City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array)

by H. O. Charles

His height permitted him to spot someone before she did, but it served no benefit. For as soon as he had changed direction, the pair happened upon a circle of noblewomen. The ladies did not give way. Morghiad squeezed Artemi’s hand tightly.

  All of the women were tall, elegant and willowy. The wielder had never thought herself especially short for a woman, but next to these ladies she could not help but feel intimidated. She affected a curtsey, and the kahr bowed his head slightly out of politeness.

  The tallest, a blonde woman with a creased forehead spoke first. “That was quite a dance, Miss Artemi.” She emphasised the address with a hiss. “Tell me, where did you learn to move like that?”

  She chose her words carefully. “The kahr instructed me, my lady.”

  The blonde woman raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “In under a year? I hardly think that possible among even the most proficient of... girls.” She eyed Artemi up and down. “Though I daresay even a servant can be taught how to hold a tray, why not how to step in time to music?” The other women laughed melodically.

  Morghiad stiffened, but held his tongue.

  “But really tell me, child. Where were you schooled?” The noblewoman leaned in.

  “She learned with me,” the kahr answered before Artemi could. “She has a natural talent that cannot be taught.”

  The woman sniffed, and one of her companions joined in. “True enough, a low-born woman may improve herself. But there is no substitute for proper breeding. Wouldn’t you say, my lord?”

  Morghiad’s brow darkened visibly. “I have found that breeding is no substitute for wit, beauty or intelligence. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Harcoure?”

  The woman’s eyes bulged at the implied insult, but she did not respond.

  The kahr made as if to leave, but a third woman in the group spoke before he could. “My lord, tell us how you met your lovely benay-gosa. I am given to understand that, prior to her current... position, she would change your sheets?” The black-haired lady smirked and her companions mirrored the expression.

  Artemi answered for him this time, “You are quite correct. And it was work for which I earned a wage and proved myself of use. And in my current role, when time permits it, I endeavour to work for the betterment of my country. Tell me, my lady, what do you do for Calidell?”

  The noblewomen stared at her, wide-eyed.

  “I think that is enough charming conversation for one evening,” Morghiad said, “Enjoy the festivities, my ladies.” He gave a shallow bow and led Artemi away.

  Over the surrounding chatter she heard “out of control” and “impudent” drift from the noblewoman. The wielder allowed herself a small smile.

  Chapter 12

  The tavern light was dingy at best, with candles only illuminating nearby tankards of ale and the closest of faces. At one table, buried in the curtained-off recesses of a particularly dark corner, sat a man and a woman. His face was red with ale and his pupils had grown large with intoxication, yet his sense of desire remained strong. Limp strands of dark blond hair fell over one of his hazel eyes as he drew a side of his mouth to a toothy smile. The woman opposite him returned the smile with her dark lips, and continued to twist her delicate fingers in deep brown waves of ironwood hair.

  “Great fires of Achellon, girl,” the man exclaimed, “You’ll have me drawing a marriage square around your toes before I hit the pillows!”

  She touched his hand gently. “I would never bid you enter such a contract for me, my love.” He was good-looking enough for a husband, but far too stupid. No, this man would serve better for other uses... “But perhaps you’d like to join me for an evening?”

  The young man’s face creased into a full grin. “Oh aye, Artemi. I would.”

  She stood slowly, revealing her slight figure and tightly fitted assassin’s garb. Two gale-swords crossed her back, and a row of spin-daggers glittered along the length of her legs. No one ever told her to disarm in their establishments, but then few believed her capable of using her weaponry.

  “I’d like to duel you again, if you’re keen,” he slurred, eyeing her numerous blades.

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps when you’ve had some sleep to soak up that ale.”

  He only grunted in response, and moved his gaze elsewhere on her body.

  They strode, or rather strode and staggered, out of the bar and into the cool Sokirin night. Corynorh was not a bad fighter at all. In truth he was very good for so slow-witted an opponent, but his arrogance was his downfall. That and he didn’t stand a chance against her, few people did. The abilities he had, however, made him a prime candidate for her task. It was a duty that had lain upon her shoulders for millennia; a duty to keep the world in good order; a duty to tidy up the mess created by that foolish Daisain. The Dukusu forest had remained exactly as she remembered it, and its rich scents of greenery were welcome reminders of her home. She pushed past an especially broad-leafed fern, allowing it to snap back into her new friend’s face.

  “You’re a very bad woman,” he muttered in warning tones, before emitting a series of wet hiccups.

  She ignored his drunken noises and proceeded down a narrow alleyway of closely packed rubber-wood trees. Soon they had arrived at a fissure in the white rocks, her hidden lair within a maze. Two warm and inviting lamps burned at the entrance.

  Corynorh squinted at the pale outcrop. “You live here?”

  Evidently he didn’t think much of caves, but to her they were the perfect place to live. No one else but the odd tiger or bear would go near them, they tended to last longer than houses and they had a certain antiquated charm about them. Occasionally, even the most powerful wielders needed a secluded place to hide away in, and this one was perfect. “Have you changed your mind?” she asked, returning to her hair twirling.

  “Not a chance.” He grinned broadly in a way that only drunken, desirous men could.

  She drew her hand along the length of her bodice and reached over to the young fighter’s lapel. “Come,” she whispered. They entered the soft light of the cave together, their bodies both eager with the heat of lust.

  As all men would do in her bed, he was keen to show her his command and aggression. And she, in her way, was content to allow it. She was happy to bear his heaving, sweaty body and oozing spittle. She was happy to endure being bonded to a charred lump of crazed meat. She would be happy to endure the subsequent punishment of nalka, and the gut-wrenchingly painful spasms that came with it. It was all part of the fight, the eternal battle that destiny had designed for her. It was her purpose. For a brief moment, she could enjoy the extreme pleasures that came from his efforts and her power. But it was so brief, so very disappointingly brief. His eyes widened to white spheres as he took the full force of her wielder Blaze in his ordinary, hollow body. The energy flowed out of her uncontrollably, fizzling in the air and scalding his skin. It became so hot that he began to redden, blister and smoke. Corynorh screamed from the bizarre mixture of pleasure and pain wrought by the fires, which continued their assault on him until his skin started to blacken. It was the same every time: the same smells, sensations and sounds. Finally his cries drained to a soft croak, and he flopped onto the rocky ground.

  For a while she lay there with him, unable to disrupt their bond. Of course, she could have simply used a dagger to cut herself free but, having tried that once before, she knew the results could be... unsavoury. When the sun had raised enough to turn the skies outside to a dull grey, the dark-haired woman was able to push him off. She dressed quickly and re-armed herself with her various items of weaponry. New soldiers could be very unpredictable, and were rendered utterly immune to the effects of Blaze Energy. The man’s figure lay inert on the floor, and some of his tan skin had started to heal around the burned patches. Not that it mattered. It would all blacken again soon. He stirred.

  “Corynorh?” she sang in her melodious voice.

  His eyes flicked open; his hazel irises rendered a milky white by the fires. With impossible speed he
leapt to his feet and charged at her with his bloody teeth bared. She reacted instantly, drawing her gale-sword and beating him across the face with it. “Bad Corynorh!” she shouted at him as he stopped, stunned by the admonishment. “Are you going to behave now, like a good eisiel?”

  “Eisiel?” His destroyed vocal cords rasped against one another. There was a moment of brief introspection, before the man knelt at the feet of his new mistress.

  She leant forward to place a hand on his flaking shoulder. “Very good. Now, go and put your clothes back on. You remember how to do that, yes?”

  He nodded slowly. That was good. Sometimes they barely remembered how to walk. The eisiel diligently drew his trousers and shirt on, but failed at numerous attempts to tie them properly. It would do.

  “Eisiel!” she called. “I have orders for you. Sit.“

  The blackened man dropped to the floor with his head bowed. “I like orders, yes I do.” He grinned at the floor. “Always liked them. Always, always!” The eisiel began to laugh in a high pitch.

  “That is good. Now, you are to go and find someone. She is known to be a Kusuru Assassin, and has wrought a great evil upon this Earth. You will know her by her hair...”

  “Has that army of yours found Katin yet?” The king rubbed at his beard vigorously, it was growing too long for its own good. A man needed a well-trimmed beard to look imposing, knowledgeable and, above all, masculine. Morghiad should really grow one if he wanted to progress in his career or do anything of note. Not that such things were likely, of course.

  The kahr shook his head. “I am sorry, but the girl has eluded our searches so far. Rest assured, I will have her beheaded as soon as we find her.” His cold, green eyes remained impassive. Good, perhaps the boy was finally learning. He still needed a firm hand though.

  “This is not good enough!” Acher boomed. “She has committed treason and is now running around my country with my bond! She has stolen from me and must be brought to account for it. Work harder at it, or have your men whipped for their poor performance.”

  Morghiad half-raised an eyebrow. “All of them? That could take a few years...”

  “I don’t care for the logistics, lad! Just see that justice is done. I want to see that girl’s head decorating a spike within the week.” And Acher had the perfect place for such a spike prepared in his mind. “Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?”

  The kahr compressed his lips. “It has been brought to my attention that the kingdom of Kemen needs our assistance, assistance which could benefit some of Calidell’s own towns.”

  “We owe Kemen nothing, lad. Leave them.” They should have ceded at least a province to him in the previous century, but then those had been his fighting days. He had a son to do all that for him now, leaving him far more time to enjoy the finer things.

  Morghiad gripped his sword hilt. “Our army is willing to go to their aid. Think how indebted Kemen will be to us if we do.”

  The king pondered at the grey, simply carved ceiling for a moment. Such simplicity was the most beautiful form of art, and dark stone spoke of everlasting strength. It was much more durable than any Blaze-wrought, poncy white rubbish. The council office was very rarely empty during the day, and Morghiad appeared to have chosen his time well in isolating the king. But the lad was an overgrown sword hand; too simple for such advanced thinking. No, this was quite an accident of timing. Acher leant back in his finely carved chair of mahogany fire-wood and placed his hands behind his head. “Kemenis are slippery creatures. They won’t give anything back for the blood you spill. No, I want the army to stay here and find my benay-gosa.”

  The kahr folded his arms. “You know she had family in the south?”

  He hadn’t known that. Foolish of him really “Of course, I knew that! Do you think me an idiot?”

  “No, father. I -”

  “Well, go and take your bloody blunt-edged and blunt-witted army down to the south then. And make sure you kill a few people while you’re at it, maybe some Kemenis too. There’s no point in any of this prisoner business I’ve been hearing about. Oh, and don’t try to save too many of your own soldiers. You need enough to win, but if you don’t lose a few-hundred then this country will be overflowing with people before you can call upon Achellon for a tornado to exterminate the excess. Everything is so very finely balanced.” And so easily disrupted. A rich country could not stay rich if the money had to be shared between more hands.

  A small smile worked across Morghiad’s face; the nature of it was very curious. “Perhaps you should invite the wielders back to do your pruning for you?”

  “Hah!” Dangerous witches. One never knew if such a woman might end up in one’s bed... and then... Acher took a deep breath. He was safe. His country was safe from that. “Better for us to keep the country’s whores free for whoring, don’t you think?”

  “I would not deny my countrymen their opportunities for enjoyment.”

  The king rose from his chair and strode around the front of his glittering, night-stone desk. “Is that so? I hear your army does not partake of so much enjoyment these days.”

  The kahr went to stand at the tall, cloud-filled window. “They enjoy serving their country.”

  “They are at risk of taking themselves too seriously. Calidell’s army serves this country by killing and being killed. And if they want to enjoy the parts in between then that is to be encouraged. You know that very well, lad.” Acher sat back against the surface of his desk. This idiot child was probably too stupid to learn as quickly as was required.

  The boy sighed. “If they are not sleeping with so many women then it will take longer for them to find someone to breed with.”

  “It’s not the army breeding we need to worry about,” the king muttered, “Bloody commoners, farmers and village idiots!” The ones who donated little of worth to the country through the creation of their idle offspring, believing it to be a right bestowed upon them by Achellon. How he despised them and their hungry, needy little families!

  “We need someone to work the fields, father.”

  Acher harrumphed. There were more than enough people to do that, just too many to be fed from those fields! “Take your bloody celibate men south and find that bitch of mine.” Three years of his companionship wasted on her and Morghiad had greater concerns for his precious men. At least now that the kahr had that little red-haired girl, Acher didn’t have to make excuses for his son’s sexuality. That had been an embarrassing matter to deal with daily amongst the visiting royal snakes. The lad was an embarrassment! Blazes, how he needed to father another son!

  The blue streams of fire fanned through his consciousness like a fine network of glowing tree roots, pulsing and heaving with their energy. He felt along the largest of them for the thousandth time, sensing its awful power. It had finally matured that summer; finally ceased its improbably rapid growth from a tiny trickle of energy. Passerid snapped open his brown eyes and padded around the room again. It was simply furnished with only the most basic things a soldier would need: a small bed, a writing desk and a wardrobe for his uniform. The grey walls had been decorated with the sigil-marked flags of his House, Collibry, and the small brown bird on them reminded him of himself: unremarkable, unheard but always watching. He sat at his desk, withdrew a sheet of paper and began writing. It was a sickening punishment that never seemed to end. He checked the register of names to be sure that he would spell the next one correctly.

  Dear Madam and Sir Retsinnal,

  It is with great regret that I write to you about the death of your daughter, Miss Enodia. It was I who ended her life and I hope it will reassure you to know that I suffer daily with –

  Just how many wielders had he dispatched during his time in Calidell? The register was large, spanning several volumes, and he had only made it part of the way through in a year. Some of the names he vaguely recalled, others he had absolutely no idea to whom they belonged. All babies looked the same when you took them from their parents, any
way. He could hardly be expected to distinguish one wielder child from another across the centuries. Some of the families had since moved away, often to another country, but Morghiad had insisted that he make efforts to locate them for his apologies. It was a punishment he suffered for, alright! And it was ridiculous. How could a letter of apology from their child’s executor ever come close to lessening the parents’ grief? He’d already received several letters of abuse from them in return for his atonements and admissions. Passerid slammed down the brass canal pen and kicked his chair to the floor in annoyance. He’d be lucky if one of them didn’t hunt him down to kill him.

  Breathing deeply, his mind returned to the Blaze streams that his abilities permitted him to see. That great stream - it matched Artemi’s age perfectly, but it must have been a grade thirteen or fourteen. How could she be the lover of a kanaala only graded twelve? Not that twelve was insignificant; as an ordinarily respectable six, Passerid couldn’t even see to the end of Artemi’s fires when he touched her. He searched again for a more likely candidate, but only succeeded in finding a twelve whom he knew had been around for centuries and an eleven in her seventies. Could it be that their relationship was some sort of elaborate masquerade? And to what end? Artemi never seemed to leave the kahr’s rooms these days, or was always seen hanging from his arm like an obedient pet if she wasn’t at practice. It had surprised no one that Morghiad had given in to her charms so rapidly, but what had been the cost? Perhaps their kahr was already an eisiel, and she was manipulating him like a Blaze-burned puppet. The girl could have all sorts of mind control techniques learned during her previous lives, or ways to make other people believe Morghiad wasn’t the walking dead.

  Passerid sat on the bed and rubbed at his temples vigorously. Artemi seemed like a sweet girl, and she had fulfilled her oaths to the army so far. The legends spoke well enough of her honour and her victories, so he trusted her to keep him alive if they fought together on the battlefield. But she was a wielder nonetheless. They were still dangerous things with dangerous abilities, governed by their irrational female emotions. The brown-haired kanaala looked back at his task on the desk. No, Morghiad was just as difficult as he had always been. And what could Passerid do to save the Ward of Calidell’s army from another Ward, anyway? Nothing. He just had to trust Artemi not to do something catastrophic to their captain at so critical a time.