Firestorm

by Lucy Hounsom

  They did not understand.

  ‘Go back to your ship,’ Gareth said. It was a mark of their unease that neither Argat nor Yara protested at the order. It was time. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling himself slide inexorably into a chill, nameless place where his own horror would not cripple him. Where there was no horror. When he opened his eyes, everything seemed a little different, sharper, as if a veil had lifted. He walked around the boulders.

  And stood beside a hill of corpses.

  Their red armour made them appear blood-drenched, but blood no longer flowed in any of them. Their veins were dust, or spidered through rotted flesh. Flies had found them even in the cold; they crawled and buzzed in an ecstasy of feeding. Here, the sound was louder than the wind that scoured the plain, which swept up the carrion stench and carried it to camp. No wonder the warriors had whispered.

  It had taken him hours to march them here, tethered to them by Hond’Lif. Their minds had grown quieter as they left life further behind, but still it was an effort to hold so many. He’d rested often, allowing the bodies to tumble to the forest floor while he wiped the sweat from his brow. Then he’d called upon Hond’Lif and the power of the gauntlet raised them once again, marched them onward in a shambling line. They were a little over two hundred.

  Gareth licked his lips as he observed them. Ordering them to fight, he sensed, would be harder than forcing them merely to walk. The afternoon grew darker; light faded to evening. Darkness would fool the Sartyans, but not for long. Some of the dead had helms to hide their ravaged faces. He’d march those in front, he thought, leaving the more damaged ones at the rear. Even the famed Sartyan discipline would crumble when they clashed blades with fellow soldiers, soldiers who did not bleed and die like men.

  He breathed out slowly, emptying his mind to receive them.

  ‘Vakti. Ek kalla-darr.’

  The words rose on his tongue, as if he’d spoken them a hundred times. They seemed imbued with greater power, with a dignity his native language could not match. So he let them come, ignoring the stabbing in his head. He had no room for doubt.

  Hond’Lif began to glow, its song to soar in the vaults of his mind. Blue-white, pure, it plucked at his heart as if it were an instrument to be played. But Hond’Myrkr was there too, an iron melody, tugging the song down from its heights, imbuing it with the deep chords of ending.

  ‘Ek heim-darr af svefn.’

  He kept it tightly controlled, letting Hond’Lif raise them one at a time, then five then ten. Bound to his will, the dead soldiers did not acknowledge their surroundings. They clambered over their motionless comrades, treading on limbs and faces, lining up before him. It was easier now that they had lain for some days in death.

  Gareth clenched his white fist. The soldiers dropped to one knee. ‘Follow me,’ he said once they rose.

  Although he gave the camp a wide berth, he felt them there, the warriors of Ümvast, watching at the edge of the sparse torchlight. In the gathering dark, they would only make out stilted movements and, when a corpse turned its head, the bluish glow of Hond’Lif welling from eye sockets. If they were lucky, that’s all they would see.

  The forest extended out onto the plain, a many-limbed creature dragging itself southwards. The Sartyan army camped between two such limbs. Their torches lit up the sky, flames marking a wide perimeter. They were quiet for a large force; the hum of conversation not much louder than the wind.

  Ümvast would be leading her warriors north and east, circling the army, counting on the night and the forest to hide her. All Gareth had to do was drive the Sartyans back into the trees. It sounded easy, but it wouldn’t be. Given a choice, they’d head for open land where numbers counted for more.

  He pulled up his hood and marched on, flanked by the dead.

  A voice rang out, oddly magnified by the dark. ‘Who comes?’

  Gareth had made no secret of his advance. They were supposed to be seen. Shouts sprang up in the camp, as the news travelled from sentry to soldier to officer. ‘One of the missing units,’ he heard and smiled to himself.

  They reached the perimeter under the watchful eyes of sentries. ‘Are we glad to see you,’ one called out; a young man unusually fresh-faced for the Fist. ‘Captain Hendyn was worried we’d underestimated the natives.’ He laughed. ‘He’ll be pleased to see otherwise. What unit are you from?’

  No one replied. Gareth steeled himself and kept on walking. As he passed the sentry, his hand shot out and clamped about the young man’s neck, rotting his throat before he could scream. Gareth let him go without breaking stride; the body slumped to earth and was trampled under the marching feet of the dead.

  A white-faced soldier stood in their path, hand holding a trembling sword. ‘Who are you?’ he croaked before Gareth killed him with a touch. The third managed to shout a warning before he fell, but it was too late. They were already inside the palisade. Spread out, Gareth said to his soldiers. Kill them, drive them back into the trees.

  They obeyed unquestioningly. Of course they did, he thought. They had no will now but Hond’Lif’s, no freedom except what he chose to give them.

  Cries filled the night, the usual Sartyan discipline seemed to be lacking. Perhaps it was the shock of facing their comrades, who fought with the stiff rigor of the dead. They weren’t as agile as they had been in life, but they retained their skills. Forcing them to use those skills soon drenched Gareth in sweat. He was rusty, he found himself thinking. Once, such a simple act wouldn’t have wearied him like this.

  He could be anywhere – his mind was able to jump from soldier to soldier. Through the eyes of the foremost, he saw, at last, resistance. ‘What are you doing?’ an officer screamed as he clashed swords. It was all he could do to keep the corpse at bay – he seemed unwilling to harm one of his own.

  But then the corpse’s helm slipped, tumbling from its bent head and, through its eyes, Gareth watched the officer’s face contort around a scream. He thrust his sword right through the corpse, which barely glanced at it before raising its own blade and taking the stunned officer’s head.

  There was pandemonium. Gareth pulled back; he couldn’t afford to be distracted – it wouldn’t take the Sartyans long to realize he wasn’t as invulnerable as his soldiers. He stalked through the melee, his mother’s blade clutched in one hand. Using the gauntlet to defend himself was challenging when Hond’Lif raged in his ears. And the Sartyans had begun to take heads – although it didn’t stop the corpses, it meant he could no longer see out of their eyes. Despite the dismembered bodies he stepped over, the Sartyans were losing as many as they felled. He smiled grimly – a field of fresh dead meant that he could just raise more.

  And then, glancing down, he saw the dead face of Serald.

  Serald? He meant Shika. But of course, it was just a coincidence: a young Sartyan with the same bronzed skin, the same eyes. Dizziness struck him; the forest with its carpet of dead lurched to one side and he found himself on his knees.

  No. The voice was in his head. I will not falter. What voice was that? Where was he?

  Gareth blinked. His grip on Hond’Lif weakened. He felt the dead connected to the gauntlet, felt the way they stumbled over their own feet, how the Sartyans fighting them seized the upper hand.

  No! This time the voice was a scream.

  His heart hammered. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He held his temples, fighting the headache that threatened to engulf him. Who – are – you? Each word tore a shriek of pain from his throat. It joined the chorus of the dead and dying.

  Suddenly, the pain was gone. There was a horrible taste in his mouth – blood. Gareth spat; he’d bitten the inside of his cheek. It was like waking from a dream except that no dream could be as terrible as the reality in which he found himself.

  It would have been easier, the voice said, if you had not fought.

  It was in his head. Gareth froze. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

  ‘You know who I am.’ This time, it used his
tongue.

  Gareth retched. ‘Get out. Get out of my body.’

  I tried to make it painless, the voice told him, reverting to a mocking whisper in his head. I tried to make it silent. If you hadn’t fought me, you wouldn’t know, wouldn’t suffer as you do now. As you will for all the years of your life. The voice paused. Such long years. Truly, you are a gift.

  ‘No,’ Gareth murmured. ‘No!’ The second word was an agonized scream, torn from deep inside him.

  Kingswold laughed. The laughter bubbled out of his own throat. I told you once before, Hrafnasueltir. The gauntlets are mine.

  31

  Brégenne

  She could not sleep.

  Brégenne walked the chilly corridors of Parakat, arms wrapped around herself, vainly trying to keep the heat in. This is foolish. She had to rest. They were due to leave early. An unexpected break in the weather had come and they couldn’t afford to miss the opportunity it offered. The journey south would be long; Naris was many leagues away.

  Brégenne was conflicted as well as cold. Since the night she lay between life and death, Janus had gone silent. That didn’t bode well. She’d reached out to him several times, asking for news. Either he was deliberately ignoring her or he’d been forbidden to speak. If he’d been forbidden to speak, that could only mean that the Council had something to hide.

  ‘What’s going on there?’ she muttered. They’d probably try to arrest her as soon as she returned. Brégenne sighed. Nothing has changed.

  But it would. When Iresonté landed the Fist on Rairam’s shores, everything would change. She, Nediah and Kait had a lot of work to do. Brégenne pictured the other woman, unable to forget the feel of Kait’s arms around her burning chest. She might have died if not for her, but whenever she tried to discuss it, Kait found somewhere else to be. Did she regret helping? Brégenne wondered. Even if she did, it seemed like a turning point. They could never return to how it used to be, those snipes and glares and cutting remarks. Nediah had been a focus for their enmity, but it went further, Brégenne realized, right back to the Nerian and Kait’s disregard for the citadel that gave them sanctuary.

  She rubbed a hand over her face. Maybe it’s time to put it all aside.

  Her boots scuffed the stone flags. She ought to go back to bed, try to salvage some sleep. But as she passed the door to another room, she noticed a fitful lick of firelight beneath it. So she wasn’t the only one still awake. Realizing it was Nediah’s door, she found herself trying the handle.

  He jumped at the sudden creak. ‘Sorry,’ she hissed, closing the door behind her. ‘I saw your light.’

  ‘Brégenne.’ Nediah rose as she came into the warm glow of the fireplace. ‘You’re awake?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ she said and then she blinked. ‘Nediah, what’s that?’

  ‘Oh.’ Nediah glanced down at the nest of blankets and bolsters he’d clearly stolen from the bed. ‘I got tired of being cold, so I brought the clothes over.’

  ‘Can’t be very comfortable,’ Brégenne replied, tapping the flagstones with a foot.

  ‘It’s not so bad, actually. There are two rugs under here. And it’s worth it to be near the fire.’

  She shrugged. ‘I won’t argue with that. It’ll be nice to go south.’ She sat down, pulled a blanket around herself and sighed. ‘Better.’

  Nediah regarded her with a small frown before resettling himself too. ‘Wine? I’ve had it warming.’

  ‘All right. Might help me sleep.’ Brégenne accepted a cup. The red wine looked appealing against the beaten silver. ‘Where did you get these?’

  Nediah gestured to a polished bureau. ‘Over there. I think this might have been an officer’s room.’

  She sipped. The wine tasted how it looked, spiced and dark, coating her throat in pleasant heat.

  Nediah poured himself a cup and they sat and drank in companionable silence. It reminded Brégenne of the times they’d travelled across Rairam – then just Mariar – tracking the Breaking, sending the odd report back to the Council, enjoying each other’s company. ‘We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?’ she heard herself say.

  ‘We have.’ Nediah smiled.

  Brégenne. Why did you do it?

  She gazed into the flames, thinking of his question, the question she hadn’t yet answered. ‘I need to tell you something,’ she said.

  ‘Brégenne –’

  ‘Me first.’ She carefully placed her wine on the hearthstone before looking back at him. ‘You’ve never asked me how I lost my sight.’

  He stiffened. It clearly wasn’t what he expected. ‘I didn’t want to pry,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘And I wouldn’t have answered if you had.’

  ‘Then, forgive me, Brégenne, but why raise it now?’

  Why was she raising it? If she told him what she hadn’t told anyone, she’d lose him, lose the friendship that meant so much to her. But he wasn’t just anyone. That was why he had to know. She swallowed the lump in her throat and steeled herself for the memories to come.

  ‘I started to show signs of being a Wielder when I was ten.’ Brégenne shook her head. ‘I didn’t know what it was then, of course. Just that, whenever the moon rose, I could do things other people could not. I kept them hidden.’ She was aware of Nediah’s attention, of his gaze on her face as she studied her palms. It was easier to stare at the whorls and lines in her flesh than into that gaze. ‘I managed to hide it for two years. But one night, my mother caught me making a flame. She was scared.’ Brégenne heard her voice drop. ‘I told her it was fine, that it was nothing to worry about. I thought she believed me. We’d always been close.’

  ‘What did she do?’ Nediah asked, an edge in his voice, as if he knew what she might say and dreaded it.

  ‘Told her sister. My aunt.’ Brégenne picked up her wine, took an unwisely large gulp. ‘She trusted her sister, wanted her advice. My aunt said it was nothing to worry about.’ Brégenne felt her hand tighten on the cup. ‘But then she told my uncle.’

  Nediah said nothing. Even the fire’s crackle had dimmed, so that Brégenne felt as if she sat in a gloom of quiet. It was harder to force words into it. ‘My uncle believed it was witchcraft. Our village was a bit like Kyndra’s, sheltered, superstitious. With kind words, he persuaded me to show him what I could do.’ Behind her eyes, the images played out, a merry-go-round of faces and silver flames. She drew a breath. ‘When he learned I could only use my powers at night, he claimed they were evil.’

  ‘It makes me angry,’ Nediah said, ‘that so many children suffer at the hands of the ignorant.’ He put down his cup. ‘No wonder you were so determined to rescue Kyndra.’

  ‘She reminded me of me,’ Brégenne admitted, thinking back to that night in Brenwym, hearing the accusations of witchcraft hurled at Kyndra. ‘Brenwym was too close to the bone. I wanted to be out of there. And when the Breaking came, destroying that town, I was … glad.’ She rubbed a hand over her face. ‘That’s terrible, isn’t it? And Kyndra knew.’

  ‘She didn’t know why, though.’

  ‘No.’ Brégenne put down her wine too. A restlessness was in her; she got to her feet, walked a short distance away. Nediah stayed where he was, watching her. ‘We arrived in time to save Kyndra. But Guiliel didn’t come in time for me. They took me out into the woods,’ she said very quickly, as if she could outrun her memories. ‘It was summer, a beautiful day. My mother didn’t know.’

  ‘Brégenne,’ Nediah said, ‘you don’t have to—’

  ‘My aunt and uncle were there, my cousins too.’ The temptation to stop was overwhelming, but she gritted her teeth. The words were a bitter medicine. ‘It began calmly enough. My uncle explained that the moon gave me my powers, that every time I looked up at it, I was filled with evil, with a will to harm.’ Her throat tightened and she turned her back to Nediah. ‘I tried to say I’d never caused harm,’ she told the dark wall, ‘that I never would, but he’d made up his mind. He wouldn’t listen.’
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  She heard Nediah rise, heard his footfalls on the carpet, and she held up a hand to stop him, still without turning. ‘He ordered my cousins to hold me down. They were bigger, stronger. I was barely thirteen.’ She drew a ragged breath. It was in her nose, the scent of crushed grass, flattened by her struggles. ‘My aunt held my head. She stroked my hair, pretended compassion. I don’t know,’ she added in a whisper, ‘maybe it was real. Maybe she thought – they all thought – they were doing me a kindness.

  ‘There was pain and … between blinks, the sky was gone, the forest was gone. Everything but my own sobs and my cousins’ sobs was gone.’

  A tear rolled down her cheek. Brégenne let it fall to the carpet before scrubbing the rest away. That bitter medicine churned in her stomach. ‘My mother was heartbroken. Beyond heartbroken. She was furious. My father had died years before, so she took matters into her own hands, threatened to kill her sister. My uncle stopped her, of course. They went before the village elders, but were cleared of wrongdoing. Neither my uncle nor aunt were punished.’

  Nediah’s hand touched her shoulder. Full of remembered horror, Brégenne only just stopped herself from flinching. ‘I hid from the moon, from myself. My only comfort seemed to be in believing my uncle. That the moon was evil, that he had saved me.’ Once so hard to say, the words were pouring out now, purging. They left a sour taste in her mouth. ‘But I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t accept it. I stopped speaking to everyone, even my mother, who had to help me with everything. I wanted it to end.’ She paused. ‘And then Guiliel found me.’

  ‘He told you about Wielders,’ Nediah murmured, his touch light on her shoulder. ‘Took you to Naris.’

  Still facing the wall, Brégenne nodded. ‘He became my mentor, suggested I find a way to use the Lunar power to see.’

  ‘Brégenne.’ Nediah’s voice was hushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s not all.’

  She turned to face him so that his hand slipped from her shoulder. ‘I went back.’

  A small frown appeared between Nediah’s brows. ‘To your village?’