Firestorm

by Lucy Hounsom

  The knife poised over his throat trembled once before plunging downwards.

  Gareth rolled; the blade hit the pillow, snagged in its thick folds. Straw spilled out. Lunging to his feet, he swung at the cloaked figure and sent it sprawling over a chest full of maps. He snatched up the knife and advanced on his would-be assassin, who was desperately trying to regain their feet. In one swift motion, Gareth tore off the hood.

  ‘I’m sorry,’

  It was just a boy. He couldn’t be older than fifteen, brown haired like the rest of his people. His eyes widened as they stared up at Gareth, his struggles to rise temporarily ceasing. ‘What are you called?’ Gareth asked him.

  ‘Vareg.’

  Gareth tossed the knife in his hand. ‘And why were you trying to kill me, Vareg?’

  ‘It was the straw,’ the boy said, pulling a long piece of string from his belt. ‘I drew it.’ His gaze followed the tumbling passage of the knife. ‘Please don’t kill me.’

  ‘I’m sure you can see, Vareg, why such a request elicits little sympathy.’ Gareth raised an eyebrow. ‘You were not about to show me the same courtesy.’

  The boy stuck out his chin. ‘I had to do it. I couldn’t back down in front of the others. It would have been dishonourable.’

  ‘You were about to slit a sleeping man’s throat. I find it hard to see the honour in that.’

  Vareg’s lip trembled. After a moment’s consideration, Gareth said, ‘Tell me. Who put you up to this?’

  The boy shot a covert look towards the tent entrance. ‘I can’t tell you. They’d kill me if I told.’

  ‘And I will kill you if do not,’ Gareth said with a suggestive flick of the knife. The lantern light shivered along its dull grey length.

  The boy licked his lips. He glanced again at the canvas flap as if estimating whether he could reach it before the knife found him. ‘I wouldn’t try it, if I were you,’ Gareth advised.

  Vareg sagged. ‘It was Egil,’ he confessed with the look of someone standing on the scaffold. ‘And six others.’

  ‘Egil?’ Gareth blinked. That was surprising. Despite their earlier confrontation, he’d considered the man an ally, at least, if not a friend. ‘So you drew lots?’ he asked.

  The boy nodded mutely, eyes never leaving the knife.

  ‘And you were unlucky.’

  Vareg said nothing. His swallow was loud in the silence. ‘You’ll give me their names,’ Gareth told him. ‘It is not a request.’

  Slowly, as if each word sapped a little of his strength, the boy said, ‘Rolff and Ofina Gray-son, Hilde Shanter-son, Avul-staid Bern-son, Gudrun Sreth-son, Nilsene Anders-son.’ The last name was a whisper and he wilted once it had left his mouth.

  ‘Thank you.’ Gareth stashed the knife. Vareg watched it disappear and glanced hopefully at the entrance once more. ‘You may go.’

  The boy jumped up with a relieved gasp, but had taken only a few steps before Hond’Myrkr’s power pulled him up short. Gareth crooked a finger, wrenched Vareg’s arms to his sides, rooted his feet to the floor. Little tendrils of black held them there, crisscrossing his boots like vines. ‘You may go when I’ve given you my reply.’

  ‘Reply?’ The word emerged as a whisper over strained chords.

  ‘To your murderous compatriots.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Vareg panted, throat bobbing nosily with each swallow. ‘We won’t try again.’

  ‘I know, but I am glad to hear you say it.’

  ‘Don’t you – don’t you want to know why?’

  ‘I don’t need to know why. It is simple enough.’ Gareth stooped slightly to look him in the eyes. ‘All men crave power and envy those who wield it. This is not the first time someone has tried to kill me. And it will not be the last.’

  Vareg looked as if he wanted to shrink back, though he couldn’t move. ‘My reply,’ Gareth said, straightening. ‘Yes.’

  With a silent command, he bade the tendrils weave slowly up the boy’s legs. Vareg tried to scream; only a gasp emerged. His eyes were huge, straining as the tendrils encircled his heart.

  ‘You are my reply,’ Gareth murmured into the boy’s ear. ‘I will send you back to them, as a warning and a promise. When the next traitorous thought crosses their minds, they need only look at you to be reminded of the fate that awaits them.’

  The boy shuddered. His hands clenched and unclenched, grasping vainly at the air. They were such little hands, barely large enough to hold a sword …

  The thought was like a blade to the heart. Gareth blinked, gasped, staring at the tendrils spidering from Hond’Myrkr. With a cry of horror, he dampened them. The boy’s body crumpled to the floor. Gareth knelt to shake him, mouthing the same word over and over. The boy couldn’t be dead. If the boy was dead, it meant he, Gareth, had killed him – for who else would people see when they looked at him?

  Why? he cried silently, holding the limp body. Why would you do this?

  ‘You see how they fear you?’ It was his own voice, issuing from his own throat. But it wasn’t Gareth. ‘They plot,’ Kingswold said. ‘They scheme and they snivel. You cannot allow it to stand.’

  ‘He was just a boy,’ Gareth snarled, wrenching his voice back. He hadn’t even felt Kingswold take control. Was there already no barrier, no difference between them?

  Boys grow into men, Hrafnasueltir. If not for me, you would never have woken.

  His hands shook inside the gauntlets. No, Gareth realized, just one hand. The fist encased in Hond’Lif lay calm and still upon his left knee. Staring at it, he whispered, ‘I wish I hadn’t.’

  36

  Brégenne

  She woke quite suddenly in Nediah’s arms.

  At first she had no idea where they were. Brégenne blinked the blurry image into clarity and her sleep-muddled mind recognized her old room in Naris. That’s right – they’d given her Council apartment to Magnus. She preferred it here anyway.

  Her skin prickled.

  Goosebumps rose on her arms and the feeling that had woken her intensified. ‘Nediah,’ she hissed, wondering why she was keeping her voice low. ‘Wake up. Something isn’t—’ She broke off as a formless shadow coalesced in the air. Two points of light burned like eyes.

  Brégenne. It was Kyndra’s voice. The eldest comes for Naris. Warn the Wielders. It faded, taking the Starborn’s voice away.

  Nediah opened his eyes blearily, his smile dying on his lips when he saw her face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Khronostians,’ she said, scrambling up, pulling on clothes. ‘They’re coming here.’

  ‘What?’ Nediah jumped up too and Brégenne wondered if he felt what she felt: a sense of invasion beating through the stone heart of Naris. Both dressed, they stepped into the corridor and heard screaming. Brégenne looked at Nediah and they broke into a run.

  Two hours past dawn. All the Lunars in the citadel would be defenceless, Brégenne thought as she dashed down the passageways, her feet carrying her automatically to the atrium. The screaming grew louder; she could feel Solar energy ripped from the sky in great bursts. They were fighting for their lives.

  Panting, Brégenne burst into the huge echoing space. Bandaged figures wove and danced between its walls and Nediah seized her wrist. ‘Du-alakat.’ He had seen them before, of course. But Brégenne only knew what they’d told her.

  The Khronostians moved with a desperate intent, their weapons a blur. Brown-robed bodies littered the floor, but Master Kael was down and Barrar too, a Lunar, bleeding from a staved-in skull.

  Brégenne clenched her fists, a terrible anger rising. How dare they come here? How dare they harm children? ‘Brégenne –’ she heard Nediah warn, but she was already moving.

  ‘Shields!’ she yelled, her magnified voice slicing through the screams. ‘Novices – to me.’ As she walked, she brought her hands together and swiftly apart; a huge golden net flew outwards: a khetah, the shield they’d used to protect Naris from the Breaking. It was supposed to be maintained by a dozen Wielders, but Brégenne knew
she could hold it alone, at least as long as it took to get the novices to safety. She felt the far edges strengthen and looked back to see Nediah holding them together.

  White-faced, the novices ran for her, ducking behind the shield. She felt some of the older ones bolster the khetah and she nodded gratefully. Blows rained off the bright Solar walls that guarded them, but in vain. Only ambertrix could have broken through.

  Brégenne and her charges backed towards the largest passage and the du-alakat turned their attention to the lone masters left in the hall. She hoped they were smart enough to put up shields of their own. ‘Warn others,’ she told the novices as she let go of the khetah. ‘Then get away from here. Use the tunnels beneath the kitchens and take the Murtans with you.’

  ‘Master Brégenne?’ It was Ranine, Janus’s friend. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t find Janus. Please tell him of the danger.’

  Janus, Brégenne said across the bond, where are you? The citadel’s under attack.

  I know, came his reply. I am going to fight.

  No – She cursed. ‘Ranine, take the novices and go. I’ll see if I can find him.’

  The round-faced girl gave her a tremulous look, but she collected up the children and, with a last beseeching plea, led them away.

  Nediah at her shoulder, Brégenne turned back towards the atrium. ‘How did they get here?’ he said, as they both summoned their own shields. ‘What do they want?’

  The moment she stepped back into the vast hall, Brégenne saw the eldest. Kyndra had described him – a bent figure, more creature than man, grasping a staff nearly half his height again. Medavle stood guard at his side.

  The Yadin was changed. Lines scored his once-ageless face, which had a sunken look, as if some vital force had been drained from him. His white robes were stained, ripped at cuff and hem, and he was unshaven. Still, as his black eyes swept over her, they burned with resolve.

  The eldest held up a shrunken hand. Time slowed … stopped.

  A boom shook the atrium. Brégenne blinked. The eldest had vanished and reappeared towards the back of the hall and the du-alakat had fanned out through the Wielders, their sticks against now-unprotected throats. Time had passed – or hadn’t – as she’d stood frozen. But something had happened to speed it up again. The eldest fixed his gaze on the archway that led outside.

  Kyndra stepped into the atrium.

  Power rippled off her, an aura that made Brégenne’s ears ring. She saw her as if through a heat haze; each footfall rang on the polished floor. A tall woman walked at her side: Ma, Brégenne presumed, noticing the symbols that swirled across her palms. Beneath his hood, the eldest’s lips twisted in annoyance, in distaste. But the du-alakat looked less sure. Some eyed Ma’s upturned palms with a certain reverence. White serpents surfaced in her flesh, coiled their tails about her wrists, constantly moving.

  ‘Stop.’ Kyndra’s command filled the space, rebounded from the distant ceiling. ‘It ends here.’

  ‘No,’ the eldest hissed. ‘It begins here.’ He struck the floor with his staff. White sand rained from the bottom, as if the wood were hollow and filled with it. With a dexterity that belied his age, the eldest swung the staff in concentric circles, creating a crude mandala.

  Ma frowned. ‘Eldest, wait. How do you intend to travel without dancers? The du-alakat cannot dance and defend themselves from us.’

  ‘They will not have to.’

  Brégenne watched a slow horror dawn on Ma’s face. ‘You do not intend to return.’

  The eldest continued his sand-drawing, the du-alakat falling back to guard him. ‘I go to create a better future,’ he gasped. ‘What need have I to return to this broken time?’

  Ma’s hands tightened around her drawn kali sticks. ‘You sacrificed my people for this power. Countless innocent lives.’

  ‘Our people readily gave them,’ the eldest spat, ‘to see Khronosta renewed.’

  ‘They are not your people.’ Ma’s voice promised violence. ‘You are a murderer. And you do not speak for the dead.’

  ‘Medavle,’ Kyndra appealed to the Yadin. ‘The eldest is wrong. He cannot build a better future. All he can do is destroy the only one we have.’

  The Yadin frowned, glanced at the eldest. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Too many threads connect at Solinaris. If they are unpicked, the stars cannot see beyond the moment of change.’ She took a step towards him. ‘There won’t be a past, present or future. There won’t be a world.’

  For the first time since Brégenne had seen him, the resolve in Medavle’s face flickered. ‘Is it so dangerous?’ he asked the eldest.

  ‘After the road we’ve travelled together, you would turn for home now?’ The wizened man brought his staff to a halt. ‘When we are nearly at our destination?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘When you are minutes from seeing Isla again?’

  The Yadin looked back at her. ‘I am sorry, Kyndra.’

  ‘He’s manipulating you,’ she said, sounding almost sad. ‘You would doom the world for a woman?’

  ‘I know,’ Medavle answered her, ‘and yes. A thousand times.’

  As the sand began to glow, its grains rising into the air to cocoon the eldest and his du-alakat, Medavle held out his hand to the ancient Khronostian, who took it. The hall distorted around the group and they disappeared.

  Kyndra fell to one knee with a gasp, good hand braced against the floor. Brégenne hurried over. The Starborn’s face had a bluish tinge, visible even under the points of light that pulsed in her skin. ‘Kyndra,’ Brégenne helped her to her feet, ‘are you all right?’

  Kyndra swallowed grimly. ‘I don’t think so, Brégenne. I don’t have long unless I can catch the eldest.’ She looked at Ma. ‘Surely Medavle won’t be so keen to help when he discovers the eldest intends to save Kierik. If I could just show him the truth –’

  ‘I should begin charging for my services.’ Realdon Shune limped into the atrium, sharp eyes ranging over the rugged walls, the pillars with their carven beasts, the polished floor. ‘So this is what became of Solinaris.’ Sadness hid beneath his scorn. ‘The Wielders truly fell from grace.’

  ‘What is going on here?’

  Brégenne sighed. They did not have time for the Council. ‘Who are these people, Brégenne?’ Veeta said. She led the group, Magnus and Gend at either shoulder. Her eyes widened as she noticed the bodies on the floor. Rushing to one, she knelt and turned it over.

  ‘Cail,’ Kyndra said suddenly, from behind. The novice was clearly dead, blue eyes open, fixed on nothing. ‘I knew him,’ the Starborn added, ‘from Rush’s class.’

  ‘Who has done this?’ Veeta asked thickly, one hand on Cail’s still chest. Nediah was moving from body to body, aglow with healing energy, but only a handful needed it. The rest were already beyond help.

  ‘Khronostians,’ Brégenne said, coming over to stand beside Cail’s body. He looked so young, a bloody bruise marring the side of his head. She felt her anger surge up anew. ‘They will answer for these deaths.’

  ‘Vengeance will make no difference to him,’ Veeta said. She stroked the boy’s fair hair away from his eyes and rose unsteadily. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘Later,’ Kyndra said harshly. ‘Ma, send me back.’

  ‘You are weakening,’ she replied. ‘You cannot go alone’

  Kyndra’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘This is too important. Remember – you don’t have control of your power in Kierik’s time.’

  The Starborn threw up her hands. ‘Who, then? The Wielders have to stop Iresonté.’

  Just then Brégenne became aware of a huffing, scrabbling sound from the mouth of the passage that led to Naris’s entrance. It went on for a few seconds, growing louder all the time. The nearest masters began to edge away.

  With a triumphant gasp, a dragon burst into the atrium.

  Brégenne felt her eyes widen. Hearing about the Lleu-yelin and seeing one in the flesh were two very different things. The dragon was perh
aps thirty feet long from nose to tail and dusky black. Claws left scratches on the stone; its neck was fringed with wicked spines, which bristled at the Solar spears aimed at it.

  ‘Stop!’ Kyndra yelled. ‘Char is with us.’

  Ma put her hands on her hips and turned to face the dragon. ‘I told you to stay outside.’

  ‘Sesh is getting impatient,’ Char said, his mane only flattening once the threat of the spears passed. ‘The last time she was impatient, the Lleu-yelin attacked Khronosta.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Ma said, ‘I hope you are ready.’

  ‘Wait.’ Kyndra looked between the two of them. ‘You’re sending Char with me? A dragon? How am I going to explain a dragon?’

  ‘He won’t be a dragon in the past.’

  Char stilled. ‘What?’

  ‘I suspect the river will force you back into your previous shape. It will only be temporary. Once you return here, your pattern will reassert itself.’

  Char shook his scales, as if shivering at the possibility. ‘But why?’

  ‘Time is a form of disintegration. You are travelling to an era in which you never existed. Thus the river will force you to reconstruct yourself. You lived most of your life as a human.’ Her gaze was shrewd. ‘It is how you still see yourself, Boy.’

  When Char seemed speechless, Kyndra said, ‘But it’s not the same for the eldest. He looked no different when I travelled back before.’

  Ma shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t. The disfigurements of his body were caused by the river in the first place. I told you. The mandalas were never meant to be used in the way he used them. The river has warped his pattern forever.’

  Kyndra was silent. She looked at Brégenne and Brégenne found herself mesmerized by her eyes. If she gazed into them long enough, the stars gazed back. ‘Go, Kyndra,’ she heard herself say. ‘We have our own battle to fight here.’