Firestorm

by Lucy Hounsom

  Brégenne followed the group until they vanished over the lip of the slope. Distant shouts came almost immediately, ringing from the fortress walls. A clanking preceded the drawbridge as it descended. She sat tight and tried to swallow the feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong.

  22

  Hagdon

  He paced back and forth, boots dusted with the snow that had begun falling shortly after midnight. ‘Where are they?’ He’d asked the question aloud half a dozen times already. ‘I need to know what’s going on in there.’ He couldn’t bear the thought of Irilin in Parakat, remembering the bruised, famished bodies of its inmates.

  Just then Brégenne signalled from the top of the slope, a flash of moonlight. ‘Something’s happening,’ Hagdon heard himself say. He looked around. ‘Nediah, Kait, come with me. Hu, follow us at a distance. Leave the horses picketed here. No lights.’ Without waiting for a response, he started up the ridge.

  Brégenne was crouched on the top. She’d bound her hair into a long plait that hung over her shoulder and her eyes glowed softly in the dark. ‘The lights have left the walls,’ she said. ‘Either a shift change, or Mercia’s taken them out. This is our best chance.’

  Hagdon adjusted the sword on his back, pulled up his hood. ‘Let’s go, then.’

  They made it to the bottom of the slope just as the drawbridge creaked into action. Hagdon waited. He could hear the bulk of the Republic behind him, but the clanking of the bridge covered the sound of boots on rock.

  When the bridge was fully down and the portcullis lifted, he could see a figure standing in the entrance, framed by weak torchlight. It was Mercia, who beckoned him forward. Thinking of Irilin, Hagdon was halfway across the drawbridge when his instincts screamed at him. Mercia stood stiffly, her beckoning hand twisted palm out instead of in – the only way she was able to warn him.

  Hagdon skidded to a halt. He was close enough to see her face now – eye already purpling, lip split open. Blood painted her chin. When he didn’t move further, a soldier stepped out, grabbed Mercia and held a dagger to her throat.

  ‘General,’ a woman’s voice called. ‘Do come in.’

  The drawbridge began to close, forcing Hagdon into a run. He jumped and rolled, hearing the bridge clang shut behind him. He landed badly and his shoulder, still tender after the crossbow injury, admonished him with a stab of pain. Gritting his teeth, he straightened.

  ‘Have you come to inspect the troops?’ the woman asked mockingly, stepping into the torchlight.

  ‘Maeve,’ he said. It was years ago and he had been young. Her blond hair was longer than he remembered; she’d bound it into a soldier’s knot.

  She flashed a cold smile. ‘Nice to know you remember, but it’s Captain Tserfel now.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware the stealth force garrisoned Parakat,’ he replied mildly, despite the cold unfurling in his stomach.

  ‘Such recklessness, Hagdon.’ She took a slow walk around Mercia. ‘To send a known traitor into our midst …’ Maeve stopped, facing him. ‘Not a mistake you’d have made before.’

  ‘Times change.’

  ‘I’m aware.’ She rolled her shoulders; the greathawks glinted on her pauldrons. ‘Why are you here?’

  The air rippled. Hagdon saw it; Maeve didn’t. A moment later, Irilin stepped out of the shadows, hooked an arm around the captain’s neck and slashed a dagger across her throat.

  Before the bubble of shock burst, Irilin thrust the dying woman at her comrades and reached for Hagdon. He saw the dull shimmer of metal clamped about her wrist – an ambertrix manacle. ‘Get it off,’ she cried. ‘Now, or we’re dead.’

  Hagdon grabbed the catch and wrenched it open. The ambertrix flickered a protest, but he wasn’t an aberration and it couldn’t stop him. As soon as the manacle left her wrist, Irilin smiled. It was wide and unpleasant. She swept a hand out; a silver shield appeared just in time to deflect the dozen or so bolts that flew at them.

  Another volley came; Hagdon saw the telltale blue shimmer just before the crossbow fired. He leapt at Irilin, knocking her off her feet and sending them both rolling across the stone. The ambertrix bolt tore through the shield and it vanished.

  ‘Not that again.’ Irilin crawled out from under him, hand already glowing defensively, but before she could act, Mercia threw herself at the soldier with the crossbow. Busy reloading it, he didn’t see her leap.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Irilin said. ‘As soon as that manacle was on, I couldn’t help Mercia. I barely had enough power for a shadow-cloak.’

  It was a detail he should have remembered. ‘You were lucky they didn’t use two – what with the shortage, there aren’t enough to go around.’

  Irilin cocked her head, as if she’d heard something he hadn’t. Then shouts erupted close by, echoing off the stones of the fortress. The sky, dark with falling snow, was suddenly bright. Crisp, clear, like the moon on a cloudless night. Hagdon looked up.

  She could have been the moon, so radiantly did she shine. Brégenne stood on nothing but the air, frowning as she held the bridge over which the Republic and Mercia’s remaining soldiers rushed. It stretched from the far side of the cliff to the courtyard, bypassing the portcullis entirely.

  He heard the creak of a crossbow being wound and looked up in time to see the bolt fly at Brégenne. She lifted a hand and, almost negligently, brushed the projectile out of the air. Hagdon narrowed his eyes, looking for the blue glow of ambertrix – Brégenne wouldn’t be able to withstand a bolt from one of those bows – but Mercia had the guard pinned. She ripped the crossbow out of his grip and, ignoring his cry of dismay, lobbed it over the parapet.

  ‘Commander,’ Avery said, landing lightly beside him. The Republic followed her, throwing themselves fiercely into the fray. Hagdon saw a kind of unholy fervour in many eyes; how many of these men and women had lost loved ones to Parakat?

  ‘This is only the beginning, Hagdon,’ Mercia called. Blood ran from her opponent’s nostrils; he lay unconscious or dead. ‘They’ve got a full three hundred stationed here.’

  Hagdon cursed. Three hundred Sartyans … he only hoped Brégenne and Irilin could tip the balance. Kait leapt down beside him, naked steel in her hands. She was a force of nature and he added her to his scales. It still didn’t look good.

  ‘We need to get the aberrations fighting,’ Irilin said, reading the thoughts from his face.

  Hagdon shook his head. ‘They won’t do it, not when they see the odds stacked against us. They’ll be too frightened.’

  ‘Not all,’ she replied. ‘I met some of them. They haven’t given up hope. I told them to be ready.’ She turned. ‘I’ll get them. I need someone with me who’s not a Wielder to remove the manacles.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Mercia said before Hagdon could answer. ‘You’re needed up here, Commander.’

  ‘Too dangerous. I’ll—’

  Their moment of calm shattered. Hagdon parried the Sartyan blade that came for him and in the time it took to force the soldier back, disarm him and sever his hamstring, Irilin and Mercia had disappeared. The battle gave Hagdon a second to swear before closing over his head.

  He fought his way through a sea of red. Blood, mail, it was all the same. Mercia’s unit had painted feathers on their armour and shields; if not for that, Hagdon would have scythed them down as he did the rest. They came at him and he fell into the old trance, letting his body move in the way he’d trained it to. He hadn’t earned his bloody reputation by remaining outside the fray. For that, the Fist had held him in high regard … at least before the Starborn arrived and everything changed.

  More faces, more faceless. There was fear in their eyes when they saw him coming. Once, he would have smiled. Now he fought impassively, took wounds, gave wounds in return. His muscles burned, his breath, so carefully controlled, grew ragged. He was aware of Kait fighting nearby, her twin swords a blur as she leapt and slashed, a dervish of limbs and blades.

  His handaxe was slick with blood. His blood? He didn�
��t know, but it was hard to grip. He’d lost a gauntlet somewhere in the melee and the hilt slipped in his bare hand. Hagdon glanced down to see a deep gash in the meat of his palm. He dimly recalled reaching out, catching a blade. Foolish move. His current opponent knocked the axe aside; it left his hand, skidding down the snow-slick stones, well out of reach. Hagdon drew his greatsword, but it was a poor choice for a tired man. Even lifting it was an effort.

  And in that moment, aching, spattered with the mingled blood of men and women whose names he’d never know, that weariness spread through him. Was this how it would happen? Would his life end here on this miserable battlement, slick with blood and sleet? It seemed he’d spent every day of it fighting. His arm fell to his side, hand opening convulsively; as if in a dream, Hagdon watched the greatsword clang against stone.

  He looked at his Sartyan opponent; something had changed in the man’s eyes. A spark. A recognition. He raised his sword and Hagdon railed at his body to move.

  ‘James!’

  Light exploded around him, hurled him halfway across the wide battlement. He hit the wall and slid down it. The impact hurt, but dispelled whatever strange dream had frozen him. He’d already risen to hands and knees by the time she hurried over.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Irilin said, dropping down beside him. ‘I couldn’t avoid hitting you too.’

  Hagdon was going to say, ‘No harm done’, but it seemed rather ludicrous in the face of all his injuries. He felt her eyes travel over him. ‘Nediah can heal you,’ she said. ‘It’s only a few hours till dawn.’

  ‘We have a battle to win first,’ he replied, planting his sword, using it to drag himself up. Irilin rose with him. One of her hands twitched as if she wanted to support him, but it remained at her side.

  ‘What happened?’

  He followed her gaze to the dead soldier. The man’s neck was twisted and snow settled on his open eyes. Irilin shivered. ‘What happened?’ she asked again.

  ‘Nothing,’ Hagdon lied, unwilling to think about that terrible weariness. Where had it come from? Would it seize him again when he least expected it? ‘I was careless. Thanks for the help.’

  Irilin looked as if she wanted to say more, but a muffled explosion came from below. They gazed at each other, wide-eyed. ‘Let’s go.’ Hagdon experienced a fervent desire to lie down, but he forced himself to move. His wounds screamed at him; myriad new scars to add to his collection, he thought grimly. He seized Irilin’s hand and pulled her into a run. It was warm, reassuring, the only real thing in this world of blood and snow.

  The battlement was littered with the dead and dying. His own fight had taken him away from the larger battle, which had moved below, inside the keep itself. Hagdon felt a fierce pride in the Republic for holding their own, but then he remembered Brégenne. He saw her a moment later, more blaze than woman, fighting, surprisingly, beside Kait.

  She might be using ordinary swords, but in the tall woman’s hands, they were anything but ordinary. As he watched, Kait parried a blow from the left, dodged one from the right, spun and thrust her blade into a third Sartyan coming up behind her. She was as bloody as Hagdon himself; much of it, he guessed, belonged to her enemies.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she snapped at him between parries. ‘Hu’s going wild.’

  ‘I’m here now,’ Hagdon said shortly, automatically looking for his adjutant. He spotted the rebel at the very moment Hu took a blade in the back.

  With a cry of fury, Hagdon launched himself forward, knowing it was already too late. Gaze fixed on Hu’s killer, he cut down two Sartyans who threw themselves unwisely into his path, until he faced the woman. With some difficulty, she tugged her sword from Hu’s body, turned to meet his attack. Her eyes grew round when she recognized him. ‘General—’

  It was her last word. Hagdon took her head.

  The remaining Sartyans had identified Brégenne as the most serious threat and had closed around her. Hagdon glimpsed her face. She was tired. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed; between the darkness and the blood, it could have been minutes, hours. Brégenne threw out splinters of moonlight, sharp darts that pierced armour and should have pierced flesh, but for those ambertrix-forged breastplates. The handful of Sartyans wearing them – officers, some of whom Hagdon recognized – pressed closer to the Wielder, so that she was forced to give ground. Brégenne summoned a spear. It glowed brighter and brighter in her grip until she threw it at her nearest opponent. The bolt tore through the dragon-plate, hurling the Sartyan into his comrades. The advance faltered.

  But Brégenne stumbled, her strength sapped. Irilin gave a cry and sent rune upon rune into the backs of the men circling Brégenne. She took some down, but more were pouring out of the barracks to bolster ranks. Although several dozen rebels still stood, they were outnumbered and exhausted. Their plan had depended on a surprise assault, not a lengthy battle against superior forces. Even Kait was beginning to slow. As Hagdon watched, she took a slash across the cheek, which only just missed her eye. Teeth bared, she darted frequent, accusatory glances at the ceiling, as if chastising the dawn for its slow coming.

  The promise of victory was a potent thing. Hagdon watched it ripple through the Sartyans, through men he might once have led to battle against the very rebellion he now fought for. They redoubled their attack. Brégenne’s eyes met his then, a silent plea, and Hagdon knew what he had to do.

  ‘Stop!’ he thundered.

  His shout made the closest soldiers jump, but the din of sword on sword filled the keep with echoes. Irilin looked around. ‘They need to hear me!’ he called to her.

  Irilin fended off an attack; a blade scraped uselessly against her Lunar shield. Turning towards him, she pointed a finger and Hagdon found himself limned in silver. He almost cried out; the moonlight was alive, wreathing his limbs. It felt icy and hot at the same time.

  His next shout truly was thunder.

  The boom shook mortar from the stones. Weapons clattered; men and women covered their ears, looking for the source of the sound. Like some avenging spirit, Hagdon leapt onto a half-dismantled catapult, his shining figure stark in the smoky, torchlit space. All eyes turned to him, Sartyan, rebel and Wielder alike. In the quiet that followed, the only sounds that could be heard were heavy breathing, moans of agony from the prone and a distant pattering like feet on stone.

  ‘Hagdon,’ one of the officers said. His sword had serrated teeth – it was how Hagdon recognized him.

  ‘Lieutenant Jauler,’ he acknowledged. Speaking, his voice was still loud, but not overwhelming.

  ‘You remembered my name,’ Jauler said, rasping a little with exertion. ‘A dubious honour, but an honour nonetheless.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ Hagdon wasn’t sure what he planned to say. All he knew was that he couldn’t let the fighting recommence. ‘To be frank, Lieutenant, you are the last person I would have suspected of supporting Iresonté.’

  Jauler spat bloody saliva. ‘True, I wouldn’t cry if someone planted a blade between the bitch’s eyes, but she’s got the balls to do what you won’t.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Avenge our men. Avenge the men the Starborn killed and march on Rairam.’

  ‘Those men were soldiers.’ He’d said the same to a different lieutenant, merely weeks before Iresonté’s insurrection. ‘Soldiers in the service of the emperor. They died doing their duty.’

  ‘The emperor is dead.’

  ‘I know,’ Hagdon said, ‘I killed him.’

  A whisper through the ranks. Hagdon felt the weight of their gazes. ‘Iresonté,’ he added, ‘stood by and watched.’

  ‘Lies,’ Jauler said immediately. ‘It was she who tried to stop you.’

  Hagdon laughed. Perhaps it was the hours he’d spent shedding blood, detached from reality, but the image of Iresonté throwing herself protectively in front of the emperor was ludicrous. Some of Jauler’s men looked as if they wanted to back away, but the lieutenant’s face darkened. ‘Laugh while y
ou can, Hagdon. You’ll find little to amuse you in Iresonté’s custody.’

  ‘So I’m to be taken alive.’ Hagdon swept his gaze over them all. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  ‘If at all possible,’ Jauler said. ‘But Iresonté will settle for your head. Look around you. You’re beaten, Hagdon.’

  Hagdon did not look around. He knew it for the truth. Of those rebels he’d brought into Parakat, he guessed over half were dead. The fledgling Republic couldn’t afford to lose even one and still he’d brought them to this forsaken place to die. ‘There are always casualties in war,’ he said.

  ‘War?’ It was Jauler’s turn to laugh. ‘This isn’t war, Hagdon. It’s civil unrest. You, of all people, should know the difference. You spent your life putting it down.’ He sobered. ‘Now the tables are turned. I suppose there’s justice in that.’

  This temporary truce was unravelling; Hagdon could feel it, see it in the contracting of hands on hilts, in eyes that flicked restlessly from side to side as each Sartyan took in the measure of their comrades. Brégenne and Irilin exchanged one charged glance.

  And then the noise Hagdon had almost ceased to hear rose up: the slapping of bare feet on stone. With a chorus of cries, a gate burst open, spilling dozens of half-naked people into the space. Mercia was carried in on the shrieking tide, her expression halfway between unnerved and triumphant. The aberrations were armed with swords, axes – weapons apparently liberated from the barracks. But more poignantly, Hagdon saw familiar silver light sparking between hands, limning wasted flesh.

  Prisoners fell upon jailers, some invariably onto the points of swords. The air crackled with the discharge of power. ‘Uncontrolled!’ Hagdon heard Brégenne yell to Irilin. Those Sartyans surrounding her had been forced to deal with the aberrations. Hagdon essayed a guess at numbers. A hundred? When they saw their fellows swarming over the Sartyans, more pushed their way through the gate and into the fray.