Firestorm

by Lucy Hounsom

  The strange instinct left him as suddenly as it had come and Hagdon found himself at the summit of the slope. Three stealth-force agents – captains, by the look of them – guarded Iresonté. They fell on him without hesitation, their blades quick and sure and tipped with poison. But flesh had been pierced to get him here, blood spilled, lives taken. He wouldn’t let any of it go to waste. So he fought with the rabid fury that had earned him his name, his reputation, and each agent fell before his axe blades.

  Panting, he lowered them. Alone now, Iresonté reached up and removed the general’s helm. Her pale eyes betrayed no fear. She tossed it on the ground and drew her sword. Ambertrix cascaded down the blade. It was a little like the emperor’s, Hagdon saw, with a serrated edge, but lighter, made to fit Iresonté’s hand.

  ‘I told you that when we met again, it would be for the last time.’

  ‘I remember,’ he said. He threw his axes to the grass, drew instead the Sartyan general’s greatsword. Hunger in the metal, it seemed appropriate. There was nothing in his mind now but the woman in front of him, her chill face and narrowed eyes.

  ‘I admit your latest move is a good one.’ They began to circle each other, blades between them. He noticed she held hers with both hands. ‘I did not expect an attack from my own men.’ Her tone was unfazed, as if she spoke of a mutiny rather than the undead. ‘Who is he?’

  Hagdon knew who she meant. ‘He is a friend of Irilin’s, calls himself Kul’Gareth. Those gauntlets he wears belonged to Kingswold.’

  ‘Irilin,’ she said, and Hagdon did not like the sound of it in her mouth. ‘The girl you seem so fond of.’

  Hagdon kept his face blank, but his heart had begun to pound.

  ‘And, from what I hear, she seems so fond of you,’ Iresonté continued. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve told her much about your past.’ She smiled darkly. ‘When I am done with you, maybe I’ll tell her. I promise to keep you alive long enough to watch.’

  She was trying to provoke him. It worked. With a growl, Hagdon swung, but Iresonté leapt neatly out of range, spinning and bringing her own blade around to strike his. Blue sparks flew. ‘I see I’ve hit a nerve,’ she said as they disengaged.

  Hagdon tried again, but a slow, powerful weapon wasn’t ideal against an opponent trained by the stealth force. Iresonté dodged rather than parried, using her momentum to counterattack so swiftly that her blade severed the straps of his breastplate. Hagdon cursed. Lest it unbalance him, he tore at the straps on the other side, letting the plate fall to the grass.

  ‘Not as fast as you once were,’ Iresonté commented, but her cheeks were rosy with exertion.

  ‘And you’re out of practice,’ he said. ‘Even a few months as general has made you lazy. A mistake I never made.’

  ‘Only because you enjoy your butchery.’ With a flick of her wrist, she sent a stiletto flying at him. Hagdon had expected it; she must have half a dozen knives hidden about her person. He dodged and the blade buried itself in the hilltop. ‘You always have.’

  ‘And I suppose you don’t,’ he retorted, coming at her with an overhand swing. She was definitely out of practice – the edge of his blade caught her shoulder, ambertrix slicing through her armour like butter. Iresonté gasped, clapping an automatic hand to her wound. Blood welled up between her fingers.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ she hissed at him, ‘but I don’t.’ She plunged her other hand into a pouch at her waist. Before Hagdon could react, the air turned grey. He couldn’t see – it was as if a dust storm had blown up, a smoky fog that caught in his throat, made him cough. A stealth-force trick. Hagdon turned on the spot, trying to keep silent, knowing Iresonté was listening for any movement. But heavy armour wasn’t built for secrecy and the next instant, a blade came slicing out of the fog, spattering his cheek with his own blood.

  Hagdon staggered. The wound burned with more than pain. It tingled; he could feel the poison mingling with his blood, seeping into his flesh.

  ‘It will kill you slowly,’ Iresonté said from out of the grey. ‘Very slowly. I’m loath to give you a swift end.’

  Hagdon bit his lip before he could ask whether there was an antidote. Instead he tightened his grip on his sword. If he was going to die, he’d take her with him.

  The hilltop was exposed; the storm wind scattered the dust and Hagdon could again see. Iresonté smiled at him. She threw down a small bloody blade – his blood – and returned to circling him. Hagdon tried to ignore the slow prickle creeping through his face, down his neck. There was pain, pain that would only grow worse. He swallowed, ignoring it.

  ‘Tell me one thing,’ he said.

  Iresonté cocked her head. ‘What?’

  ‘Why do you hate me so much?’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t hate you, Hagdon. It’s never been personal.’

  Through gritted teeth he said, ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘The world does not revolve around you, James. I saw a chance and I took it.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘The emperor was a fat fool – it was his mistake that enabled this.’ She jerked her head at the battlefield below them, a vast game board of red and black. ‘He had a general whose loyalty was unquestionable. If he hadn’t touched your family, I’d never have been able to drive a wedge between you.’

  Hagdon’s head was spinning. He staggered and the movement wasn’t entirely feigned. He could feel the poison beginning to burn in his nerve endings. She’d said it would take him a long time to die. He leaned on his sword, bent over, spat blood onto the ground. Iresonté drew closer. Through narrowed lids, he watched her lips move, felt her breath against his face. ‘When I am done with you, I will find your brother and the girl. And I will send them down to join you. And then I will do what no emperor ever managed. I will take Rairam.’

  Hagdon moved. It was a small movement, barely a jerk of his hand, she was so near. The blade slid home between her ribs. He’d used his stagger to hide it. Iresonté’s eyes went wide. She looked down, disbelievingly.

  He caught her as she fell. Their faces were very close; death conferred an odd intimacy. Blood trickled from her lips as she looked up at him, beyond him. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  Hagdon turned to follow her gaze. From their vantage point, he could see the tide of battle beginning to turn. A huge golden blaze moved through the mud of the valley, as the Wielders reformed into one. He imagined Brégenne down there, her hands full of Solar fire, calling commands. The wind carried a roar and a smell like the metallic stink of a forge. Perhaps he could fight his way through before the poison took him.

  When he looked back, Iresonté was dead. Hagdon laid her on the grass, staring at her until pain rushed in to fill the empty space inside him. His legs wouldn’t obey, twitching uselessly against the earth. His spine felt as if huge hands slowly twisted it; Hagdon couldn’t hold back a cry. He rolled onto his side, curled up, wracked with agony as the poison travelled through his body. The world lost meaning, his continual screams drowned in the din of battle that still raged below. Any thought of reaching the Wielders vanished.

  After a time, his voice gave out. After a longer time, the rain ceased to fall upon his face. A bright bloody light burned somewhere to his left and a darkness grew on his right. Sunset, he realized, night.

  He found himself in a strange place; a place where he was perhaps too damaged to feel pain. It wasn’t death because there were stars and a sky, and a ground beneath him.

  It wasn’t death because she was there.

  Like his dream, there was blood in her hair, on her face, as if she wept it. You’re hurt. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak the words aloud.

  I am not the one hurt, James.

  The blood wasn’t hers. She’d laid her cheek against his, he realized, and now wore his blood like a veil. He was the one hurt and he felt relief, such relief as he’d never known.

  41

  Kyndra

  She climbed the crystal stair. War raged outside. The Sartyan cannons fired, covering the men who,
at this moment, were storming the gates of Solinaris.

  War raged inside.

  With each step, she felt herself changing. She’d had a choice. She’d made it. And now she lived with the consequences.

  ‘Who will guard Acre?’

  Those four short words sliced apart the dream in Char’s face. She watched it die and felt an echoing pain in her heart. She relished it, knowing it would soon be gone. ‘I thought you’d say that,’ he whispered, still holding her tightly. ‘I dreaded it. But I knew you would.’

  ‘We can only ever be who we are.’ She forced a smile. ‘Someone wise told me that.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘Char –’

  ‘You don’t have to say any more.’ His yellow eyes burned. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’d like something to remember you by.’

  He made it sound as if she were dying. She supposed she was, in a way.

  His lips closed over hers. In the heat and heart of the moment, Kyndra had no room for regret.

  She touched her lips. Feeling the ghost of his kiss. Already a spectre, it was fast fading into memory.

  From somewhere below came a battle cry, which carried all the fury of a dragon.

  ‘Go, Kyndra.’ Char drew his kali sticks. ‘I’ll deal with these and then I’ll follow.’

  That’s how she’d last seen him, facing two du-alakat, the fine scale pattern standing out around his eyes and nose.

  She put one foot in front of the other and the black dreams massed in her head. This was the stair. She recognized the bones of its spiral. There was no sign of the eldest, but Kyndra did not hurry – the curse wouldn’t allow her to. She’d climbed this stair before. It was one certain thing amidst the confusion.

  I must stop the eldest, she told herself, but was that really why she was here?

  Between one step and the next, the glass turned black. Onyx beneath her feet, onyx under her fingers, the hand she trailed for support along the winding wall. Before too long, a rectangular portal loomed ahead: a door, oulined in light. Kyndra pushed it open.

  She found herself on top of a tower: the highest of Naris’s many spires. Above her the sky was an indeterminate blue; it could have been any hour between dusk and dawn. How long had it taken her to climb the stair?

  It wasn’t important. She saw the eldest.

  His very presence struck her as wrong. He should not be here. There was no space in this moment for him or the words he whispered into Kierik’s ear. Though decades had passed since she’d last seen the Starborn, he had barely changed; his hair was still rich and dark, his face a young man’s, his eyes the same cold navy as her own. Kierik stood in the very centre of the tower top, a great book lying open at his feet. The wind from its pages stirred Kyndra’s hair, a darkish gust that whipped around her legs. At Kierik’s side was Anohin, his eyes wide and terrified at feeling the brush of death.

  ‘She is come as I said,’ Kyndra heard the eldest declare.

  Kierik turned. ‘It’s you.’

  She tried to stand tall, but the eldest raised his hand and a moment later, her withered arm was agony. It spread to her shoulder, reaching up her neck, extending cold fingers into her chest. She gasped for breath. He would kill her, she realized. He would kill her in front of Kierik to bolster whatever lies he’d whispered into the Starborn’s ear.

  Pain found her heart and Kyndra couldn’t stop herself from screaming. It felt as if dry fingers were crushing her to dust. Her knees buckled; she clawed uselessly at her chest. Darkness closed in from either side. I can’t fail. But the stars could not aid her; Char was far below. And Kierik stood as if frozen, gaze moving between the two of them as if he couldn’t decide who to help.

  At first she thought it a mirage: the last fevered imagining of her dying brain.

  A blade jutted from the eldest’s throat.

  Kyndra blinked, feeling the pain recede. The eldest’s hood fell back; his face was so wizened as to barely earn the name; ancient and folded in on itself, twisted by his misuse of Khronos’s power. As she watched, the blood on his throat dried to dust; dust poured from the wound in a grey cascade, dissolving the eldest’s body like acid, revealing the man who crouched behind him, hand curled around the dagger’s hilt.

  Medavle straightened – the Medavle she knew, who’d travelled back with the eldest. His robes were torn and stained, but a fierce light shone in his eyes. He nodded at Kyndra. She pulled back her sleeve to find her skin unmarked; new energy flowed into her. She hadn’t realized how weak she’d become.

  Medavle extended his hand and another took it. The bulk of his body had hidden her, but now that she stood at his side, Kyndra saw she was Yadin too, white-robed with long blond hair, streaked here and there with soot. ‘Give me the book,’ Medavle said, raising the hand that held the dagger.

  Kierik had observed the eldest’s demise emotionlessly. But now his expression darkened. ‘You dare to challenge me, Yadin?’

  ‘I defeated you once before.’ Medavle gestured with the blade. ‘Give it to me.’

  Kierik laughed. ‘I need not remind you that I can release this –’ he nodded at the book – ‘whenever I choose. It will sweep you and all your kind away.’

  For some reason, Medavle looked grieved. ‘I cannot let you do that,’ he said.

  A moment later, Kyndra understood. ‘Medavle, no,’ she gasped. ‘You have to let him release it, or he won’t be –’ She stuttered to a halt, unable to say destroyed in front of Kierik.

  The Yadin shook his head. ‘If that is the price of saving my people then, bitter though it is, I will pay it.’

  ‘Why kill the eldest only to do what he planned to?’

  ‘I killed the eldest for you. I care nothing for Khronosta,’ Medavle said with a cold glance at the eldest’s remains. ‘I only helped him because he could lead me to Isla.’ His hand visibly tightened on the other Yadin’s. ‘But now that I am here, now that I have the chance to change my people’s fate, how can I walk away?’

  ‘You mustn’t,’ Kyndra said desperately. ‘Ma warned you.’

  ‘If you had the means to save your people, wouldn’t you use it?’

  The words of the black dream were in her mouth. ‘Better the death of five hundred Yadin than the death of the world.’

  Medavle slowly shook his head. ‘You cannot believe that.’

  ‘I must believe it.’ The stars cannot see beyond this point.

  ‘Yes,’ Kierik said suddenly. Kyndra could see the shadow of Mariar in his face; it must be costing him a great deal of effort to hold his weaving steady. ‘If it consoles you, Yadin, know that your deaths will mean the deaths of these Sartyan vermin who crawl upon my land.’

  Medavle’s face contorted, but Isla spoke before he could. ‘Meda.’ Her voice carried a timbre as honeyed as her hair. ‘If it is indeed a choice between us or the world, how can you hesitate? Even if you saved us, what would be the point, if everything else was doomed?’

  ‘No! You don’t understand. Our deaths will be meaningless.’ Medavle gathered her into his arms, holding her fiercely. ‘And I will not let you die again.’

  ‘I never lived to begin with,’ Isla whispered.

  ‘No,’ Kierik agreed, ‘you didn’t.’

  Anohin screamed. Kyndra threw up her arms instinctively before she realized what had happened. A thin wail split the air as a shadow descended over them all, a black shadow that reeked of death. It broke around Anohin like the sea about a rock; the Yadin trembled, clutching at Kierik’s hand that sat protectively upon his shoulder. Heart in her mouth, Kyndra whirled around.

  Medavle and Isla died looking into each other’s eyes.

  ‘No!’ She couldn’t help the cry torn from her throat, as their empty robes crumpled to the tower top. She couldn’t believe the dark-eyed Yadin was gone. He’d been with her from the start, watching as she broke the Relic; the act which began it all. Kyndra clenched her fists. ‘I didn’t want this,’ she told the space where Medavle had stood. ‘You shou
ld have left when you had the chance.’ If only he and Isla had been further away –

  ‘Why do you mourn them?’

  It took Kierik’s question to snap her into awareness. The Medavle she knew was gone, but the other – the one she’d met earlier – should still be alive, fruitlessly combing the citadel for Isla. He’d tied his lifeforce to Kierik’s: that act had both saved him and doomed the Starborn.

  A chill spread through Kyndra’s veins. Kierik should be on his knees, his mind shattered by the black wind, which had failed to kill Medavle. The Medavle who believed he had defeated a Starborn, who would live to tell her so.

  But he hadn’t defeated him. Kierik stood before her, a small frown puckering his brow. I don’t understand, she thought feverishly. This should have played out as it already had.

  Anohin’s eyes were wet as he gazed at the empty robes.

  Kyndra’s mind ran in hopeless circles. Kierik would remain whole. What would that do to the world? Ma had said too many events were tied to the fall of Solinaris. If Solinaris did not fall, if the Breaking did not strike Mariar, if Kierik survived to rule over them –

  The events that led to her birth would never take place. And yet she was here.

  Why? Why?

  Listen to your dreams.

  She hadn’t, Kyndra realized. If she’d truly listened, she’d have remembered that on her first night in Acre, resting upon the slopes of the red valley, she had woken burning from a dream of fire: the first black dream; the first memory. There had been a confusion of images – the Breaking, Rairam, Kierik – but amidst them a kernel of truth. She had fought Kierik atop a tower, the world splitting apart under their struggle.

  Kyndra’s eyes widened. She extended her hand, turned it palm up. ‘Sigel.’

  She watched the command rip across Kierik’s face. His grip on the stars that held Mariar faltered; she felt the tower tremble beneath her feet. The star filled her hand with flame; flame burned on her cheek.