The Fireborn Chronicles

by Mary Andrews

  Wiping sweat from beneath his collar, Laynald cursed again. The audacity of that damned upstart. Conjurer or not, he'd live to regret this irritating prank of his. In his younger days Alejan, himself, would have done much more than just chastise the boy. Of all the nerve! Every new apprentice knew how to conjure rain. Call the lightning, indeed!

  Standing once more before the full length mirror, the Healer absently replaced the darts he had used. Then he reached to release a catch near the upper corner of the mirror itself. With a slight click and a snap it swung gently open and away from the wall on one side to reveal a secret passageway. Catching a glimpse of his own reflection as it opened, Laynald wondered if he really looked as worn as the mirror had suggested, but he refused to look into it again. At times like these, he didn't have to be shown his failings—he felt them.

  The tunnels were colder than usual, for humidity brought out the worst in secret passages as well as people. They became more cloistered, or was there perhaps something more than just moisture at work here? Laynald slackened his pace, considering this for the first time. What if the weather was not meant to merely irritate, but to distract as well? An uneasy feeling crept over him.

  Finally standing before the exit, he spied into the brightly lit chambers of the King. Drawing the Holy Gun smoothly from its holster and gripping the butt ever-so-tightly, Laynald lightly rapped upon the wall. A reply signal answered. Then, with a sliding click, the panel's safety was released, and it swung open. King Alejan greeted him from within.

  “What have you found out?” the King asked without waiting for the door to close.

  “They're still unconscious,” the Healer replied. He habitually scanned the room thoroughly before holstering his weapon and turning to face his lord, the King. “Does it feel like something is not quite right to you, or is it just my old age setting in?” he asked abruptly.

  Alejan eyed him strangely and shrugged. “What are you talking about?"

  “I'm not sure.” Laynald frowned, his eyebrows furrowing deeply together. He struggled to listen with his body. Something was wrong. He could sense it, almost taste it, but he couldn't quite identify it.

  King Alejan studied Laynald. The Code was necessarily harsh, for ascension to the throne was legally attainable only through properly sequenced assassinations. Since the old Conjurer's fall, Laynald was now legally targeted. Perhaps the pressure was taking its toll.

  It could mark the beginning of the end for the King once the Court Healer fell. Then only he and his guard would remain before the sequence was completed and a usurper legal.

  The Healer began reporting to his King. Alejan carefully studied his face, half listening. Age was the real culprit here. Without the blessings of the Holy Gun, they would most probably not have survived the last coup. If the new members of the court Code Positions opted to join his regime, that could fortify their positions, but that wasn't likely.

  The inevitable fist of time was crushing them now. Laynald knew it, and so did he. The Code insured that only the strongest of leaderships could retain power. They had lost an important edge with their youth.

  Laynald finished up his report with an apology for not having learned more.

  Alejan placed his hand on the other's shoulder and guided him back to the wall-door. He would genuinely mourn the Healer's death—if he had time after it happened. “Why don't you take a break for yourself and relax while our newcomers are still unconscious. You look pretty tired."

  Laynald nodded and returned to the tunnels. The Code still insured him a grace period of five more hours before another assassination attempt would be legal. He would be stupid to waste it.

  * * * *

  Laynald awoke with a start—the sound of thunder pealing overhead. The room was cold, unnaturally so, and he felt strange. Something was wrong. A tingle shot up his spine as he grappled with the cloak and gloves. His fingers felt thick as he struggled to release the mirror-door catch. For a moment, his gaze dropped to the mirror's surface.

  Crystalline eyes looked back from a face that should have been his own. He reflexively drew and fired the Holy Gun, sending shards of glass flying in all directions, revealing to any who knew to look, the fine outline of the hidden door behind it. He cursed in frustration and entered the tunnels. A sudden need for urgency overtaking him, he broke into a run before rounding the last turn toward the King's chambers.

  He threw himself toward the chamber's peep-slot. Within the usually serene quarters, he saw many men, none of whom he recognized and all of whom bore unsheathed weapons. He resisted a strong temptation to barge in on them and teach them respect for the King's presence. He wondered where the Guards were and then realized that Alejan was nowhere to be seen. This room was the easiest to defend. It was the most comfortable and the farthest from the main doors, but the King was not there. Something was wrong.

  Someone else entered the room and everyone grew silent. It was that kid Conjurer, Moneo. He spoke in loud and triumphant tones. “The time is upon us, brethren. Only the Healer stands in our way now.” He turned to an attendant and grabbed something up, then hurled it among his men. Laynald sickened at the sight. It was a disembodied head ... “WE WILL TRIUMPH, MY MEN” ... bloodied and battered ... “WE WILL EITHER BEAT OR BREAK THE CODE” ... dead eyes open, staring in horror ... “WE ARE DESTINED THROUGH ALL TIME” ... the voiceless mouth forming a perpetual cry ... “BY THE STARS” ... horror through all time ... “BY THE PROPHETS!"

  Laynald wrenched himself from the scene. He ran headlong, unseeing down the tunnels.

  Moneo's last words echoed all around him, “BY THE GODS!"

  * * * *

  It was not hard to discern that the men who now guarded the prisoners were no longer his men. Nor was it difficult to dispatch them; first a dart, then a dagger. He would save the more lethal projectiles for later. He would have plenty of opportunities.

  Through the door slit, Laynald scanned the cell. The prisoners were conscious now and mobile. Good, if he handled this right they might help turn the tide in his favor. He opened the cell door and stepped in. The prisoners huddled together in a corner. The raven-haired youth was doubled over, hands cradling his head in pain, while his friend stood protectively nearby.

  Motioning them to remain silent, the Healer retrieved first one and then the other of the enemy-guard's bodies into the cell, though he kept watch on the two within. The boy never moved, but the other assumed and retained an unfamiliar battle stance. Laynald inwardly smiled and desperately hoped that this man could hold his own in a fight and still be controllable. With the guards finally situated out of sight, Laynald entered the room himself and drew the door shut, allowing the lock to re-engage behind him.

  He leveled the Holy Gun at the other's chest. Recognition registered on the prisoner's face; not the type of recognition that denoted reverence for the God-gift, but rather another type. His gaze shifted from man to gun and then back again.

  “You are not,” he paused to remember the old Lord-High-Conjurer's name. “You are not Folata, are you?"

  Laynald shook his head. “Folata is dead. Moneo is now High Conjurer."

  “Damn,” the man cursed and slightly relaxed his stance, but not his guard. “Where did you get that gun?"

  “From the Gods,” Laynald answered indignantly, “through Folata as payment for my services."

  The stocky man stifled a laugh. “Is that what Folata told you, the gods?"

  “I don't have time for this,” the Healer said flatly. “Moneo pays no heed to the Code. He has killed my King out of sequence, and he must now kill me.” A wicked grin crossed his face, and he repositioned the gun with menace so that it included them both. “You mean something to him. I'm not sure if you're a threat or an aid to his plan, but either way I benefit from taking you with me now. Your choice, come now or die now.” He motioned to the door. “Let's go."

  The slender youth strained to rise. His friend turned to help him. “Ira won't make it without help.” The boy
looked pale and withdrawn.

  “I treated him myself. Why is he so weak?"

  Crystalline blue eyes met his own dark ones. He remembered the mirror, experiencing, at once, a tingling of recognition. Had this boy-wizard somehow tried to warn of Moneo's treachery? Why HAD he awakened so suddenly?

  Keeping the Holy Gun in his left hand, he stooped to encircle the weak man's waist with his right arm. If nothing else, this one would be easier to control now, and he now had both a hostage and the Gun. “Get his other side,” he told the other.

  They lifted the youth to his feet between them.

  “Look,” the older man said, “my name's Rael Pointe, and I've got a ship not too far from here. If you'll help us get to it, I can get you out of this mess."

  The clanking of keys from a distance drew them to silence. Laynald eased Ira to the floor again and dashed to the cell door with barely enough time to flatten against it. The metal view slot grated open two feet above his head.

  From beyond the door, a voice whispered, “The prisoners are still here.” Laynald strained to keep the heavy door from moving as the guard tried it. “The door's still locked, so maybe the others just got called away or something.” The view slot grated shut.

  A second, darker voice spoke up, “Fine, go tell the Captain about this anyway. I'll wait here."

  “ME? You go do it. I outrank you, remember?"

  “Not the way heads are rolling today...."

  The guards, still unaware that they argued before an unlocked door, were ill prepared to defend themselves when Laynald finally snapped the door open and loosed his darts. The first man hit jolted forward into the arms of the other, who scarcely had time enough to register a look of surprise as he dropped from the deadly dart. They fell to the floor with a thud. They would never argue again.

  * * * *

  Only after having passed through several hallways unopposed, did the Healer finally allow them to stop. Ira was still disoriented, and his uneven breathing made it obvious that he needed rest. The Healer nodded toward a corridor wall, and they leaned Ira against it. He slid down it slowly until he sat upon the ground.

  “You are not holding up very well, Wizard Ira,” Laynald stated.

  Rael shook his head and leaned against the wall himself. “I've got some stuff on board the ship that'll fix him up, but I don't know what we're going to do if this comes down to a chase. How much time do you think we have before they realize we're gone?"

  Laynald shrugged. “They may already know."

  “Then why are these halls still so empty? I mean, I believe in luck as much as the next man, but...."

  Laynald ran his gloved hand over the wall's coarse rock surface. “We've been heading deeper into the castle instead of out of it.” He smiled at Rael and applied pressure to one of the stones. The ancient surface rumbled and groaned in protest, but the rock panel moved just enough to expose a hidden passageway. “I have been here a long time.” His expression darkened. “The Conjurer will wait for me outside the castle walls."

  “Will this take us completely out of the building?” Rael asked.

  “Not yet.” He motioned for Rael to help Ira through the doorway. “The passage will be too narrow for me to help much in there."

  He allowed them to enter first so he would be able to reset the entrance. As it sealed closed, the walls around them took on an eerie blue glow—just enough to see by. Time and distance passed quickly until, at last, Laynald told them to stop. He motioned them to silence, and then, palm pressing against another seemingly solid wall, he caused a small peep slot to slide open. He peered through it, gripping the Gun tightly before causing another panel to pop open.

  Light sliced a wedge into the passage. He signaled for them to stay put as he stepped through a doorway into another room. He was not gone for more than a couple of minutes. When he returned he carried a small bag and a couple of sleek silver daggers.

  From the bag, he extracted a tiny vial of golden-specked liquid. It almost glistened in the eerie blue lighting.

  “Drink this,” he ordered Ira as he handed it to him. “It will take away the pain—strengthen you."

  The strange crystalline eyes locked again with his. Ira clumsily grasped both his hands and the potion. Using the Healer to maintain his own fragile balance, he slowly drew his right hand upwards toward Laynald's face.

  Laynald raised the Gun to Ira's chest, remembering the consequences of this one's touch, but he did not fire. The gaze from those strange eyes never wavered. He remembered the mirror. He allowed Ira's touch, flesh to flesh.

  From the first point of contact Laynald felt a peace, the likes of which he had never known, wash over him—tight muscles loosened, his mind unwound, his body relaxed. He lowered the Gun.

  Ira spoke in a soothing silken voice. “Don't worry about me. If this elixir can free both of you for the fight that's ahead and keep me on my feet and out of the way through it all, I don't mind the price I'll pay later."

  From behind him, Rael spoke up, “Now, wait a minute, here."

  Ira cut him short. “It's nothing we can't fix back at the ship.” He released the Healer and raised the vial to his lips. Ira smelled its rich fragrance and drank. The potion, thick and sweet over his tongue, swept quickly through his system, causing a wave of almost euphoric ease to overtake him. His mind dulled with each passing moment, and he no longer constantly sensed the others’ pounding emotions. The anger and rage he had already lifted from the Healer—at least for the moment—but the worry and stress and frustration would be never-ending. It had entwined with the pain from his wounded body and bombarded his every movement in waves—until now.

  He sighed and briefly enjoyed its absence. Everything else—walking, hearing, moving—became mechanical; seen as through a thick haze, heard as if from a distance. He finally looked again to his companions.

  Rael did not look happy, and Laynald was still a little awestruck. Ira smiled dumbly at them. “Well, I'm ready to go,” he finally managed to say.

  They moved on, Laynald leading and Rael uneasily glancing at his drugged partner. “How long will he be like a zombie?"

  Laynald looked puzzled for an instant before motioning him to silence. After another brief search, the walls again yielded one last hidden panel. “This is the one that counts,” he whispered to them. “We'll wait until the sun sets before we leave the castle."

  * * * *

  The night rain, indistinguishable from the air, rolled down Laynald's cape and puddled ankle-deep. Rael and Ira, both capeless themselves, struggled to match his pace; Rael cursing, Ira not caring.

  The outer-most wall loomed before them. It was cold, slimy and wet to the touch—its barely visible hand/toe holds totally useless now. They sheltered amidst the muddied bushes near its base.

  Slightly lifting the hood of his cape, Laynald spoke. “We will have to leave through a gateway, which will be heavily guarded. How much help are you in a fight?"

  Rael Pointe smoothed the drenched hair from his face. “Give me solid ground beneath my feet instead of this muck, and I'll show you what a good fight's all about."'

  The Healer studied him more closely. “Why fight at all? Moneo must kill me—you might still escape."

  Ira smiled dully, his tongue still too thick to permit much speech, but Rael was quick to reply. “As I recall, he voted to have us killed on first sight,” he said, “and since my initial business was intended for the owner of that gun, I just might be able to deal with you instead—if you like to travel. Interested?"

  Laynald looked around and scowled. “I hate the rain. Come on, we'll talk about it later.” He stood up, and withdrawing the two silver daggers from his belt, handed them to Rael.

  They were well balanced and beautifully ornate with edges sharp enough to shave by. He received them almost tenderly. “It is always a joy to work with precision instruments,” he said.

  Fervently hoping that he had not misjudged his new allies, Laynald continued. “There will proba
bly be no more than ten of them. Guard my back and keep out of my way. Work your way along the wall toward the gate. The Gods will provide enough storm sounds to prevent the Holy Gun from being heard during the assault. If we are quick, Moneo may not discover your absence from the Castle until you are long gone, but I will not leave until I've dealt with him."

  The flash from the lightning above allowed Rael to see the hatred in Laynald's face and feel the venom of his words. It would do no good to argue.

  Laynald smiled wickedly. Then, throwing the sides of his cape back onto his shoulders, he allowed the rain to thoroughly drench his body. He would become one with the rain tonight.

  Rael and Ira exchanged glances. The Healer strode boldly away.

  Amidst heavy rain and crackling thunder, the guardians of the gate hardly recognized the man who confidently strolled toward them—until too late.

  His first three shots eliminated the archers from the wall. The others, who had been sheltering within the gateway itself, scattered insect-like in all directions. Two more fell to the Healer's barrage. He was awesome to behold—a pillar of power and might. Gunfire slicing the liquid atmosphere unmercifully. It was he who controlled the lightning tonight. Two more fell from the heights. A powerful blast to the wall sent others scrambling for safety below as the damaged wall attacked its own defenders.

  Unnoticed, a single figure watched from the battlements. He had known that this gate would be the Healer's point of exit. He had read it in the cards—even before his men had discovered the tunnels. He grimaced at the fight below. Why was this taking so long?

  Almost casually, Moneo reached for his bow. He notched, drew and released the arrow, which he had specially tinctured for this occasion. It caught the Healer's shoulder with enough force to cause him to reel backwards from the impact. The Holy Gun, flung from his grip, landed on the cobblestones yards behind him. Ira scrambled to retrieve the weapon. Laynald dispatched an oncoming guard with a dart from his other hand while whirling to face his attacker. An overpowering wave of pain forced him to lose his balance. He stumbled to one knee.