Firestorm

by Lucy Hounsom

  He swallowed, returning the eyeglass to Yara. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For showing you our end?’ the first mate asked bitterly. ‘We can’t fight them.’

  ‘We have to try.’ He thought of the promise he’d made to his mother, a promise he could not now keep. Without the gauntlets, he was nothing. The mere thought of someone else wielding them made his blood boil. ‘How swiftly can we reach Ümvast?’

  Yara pursed her lips as she thought. ‘Eight days. Depends on whether your people have already begun moving south.’

  Eight days. If the Fist went through the valley, they would be in Rairam by then. But the men would surely revolt if Iresonté tried to force them through the hoarlands. No, they’d take to ship, landing on safer, if unknown, shores, relying on speed and the belief that Rairam had no formal defences. If he were Iresonté, he’d cut a path straight to the capital, to Market Primus. Astra Marahan and the other traders would fall flat on their faces when confronted with a force the size of the Fist. If Iresonté held the capital, the rest of Rairam would quickly fall into line.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Yara asked, jolting him from his dark contemplation.

  ‘I’m thinking that Iresonté will sail around and then strike inland for the capital. While I was with him, Hagdon received a report of war galleys being brought up from the south.’

  Argat grunted. He made some incomprehensible gesture at a sailor, and a minute or so later the ship’s speed increased. ‘If she reaches Market Primus, it’s over,’ he said. ‘The Assembly won’t think twice before opening the gates. This Iresonté sounds like someone who shores up her influence by making examples.’ He massaged his chin with a calloused hand. ‘Killing a few thousand citizens would serve as a potent example to the rest of us.’

  ‘Then we’d better make sure she doesn’t reach the city,’ Gareth said.

  ‘With only five thousand warriors?’ Yara shook her head. ‘They don’t stand a chance.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Gareth said evenly, causing her to suck in a surprised breath. ‘They don’t stand a chance. Without me.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Gareth wanted to call them back. He wasn’t sure why he’d say such a thing.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘A foolish boast if ever I heard one.’

  ‘Yara –’ Argat began. Disquiet reigned in his eyes.

  ‘Thirty thousand, Argat. Perhaps more. How can one man make even the slightest difference?’

  ‘You doubt him?’ Kul’Das’s voice was very quiet. Throughout their conversation, she’d stood silent at the rail, staring fixedly at the horizon, sweat spotting her brow. Now, carefully, as if she were made of some breakable substance, she turned to face the first mate. ‘I was there when he walked out of the barrows. I saw the dead rise at his command.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘If any one person can make a difference, it’s Kul’Gareth.’

  Some of Yara’s confidence drained away, but she still wore a stubborn frown. ‘What about Kyndra?’

  ‘The Starborn has her own trials,’ Gareth said shortly. ‘We will have to fight this battle alone.’

  ‘Hagdon intends to fight alongside us,’ Kul’Das added before turning swiftly towards the rail again. ‘He and the Wielders planned to capture that prison and recruit its inmates.’ She paused to swallow, her hands contracting on the wood. ‘We should find out whether they were successful, how much aid they can send us.’

  Gareth nodded. ‘I will make an envoi.’

  ‘And Naris?’ Argat asked, his gaze passing briefly over the engraved mountain on Gareth’s armour. Sim’s work was flawless, fitting him perfectly. Gareth remembered the smith watching as he’d first donned it, a troubled mix of fear and satisfaction in his eyes. ‘Do Rairam’s best defence know nothing of the danger?’ Argat finished.

  ‘We’ve seen how ambertrix can limit a Wielder’s power,’ Gareth replied with a glance at Kul’Das. ‘If they don’t fight, Iresonté will have them all collared. The Wielders would kill many in the struggle, but numbers would prevail.’ He paused. ‘If they don’t fight, Naris is finished.’

  ‘Who speaks for the Wielders?’

  ‘The Council,’ Gareth said. ‘Without Brégenne, there are only two of them and they might be hard to persuade. They wouldn’t believe Brégenne when she warned them of the danger before.’

  ‘Then they must be shown it,’ Argat said.

  ‘Our job is to reach Ümvast.’ Gareth let his gaze stray to the north. ‘My people can make a difference in this war.’

  Yara fingered the cutlass in her belt. ‘I hope so, for all our sakes.’

  It was disconcerting to take the ship north-east, leaving Iresonté and the Fist behind. They’d waited long enough to witness the army turning for the coast, but Gareth didn’t like the idea of letting them out of his sight. Where was Kyndra when they needed her? The Starborn had resources the rest of them did not. But stopping the Khronostians tearing history out from under them was more important. The battle for Rairam would have to be waged without her.

  On the fifth morning, something dark appeared on the horizon.

  Argat called Gareth up from below. Kul’Das was already on deck – air-sickness forced her to spend most of her time up here. The captain handed the eyeglass to Gareth. ‘What do you make of that?’

  It was a low smudge. He couldn’t make it out. ‘Take us closer,’ Gareth said.

  With a narrow look at him, Argat gave the order.

  ‘Bastards,’ Yara hissed after another twenty minutes’ flight revealed the truth. She lowered the eyeglass. ‘How many does she have?’

  It was as if a great cold weight had replaced his stomach. Gareth shook his head. ‘Ten thousand?’ Even the thickening mist couldn’t conceal the vastness of Iresonté’s second army. They were camped on the edge of the ice fields. Waiting for the thaw? he wondered.

  ‘Thirty thousand in the south, ten thousand in the north. How is Mariar going to stand up to that?’ Yara tossed the eyeglass into a basket attached to the mast. ‘We might as well surrender now and have done with it.’

  ‘No,’ Gareth said sharply, but the word hid his own doubt. There was an army at his mother’s door and she knew nothing about it. ‘We need to pick up speed, Argat,’ he snapped. ‘Ümvast has to be warned.’

  The captain didn’t argue, but his expression said it all – he agreed with Yara. As they turned east, the mists closed over the bloody sight of the Sartyan army. It was a sleeping beast, Gareth thought, on the cusp of waking. The thaw was just weeks away. Was this Iresonté’s master plan? To strike into Rairam from the north and south simultaneously? To overwhelm them with numbers? He feared to wonder just how much she knew about Rairam’s defences – or lack thereof.

  After that, the mood on the ship changed. Argat paced the deck constantly, turning the eyeglass round and round in his hands. Yara kept mostly below, ensuring the boiler was fed efficiently. Gareth had always known time was of the essence, but now he realized they were running out of it.

  The airship crossed the wasteland of rubble that marked the boundary between Rairam and Acre, sailing high above, and Gareth felt a tiny shift inside him. This was home, in a way Acre could never be. Even the faceless mass of evergreens beneath them looked familiar; the colours in the sunset oddly real, as if all the sunsets he’d seen in Acre were mere simulacra. This is Acre, he reminded himself, it always was. But Kierik’s actions carried a legacy. He’d made Rairam Mariar, a world in its own right, and in some way it would always be apart.

  The weather was milder here, though snow still freckled the high places. A bite in the air one morning reminded Gareth of his childhood in the forests, puffing out dragon’s breath as he practised swordplay. These days memories sat uneasily inside him – they had a tendency to conflict with other memories equally vivid. It was the conflict that brought on the headaches, and Gareth hastily turned his attention outward once more.

  Two days’ flight north of Hrosst, they found Ümvast.

  Argat whistled
at the helm. Gareth and Kul’Das came to join him while Yara remained at her usual post. The northerners were an impressive sight. They might lack the military precision of the Fist, Gareth thought, but their main camp was organized into quarters, each a small camp in its own right.

  ‘Five thousand, you say.’ Argat ran his eyes over the human sprawl below them. ‘I’d say that’s more like six or seven.’

  Kul’Das blinked at the camp. ‘Not all of them are warriors. I can see children down there.’

  Fingers had begun to point up. Even from here, they could discern multiple shouts of surprise and warning. ‘If they start shooting flaming arrows—’ Argat began. A volley was sent up, but fell short of the hull.

  ‘That’s it,’ the captain growled, and he spun the wheel. The airship veered off eastward.

  ‘Stop,’ Gareth said. ‘Take us lower.’

  ‘Lower?’ Argat was purple. ‘Lower? So they can pepper us with arrows?’

  ‘I want them to see me,’ Gareth said calmly.

  ‘If you damage my ship—’

  ‘Just do it.’ He and Argat locked gazes. ‘Your ship will be safe, I promise.’

  Argat cursed. ‘If you’re wrong, then gauntlets or not, I will hang you from the bowsprit.’

  Gareth’s only reply was a cold smile. With another string of curses, Argat ordered the ship to descend.

  He made his way to the prow, where he was sure he could be seen. The chill wind blew the hair back from his face, flung his cloak out behind him. They lost height, and now Gareth could make out individual faces, all upturned. He raised his arms so that the gauntlets caught the light, and cries at the sight of them travelled back through the ranks of men and women. No more arrows came.

  A tent much larger than those around it stood in the very centre of the camp. Gareth looked down at the woman who emerged from it. This low, he could hear the hollow clack as the wind rattled the bones in her mantle. Her gaze was chill and yet – before the airship banked towards the grassland beyond the edge of the camp – he thought she might have smiled.

  ‘Ready her to land!’ Argat called, the crew already scurrying to obey. They were much better at it now, Gareth noticed. Clearly they’d grounded the airship more than once during the past weeks.

  They landed in a great spray of dirt, furrowing the earth behind them. When all was still, steam billowing from the extinguished braziers, Yara came up from below, her grinning face smeared with grease. ‘Piece of cake,’ she said, wiping her hands on her trousers.

  Kul’Das shuddered, but she looked happier now that they were down. ‘Never again,’ Gareth heard her mutter. He watched as she threw back her head and straightened her shoulders. Although she wasn’t one of them, she’d earned respect amongst Ümvast’s people. Indeed there were cries of recognition from the deputation of warriors who met them at the camp’s boundary.

  ‘Kul’Das,’ one man said with deference. ‘We are pleased to have you amongst us again.’ It was Egil – one of those who’d escorted Gareth and Brégenne to Stjórna. They’d shed blood together outside the great iron gates, fighting the wyverns. The wound he’d sustained there seemed to have healed.

  The blond woman inclined her head graciously. ‘Our quest has been successful, as you see. I return with Kul’Gareth Ilda-Son restored to health.’

  Egil regarded him without expression. ‘He is not a Kul until Ümvast acknowledges him as such.’

  Kul’Das shot him a nervous look as if she expected him to bridle at the insult. Instead Gareth smiled, not unpleasantly. ‘I understand. Take me to her.’

  Egil didn’t reply, staring transfixed at Gareth’s wrists. ‘Kingswold’s gauntlets,’ he murmured. ‘They are as remarkable as the legends promised.’

  ‘Indeed they are.’

  ‘With such a weapon on our side, all shall fall before us.’ Egil held out his hand. ‘I will take charge of them for now.’

  Gareth was aware of Kul’Das’s gaze, of Argat and Yara behind him. It grew very still. When he didn’t move, the warrior frowned, hand still extended before him. ‘Only Ümvast is worthy to possess these,’ he said, his tone hardening. ‘You will relinquish them to me.’

  ‘I am sorry, Egil,’ Gareth said, barely keeping a rein on his anger. ‘But that is not possible.’

  The warrior blinked at him, as if he’d never expected to be refused. His expression darkened. ‘You will go no further until you comply.’

  ‘I lack both the time and inclination to argue with you.’ Gareth kept his tone calm. It seemed to unnerve Kul’Das; she shifted from foot to foot beside him. ‘Don’t make me hurt you, Egil,’ he added.

  Immediately, they were surrounded by a dozen others, all with hands clamped about weapon hilts. ‘Don’t make me take the gauntlets by force,’ Egil countered.

  Gareth advanced on him. Weapons left sheaths, lifted to point at his chest. He ignored them, his eyes fixed on Egil’s. ‘Do you know what I went through to win these?’ he asked softly, holding them up before the warrior’s face. Without waiting for an answer, he said, ‘Earth and darkness, bone and tomb. I passed through death. Passed and awoke on the other side, reborn.’ He slowly curled his hands into fists. ‘By trial of blood and battle, I have earned the right to them.’

  He would never know what it was that convinced Egil to step aside – his evocation of Ben-haugr, or his use of the old words. But step aside Egil did, and his warriors with him. ‘Follow me,’ he said curtly.

  Kul’Das let out an audible breath. ‘You too, skyfarers,’ a woman snapped at Argat and Yara. The first mate didn’t look happy, but Argat’s eyes were shining. The captain had once told a story about encountering two northmen in a tavern, Gareth recalled – the only time he’d met anyone from Ümvast. Surely Argat could never have dreamed of meeting the lord of the north herself.

  They were escorted through the camp, attracting curious gazes from every side. Not only curiosity, Gareth noticed, but suspicion. Many faces were pinched with hunger or cold or just uncertainty – those who’d lived generations in the forest must find these plains disturbingly open and unprotected.

  When they reached the large tent in the middle of the encampment, Ümvast was there to greet them. She looked as he remembered: tall, fur mantled, hair braided with some severity. Her still, cold face had always been hard to read; today was no exception.

  ‘Blood of my blood,’ she said formally, as he came to stand before her. ‘I admit: I am surprised to see you again.’

  As he looked at her, Gareth felt a sudden lurch; for a brief instant, his mother went from being someone he knew to a stranger. He seemed to regard her with interest, or something in him did, an interest aroused during a conversation he’d had in a dark place under the earth.

  Pain stabbed his temples and the feeling faded. She was once again his mother. Gareth gritted his teeth, determined not to show weakness, especially not in front of her, or Egil and his warriors. As if she sensed the thought, Ümvast extended a hand. ‘We shall talk inside.’

  He followed her through the tent flap – a pavilion: it was too large to be called a tent – and Argat and Yara came nervously behind him. Ümvast settled herself on a campaign throne comprised mostly of weapon crates. Kul’Das resumed her customary place at her side.

  ‘You have done well, Kul’Das,’ Ümvast said to her. Then she frowned. ‘Where is your staff?’

  ‘It was broken,’ Kul’Das said – with remarkable equanimity, Gareth thought, recalling her grief over the thing. ‘We encountered some resistance in the Deadwood. A group of women intent on capturing –’ she stuttered to a halt, looking abruptly scared.

  ‘I know what you are, Kul’Das,’ Ümvast said, ignoring the woman’s gasp. ‘Why do you think I tolerated your presence at my side? I wanted to know more about the power that took my son from me.’

  Before Kul’Das could ask the question that was clearly balanced on her tongue, Ümvast turned away. ‘Well, Kul’Gareth?’ she said and he didn’t miss her use of the title. �
�Where are my gauntlets?’

  He held out his fists, opened them slowly. Hond’Lif shone with its own inner light, glowing softly in the dim tent. By contrast, Hond’Myrkr was almost invisible, a glove-shaped hole cut out of the world.

  ‘Glorious,’ Ümvast breathed. Her hands twitched. With difficulty, it seemed, she moved her gaze to his face. ‘And they healed you, I see.’

  ‘I am once again among the living,’ Gareth said a little drily. But the rest of him stood tensed, waiting for the moment when she would ask for the gauntlets.

  But all she said was, ‘Who are your companions?’

  ‘Captain Argat at your service,’ Argat said somewhat flamboyantly. ‘And my first mate, Yara. I command the airship, the Eastern Set. I am a friend of Kul’Gareth and of Brégenne of Naris.’

  He tripped slightly over the word friend, but Ümvast didn’t seem to notice. ‘An airship,’ she mused, staring into the middle distance. ‘I confess I had never seen one before today.’

  ‘Infernal vessel,’ Kul’Das muttered.

  ‘And what news of Acre?’

  ‘Not good,’ Gareth said. ‘Iresonté, the Sartyan general, marches her army here as we speak. Thirty thousand will land on the southern coast. My guess is they’ll then make for the capital.’

  ‘I would not mind seeing the Assembly taken down a notch,’ Ümvast said, though her face had paled at the number. ‘But we cannot let it happen. This Iresonté will learn soon enough that Mariar won’t fall without a fight.’

  ‘It’s worse,’ Gareth said, watching her carefully. ‘There’s another army. We passed them on our way here, camped on the edge of the ice fields. They’ll avoid the fallen mountains, cutting across and then down through—’

  ‘No.’ Ümvast rose from her makeshift throne. Just then, standing tall, iron-countenanced, she was every inch the leader northern children had been taught to fear. ‘They will not set foot in my homeland.’