Bursts of Fire

by Susan Forest

  A blast of wind struck Meg’s back with a hail of snow, knocking her into the willows. A man yelped behind her. Looking up, she saw the flash of an inky shadow as wings snapped branches on either side of her. From the orum’s center mouth, an arm dangled. Then the creature disappeared beyond the treetops.

  “Down!” Sulwyn yelled, and Meg yanked Rennika beneath the branches of a spruce tree. A riderless horse shoved past them, stumbling into the woods.

  Meg pushed Rennika behind the bole of the tree, shielding her sister with her body, looking back the way they’d come, toward the river. A soldier—the lieutenant who’d questioned them?—leaned over another soldier who lay in the snow. Janat cowered beneath the cart, sobbing. A sword glittered in the snow. Sulwyn darted out and snatched it up.

  The orum.

  It came in low and landed at a gallop on four horse-like legs, shattering the icy water, charging with open mouths.

  One head reared over the lieutenant who drew his sword and slashed at the base of the creature’s neck. The center head plunged into the injured soldier’s belly, tossing him back and forth like a cat worrying a mouse. The third head snaked lightning-fast toward Sulwyn, who stabbed at the thing with the soldier’s weapon.

  Meg cringed in the forest as the lieutenant’s sword lodged in the creature’s neck. The orum cried out like a thousand strident gulls, its neck whipping in a great arc, lifting the man from his feet.

  A dagger flung from the cart glinted in the snow. One of Sulwyn’s they’d used for cutting food—

  Meg untangled herself from the willows to snatch the blade up, dove at a hind leg and slashed the orum’s ankle. Sulwyn stabbed wildly into the thick skin of the third neck.

  The orum lunged forward, stumbling into the wagon. Sulwyn’s blade flung wide, missing Meg, its tip slicing across the center neck. The lieutenant scrambled to his feet, pulling the sword from its first neck with a gout of blood, but the thing’s needle teeth tore a chunk from his back. He squealed in pain and dropped his sword.

  Now even Janat, with her bruised face, darted forward. Scooping the lieutenant’s blade from the snow, she held it in both hands, braced for the orum’s attack. The orum screamed and feinted over her, but the lieutenant, unbuckling his ax, buried this new weapon deep in the pit of the monster’s throat. The first head flailed into the sky and blood spurted from the wound.

  With a predator’s sense for weakness, the center head, its neck streaming from a dozen cuts, darted across and bit deeply into the lieutenant’s shoulder, gripping like a snake bound on swallowing him whole. Meg rushed forward and stabbed at the center head.

  Sulwyn Cordal severed the third head and the orum collapsed to its knees. Panting and smeared with crimson, he lifted a weary arm and shoved his blade deep into the throat of the center neck.

  Meg stumbled backward in the snow as the thing collapsed, twitching. Janat dropped the lieutenant’s sword and, stepping back, wrapped her arms around Meg. The two sisters rejoiced with hysterical tears.

  Rennika crept cautiously out from behind the tree.

  Sulwyn knelt by the king’s lieutenant. The man shivered, his mouth opening as if he would speak, wild fright in his eyes. With bloody hands, Sulwyn Cordal tore away the man’s neckband and, finding his death token, placed it on the man’s tongue. “Find your Heaven,” he murmured. The lieutenant closed his lips, coughed, and sank into Sulwyn’s arms.

  Rennika clung to Janat who held her close. They stared at the still-twitching creature in the snow.

  Sulwyn staggered to his feet. He swayed, looking down at the vanquished orum. “We killed...” He turned, a look of incredulous, joyful horror on his face. “We killed...” He paled to the color of porcelain, and fainted.

  Rennika tried to blink away the images that crowded in on her: of blind teeth snatching the soldier’s arm, of blood spurting over Sulwyn’s shoulder, of Meg running out before the thing and snatching up the knife, of Janat with her sword at the ready. All mixed with remembrances of Nanna on the mountainside. Nanna, who dried her tears when Faris wouldn’t play, who sang to her at bedtime, who taught her letters.

  And the blurry thing. Or things. Shimmers like the warp of water that flicked in and out at the edges of the battle. Nothing she could see clearly.

  One of the soldiers’ horses had broken a leg in its terrified plunge through the dense woods and had to be put down; the second could not be found. But Sulwyn returned late that afternoon, leading his mountain pony from some isolated mountain vale.

  Rennika and her sisters spent the day cleaning themselves up the best they could, bandaging their cuts and sprains and bruises—nothing worse, by the grace of Kyaju—and burying the two men in rocks pried from the river edge, what they could manage on frozen ground. Sulwyn repaired the wagon.

  As she worked, tears and terrors shook Rennika at odd moments, and Meg or Janat would comfort her, but they couldn’t erase the pictures in her mind.

  Sulwyn could say nothing all through this work but, “We killed it. We killed an orum. Only four of us! And two—women!” He shook his head and chuckled, then covered his face as though he would faint again.

  Meg was famished when they sat on stumps in the snow to feast on horse flesh that night. She and Janat had cooked it on a spit over a small fire, chancing there would be no more soldiers nearby to be drawn by the light and smoke.

  “I think we need something a wee bit stronger than ale tonight.” Sulwyn produced a bottle of amber-colored liquor—nothing Meg had ever seen in King Ean’s great hall, and not made in Orumon for market. He poured a parsimonious splash each for Meg and Janat, telling Rennika she would have to wait a few years for hers, and a more generous measure for himself. “Drink it slow,” he said, squeezing his watery eyes closed on an ample swallow. He smiled. “Now that’s good Teshe barley.”

  Meg put the mug to her lips. It smelled strongly sweet and nutty, and felt like pins and needles on her tongue. The drop she sipped tasted bad, and it burned and choked her. She made a face and set her mug aside. “Why do you drink it?” She ladled boiled barley into their bowls.

  “Ah, why, indeed?” Sulwyn raised his mug into the firelight. “Aqua vita. Water of life. Nectar of the Gods.”

  “King Ean serves nothing stronger than mead.” Meg sliced horsemeat onto the barley and passed out the bowls. “And that, only for important occasions. Otherwise, his court drinks only beer or ale.”

  “A drop of whiskey never hurt anyone,” Sulwyn asserted, and already he looked more relaxed. “It soothes the nerves, brings laughter to the lips, and makes for merry talk. It makes men more accomplished—according to the men—and women prettier. And, on days that are particularly trying, it sends flight to the world’s demons.”

  Janat giggled. Her mouth was still bright with bruises, but the swelling had mostly gone down. “There’s no demons here.”

  Sulwyn toasted her. “It works.”

  Meg bit into the hot meat, dripping with juices, watching Sulwyn across the fire. “You’re not—” She hesitated, not sure how to phrase her question.

  Sulwyn looked up from his bowl. His eyes flicked to Janat. She’d been watching him since he came back with the pony, and now she smiled and sipped her whiskey.

  “You’re not a fighter,” Meg finished lamely.

  Sulwyn grinned and licked his fingers. “No,” he said, regarding her cheerily. “I suppose most men of your acquaintance have been trained with a sword.” He winked at Janat.

  Meg considered. Yes. Weapons training was a part of the life of a highborn man. And soldiers, of course.

  “But—don’t lowborn men have to be good with a blade to survive?” Janat asked.

  Rennika looked up from her meal with interest.

  The man’s brows shot up. “Lowborn?”

  The darkening of Janat’s soft, capricious skin was visible even in the flicker of the firelight.

  “My father’s a merchant,” he said instructively, pouring himself more whiskey. “My family owns no l
and or titles, but we were reasonably well off. Food on the table—good food. I had a tutor as a child. I can read and write.”

  “Oh.” Janat’s blush deepened.

  A merchant. Merchant Cordal of Archwood had been part of Mama’s plan.

  “You might not know it, but your King Ean Olivin was a very fair man.” Sulwyn offered to pour again into Janat’s cup.

  “That’s right.” A memory popped into Meg’s head, and she covered her own mug with her hand. “Janat, remember the fuss? King Ean took on three advisors from the guildsmen. And two merchants as well.”

  Janat shook her head doubtfully.

  “My father was one of his advisors.” Sulwyn scooped meat and barley with chopsticks from the bowl held close to his mouth.

  Merchant Cordal. Then, Mama would have known him. But...should Meg say something? She suspected Sulwyn knew who they were; or at least guessed. Had his father—if that was Mama’s ”Merchant Cordal”—told Sulwyn about their plans for escape? Sulwyn had said nothing.

  “A good king recognizes that what a man contributes from the sweat of his labor or the product of his thinking can make a country wealthy. There’s value in more than just aristocracy. King Ean was like that.” He set down his bowl and scooped a handful of snow from the ground behind the stump he sat on, and wiped the juices from his chin. “Men like him should be emulated. Not besieged.”

  “Sieur Cordal...” Setting her bowl on the ground, Meg lifted a corner of her robe and wiped her mouth.

  “Call me Sulwyn. Sieur Cordal is my father.” He held his wet hands up to the flames.

  She gave him a short nod of acknowledgement. “Do you know who we are?”

  “Meg!” Janat’s chin shot up.

  Meg said nothing to her sister but studied Sulwyn’s reaction.

  His response was measured. “I think I do.”

  She waited, while Janat stewed.

  “The day before King Artem’s forces attacked, my father sent me to Archwood village to purchase this mountain pony and cart, and supplies for a long trip.” He nodded to the darkness behind him. “He said we’d be taking three people on a journey, but he didn’t say where. He also said that the commission had come up suddenly, that it was secret, and we would leave on the morrow.” His gaze flicked down into the fire. “My parents and my sisters are still in Archwood.”

  And Mama.

  Rennika put her plate in the snow and leaned her head against Janat.

  “Did you...did you want to show me? Who you are?” he asked.

  There was a way for a trueborn magiel of the Great Houses, one descended directly from the One God, to reveal him or herself. To let the firmament of the Heavens shine through her skin. But...“You may take my word.”

  He nodded. “I will.”

  “And you didn’t learn where your passengers were to go?” Meg asked.

  “No.” He gave a quick shrug. “Like you, I’m homeless now. I can’t pursue my trade; I have no merchandise to sell. This cart and a few coins are all I have left. There’s no way to free my family, other than by doing what I’m doing. Working to get this lunacy undone.” He leaned on his knees and took up his empty mug. “I...I’ve heard things. Seen things. Put things together. Were the three of you my father’s passengers?”

  Janat looked from her to Sulwyn and back, but she said nothing.

  “I think so. We weren’t given information. We’re...” She realized. “We were just cargo. You don’t tell cargo where it’s going.”

  “But valuable cargo, I think.” Sulwyn’s gaze flicked to Janat’s apprehensive face. “You’re Talanda Falkyn’s daughters, are you not? The magiel heirs to the Amber?”

  Meg gave a slight nod. “Every time someone finds out who we are, bad things happen. We are either pariahs or bargaining chips.”

  “And you don’t know where my father was supposed to take you?”

  “No.”

  He gave a grim shake of the head. “Given what I’ve heard—only rumors, mind you—I can’t think of anywhere that’s safe. If it’s true, if worship of the Many Gods is outlawed and the prayer stones are being smashed...” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “King Artem can’t have anything good for you, if he catches you. And no one who values their own skin would want to be associated with you unless they can sell you.”

  “Coldridge.” Janat had her arm around Rennika’s shoulder, and Rennika was all eyes, frightened. “We have an uncle and cousins there. We visited him last summer.”

  “If Teshe isn’t already occupied by foreign forces,” Sulwyn said.

  Meg shrugged. “We have to go somewhere. If you would take us that far, we would be grateful.”

  Janat nodded, and she finished the last of her whiskey.

  Sulwyn found a stick and stirred the fire, which had burned low. “I will. At the very least, even if your uncle is...not available to you,” he said carefully, “Coldridge, by all accounts, should be a large enough city to hide in.”

  “Is that—is that why you’re going to Coldridge?” Meg asked. “To get King Larin to help King Ean?” She’d gathered as much from the conversation she’d overheard in Spruce Falls.

  “If I can. If not, I’ll keep going until I find someone who’ll listen. I’m only a journeyman merchant, not even a member of the guild. Nothing says King Larin will heed me. But, by your leave, King Delarcan’s gone mad. That has to be evident to everyone. Perhaps, together, king and commoner can make Artem see the folly of attacking Orumon.”

  Meg sat back on her stump, stomach satisfied for once. Yes. This man, Sulwyn Cordal, this merchant’s son. He had the right of it. Surely, in Coldridge, King Larin would see things this way as well, and end the madness of these past weeks.

  CHAPTER 11

  They’d worked out the details. At sixteen, Huwen was finally considered ready to accompany his father on his campaigns and, to his irritation, at fourteen, so was Eamon. Why Eamon, who would not rule and hardly had the temperament or the backbone for a battlefield, was to be trained in war and leadership, was beyond Huwen.

  Tomorrow, he and his brother would travel with Father’s magiel, a thousand replacements, and a supply train to Teshe, a country on the edge of the wilds. A contingent of the soldiers would turn off the road after only a week’s travel to deal with a province announcing it had separated from Arcan so it could divorce itself from what it called “the king’s war.”

  It was disgusting. Didn’t peasants know kings were God-appointed? How did they expect to govern themselves?

  Huwen’s new status came with a loosening of his leash, at least in terms of pleasures of the flesh. Anwen was not accorded the same liberties, but her family, seeing the girl fancied none less than the king-to-be, turned a blind eye. Huwen lay, now, spent and sleepy, in Anwen’s bed in her parents’ grand house in the upper city, playing with a curl of her hair. The day had been cold with the promise of coming winter, but the embers in her fireplace pushed back the chill. “I’ll miss you,” he said, and it was true. He’d miss Anwen very much on the long road, and in the rough tents at the siege of Archwood, beyond Coldridge’s last comforts.

  “I’ll miss you.” Her body fit his exactly, made for him. “I hope I get your baby.”

  He grinned, though she faced away from him, and he knew she couldn’t see it in the dark. The thought of Anwen having his baby pleased him. But— “It’s best you don’t.”

  She turned in his arms. “You don’t want me to bear your child?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He thought she knew. “You deserve better. You are the most amazing woman. I want you to be happy, and proud, and have the best of everything.”

  “Better than your child? What could be better?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t want you to be the mother of bastards.”

  She stilled, silent in the dark.

  “I can’t marry you.”

  Still, she said nothing.

  “You knew that.”

  A tiny puff of warm breath touched his c
hest. “Yes.”

  He would miss her. Not only this winter, as he accompanied Father on his campaign, but forever, when Father arranged a political marriage for him.

  “It seems so unfair.” Her voice was soft in the dark.

  He had to agree. “The commonest man can marry for love. Even a second son, on occasion. But a king must make alliances.”

  It was a part of his future that had never concerned Huwen until he’d met Anwen. He understood better now, his father’s relationship with his mother. Father and Mother did not argue. Each had his and her own sphere of power, of friendships. But it was an ill-kept secret that Father still visited Uther’s mother in her chambers.

  But Huwen loved Anwen. “I want the best for you.”

  “I have the best.”

  He smiled at the top of her head. “For now, perhaps. But I don’t want you to be the one who walks through a room leaving a wake of whispers behind.” Uther’s mother had her own suite in the great hall. But as a one-time servant girl, she had no status at court, and no friends among her own class. She had a garden and a friend to sit with her.

  “I...” Anwen’s words were tentative, a whisper. “I would be your mistress.”

  “No, Anwen.“

  “I would!”

  But how could he deny her plea? How could he deny his heart? “You’d only be unhappy. We should vow, here and now, never to see one another again. You should move to another city, find a wealthy land owner like your father. Build a life.”

  She was silent for a long time, and presently he felt her quake with silent sobs. Pain, such as he had never known, shot through his chest then. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

  “I only want what’s best for you,” he tried to explain, but his words sounded hollow, even to himself.

  “I—know.” Her voice hitched, and the words brought forth a torrent of hiccupping sobs.

  “Shh, shh,” he said. “Don’t cry. Please, Anwen, don’t cry. I love you.”

  “I—know.” But the sobs would not, could not stop.