Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  “Incoming! Protect the Fierian!” Graem shouted and spun toward Haegan.

  They ducked and braced. Haegan thrust out his hands and shielded the tower against the blast. Simultaneously, Gwogh shot a bolt right in the direction from which the wielding had come.

  Alight with the way they worked together, one shielding, one aiming, Haegan felt a little giddy. The tower had not sustained a significant hit, and he could continue to target with the other accelerants.

  “That won’t do,” Kedulcya snipped.

  “What?” Haegan asked, annoyed with her superior airs.

  “It is most certain he will now know where you are.”

  “I’ve been wielding the entire time—”

  “Aye, but you have not used a shield until now, and that will—”

  “Incoming!”

  “Another one!”

  “Three—no, five!”

  Haegan stared in disbelief at the singularly focused assault, all too aware of the councilwoman’s condescending nod. Disbelief turned to fear then outright panic when the blasts that had been on parallel arcs, drew together, as if someone had noosed them.

  That’s going to hurt.

  “Shield!” Gwogh roared.

  Before Haegan could process the command, four accelerants were in front of him. Hands stretching out directly in front, then spreading wide. He saw the rippling barrier of heat that surrounded them. Beyond it—the incoming barrage.

  Would it hold? Protect them?

  “Focus!” Gwogh commanded.

  The convergence of the ball and the shield exploded with a deafening force. It held. Protected. But one did not defeat the other. Instead, they collided and rebounded with an enormous explosion of heat that threw Haegan. Slammed him against a wall. Creaks and pops rippled through his spine. His hearing hollowed.

  “Get him out of here!” Gwogh shouted distantly.

  Two accelerants reached for Haegan. Drew him to his feet. Cuffing his arms, they hurried him down the now-rickety stairs. At the bottom, they hesitated. “You need to be safe.”

  “Nay,” Haegan protested. “I do not want safe. I want vantage!”

  • • •

  Crack! Boom!

  Tili ducked as ironstone and debris fell from keep wall. Crouched, he scurried toward the guardhouse, where the Fierian stood with two accelerants. The Council members were hurrying down the wooden steps to join them.

  Urgency bled into Haegan’s features, an argument ensuing among the tightly huddled group. Jujak held close, tense and weapons ready. They were not ones to stand idly by in a battle, and he guessed they itched to defend their brothers-in-arms on the field.

  Boom! Crack!

  Ducking again, Tili gained them.

  “—get to higher ground or closer,” Haegan was saying, then his gaze lit on Tili. “What is the highest ground in the keep?”

  Tili nodded to the north tower. “There, but it is also the most vulner—”

  Boom-boom-boom!

  As if to confirm Tili’s assessment, the north tower took several hits. Stone dribbled down in defeat.

  “Augh!” Haegan gripped his head. “I do no good behind this wall. I was gifted to end him. Let me out to finish this.”

  “Haegan,” Thiel said, catching his hand. “You can do no good if ye are dead. I know ye would be out there—”

  “I beg yer mercy, Haegan,” Tili said, “but walls were no hindrance to ye in Iteveria. That heat wake rushed through every crack and crevice, seeking the darkness. ’Twould be no different here.”

  Haegan shifted. “I feel . . . useless.”

  Tili smirked. “Aye. I know the feeling with my father and brothers out there in the rage of battle, and me in here.”

  “Steward!” A Jujak indicated to something behind Tili.

  A quick glance over his shoulder revealed nothing save missing sections of the keep wall and the heavily guarded fortress protecting the Fire King. He turned, but even as he did, something registered. A glint of faint color. Jerking back, he searched for whatever caught his attention.

  Incipients, his mind growled. Embers leaped upon his hand, ready. There—a side entrance to the castle. Squeezing past two Jujak, a wisp of a person. Small. Much like . . .

  His gaze rammed into hers. She had been standing there. As if waiting, uncertain. Why?

  “Astadia!” Forgetting the others, he closed the distance and spied a red knot on her temple. The bruise beneath her cheek.

  “No!” Her voice was fever-pitched, frantic. “Stop. Don’t come closer!”

  Tili slowed, stunned. Confused. Had he so wholly offended her? “Asta—”

  “I . . . I do not want to hurt you.”

  “Hurt me?”

  A Pathfinder guided Astadia forward, a hand span from her. “We found her coming up from the dungeon, sir. There were two incipients below . . .”

  It was what they didn’t say that gnawed at Tili. He waited for them to continue.

  “Begging yer mercy, sire,” the second said, nodding to Haegan, who had joined them, “but they were . . . No other way to say it but that they were sucked dry. Faces gray. Skin shriveled and leathery.”

  “Unnatural,” Councilwoman Kedulcya pronounced. “You’ve found how—”

  “Nay,” Astadia said, her head down, eyes barely meeting theirs. Hair hung over the side of her face in frazzled curls. “I know not how to do it. I just . . . did. And it was dark. Terrifying.” Her gaze grew distant. She licked her lips.

  “The how is of little importance,” Gwogh said. “What’s important is that she can.”

  “Send her,” Kiethiel said, though it looked like the words cost her dearly. “Send her out with Haegan. She can drain Poired of his powers and then the Fierian can kill him.”

  “Nay!” Haegan said. “The Deliverer said it was not for me to kill the Dark One, but perhaps ’tis for Tili.”

  He started at that. “Me?”

  “Aye, kill the one who made her an Unnatural.”

  “I am not sure you can lay that blame on the shoulders of a man,” Gwogh said, stroking his beard. “And I am of the mind that perhaps ’tis for the assassin to kill Poired.”

  “How—”

  “If one of us tried to kill him,” Gwogh said thoughtfully, his gaze never leaving Astadia, “he could step into the Void before it was done. But with her, with what she is said to have done to the guards . . .”

  Kedulcya’s eyes widened. “Poired could not open the Void if weakened enough.”

  Hope leapt anew in Haegan. “Would it be shut forever?”

  “We are in untested times,” Gwogh said. “It cannot be known until it is done.”

  “Then ’tis too dangerous,” Tili argued. “If she goes out there, he would immediately target her. Then ’twould leave both of ye exposed.”

  “Not if he doesn’t see me.” Astadia stepped forward, chin raised. “I’m willing to risk it. Anything to be rid of this, of him.”

  “I am not sure you will be rid of the gift, child.”

  “But he will be gone.” She nodded. “It is enough to be rid of him.”

  Tili hurt at those words, but knew she was right.

  “I agree,” Haegan said, smiling at her. “We’ll go.”

  48

  Hiel-touck!

  The warrior went airborne.

  Aselan could do little. He spiraled away, scrabbling for his dagger.

  Weight slammed into him. Pain ruptured coherent thought, erupting through his shoulder and neck. The impact shoved his face into the ground. Rocks and singed earth scraped his cheek, the smell acrid. The taste worse.

  He heard the unmistakable sound of steel against leather. A dagger or saber being drawn.

  Panic ignited in his chest. He strained against the agony of his injured arm to reach his own dagger.

  The warrior flipped Aselan onto his back. Raised a saber, the gleam of death in his eyes.

  Aselan swung his legs to the side and lunged at the same time. Tossed off the
savage. Before the man could right himself, Aselan pinned him. Snagged his dagger. Raised it.

  The man sneered. “Kill me and you will never know where she is.”

  Aselan hesitated. “I thought Ematahri did not negotiate.” He pressed the blade to the savage’s neck. “Tell me.”

  The Ematahri hesitated. “Cadeif died for Etelide. Would you do the same for yours?”

  Aselan recalled Tili saying that the Ematahri archon who’d claimed his sister had renamed her.

  “Because that is what will happen if you go for her.”

  Aselan allowed a thin line of blood to appear. “Where?”

  “Command tents. In a cage.”

  Easing away, Aselan released the man. Uncertain the warrior could not reach him, he walked backward, never once removing his gaze from the savage. They were branded as such for good reason. He could not die here. He must save Kae.

  A thundering horse raced wildly toward him. No rider. Panicked. The scent of blood upsetting it. Aselan held up his arms to halt the animal.

  An impact struck his shoulder. Reverberated through his spine, spewing with it fire and agony. Aselan pitched forward. Stumbled. Reaching back to feel the hilt of a dagger sticking out. He pivoted. Saw the mocking grin.

  The savage suddenly arched his own back, eyes frozen in shock. Arms splayed wide. He staggered. Collapsed to the earth.

  Another Ematahri stood behind his fallen brother with a dark expression. “He has no honor.”

  What was he to make of one savage turning against another? He cared not. With a growl of pain, Aselan snatched out the dagger embedded in his shoulder and half-ran, half-hobbled toward the tents, feeling blood sliding down his back.

  A Silver rushed him.

  Vicious and furious at the interruption, Aselan struck with ferocity. Surged, shoving the man back. Gaining ground and making it harder for him to use the blade. Drove his dagger into muscle and sinew. Pitched him aside.

  Pressed on.

  A man came alongside.

  Aselan raised his dagger—

  “Whoa, there!”

  Startled, he recognized the face. “Byrin!” He choked beneath surprise and injury. “Where did ye come from?”

  “Following this lot, certain they would lead us to adventure.” He grinned. “Why are ye here and not with the others?”

  “Kaelyria.”

  Byrin scowled. “They have her here?”

  “Aye. In the tent.”

  Together, they broke into a run. The severity of his injuries seemed to lift as they ran toward the tents and slid up behind an overturned cart. Four Silvers lurked outside.

  “Ye are wounded,” came a familiar, quiet voice.

  Aselan smiled at the red-bearded face. “Caprit.”

  “What adventure awaits us here?” the man asked.

  “The Mistress,” Byrin growled.

  Caprit started. “She be alive?” He breathed relief. “After the Rekken attack, I had . . .” He swallowed his words, slanting a worried look at Aselan.

  “Four out, how many in?” Byrin asked.

  “The savage said death waited inside.”

  Feet hustled toward them. Aselan spun, sword raising. He was surprised to find yet another Legiera. Markoo.

  “We must needs draw them out,” Byrin said.

  “Markoo and I will go first. Attack,” Caprit suggested. “Ye and the cacique slip in the back.”

  The two men sprinted to carry out the plan. Byrin swatted his shoulder—eliciting a grunt from Aselan—then hurried around the back. Aselan trailed him, hustling the fifty paces to the rear, his leg screaming. Hunched low, they slid around until they found a loose stake.

  Shouts and grunts from the other side—Markoo and Caprit engaging the Silvers—stirred voices inside.

  Aselan hesitated, listening.

  “Go. Check it out,” a stern voice within the tent ordered.

  A second later, “They’re attacking.”

  “Kill her!”

  Aselan sheered the tent wall with his sword, cutting an opening. Before he’d finished, Byrin lunged inside. Heat shot from the right. Aselan ducked to avoid the blast. He spun and arced his sword at a man in a long black tunic and with glowing red hand. The steel sliced clean through the incipient’s neck. The red warbling vanished.

  “Aselan!”

  Her voice, drenched in fright and yet relief, yanked him around.

  Byrin and Capit battled a man with slick-black hair and incredible powers. The incipient had his back to Aselan, who crouched as he rushed up behind him, fueled by Kae’s voice.

  Capit was thrown backward by an invisible punch. Byrin choked.

  With violence, Aselan threw himself at the incipient and drove the sword right through his back. The man crumbled, the wake sliding away.

  Byrin slumped to the ground, rubbing his neck. “Blasted incipients,” he muttered.

  Aselan pivoted to Kae. Met her eyes. “Ye are well?” Relief sped through him, then anger at seeing her caged.

  “Aye,” she breathed, reaching through the bars for him.

  “How—”

  “The keys are there,” she said, pointing to a stand. “Hurry.”

  Byrin was on his feet, hurrying to the table.

  Aselan touched her face. “Ye look . . .”

  She pressed her cheek to his hand. “I care not how I look, as long as you are here.” Her pale blue irises came to his—then widened.

  Noise rent their reunion.

  Kae’s eyes went red. She growled.

  A thwump from behind snapped him around to find the incipient he’d driven through crumpled at his feet. How . . . ? He jerked his attention back to Kae. She wavered. Swayed.

  “Byrin!”

  His man jammed the iron keys in the lock. He threw open the door. Aselan lunged, catching Kae before she struck the ground. He lifted her into his arms. Her eyes fluttered open. “I . . .”

  “’Tis well.” He could not sort what happened, nor would he attempt to—not now. She was alive. That was all he asked of the Lady. Outside, he stopped short. A large destrier blocked passage. Atop it, an Ematahri warrior watched them. Aselan’s stomach clenched. They’d been so close. Almost free.

  The warrior whistled, and another horse trotted up with no rider. The savage gestured to the animal. “Ride west a half league, follow the riverbed north. There aren’t many forces there. You might make it.”

  Aselan hesitated only half a beat then nodded, shifting Kae into Byrin’s arms before hauling himself onto the horse. Even as he gathered his bound to himself once more, he looked to the savage. “Why?”

  The man pursed his lips. “You are the son of Thurig, are you not?” At Aselan’s nod, he continued, “My archon gave his life for your sister. Perhaps this is the beginning of a new era between our people.” Turning, he spurred his horse, who leapt away from them. A trilling, shrieking call went out.

  All across the field, Ematahri remounted and rode with all haste westward. Away from the battle.

  49

  Exhaustion clawed at Tili.

  It’s not worth it. Just give up. Go back to Nivar.

  Shaking his head and the thoughts, Tili turned from the inflaming. A Tahscan nodded to him, eyes rife with amusement that Tili had recognized the wielding tactic. Many of their number surrendered. Dropped their weapons. Discouraged.

  “Fail me not, Tili,” Astadia whispered, her voice a rasp. “I can feel him clawing my mind.”

  “’Tis said the princess Kaelyria could feel the same.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll use me against you.”

  “I’m here. I’ll help ye.”

  She looked to him. “I would rather die than hurt you, Tili.”

  He reached for her face, only to reassure her. When she drew back again, he closed the gap. Cupped her face. “I care not if my wielding is lost—I have always been better with the sword anyway.” He pressed his lips to hers. “I believe in ye, and no matter the outcome, I will never leave ye.”


  She closed her eyes. Then bucked. Drew in a breath. And spun.

  An incipient appeared there, the fabric of the Void opened.

  Growling, Astadia—unbelievably—caught the volley of fire. And yanked. Hauled the incipient from the Void, which snapped closed. With a thud, the incipient tumbled forward. Fell, joining the ash of the field.

  “Accelerants, back!” Gwogh shouted, the circle around her widening.

  Though he felt her draining ability, though it tickled and pinched the edges of his awareness, Tili did not move. He watched. Readied.

  Astadia drew up her shoulders. Breathed a little deeper, as if she had dragged her gaze from the Void itself. A smile wavered. “I see them.”

  Tili glanced around, the Silvers, the Sirdarians, accelerants. Poired’s army. “We all see them.”

  “No, the Deliverers,” she breathed. “They’re guarding the field.”

  With a deafening crack, Silvers rushed them. Struck. Sent jav-rods spiraling through their numbers. Tili swung his sword at a Silver who reached them. Swords clashed, a great reverberation of steel ringing through his arms. He flicked his fingers, sending a slash of heat through the steel.

  The Sirdarian cried out, dropping his hilt in shock. Tili ended him. Another came from his right.

  “Tili,” Astadia said.

  He maneuvered to see her and batted the Silver who moved with such speed and ferocity that Tili had to focus completely on the soldier. The man tried to close the space, limit options, but Tili maintained a safe distance. Countered the moves.

  The Silver grew frustrated.

  “Tili.”

  “Augh!” the Silver shouted, lunging forward.

  Tili sidestepped, slipped behind his opponent. Arced his sword once more, but then flashed a bolt at the man’s back. It bounced off the Silver.

  “Astadia!” Gwogh hissed to Tili.

  But the Silver was unrelenting. He spun, parried against Tili’s strike. Then came up—and Tili caught him. Sent a hyperfocused dart into the man’s neck.

  The Silver gasped. His legs twisted and he went down.

  “Steward, the assassin!”

  Tili pivoted to Tokar, who pointed in the opposite direction. Toward Poired, Drracien, and two other incipients who wielded their dark flames on an ancient stone foundation.