo’s cautious gaze drifted to him.

  When he pushed off the cot, Haegan marveled at the strength that filled his legs. He stood, relieved when a soft breeze drifted across his cheeks. He savored it as he stepped free of the wagon. With each step, he felt stronger, more focused. There was a thrumming in his veins he hadn’t noticed before, one that buzzed and hummed, demanding attention.

  But to what?

  “Where be ya’ going, Haegan?”

  He stopped short, glancing down at the shaggy blond lad. “Laertes!” He pivoted, taking in the camp. “Where is Thiel?”