Maybe. Maybe all the fires flamed in his head.
Who knew? Passage.
Fire. He feared and hated fire.
And worked with fire every-damn-day.
He let flames burn through him.
The forge of his fever.
The forge of his Passage.
The forge of his Flair.
Heat seared, burst from him in one massive spell, more an inchoate shout than Word. “Fire!”
A huge ball of flames exploded into existence, hung like a low sun, brilliantly exposing all in the courtyard.
Holm Holly against a wall, sword flashing.
Four men on him ... three Rue guards and one mercenary.
A man of the Rue Family, young like Rand and Holm, mouth stretched in a feral grin, raised a blazer gun and aimed at Holm.
With one leaping stride, a sweep of Rand’s blade, and the Rue would die. Rand flexed to jump. Heard a shout from Holm, two paces away, saw all the other men pressing him. Holm took two blows—one to his swordarm that would paralyze nerves; the other to his head from a sword pommel.
Vengeance or friendship?
Couldn’t hesitate more. Ash leapt, plowing into two villains to the left of the Holly—who’d grabbed his blade with his left hand, and thrust and parried more from instinct than thought.
Ash hitting the group pushed all of them back. Holm spun away naturally, out of swordlength, and Rand concentrated on kicking and striking to damage as he staggered to keep his balance.
The young man who’d planned to blazer Holm leapt before Ash, weapon still raised. Rage flashed through Rand and he beat it back, loosened his teeth that had clamped together. This time he would kill.
His hated enemy. Without thought Ash lunged forward, stabbed. His good sword went slick through poorly bespelled armor. The blade hit the boy’s heart and Ash jerked back, blood dripping from the fuller groove in his sword.
Blazer and boy crumbled, the weapon made a sound, the dead boy did not.
The older Rue glanced away from Holm. He yelled, shattering that fight and three leapt at Ash.
He spun, whirled, gave himself to the fury-smoke in his head, acted. Let his body rule, hoped the Holly could work around Ash, ’cause he wasn’t thinking at all.
At spellwords from upper windows, a quick wind whipped through the cul-de-sac, smoke vanished. Water followed, drenching the courtyard, fires hissed dead.
Ash used the soaking water to cool, blinked to see.
Ambushers down. The Rue his age dead. The mercenary’s throat cut, dead eyes staring up at the night sky.
Two Rues on Holm. One with a clawed cheek slashing at Zanth.
A flash of Holm’s knife blade caught Ash’s eye before it buried itself into the heart of the oldest Rue guard. The man fell dead, and Holly occupied himself with a sword duel with the younger guard.
The Rue targeting Rand whirled close from his left, stabbed out with a long blade, a main gauche, caught Ash in the side. He felt the cold bite of the knife. Heat-ice-pain only spurred him to fight harder.
This Rue laughed as he withdrew the knife with Rand’s blood. Ash staggered back, muttered a melding spell that worked better on metal than on flesh, but would do for now.
He locked gazes with the shorter Rue man, the one who’d ordered the deaths of his parents, his brothers, who torched T’Ash Residence with a firebomb spell while Rand watched and wept.
The worst Rue. The one Ash wanted to kill the most.
And the fever and fury came back and filled his head and he shouted and held his weapons deadly forward and charged.
“Stop!” shouted HollyHeir.
STOP! screeched Zanth in his mind. Rand found himself squatting, looked over to see Zanth nose to nose with him, the Holly standing and frowning down. Felt blood on his hands and looked down to see a multitude of punctures in the Rue who’d killed his Family.
As Rand watched, the spark of intelligence, of life, drained from his eyes, and death came to him all too quickly. Rand had moved too instinctively and efficiently to prolong the Rue’s suffering despite the four stab wounds around his heart. One each for Rand’s parents and brothers.
Zanth revved his purr until it echoed with Flair throughout the cul-de-sac. Me love You, FamMan.
“I love you, too, Zanth.”
Ash rose from his crouch over the body, cleansed his knife and his sword, then took a sweat rag from his trous pocket and wiped his face. He thought he’d lost a few minutes, not sure how long, of the fight and aftermath.
“They drew us here to ambush us,” Holm HollyHeir said. He paced around the small circular courtyard. Ash noted people at the second story windows, watching from behind curtains, but he didn’t think the nobleman did. And those folk wouldn’t come down until they were gone.
Holm’s lip lifted in disdain. “I recognize these colors and sigils. The GrandHouse of Rue, like you said before. Stups to come dressed in your own colors to ambush.”
“Five Rue guards. They thought they’d win,” Rand said. “Leave no one alive to talk.”
ME would talk! To everyone. To city guards even! Zanth insisted.
“I suppose the decent thing to do is to send them to Deathgrove instead of letting the bodies be stripped of their wealth,” Holly said.
Their wealth stolen from the Ashes, but Rand didn’t mention that.
Holm touched the point of his sword to the young man their age. “Rue to Noble Deathgrove.” The body disappeared.
Interesting, Zanth said. Me watch. And the cat did, as the man made each enemy vanish. Ash didn’t know how such a spell worked. The Downwind thugs they’d killed they’d left for the regular scavengers.
Finally, when nothing remained except bodily stains, Holm walked toward Rand. A pace away, he stopped, shuddered, suddenly sagged.
Ash hopped forward and caught him.
“Passage finished. Done for.” His head turned slowly back and forth and for the first time in two nights, Rand saw piercing intelligence in his eyes. “Not dead.”
“No.”
“A blessing.” His gaze fixed on Rand.
Rand grunted.
“I’d imagine I owe you some thanks for saving my skin tonight, and more than once.” Holm pushed away from Ash. Swayed on his feet, hunkered into his balance and found it.
Then he slowly straightened his knees and rubbed his hand through his hair. Nice smells came from the strands that Rand thought might be because of sweat-release smells. Nope, the nobles of Celta never smelled like regular people.
“You’re my friend, Rand?” he asked, a new note in his clear voice.
“Yes,” Ash affirmed.
“We’ve become friends.” Holm tilted his head, studying Rand.
“Yes.”
“But now that I can think, I believe you found me and joined with me to help me with my death duels because you had an agenda.” Holm’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes.” Ash held his arms wide, they trembled with the heat of his own SecondPassage. Legs shivered, too. Whole body shuddered. Showed himself open and vulnerable to the suspicious Holly.
Then he offered his arm for a friend’s clasp.
And Holm stepped forward, his fingers curving around Rand’s forearm near the elbow. Ash set his hand on Holm’s arm, squeezed.
When Holm stepped back, Rand wobbled.
“Wait,” Holm said, silver-blonde brows lifting in a pale face. He flicked a gesture at Rand. “You’re leaking.”
Zanth sniffed. Leaking blood.
Ash grunted, pressed his hand against his side, pushing what little mending and making and Healing Flair he had to his wound, irked at having to use so much power, and the fact that some of his good clothes now had holes in them and bloodstains on them.
“Let me see that.” Holm took a pace to him, braced Rand’s shoulders with one arm, yanked up his tunic and his shirt.
Rand sucked in a painful breath.
“No vital organ hit,” Holm said. “Just through muscle.”
“Primo Healing patches before and behind will take care of this without going to a HealingHall. Want those or a HealingHall?”
The words circled in Rand’s brain. “Don’t care to go to HealingHall.” Maybe the other Rues would find him there, trap him there. But he didn’t know where to get primo Healing patches, neither. As far as he knew one patch would cost him about five years of business profit.
Then Holm poked at Rand’s wounds and said some cleansing and anti-bacterial spells and two Healing patches were being slapped none-too-gently on him.
Rand gasped with pain, doubled-over to pant through it and maybe stay on his feet.
“You’ll do.”
“Thanks.” He meant the word to be sarcastic but it came out as a whisper.
“You’re welcome. Now, what was your agenda?”
“Rues. They here for me, the last Ash.”
“Ash! The Ashes were wiped out by an unknown enemy, a firebomb spell that took out T’Ash Residence and the whole Family!” Holm’s voice rose and echoed around the courtyard. People slammed their shutters closed. They didn’t want to hear this, get involved in FirstFamily feuds.
“Rue killed parents and Nuin and Gwydion. I escaped, here, Downwind.”
“That was years ago!”
“Eleven. I was six.”
“How did you stay alive?”
“Was a big kid, and I found Zanth.”
Me found him and helped him. We Fam companions. Friends of the heart.
“All right.” Holm nodded. “I can understand that.”
“I want my Family’s murderers punished. I want justice! Want my title and estates back.” He gestured to the drying bloodstains on the flagstones. “Rues came to find me, kill me and all the Ashes gone. Maybe kill you, too.”
Holm nodded. “I’m understanding that, too.”
We killed THEM, a good start to making them pay for their Bad acts! Zanth spat.
“Rues fools to come Downwind and try to take me, take Zanth. Take you, Holm.”
“Yes, very foolish.” Holm’s voice hardened to arrogant noble. And Holm’s gaze -- clear from Passage death duel lust -- fixed on Rand. He smiled and his pewter eyes took on a gleam of anticipatory joy at another fight, this one featuring a multitude of nobles and lasting months, if not years. “You and your Family deserves justice.”
Zanth sauntered up, tail high and waving, a few flecks of blood still on his whiskers. Me deserves a Residence.
Rand felt his face go to stone. The basis of the intelligent house, his Residence, still lived in its HeartStones, secretly hidden. He didn’t have the gilt, yet, to build a new house -- rebuild his home. He would.
He felt the sizzle on his right biceps of the god-given tattoo for the Vengeance Stalk. He lifted his fist. “We will win.”
“Yes. I’ll stand by you,” Holm said.
We will win. Life is good, Zanth said.
Fractured Stone
This story needed tightening and polishing when the Covid 19 virus hit. Like most people, I felt helpless in this time of pandemic, and I also wanted to give back to those who were staying at home. So I posted Fractured Stone every day, page by page, and included the cut scenes while trying to finish the collection. I put up the story on my website and my blog. I also posted on Facebook with a daily photo I hoped illustrated the scene. So Fractured Stone became my Staying At Home story, and one people got to see in all its flaws.
This story follows the events of Heart Duel, as requested by a friend. Holm Holly has been disinherited and lost his family, status, and basic identity. Now he must make a new life in Gael City with his HeartMate and their Familiar companions.
FRACTURED STONE
Gael City, Celta, 403 Years After Colonization, Summer
* * *
Holm Holly—no, NOT Holly—Holm Apple stood on the wide sidewalk in the small and bustling town of Gael City and stared at the modest building. He'd thought he'd been coping well with his disinheritance, but from the churning in his gut he realized he'd lied ... more to himself than everyone else, he suspected.
This step, the renting of this building as space for a fencing and fighting salon, naturally to be the best in the city, would turn his life in a different direction. A final acknowledgment that he no longer belonged to the Holly Family. That his status as HollyHeir, a man who would become a FirstFamily GreatLord, the highest of the high, had vanished.
"Maybe we're moving too fast and I shouldn't have brought you here yet," said the woman beside him. The absolute best part of this new life, his HeartMate, Lark. She murmured the statement more mind-to-mind with telepathy than the whisper he heard.
He unlinked their fingers and put his arm around her waist, savoring the feel of her pliant body against his own as much or as more than the brush of her mind, and their emotional connection. "No, you're right. We must get on with our lives."
He'd lost himself, and though he pretended, he hadn't really made a new self. He'd made plans without expecting them to happen. Now he had to follow through, become someone else. Grow.
Drawing in a deep breath of air not-at-all like Druida City's, he smelled the dust of a smaller town, the earth of the mountains to the north, a fresh water river instead of a nearby great salt-ocean.
"I think this building will do well," he croaked, and stepped up to the one-story structure that showcased large shop-like windows in the front. He'd have to protect that glass with strong Flair, psi magic, and definitely allow no training to spill over into the front room. Write a stipulation in his contracts with clients that any breakage would be paid for by the culprit.
Lark moved with him, then up to the door. She murmured passcoded spellwords to drop the psi shield and allow them in.
They stepped over the small ridge of threshold into the space, redolent with the scent of cleanser and wood polish.
To Holm's surprise, the entry room comprised the full width of the building but only extended about three meters deep, making a wide but shallow foyer. The pale blue smooth upper walls accented the dark wood wainscoting on the bottom.
The near wall in front of them sported a pair of double-doors. When he pushed them, they swung back and forth easily on their hinges. He strode into a large, empty room with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the left wall, and the right wall interrupted by two doors, one reading "Men's Dressing Room," and the other, "Women's Dressing Room."
The shining wooden floor felt hard and new beneath his feet. "Your father doesn't own this property, does he?"
"Not that I know of, but he did refer me to it. Actually, I think he consulted with your G'Uncle Tab who runs the salon in Druida, and asked what was needed."
"Oh. Good."
"Father's note said this had been an exercise space for dance and theater artists."
Holm stared at the mirrors and figured they'd have to be specially shielded for his business.
At that moment his and Lark's FamCats, young orange tabby brothers, tumbled into the room. As soon as they all had arrived in a glider, the toms had leapt from the vehicle to run around the building and check out the yard behind.
Our space! the young cats yelled telepathically. Meserve, lazier and fatter than his brother—Holm's kitten who'd been pampered and spoilt by the Holly Family—cuffed Phyll. My space. *I* am Trainer Cat.
The cats rolled around wrestling, breaking away, pouncing on each other as Holm prowled to the mirror wall, placed his hand on the glass. He sensed no spells, simply glass. Nothing to protect the wall from flying bodies.
Shocking.
The mirrors needed shielding at the very least. Better would be coating spells that could set various types of walls over the glass—wood or plaster or permacrete—to be cycled as Holm needed.
And that would be expensive.
His brain stopped. He had no money, no gilt, at all.
His father had confiscated Holm's personal account as belonging to HollyHeir, as it had. Holm hadn't separated his own nobleg
ilt salary, the money he'd received from the Councils for any quests they sent him on—minimal—from any other funds.
He'd rarely given personal money any thought. Anything he'd needed had been charged to the Holly Family accounts.
He'd always worked ... for his father, GreatLord T'Holly, learning how to be a good lord, how to handle their affairs and property. He'd also worked at the Family enterprise owned and run by his G'Uncle Tab, The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon, training and giving private lessons, taking part in melees, whatever G'Uncle Tab needed. And done his annual noblegilt duty.
But Holm had never actually been paid by his Family for HollyHeir duties. Or had a bank account not linked with his Family. Had never had to consider whether he could actually afford to purchase something.
He'd been so blindsided by the disowning, so emotionally staggered, that he hadn't considered his "individual" money ... Well, he'd never considered any of his gilt personal. All went into the Family coffers, and he charged whatever he needed to the Family.
Now he had nothing.
Where would he get the money, the gilt, to pay someone for the shields? And they wouldn't be the best shields, because the best practitioners with the most Flair, psychic magical power, lived in Druida City. If he wanted the best, he'd have to bring them down ... and he had no idea how to pay them.
"What's wrong?" Lark asked, and Holm realized he'd folded over, hands braced on knees, panting as if he'd fought several hearty bouts in a row.
"I have no gilt," he ground out.
Laughter rippled from her, and it speared him that she didn't share his consternation. She patted him lightly on the back, and sent him a wash of comfort ... tinged with amusement. "That's all right, I have plenty. Not only the noblegilt the Councils pay me for my services, but a very nice salary for being the new head of the Gael City HealingHall."
"Good," he said through stiff and cold lips. Before he could straighten, both young cats hopped on his lower back, crawled up to his shoulders. Fun! said Phyll.
Hearts and Stones (Celta HeartMate) Page 11