“For years, my mother was possessed by a hopeless desire to throw her life away for something useless and pointless and incomprehensible: hot-blooded revenge. Yet, for all her passion and desire, she failed. To succeed if I am ever in her boots, I will need power, and in Valamar you have the church or you have nothing. My mother taught me that.”
“So that’s why you joined,” she said. “The church, I mean.”
“Yes.”
Brea would need some time to digest that. “Well, we can talk about it later. In the meantime, what am I supposed to do?”
“Not sure,” said Kozog. “Banehal might have another contract for us. Maybe head back to the Freelands? I’ll meet you there.”
That wouldn’t work. “Banehal didn’t return to the Freelands,” she said. “He told me he had gone hunting slavers around Everwatch.”
Where I should be…
Kozolg hesitated. “You seem uncertain. Do you think Banehal betrayed the Army of the Open Fist?”
“No,” said Brea. That wasn’t it. “He was loyal and the defeat was as much of a shock to us as it was to him. I’m certain of it.”
“How can you know?”
“He’s a paladin, and he’s still got a full head of hair. Couldn’t be older than twenty.” She pursed her lips. “There’s an elven saying: Never trust an old man in a profession where the good die young.”
Kozog seemed to accept that. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So,” asked Brea. “Neither of us have anywhere to go. We’re pariahs. What next?”
“I figure we split up for a bit, and regroup back in the Freelands.” Kozog hesitated, his red eyes flicking away. “If you wanted.”
“Oh,” she said, a whimsical smile playing over her lips. “We have a lot of adventures to share together, yet.”
“Until the end of my life,” Kozog promised.
“What if I die first?” asked Brea. It was a simple question. “What would you do then?”
“I never really thought about it. The alternative seems far more likely.” He absently rubbed at his broken tusk, leaning up against the door frame. “Few people know how long a half-orc can truly live. Misadventure claims us far before that. Our lives are brutish and short; yours are beautiful and long and full of wonder. I have no illusions. You’ll have many more comrades after me.” Something crept into his words she didn’t fully understand. Regret? “If us lasts my life, it must be fleeting for you. As if I were entangled with a half-orc who would be old and withered in five years, dead in ten. No small commitment, but hardly…” he could barely end it. “Important.”
“You are important.” Brea stressed the words. “But you’re far more likely to die from face-punching than you are from being old and grey, warm in your bed. Not at this rate. What are we going to do about that tooth?”
“It will regrow.” Kozog smiled crookedly. “You tell me that knife-ears can live for a hundred years but can’t regrow their teeth?”
“I never really thought about that,” Brea said. “But no, we can’t.”
“An example of how we’re different.” Kozog managed a weak smile, rubbing the wound over his chest. “Okay, time for you to go to bed, you silly little criminal.”
“Brea the Bandit.” She arched her back, closing her eyes. Artfully, employing all she had learnt throughout her life, Brea carefully dropped a hip, inhaling a breathy sigh. “Mmm,” she purred, “I’ve been such a bad girl. Maybe you should come in and spank me for a bit.”
He considered, and then, with a warm smile, slowly extended his hand.
“It’s okay,” said Kozog, patting her on the head. “Everyone makes mistakes.” He waved cordially. “Sleep well. I’ll see you soon!”
Epilogue
Heartbreaker
FOR A SUCCUBUS, DYING MEANT a trip home and a year’s banishment in the lower planes.
And it hurt like hell.
Heartbreaker’s body reformed in her spawning pool nestled deep within the pits, surrounded by roaring flames and the screams of the pitiful mortal souls sent to the heat and the dark.
Killed by her own weapon. How terribly embarrassing. She unfurled her wings, slipping out of the black fluid that had reformed into her body. A waterfall of the stuff trickled in from a gargoyle statue’s mouth; the water was waist deep, more than enough for a hundred reformations.
She knew she should be careful. One could only afford to be killed once every generation or so, lest the fluid levels get too low, and some ambitious, lower ranked demons decided to make a claim on it. She had seen such things; such a battle would drain her resources away, as the two killed each other over and over, until one wasted away and the victor claimed the dark for themselves.
In the pit, one’s ability to have power was directly related to one’s ability to hold onto it.
Heartbreaker let the unholy rejuvenation fluid run off her, shaking her wings and wringing out her tail. She had been killed a score of times, or more, and each time was painful, uncomfortable, and distressing.
This time, the death was particularly rankling. She had been killed by someone infected by az’shelas, one of the pit’s more subtle creations. More of a disease than a living creature, the living called it a rotbringer. A foul demon who entered a mortal’s body through a wound, causing infection and decay to spread until they eventually could seize control of the host and use their body as their puppet.
When she had discovered the infection, she had thought az’shelas was in charge of the half-orc, but that mistake had cost her.
No matter. The half-orc would be long dead before her vengeance could be delivered.
Such a shame.
Read more of the world of Shattered Dreams in the novel-length story Ren of Atikala!
Brea and Kozog will return in The Pariahs: Freelands!
Afterword
I’M NOT THAT INTERESTING REALLY. I’m thirty, I live in Australia, and I've always been thinking of stories for as long as I've been alive. I have way, way, way too many to tell and far too little time to tell them.
I've been writing stuff all my life, but I still couldn't tell all the stories I wanted to. It was only in 2011 that I actually started shaping and weaving those random, jumbling, chaotic masses of thoughts into coherent narratives and began self-publishing.
I write a little science fiction, a little fantasy, a little humour and comedy, and a few other things all over the place.
The Pariahs is a new thing for me, set in the world of Ren of Atikala, a place called Drathari. A place where the gods are dead and life is nasty, brutish, and short. Ren of Atikala is about a kobold who lives in this world but knows little of it; Kozog and Brea are different, still growing into their own stories.
Special thanks to Clara Barrs, for bringing Brea to life.
Want more information about new releases for the Kobolds series? My new novel, Ren of Atikala: The Scars of Northaven is now available. To get it when it comes out, sign up for my “new releases” newsletter here:
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www.lacunaverse.com
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Or email me here:
[email protected]
Books by David Adams:
The Lacuna series
Lacuna
The Sands of Karathi
The Spectre of Oblivion
The Ashes of Humanity
The Prelude to Eternity
The Requeim of Steel (coming 2015!)
Magnet
Magnet: Special Mission
Magnet: Marauder
Magnet: Scarecrow
Magnet Omnibus I
The Kobolds series
Ren of Atikala
The Scars of Northaven
The Empire of Dust (coming 2015!)
The Pariahs
Pariahs: Freelands (coming 2015!)
The Gods Are Silent (coming 2015!)
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br /> …and many more!
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THE FIRE SEER - A COALITION OF MAGES NOVEL
Amy Raby
Chapter I
Hrappa
TAYA TROTTED HER BLACK MARE past the flat, unwelcoming stares of the Hrappan townsfolk. She faced forward, reminding herself not to take it personally. It wasn’t who she was that bothered them. It was what she represented.
The sunlight was fading as she rode up to the Hall of Judgment. A haughty-looking servant in belted indigo awaited her on the steps. Taya dropped lightly from the mare’s back and brushed the travel dust from her clothes. She’d come in Coalition regalia, as per instructions. Over her short riding pants, she wore a green robe of soft cotton. A belt of worked silver with a fire agate mounted on the buckle encircled her waist. Her hair was pulled up into a fan-shaped headdress, and her arms jangled with bracelets—silver, since her people did not wear gold.
The servant’s gaze raked her. “You must be the drain-cleaner we sent for.”
Taya blinked in surprise. “No, I’m Coalition.”
“Ah,” said the servant, taking the mare’s reins. “I never would have guessed.”
Taya’s cheeks warmed. Sometimes she didn’t notice right away when a person was being insincere.
The servant straightened. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Lumbering up the stairs was Piru, her pack elephant. He was a dwarf variety, no larger than her mare, but tame and loyal and incredibly strong. “Put him in a stall next to the mare. Has my partner arrived?”
“He arrived yesterday.”
He. So her partner was a man. Taya didn’t care one way or another, so long as he was competent, but she’d been curious.
The servant circled the elephant dubiously. “Where’s the lead rope?”
“You don’t need one. Just take the mare and he’ll follow her. His name is Piru. Give him a good feed of hay and scratch him behind the ears.”
The servant gave her a look that said, I’d sooner rub a sand viper’s belly.
Poor Piru. Maybe Taya would be able to visit him in the stable herself. “Is my partner available for me to confer with before I see the magistrate?”
“The magistrate wants to see you immediately. Your partner is with him.” The servant pointed. “Straight inside, first hallway on the right, second door on the left.” He whistled, and a boy padded up the steps. The two of them spoke briefly, and the boy took the mare’s reins and led her away. Piru started to follow but hesitated, turning his gray head to Taya in confusion.
“Go on,” she urged, and Piru trotted off, ears flapping. Taya smiled.
She straightened her headdress, noting with exasperation that several locks of her hair had come loose. She tried shoving them back in, but other pieces fell out, and she decided just to leave it be. She wouldn’t make a perfect impression, but how could she be expected to after traveling all day?
Aside from its huge size and arched entryway, the Hall of Judgment was like most Hrappan buildings, a flat rectangle of baked brick. The building was stuffy inside, but now that the sun had dropped below the horizon, it would cool off. Taya turned into the first hallway on the right and looked for the second door on the left. It was guarded by a lightly armored man with a bronze mace at his belt. She caught the guard’s eye and he nodded, granting her permission to enter.
The room was unexpectedly large. A gentle breeze threaded through two windows overlooking a leafy courtyard. A high seat rested upon a raised dais, undoubtedly the chair from which the magistrate handed down his decisions, but it was empty. Three men sat around a table in the center of the room.
One of the men was old and sick—disturbingly so. His stomach was bloated and misshapen, his hair lank, and his face sweaty, as if sitting in a chair was a great effort for him. Taya suspected he was near death.
The man sitting next to him was young and healthy. Both bore the facial tattoos of the ruling caste and were well dressed. The third man, who had his back to her, wore Coalition green and silver and was obviously her partner. Seeing him, her anxiety about the mission eased a little. He looked like the sort of man one could depend on—tall and strong, with a confident manner. He was a quradum, one of the Coalition’s magic-using warriors, and his role was to protect and advise her. Given the hostility of the townsfolk here, she might need protection. As for advice, she welcomed any guidance on her inaugural mission. She hoped her partner was as seasoned as he looked.
The younger man stood to welcome her but the sick man only gave her an apologetic look. Taya gathered he was not capable of standing. Her partner rose, too, with leonine grace. As he turned, she moved toward him eagerly and froze in shock.
She knew that face.
Even if she had been uncertain in her recollection, the facial tattoos were unmistakable. The sunburst on his forehead and the lines just beneath his eyelids, all in dark red, marked him as a member of the royal house. She was looking at Mandir isu Sarrum. Taya felt sick.
Recognition dawned in Mandir’s eyes as well, and he went as still as an onager jack who catches the scent of a lion in the grass.
“Welcome to Hrappa,” said the older man, in a weak voice that carried the echoes of well-worn authority. “I am the magistrate, Ashur isu Dayyanum. I’m sorry I cannot stand to offer you a proper greeting. I have been ill these past seasons.”
Taya tore her eyes away from her partner. Manners first. “My name is Taya. I’m sorry you’ve been ill.” She approached the table and held out her hand, pressing her five fingers to the magistrate’s. “Have you seen a Coalition healer for your condition?”
“I have the Curse of Lalan. They can do nothing.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. If he had the Curse, there was, indeed, no cure. It did not spread from one person to another, but it was lethal.
The magistrate continued, “This is my son and heir, Kalbi isu Dayyanum.”
Taya touched fingers with the son. Their names, Ashur and Kalbi, were interesting. “Traditional” names, the people called them, but since joining the Coalition, Taya had learned that such names were actually remnants of the forbidden language, the mother tongue. Parents had handed them down for generations, having no idea what they were preserving. Her own name, Taya, had no such significance; it was from the river tongue and of modern origin.
“And...you already know your partner?” said the magistrate. “I was led to believe you would be strangers to one another.”
Taya turned to Mandir, folding her arms to indicate she had no intention of touching fingers with him.
“Indeed,” said Mandir, mirroring the gesture. “Taya and I have not seen each other for a number of years, but we trained together as children.”
“Such fond memories,” said Taya. “Mandir almost killed me once.”
Mandir forced a laugh, as if she’d made a joke.
“Ah,” said the magistrate, taking it as one. “I could tell you some stories about my own misspent days.” He indicated the empty chair. “Have a seat. We’ve business to discuss.”
Taya sat, edging her chair away from Mandir’s. How had this happened? Mandir was a year older than her, but he’d entered the Coalition the same year as she had, and he’d been sentenced to a Year of Penance for his crimes. That should have put him a year behind in his instruction. He should not be a fully qualified quradum! In silence, she fumed. Someone had bent the rules for him. Mandir was the son of a prince, and once again his connections had saved him from having to face the consequences of his misdeeds.
She longed to toss a barb in his direction—So, Mandir, how was your Year of Penance?—but she contented herself with shooting him a nasty glare.
He was looking her over in an appraising manner, which irritated her even more. He’d always coveted her body, even as he’d insulted everything else about her. Well, let him look. Let him see the green robe and silver belt that showed she was
every bit his equal despite her low birth. Let him see the fire agate that marked her as a fire seer. Caste didn’t matter in the Coalition, only ability.
Boldly, she scrutinized him in return, searching for physical flaws, but she was disappointed. His hair and clothing were perfect, not a strand out of place, and her onetime hope that his gangly teenage body would over-mature into coarseness had not come to pass. Instead, he’d filled out into a man with size and muscle and sleekness, putting Taya in mind of a jungle cat.
His eyes were the color of overripe wheat, his hair dark as a monsoon cloud. She tried to stare him down so he’d know she was no longer a scared fourteen-year-old farm girl he could play cruel games with, but there was more in his eyes than just arrogance. Was it fear? Surely he had nothing to fear from her, unless it was the fact that she would not hesitate to go to the authorities if he overstepped his bounds. The Coalition might not forgive his excesses forever. But that was his problem, not Taya’s. He’d made a mess of his life by messing up other people’s lives. Three people had been expelled from the Coalition, their magic permanently destroyed, because of him. He’d gotten off easy, and he deserved no pity.
Mandir turned to the magistrate and said, “Tell us about the suspected jackal.”
Taya blinked. She needed to focus on the mission, not on her partner, but she couldn’t help noticing, now that she was over the initial shock of seeing him, that his voice had changed. It had deepened into a rich, velvety tenor.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 185