Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  “Astadia—”

  “—can drain the embers of any who wield. That ability was long considered a perversion, an unnatural effect of someone not rightly aligned.”

  “Give care,” Tili said. “She is the truest woman I’ve known.”

  Gwogh arched his eyebrows. “No offense meant, Steward. The Unnatural is viewed by some as a twisting of an accelerant’s ability. But this . . . though she could do incredible harm to any accelerant here, including the Fierian, this eve it gives me hope.”

  “Why?”

  His smile bloomed like the glow of embers. “Because she can strip Poired of his power.”

  Tili’s heart thudded painfully, recalling the times his wielding had gone awry—when she was around. And the possibility of her making Poired impotent . . . “Think ye they killed her?”

  My Lady, let it not be. Yet it made sense. Kill the one person who could unilaterally sap their power.

  “When was the assassin—”

  “Astadia!” His bark snapped through the great hall, silencing the quiet thrum that had engulfed it. Tili rubbed his forehead and slid his fingers along his stubble. “I beg yer mercy.” He lowered his head, sensing his father’s attention, surprise—nay, his glare. “’Tis the inflaming.”

  Questions hung in that formidable face.

  Forcing himself to meet his father’s gaze, he mustered what remained of his courage. “She has saved my life more than once, and many of the men in this hall as well.” He shifted his gaze to the Council members. “A warrior like that should be mentioned by name, not—”

  “We are all of us on edge,” Haegan put in, clearly looking to help Tili save face. Which shamed him even more. “Vaqar says the scent of inflaming is heavy here, so we must be aware that they are plying our thoughts, turning us against one another.”

  “Of course,” Gwogh said as Tokar entered the command room, his hair ruffled.

  “Tokar, what learned ye from the scouting trip on Draed?” Tili asked, throwing off the questioning looks.

  “It’s bad,” Tokar said, then pushed between Tili and Elan to use the map. “Poired and his Silvers are coming from the northwest.” Tokar pointed to the area. “Spotted another army marching from the west—looked to be Onerid and those savages, the Ematahri.”

  “Kaelyria.” Elan went tense, his expression tight.

  Tili held up a hand. “Possibly. We will weigh it carefully. Let’s plan.”

  “The people,” Haegan said quietly. “We should relocate them. Move them east.”

  “There’s a modest hill northeast,” Tokar said. “We could push over it, have them continue north to Vid for shelter.”

  “Good,” Gwogh said, nodding. “It would be better, and with a day to march, they would be far enough away that our armies could focus on the threat.”

  “We should send a unit of guards with them,” Haegan said.

  Tili stroked his beard, wondering about Astadia. Wondering about this battle. “Drigo, raqine, infantry, cavalry, and accelerants.”

  “Have our most powerful accelerants on the raqine,” Thurig said. “Target the Silvers first—they’re the strongest. They can inflame thoughts. Most accelerants can’t. If we can eliminate that problem, we reduce the confusion in our own camp.”

  “Their gleaming helmets make perfect targets,” Tili said with a grunt.

  “After they are down, we volley the army to reduce numbers. Put them in disarray.”

  “Aye,” Elan said. “Then have the accelerants before the archers and army.”

  “Nay,” Tili countered, pointing to the flanks of the battlefield. “Line them up here. They can watch, monitor, and defend while our archers, cavalry, and infantry engage.”

  “This battle,” Haegan said, his words quiet, hard, “is not about the cavalry or infantry. It’s Poired. And me.” He pointed directly west of the battlefield. “The woods are already scorched, so he can’t hide. I’ll use the wall, draw him through the woods, where the infantry and accelerants can divide them.”

  “I would like to know where Kaelyria is being held.” Aselan pointed to the raqine nest on the map. “I’ll take Zicri, do another pass, and see if I can spot her.”

  “Good,” Thurig said. “What is yer plan if ye see her? How will ye get her out?”

  Haegan considered father and son, agreeing with King Thurig that a plan was needed before rushing into the fray.

  Aselan nodded. “If I see her, I’ll drop in and sneak through the camp. Once I have her, I’ll call Pharen.”

  “There’s nowhere to hide,” Tili countered. “Not for leagues. They’ll see the raqine. And he’ll expect this.”

  Frustration lifted the cacique’s shoulders. “There is no foolproof plan. I worked it in my mind the entire march from Baen’s Crossing. If they are alerted to my presence, I’ll steal a horse. Ride hard.”

  “We can scout overhead,” Tokar said. “Send volleys if you get in trouble.”

  Thurig grunted his agreement.

  “Remember,” Haegan said, “that those who follow the Dark One also follow the dark flames, so inflaming your thoughts is not forbidden them. Though we try to target the Silvers, any we miss will be in your minds. As most of you know after Iteveria, it’s one of their favorite tactics. Doubt breeds fear. Fear breeds anger. Arguments and fights are earmarks of their touch.”

  “But not for all,” Gwogh said. “Some are influenced toward depression, loneliness. I believe it was this that subdued the Fire King.”

  Haegan started, surprised at the possibility. “Regardless—be aware. Abandon doubts and fears. Drown in truth.”

  45

  She would suck the life out of them. Gut them. Split them open and leave their entrails for the rats. Astadia paced the cell, fists and teeth clenched. Banging on the iron bars did no good. The lack of windows provided no escape and no way to mark time. From the scant meals she’d been offered, she guessed it had been three days. Cowards. Knocking her out and hiding her within the keep. Who would think to look for her belowground?

  Heat and a bitter stench wafted into the cell. Astadia swung around, squinting into the darkness of the passage that led to freedom. “I know you’re there,” she said, her heart pounding a rapid beat, the way it had with Trale when they’d sprinted through deserts. Fleeing cougars.

  Only, now . . . she was the cougar stalking prey. She nearly snorted. Don’t be ridiculous. And yet, she felt it. Felt the heat wafting off him.

  “Will not be long now.” The man stepped into the stonelight with a toothy grin. A dull thud sounded from above, and dust sifted from the stone ceiling.

  “Aye,” she said, willing him closer. It wouldn’t be much longer—for him. Just a few more steps. She could taste victory. Anxious, something pulsing in her, she reached for it.

  He’s an incipient. She could feel his embers. The heat. The undulating wake.

  “You’re a brave one,” she purred, hoping to draw him in. “Haven’t you heard? Your master is afraid of me.”

  He quirked an eyebrow and sauntered in closer. “Is he now?” He stretched his neck but never lost his bravado. Another whump from above. What was happening? She couldn’t afford to wonder, not yet.

  “Why else would he have you lock me here?” She coiled her fingers, narrowing her gaze. Though he wore villager’s clothing, she detected the trill in the air about him. It called to her.

  Nay, it reached. Reached for her. As she did for it. Like a babe desperate for its mother. It was odd, strange—beyond anything she could have fathomed. She could not see it, yet she sensed it. Felt his heat seep into her fingers.

  Unnatural. Unnatural. The foul creature’s words shrieked in her mind. What did it mean? How did it work? Could she summon it? Glancing at her hands, she searched for a way to make it . . . happen.

  “You’re locked in here, so you can’t escape.” He tugged at his collar.

  She did not need any abilities, unnatural or otherwise. She had anger. It had been enough before. She tos
sed her chin at him. “Come near. I’ll show you.”

  His gaze raked her, betraying his foul thoughts. Then he glanced at the lock.

  “You’re afraid? Of me?”

  “You’re an assassin with a reputation.” The fool actually closed the gap. Stood within reach.

  It served him right—and her well. “I am much more than that.” She thrust her arm through the bars. Grabbed his tunic. Yanked him right into the bars. The move was so fast, so violent that he slammed into them. His head bounced back and his knees buckled. She fought to hold him as he went limp and slumped against the iron.

  Astadia held fast. Closed her eyes.

  How do I do this? Her time with that creature was a blur of pain and darkness, but she had seen how Poired weakened. Can I drain this incipient’s powers? She had to before he recovered. Before someone noticed he was missing.

  “Watrien?” came a shout from the end of the dark passage.

  Blazes! Desperation spurred her on. She squeezed her eyes tight. Held tight. Tight. Tight. Tight.

  She felt it. A trembling in the air—no, not the air. In the man. In his chest. She mentally pushed deeper, burrowing, willing to find it, his abiatasso. Extinguish it.

  A dark void opened in her like a gaping maw. Like the canyons she’d trod from one mission to the next. Empty. Desolate. Chilling.

  She shuddered and backed off, panting. Instantly, she felt the cold. The chill. The fear. With a yelp, she shoved away. Even as he fell, she realized her mistake. Snatched for him. Caught the jacket. Material ripped, a loud, shrieking noise it seemed in the dense quiet.

  Whimpering, confused, Astadia noticed movement in the passage. She wasn’t out. She hadn’t gotten the keys. She hadn’t broken free. She hadn’t drained this one.

  Arm hooked around the man’s neck, she pulled him closer. Though she watched his comrade approach, she used her free hand to search for keys on the incipient and focused her Unnatural abilities through the hand around his neck.

  “Release him!” The man surged into the open with a leap. His hands were a flurry of moves. Red wakes danced and built.

  No no no. No keys. No freedom.

  The newcomer pitched the volley at her, like a ball thrown across a pit.

  Instinct shoved Astadia to her feet, releasing the first man, who groaned as he slid across the ground and deflated. She ducked the first volley, but a second was fast approaching. She braced herself. Threw out her palms. The wake hit them . . . and stuck.

  Panic marched across her chest. She shook her hands, but it remained.

  A strange sucking noise drew her attention to the incipient. Eyes wide, he stared at her, then at the band of Flames that stretched between them. He paled, mouth frozen in shock.

  As if he can’t breathe.

  Astadia turned her hands over, watching the red meet her palms, burn to blue, then seep into her skin. She felt the strength. Felt the redemption of those dark embers. When she pulled her hands to herself, the Flames came.

  And the man lurched.

  As if drawing in a lassoed horse, she pulled again.

  He stumbled forward, his face reddening. “No,” he coughed.

  She yanked. Hard. Then again. Harder.

  Three steps forward and he was crushed against the bars with a clank, tears of pain running down his face. A twinge of regret squirted through her. Dust sifted over them both as the castle trembled. She knew now what was happening. It had begun.

  Then she remembered Trale. Haegan. The Fire King. All good men. Like Tili. Above ground. Fighting for their lives.

  With vengeance, she snapped both hands backward.

  46

  Air tore at Tokar as he rode Draed for yet another scouting run. They flew north to gain altitude, then circled back in a wide arc over the enemy camp. Surprise sluiced through him. It had been nearly a day since Haegan first sighted the enemy’s approach. But instead of falling on Ironhall, Poired’s army set up camp and left the incipients to tear the fortress apart from within.

  It made no sense. As Draed locked his wings and circled far overhead, Tokar tugged out the pencil he’d tied to his wrist, and on the paper strapped to his other arm, sketched Poired’s tent—as expected—situated center-back. But there were more guards and activity around a spot at the far rear of the camp. A tent he nearly missed because of its camouflage. They didn’t want him to see or notice that one.

  Draed shrieked and banked hard right.

  Tokar grabbed the harness as the world tilted. Gravity clawed at him. He’d never been so grateful for the braces that locked him on Draed’s back, but he still dropped a few inches, the harness straining against his weight. Only as he caught his senses and breath did he see the fire volleys flying at them.

  Draed righted himself, zigzagging as he sped south again.

  • • •

  Dawn brought the enemy.

  Aselan’s skin crawled. His blade demanded blood. The wrong done him demanded justice. Tokar returned with no legitimate sighting of Kaelyria, merely a strong guess that Poired had something of value in that semi-hidden tent. He would find her. And she would be alive. Or the person responsible would die.

  “How do ye fare, brother?” Osman asked, drawing his horse from the stable yard.

  “What?”

  “Yer injuries—are ye well enough to ride?”

  “Aye, well enough.” Aselan skated a glance to their father, surprised to find him staring back. Hard. Cowering would serve no purpose. He had never been one to take that path. He would not start now.

  “Flank him,” Father said, slight hesitation in his voice.

  “Aye.”

  Aselan lowered his head. Swallowed. Bit his tongue—literally. “I would have peace between us Father,” he said. “Before I go, though I know I am not a son to ye—”

  His father caught his good arm. Hauled him against his chest, startling Aselan into silence. “Ye have ever been my son.” He clapped his shoulder, forcing Aselan to wince. “Always.”

  He hesitated, then embraced the burly man.

  “And if yer bound is out there, find her. I would not have my new daughter sacrificed as bait to Zireli’s son.”

  Aselan gulped the swell of emotion with a curt nod. “Thank ye, Father.

  After another back slap, the riders mounted, and Thurig ordered them out of the bailey. Pharen met Aselan and alighted just beyond the bailey footbridge. Aselan climbed up, noting Tokar and several other riders doing the same as the army arrayed itself across the field, according to Tokar’s intelligence report. Those would distract while he dropped behind the Sirdarian line.

  The ride out was swift, despite the length. Each thwap of his raqine’s wings beat air and pounded into Aselan the hope of Kaelyria’s discovery. That she would be safe. The armies of the North would help rid the planet of a black scourge. At the woods, the infantry and cavalry advanced westward, following the streambed.

  When he glided over the trees and caught his first glimpse of the Sirdarian army, Aselan tensed. His heart stuttered. So great a number? He’d known there were many, but this . . . ? The field bled with red uniforms, but there were also savages and regulars. Aselan saw the disparity of clothing. The variety of mounts. Where Sirdarians chose elegant horses bred for speed and endurance, the Ematahri preferred larger, more powerful draft-cross destriers. Not as fast, but lethal in a confrontation.

  Four red streaks lit the sky. Pharen expertly navigated the wielding volleys with an annoyed growl that rumbled beneath Aselan’s legs.

  First wave. Tokar and the other raqine diverted north, allowing Aselan to slip into the low clouds and use that cover to fly up from the south. Clothes dampened by the atmosphere, Aselan guided Pharen down in a swoop.

  They had no sooner left the clouds than fire roared in the distance, reaching toward the Sirdarian army. The Council and Haegan? For the moment they were stationed at the tower, the best vantage for the long-range effectiveness of their power. Were they burning back their enemies?
<
br />   As accelerants collided with incipients in the first-wave attacks, Aselan saw the archers readying themselves. His father raised his arm in command. Then snapped it down. The archers released their arrows. As the arrows descended, Aselan guided Pharen down, down toward the black tent at the back of the field. Those left to guard it shouted and ducked as Pharen glided near. Aselan freed the straps and lifted his leg over the side. As Pharen skimmed the tents, Aselan slid off, landing awkwardly to favor his bad leg. He pulled his sword free.

  A blade slashed from the left amid the hard slap of wings that raised his raqine back to the skies and safety.

  Aselan narrowly avoided the sword by bending sideways. A horse whinnied and danced. Swinging around, Aselan brought down his blade on his enemy. Struck leathered armor.

  The enemy thrust again.

  Aselan repaid the favor with ferocity. Aimed for the soft spot beneath the man’s ribs that would allow his blade entrance. A feint. Then a stab. Steel slid in and out.

  The Silver arched his back. Aselan seized the chance and drove his dagger into his throat. Gurgling, drowning on his own blood, the enemy slumped away.

  Turning his attention to the next—an Ematahri—Aselan tightened his gut. He hated fighting these ruthless savages. He continued to swing. Strike. One after another. Ignoring the cuts and slices, struggling against the bulk of his injured leg and the pain as he strained barely knitted bone.

  The very real awareness that he was severely outnumbered weighed on him. Distracted him. So that he saw the jav-rod too late. He angled away, but its iron tip lanced his shoulder. Knocked him backward. Though his left knee buckled and he went down, Aselan never took his gaze from the Ematahri warrior bearing down on him, dark eyes filled with bloodlust.

  47

  Cries and shouts went up, as did the death toll. The first wave cost a great many warriors on both sides, but the distance was too little for another wave from the raqine. The Nivari fought back the Sirdarians. Horses rammed one another. Swords sang through the air.

  Crack! Boom!

  Haegan steadied himself. The incipients had been sending what others called warning shots, but he knew the truth—with those flame balls, they were probing each location. Testing, searching for his signature.