A Question of Power (The Fire Chronicles Book 2)

by Susi Wright

  The twenty riders, all wearing the same ornate helmet and uniform, rode tall and proud atop their steeds. In complete contrast to the Baramese animals, these samblars were a small, rangy breed and severely underfed, looking very much like they were at the end of their endurance. It was difficult to tell what condition the men were in, due to their concealing armour. By the filthy state that was in, suggesting a long period of neglect and travel, one could guess that their proud bearing might belie a similarly weakened physical condition to that of their animals.

  As they approached at a laboured pace, the main body of men seemed to be riding in guard formation, long spears at the ready. In their centre a much smaller figure, on a disproportionately tall, bony samblar, rode slightly above the height of those around him. Eyeing the troops at the gates, the riders drew to a halt and faced the reception committee.

  Zelor and Taris demonstrated they were unarmed and stepped forward to issue a greeting, first in Gaian, then human. Taris took on the role of spokesman. “Hie, strangers! Make yourselves known to us, before we let you pass!” Commander Stolis stood by, only there to assist if there were any language difficulties. Or more importantly, in his mind, to order his soldiers to action if there was any threat of violence.

  The newcomers sat silent and still for a few moments. Then the small rider nudged his samblar forward and the guards moved aside to allow him to pass. His helmet was decorated with an unfamiliar brass insignia and covered, like his amour, in a thin film of ash. He removed it, shaking out shoulder-length brown hair, damp with sweat, to reveal the youthful, grimy face of a boy, no more than twelve summers old.

  The boy sat taller in his saddle, his demeanour taking on an almost arrogant air, obliging them with an answer in a clear resounding voice. The imperious tone surprised everyone in earshot and brought some of the humans, formerly Xian’s slaves, running out through the line of soldiers at the gate for a look.

  “I am Prince Rolin of Lealand! Stand aside and let us pass – this is my palace!”

  CHAPTER 44

  The Hunt

  The rak-boar had taken cover in a thicket of thorny briar. The pungent musky odour from the beast’s recent activity permeated the clearing. Breathless snorts punctuated the stillness, echoing around the glade. It was not really hiding. It was resting. With a massive muscular frame and thick, coarsely-haired skin, impenetrable to claws or arrows, raks did not usually have to hide from anything. They charged. And the huge tusks, protruding from large razor toothed jaws, were capable of ripping a man or beast in two. An encounter with a rak was generally avoided, even by the hungriest predator. Even zabuk leopards, the largest and most ferocious hunters, almost matching a rak in size, had learned by costly experience to choose other prey. The safest place, anywhere in the vicinity of one of these formidable beasts, was up a tree.

  The tall ancient pines, upper-branches interlocking, stood proud. These survivors of the holocaust held the same position they had for a centuries, leafy sentinels to all that went on in the forest. Six warriors, all experienced enough to know about safety on such occasions, were positioned in the trees surrounding the briar patch, watching the boar. They had already provoked the animal to charge a number of times, relying on air-cloaks to swoop out of the way at the last second and the boar was tiring, albeit slowly. A rak, with such a bulky frame, could not maintain speed for long, though in a charge it could outrun most land animals. Or a man. Every foray sapped its energy.

  Xandor and six Gaian companions, all good hunters, had left the palace on samblars with two extra pack animals to carry the game they hoped to bag that day. Riding towards the remaining forests on the eastern highlands, they had picked up the boar’s spoor on open ground. They tracked it for a while, assuming the animal was heading for a water course through the wooded slopes, where it could drink and dig up some succulent wild yams along the riverbanks.

  A safe distance down-wind, they dismounted, leaving the samblars with one of their comrades. Two of the packs contained game, bagged earlier when they came across some pheasants and plains-badgers, foraging for seeds and insects in the burn zone. The guard would have to be alert for other hungry marauders who might be attracted by the smell of fresh meat. The other hunters took to the air to track the boar, eager to bag some larger quarry. With so many people to feed at the palace, the supplies brought by the Baramese army would not last long. Fortunately, these woodlands had attracted almost all the few surviving mammals and birds in the region. They could return to hunt in the coming weeks, until some crops could be planted and harvested to sustain the people who chose to stay and rebuild.

  Resting on its haunches, the rak grunted, pawing the ground with its cloven fore-hoof. It was not ready to give up yet. Its broad snout poked out from the bushes, large nostrils flaring as it sniffed out its pursuers. Slowly, the boar emerged from the briars, raising its massive head upwards, as it picked up a scent wafting from the trees above. It knew where they were. That it was surrounded, did not seem to daunt the beast, confident from a lifetime of survival that its strength and ferocity could defeat any would-be hunter, earthbound or airborne. In fact, a few years past, this boar and its mate had torn an attacking kudros to shreds, avoiding being bitten and sustaining only minor scratches. These assailants looked puny in comparison to any who had previously tried to defeat him. He pawed again, sending up a flurry of leaf-litter from the ground at the edge of the thicket.

  Xandor nodded to another man, ready to draw the boar out in another charge; the other four would swoop down around the beast to confuse it, distract its attention – a method that was tried and true for most hunts. The beast had to be tired, but not too tired for one last charge into the open. Correct judgment, which came with experience, was key. Gaians on the hunt and in battle needed little verbal communication. Intuition generally united their efforts. At the right moment, two men would leap onto its back and drive long spears through the soft hide behind its head, angled perfectly to find their mark – directly through the heart – a clean kill. This was a dangerous quarry, not to be under-estimated. No mistakes. Xandor and his friend, Troyan, had only days ago, seen the loss of the brave Celo to the kudros beast that had attacked Churian.

  The two decoys flew down and stood where they could be seen on the opposite side of the clearing, waving their cloaks at the boar. They advanced, one step at a time, until it charged. Even tired, it was fast, almost on the men before they could blink three times, but at the last moment they swerved in separate directions, taking to the air and swooping just out of reach of the slashing tusks. The boar wheeled around to follow one of them, only to be confronted by more swooping warriors, moving so quickly it could not focus on any of them. Shaking its hairy head in frustration, the small, beady eyes darted around, trying to fix on a target. Suddenly, the boar spun on its haunches, first one way then the other and back again, a dozen times. The muscular hind legs were trembling with the strain of exertion. It was almost time.

  Troyan, who had helped his clan bring down a rak boar at the age of sixteen, recognised the sign and signalled to the closest man to join in the final attack. The two launched themselves onto the boar’s broad back, quickly grabbing handfuls of thick hair as the beast bucked violently. Fortunately for them, though immensely strong, a rak boar was not built for agility; its neck was thick and inflexible where it joined the head. Troyan threw both legs around the narrowest part, still wider than two samblars, gripping like a vice with his knees. He had a good hold of its shaggy mane with one hand. His position was perfect to thrust his spear in for the killing blow. His companion had not been quite so lucky. He had been dislodged on the first buck, though he still held a thick handful of hair; thrown around bodily, he only just managed to hang on. Troyan could see the kill depended on him alone, even more reason for an accurate blow. He focused on the heart of the boar, pulsating wildly, high up in the chest where it joined the gullet. Raising his long spear high above his head, he waited a few seconds for the tired animal to p
ause its thrashing. Then, he drove down with all his might through the soft tissue, the shaft finding its deadly mark. It stopped the boar’s heart instantly. The beast’s entire frame shuddered in its death-throes. Troyan and his comrade leaped free, before the boar’s legs crumpled under it and its body crashed to the ground. The rak lay still, a growing circle of red-brown soaking the earth and leaves surrounding its final resting place.

  As always, the Gaians acknowledged the taking of a life in the hunt with solemn thanks. The need to survive was a brutal one, echoed throughout Existence. There were hungry mouths – no other choice. They were lucky to have found such a large specimen so soon after the fires. The samblars would only just manage to carry all the meat if it was divided between them. Some of the men began the task of cutting the carcass into manageable portions and Xandor went back to fetch the samblars and their other comrade to collect the load.

  Two hours later, most of the large bones had been discarded and buried. During the digging, they had turned up several large yams, some of which were placed in a string bag. The hessian sacks were loaded with rak-meat, and the riders mounted up, ready to leave.

  As Xandor settled into the saddle behind a bag of game, the excitement of the hunt dissipating, his thoughts returned to his personal quandary and how to avoid it. He turned to the man next to him. “How about we bring men back to collect more yams tomorrow?” He could volunteer to lead the mission himself. But at the notion of sidestepping his duty to Saria, yet again, his conscience pricked him savagely.

  “I’m in, brother!” exclaimed the man, with a grin, and several others echoed him.

  Xandor instantly regretted making the suggestion at all, nudging his mount forward with an irritated kick to lead the group out of the clearing in a westerly direction. He now felt the weight of guilt, because several companions had just jovially and wholeheartedly agreed to follow him on another much-needed foraging mission the next dawn. They now looked to him for leadership as Luminor’s right-hand man. Not one of them, even the new Gaian brothers, had a clue of his internal conflict. Xandor wasn’t sure they would respect him as much, had they known how he shirked his duty!

  CHAPTER 45

  Strange Times, New Beginnings

  “Thank the Stars, you are alive, your Highness!” yelled one of the men who had broken through the picket-line, having recognised the boy. The immediate move to arms by the soldiers had been stayed by a firm signal from Stolis, realising the truth of the situation. It had been a topic of conjecture during the previous evening as to whether any of the royal family, the true rulers of this land, had survived Xian’s onslaught. Here, it seemed, was their answer.

  The boy’s grimy face, though appearing hard and imperious now, held the telltale tracks of recent tears. His expression lightened somewhat to see that at least some of the Lealanders had survived the invasion. He eyed the ranks of Baramese arrayed before him suspiciously, having noted with dismay during his approach, that he and his men were vastly outnumbered.

  Straightening in the saddle, he fixed Taris and the two beside him with the authoritative glare he had seen his father use many times, as he repeated the order. “Let us pass – I say!”

  Zelor and Taris exchanged a brief glance of forbearance, both recognising the slight catch in the voice and the nervous swallow, punctuating the demand. The boy’s bravado was close to breaking. It was not for them to prolong his suffering. As Lord Luminor’s representatives, they and Commander Stolis knew very well what their lord would do and wisely hastened to do it.

  Taris spoke. “I am Taris, representative of Lord Luminor and the Baramese people. Prince Rolin, we also are pleased to see you alive! You must know that your parents disappeared. It is thought they perished at Xian’s hand! You are fortunate to have escaped his madness! Please enter and find your ease – we are your friends!”

  Stolis motioned for the soldiers to stand aside, allowing the bedraggled young prince and his trusty guard to enter their home.

  Once inside the gates, they were swarmed affectionately by the people who knew them, all loyal subjects of this ravaged kingdom, welcoming the sole survivor and heir of a highly respected royal family. Still trying to maintain his proud demeanour despite his fatigue, Prince Rolin dismounted, heavily weighed down by a slightly-too-large suit of armour. He, all too easily, accepted an attentive escort to his chamber to rest and bathe after his ordeal.

  Gaian bystanders who had been party, albeit unwittingly, to the mayhem under Xian’s edict watched on silently; some hung their heads, others had tears in their eyes for the injustice that had been dealt to this noble boy-prince and his innocent human subjects. Most were prepared to make amends in any way possible. Lord Luminor would know what to do – if only he would wake up!

  This sentiment was reflected in Luminor’s men as they observed the arrival. Reception of a royal personage deserved the audience of a leader with merit; the one who had been responsible for the victory was unable to be roused. His condition worried them – they had seen him fall to the poison arrow. They were proud to have fought beside him in the Battle of the Fires.

  Anxious to waste no more time, a small group of concerned Gaian elders congregated to consult about Luminor’s mysterious sleep state. Two medics from the Baramese army joined them and they took turns to examine the unresponsive Luminor in his bed.

  “Has anyone here seen the like?” Zelor asked, still unable to come to a firm conclusion.

  “His wound is clean and well on the way to healing. He does not suffer a fever. But even now, cannot be woken!” One of the medics stated the obvious for want of something better to say. Everyone else in the room refrained from pointing that out, choosing to nod patiently instead.

  “Mmm. . .I believe it is an after effect of the poison!” concluded another elder, whose intuition recovered after the fall of Xian’s edict, which, embarrassingly, he’d not quite managed to resist. “There are many and various toxins, some with mystical properties. The ancient healers had knowledge of many more than we use these days. Perhaps Xian’s helper brought more than stolen fire and spells from the Ancient Realm!”

  “Possibly true, Brother Silvan,” conceded Zelor. “These are strange times. . .appearances and disappearances. . .dragons. . .wraiths. . .not to mention the mysterious visitation on the battlefield, of which we have heard little – and know even less! Only Lord Luminor knows what happened there! Could this be connected to any, or all, of those things?”

  “I do not sense Lord Luminor’s usual strong presence – that happens sometimes when the person is in a very deep sleep, or dream-travelling. But, is something else happening here? These are indeed strange times!” opinioned another of Luminor’s men, but just like all the other intuitive comments and suggestions, brought little enlightenment. The mystery remained, leaving them nothing to do but to watch and wait.

  It was close to bedlam in the kitchens. Women and older men from both races were up to their elbows in flour and panna dough, making loaves for breakfast. The ovens had been fired up an hour ago and the heat in the scullery had reached an almost unbearable level, especially with all the extra volunteers in the limited space. These people were so busy, they missed the arrival of Prince Rolin and his men, hearing about it second hand from a boy who relayed the message in exchange for a crust of freshly baked panna from the first batch of loaves.

  The tantalising smell of baking was wonderful, somehow comforting, wafting out of the open doors across the square. Sumar breathed it in as he hurried towards the kitchens, savouring the aroma, realising just how hungry he was. He found Saria and her parents measuring out the quantities of flour and water for another batch of dough into a large vat with a hand-operated paddle. Sumar rushed up to them, smiling. “Good day, Lady Saria! You are in the thick of the action, I see! And I am pleased to meet your parents at last!”

  Saria responded curtly at first. “Sumar, good morn – but do not continue to address me as ‘Lady’! I do not like the title he gave me!” S
he quickly softened, realising her overly abrupt tone. “Just ‘Saria’ will do. And Sumar, this is my mother, Rosal, and my father, Jon.”

  Rosal was a small thin woman with a heavily-lined face and enormous, luminous violet eyes which had obviously been inherited by her daughter. She nodded and thanked Sumar for his help in taking care of Saria. “You have our deepest gratitude, young man! I see you have come to join in cooking duties!”

  Sumar smiled again, carefully concealing the underlying reason for his visit to the kitchens.

  Jon, who appeared to be even older and more frail, stepped forward and extended his hand, silently conveying his thanks by a surprisingly strong, floury handshake. He turned back to tip the remaining measure of ingredients into the mix. Rosal and Saria added salt and water.

  Glad to be young and strong, Sumar saw the opportunity to be of use and took hold of the wooden paddle handle, throwing his weight into turning it. Slowly the blade started to move through the sticky mixture, gradually more easily, until the dough was pliable and soft, ready for forming into loaves. The easier job of forming, he left to Saria’s parents, while he joined Saria at the next empty vat to begin another batch. The same process was repeated a number of times at four similar sized vats and a dozen smaller mixing barrels, fully occupying the next two hours. During that time, a queue of others had come in one after the other, collecting progressive batches of warm panna to distribute among the hungry people waiting in the square.

  Finally, tired but accomplished, Sumar and Saria, Rosal and Jon were relieved from their duties by a cleaning team. They followed the other bakers, who had been working since before first light, to sit down outside in the cool air. Wiping the sweat from their brows, they enjoyed some of the fruits of their labour – a chunk of crusty fresh panna and a cup of herbal tisane. It tasted like the food of kings!