Queen of Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  He straightened as Darnel’s horse abruptly began to rear, tipping its master from the saddle and lashing about with its hooves. For a second all was confusion as the horse went wild, trampling men and charging away, then he saw a slender young man rushing towards Darnel, a faint gleam of steel in his hand. Alucius!

  He saw it all, standing helpless as the ship inched closer to the shore, saw Darnel’s sword cut through Alucius’s chest, saw a tall familiar figure impale Darnel with the spike he wore in place of a hand, saw the Volarian commander marshal his men in response.

  “Antesh!” Vaelin called, cupping his hands and casting his voice at the platforms. The Lord Archer’s head appeared above the platform edge and Vaelin pointed to the wharf. “Kill them all!”

  Reva appeared at his side. “What is it?”

  “Forget the plan,” he told her, reaching over his shoulder to draw his sword, the quay no more than ten feet away now. “Tell Nortah to get his people ashore and start killing.”

  He hoisted himself onto the rail, watching the arrows streak down from above, Volarians falling by the dozen, Al Hestian visible through the milling confusion, crouched protectively over his son’s body. Vaelin took a final judging glance at the quay and leapt from the rail, landing hard and rolling to absorb the shock. He sprinted towards Al Hestian, finding his way blocked by a knot of Free Swords, using their comrades’ bodies as shields as they backed away under the orders of a veteran sergeant. Vaelin hacked his way into their midst, laying about with his sword in a two-handed grip, two falling in quick succession, the veteran sergeant skewered through chest and neck by multiple arrows, the others attempting to flee but soon tumbling to the stones under the deadly rain.

  Vaelin ran on, cutting down any Volarian who contrived to block his path. The sword flashed with all the effortless, terrible grace he had thought lost, parrying and killing as he moved without conscious decision. Perhaps it was never the song, he thought grimly, sidestepping a thrust from a Free Sword and moving behind him to lay open the back of his neck. You don’t need a song to be a killer.

  He saw Al Hestian ahead, still crouched over Alucius, a group of Volarians rushing towards him. Something thrummed past Vaelin’s ear and the lead Volarian fell dead with an arrow protruding from his breastplate. Vaelin glanced behind to see Reva notching and loosing arrows from her finely carved bow with a speed and precision he knew he would never match. He sped on towards Al Hestian, seeing two more Free Swords fall to Reva’s arrows. Another came close enough to hack down at the former Battle Lord. Vaelin leapt, extending his blade to block the blow, hammering a fist into the man’s face. The man staggered, drawing his short sword back for a riposte, then snapped his head back and collapsed as one of Reva’s arrows found his eye.

  “Alucius!” Vaelin shoved Al Hestian aside and crouched next to the poet, his eyes tracking over the terrible wound in his chest to his face, the features bleached white, eyes half-closed. Reva crouched at his side, touching a hand to Alucius’s face, sighing in sorrow.

  “Drunken sot,” she muttered.

  “Weaver!” Vaelin said, standing to cast his gaze out to sea. “He’s on the third ship with the other Gifted…”

  “Vaelin,” she said, reaching out to grasp his arm. “He’s gone.”

  He stood, dragging his gaze from Alucius’s body as the Seordah swept past them on either side, tearing through the hastily assembled ranks of Free Swords, cutting their line apart. Some fought, hacking and stabbing with their short swords at the too-swift, silent phantoms that assailed them, their blades finding only air as they fell by the dozen. Others fled, sprinting away through the ruins or throwing themselves into the harbour, willing to risk drowning rather than face such an onslaught. Here and there Kuritai could be seen, managing to strike a blow or two before they were clubbed down. Beyond the slaughter Vaelin could see a dense formation of Volarians building in the more open ground near the warehouse district, neat ranks of Varitai falling into place with their uncanny precision.

  “They’ll fall back to the palace.”

  Vaelin turned to find Lakrhil Al Hestian regarding him with a vacant frown, his voice dull, listless. “There are fire-traps surrounding it. They could hold out for days.”

  He looked down at Alucius once more, bent to retrieve the dagger still clutched in the poet’s hand, and raised it towards his own throat. Vaelin’s punch jabbed into the nerve cluster below Al Hestian’s nose, leaving him unconscious on the stones.

  “Muster your archers on the quay,” he told Reva, nodding towards the dense ranks of Varitai, now attempting a fighting withdrawal into the city, the Seordah continually harrying them with volleys of arrows from their flat bows. Despite their retreat he knew this was far from over; he could see more Volarian formations moving through the ruins, battalions forming in the northern quarter with more to the west. He saw Nortah a short distance away, mustering his fighters amidst the remnants of a Free Sword company, sword bloody from end to end.

  “Move towards the north gate!” he called to him. “Stop them joining up. I’ll send the Realm Guard to join you when they dock.”

  Nortah nodded, then drew up short at the sight of something towards the east, laughing and pointing his reddened blade. “Perhaps that won’t be necessary, brother.”

  Vaelin heard them before they came into view, a great, cacophonous clatter of steel on stone. Clearly the Volarian commander heard it too as he attempted to switch companies to his left flank, all too late. The knights tore into the Volarian ranks, longswords and maces rising and falling as they hacked their way through the Varitai, cutting the formation in two. The Seordah charged in to complete the destruction, a fine red mist of mingled blood, breath, and steaming horse sweat rising to cover the raging carnage. The Varitai, unlike the Free Swords, didn’t know how to flee and fought to the last.

  Vaelin ordered Nortah to join up with Reva’s archers and sweep towards the palace. “There’s still half a division to kill,” he told them. “Take no chances, keep them divided and let the archers do their work.”

  He waited for the Realm Guard to come ashore, the Wolfrunners the first Regiment to arrive, now commanded by a former corporal Vaelin vaguely remembered from the Alpiran war. “Set guards on this man,” Vaelin ordered, pointing to Al Hestian’s unconscious form. He took a final glance at Alucius, knowing he would have to be the one to tell Alornis and feeling like a coward for hating the duty. “And secure this man’s body,” he said. “The queen will wish to say words when we give him to the fire.”

  He walked through the scene of the Varitai’s defeat, a dense carpet of bodies breasting the wharf from end to end. A broad-chested knight on a tall charger trotted up to him, trampling bodies and breaking bones under hoof. He pushed back the red-painted visor covering his face, greeting Vaelin with a forced laugh. “Quite the spectacle, eh, my lord?”

  “Baron.” Vaelin bowed. “I had hoped it would be you.”

  A young, bare-headed knight guided his horse to Banders’s side, his bright gaze alighting on Vaelin for a moment before scanning the quayside with intense scrutiny. “Where is he?” he demanded, hefting a gore-covered longsword.

  “Arendil, my grandson,” Banders explained to Vaelin. “He’s keen to meet Lord Darnel.”

  “Back there, young sir.” Vaelin pointed over his shoulder. “Quite dead, I’m afraid.”

  The young knight slumped in his saddle, sword arm sagging. His face betrayed as much relief as disappointment. “Well, at least it’s over.” He brightened at the sight of a group of people approaching along Gate Lane at the run, raising his hand in a welcoming wave. Vaelin initially took them for some of Nortah’s fighters but soon realised they were an even more unusual mix, varying greatly in age and garb, including a girl of no more than sixteen, a Lonak woman of impressive stature … and a muscular young man with an Order blade.

  Frentis stared at him as he approached, a faint smile on his lips. Vaelin halted a few feet away, taking in the sight of a man who wa
s both brother and stranger. His frame was even more impressive now, powerful and, Vaelin noted, free of scars judging by the skin visible through his torn shirt. His face also had lost the youthful smoothness he remembered, hard lines forming around the mouth and eyes. For once, Vaelin was grateful for the song’s absence as he found himself uncertain he wanted to know what those eyes had seen.

  “I heard you died,” he said.

  Frentis’s smile widened. “Whilst I knew you couldn’t have.”

  Seeing his evident and genuine warmth, Vaelin felt his sorrow deepen yet further. “I require your sword, brother,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Frentis’s smile slowly faded and he glanced at the people flanking him before nodding, coming forward to proffer his blade hilt first. Vaelin took it and beckoned the Wolfrunners’ new commander forward. “This man,” he said, “is bound by the Queen’s Word to answer for the murder of King Malcius. He is to be shackled and confined pending her judgement.”

  PART II

  It is a singular mistake to think of the slave as fully human. Freedom is a privilege afforded by the excellence of our lineage as true Volarian citizens. By contrast the slave’s station, earned through birth to enslaved parents, just defeat in war or a demonstrated lack of industry and intelligence, is not merely the artificial construct of society, it is the accurate reflection of a natural order. It therefore follows that attempts to upset this order, through misguided policy or even outright rebellion, are always doomed to failure.

  —COUNCIL-MAN LORVEK IRLAV,

  VOLARIA: THE APEX OF CIVILISATION,

  GREAT LIBRARY OF THE UNIFIED REALM (LIBRARIAN’S NOTE: TEXT INCOMPLETE DUE TO PARTIAL BURNING)

  VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT

  In contrast to my first voyage aboard this ship I found myself provided with a cabin, once occupied by the first mate who had perished at the Battle of the Teeth. Our captain stated loudly to his threadbare crew that he had yet to find a worthy replacement and I might as well have it since none of these dogs deserved the honour. The welcoming prospect of ship-borne comfort, however, was diminished by his insistence that I share the space with my former owner.

  “She’s your prisoner, scribe,” he stated. “You guard her.”

  “To what end?” I enquired, gesturing at the surrounding ocean. “To where is she likely to escape, pray tell?”

  “Might damage the ship,” he replied with a shrug. “Might throw herself to a passing shark. Either way, she’s your responsibility and I’ve no hands spare to watch her.”

  “It’s a small bed,” she observed as the cabin door slammed shut behind us. “Still, I don’t mind sharing.”

  I pointed to a corner of the cabin. “Your place is there, mistress. If you’re quiet, I might spare you a blanket.”

  “Or what?” she asked, pointedly sitting on the narrow bunk. “Will you flog me? Bend me to your will with cruel torment?”

  She smiled and I turned away, going to a small map table set into the woodwork below the porthole. “There are a dozen men on this ship who will happily mete out all the correction you require,” I said, reaching into my bag and extracting the first scroll to hand.

  “I’ve no doubt,” she agreed. “Will you watch? My dear husband liked to watch when the slave girls were whipped. He’d often pleasure himself at the sight. Will you do the same, my lord?”

  I sighed, biting down a response and unfurling the scroll. An Illustrated Catalogue of Volarian Ceramics, Brother Harlick’s precise but overly florid letters provoking me to an amused grunt. Even the man’s script is pompous. Although I couldn’t pretend any liking for the brother, I had to concede Harlick’s draughtsmanship was excellent, the illustrations possessed of a flawless exactitude, the first depicting a hunting scene from a vase dating back some fifteen hundred years, naked spearmen pursuing a stag through pine forest.

  “Ceramics,” Fornella said, peering over my shoulder. “You think the Ally’s origins lurk in pots, my lord?”

  I didn’t look up from the scroll. “When studying an age often bereft of writing, decorative illustration can be highly informative. If you can enlighten me as to another course, I would be grateful.”

  “How grateful?” she asked, leaning close, breath soft on my ear.

  I merely shook my head and returned to the scroll as she laughed and moved away. “You really have no interest in women at all, do you?”

  “My interest in women varies according to the woman in question.” I unfurled the scroll further, finding more hunting scenes, some images of ritual worship, various gods, and creatures of bizarre design.

  “I can help,” she said. “I … would like to.”

  I turned, finding her expression cautious but earnest. “Why?”

  “We have a long voyage ahead. And whatever you may suspect of my motives, I am keen to see this mission succeed.”

  I looked again at the image on the scroll, naked revellers frolicking before a great ape-like creature, mouth agape and vomiting fire. Kethian jug fragment, read the inscription below the image. Pre-Imperial.

  “When exactly,” I asked her, “did the Volarians give up their gods?”

  “It was all long before my birth,” she said, “long before my mother’s birth in fact. But she was ever a studious woman and keen for me to learn the history of our most glorious empire.”

  We had repaired to the deck, sitting near the prow as she spoke and I scribbled my notes. The captain had growled something at our appearance but made no protest and the crew seemed happy to ignore us, bar a few hostile glances at Fornella.

  “The empire may speak with one tongue now,” she went on, “and follow the Council’s edicts be they denizens of the greatest city or the foulest swamp. But it was not always so.”

  “I know your empire was forged in war,” I said. “Many wars in fact, lasting some three centuries.”

  “Quite so, but whilst the Forging Age left us with an empire, true unity eluded us for centuries to come. There were too many different coins with too many different values. Too many languages spoken by too many tongues. And far too many gods. My mother used to say that men would fight and kill for money, but they would only die for their gods. For the empire to endure we required that kind of loyalty, untainted by any divine distraction. And so there were more wars, called the Wars of Persecution by some, but Imperial historians refer to the entire period as the Great Cleansing, a sixty-year trial of blood and torture. Whole provinces were laid waste and entire peoples took flight, some to the northern hills, others across the sea to found new nations free of Volarian persecution. But, for all we lost, it was this that truly birthed the empire, for this is when we became a nation of slavers.

  “There had always been slaves, of course, mostly in the Volarian heartland, but now there were more, conquered for refusing to give up their gods, beaten, cowed and bred so successive generations forgot them altogether. To marshal such a resource requires two things: great organisation and vast cruelty. I often think it was these particular traits the Ally found so alluring. After all, we must have been chosen for a reason.”

  “Do you know when he made himself known?”

  “I know not whether the Ally is male, or even truly human. My mother told of a time, near four centuries’ years ago, when the empire was strong in its unity. War with the Alpirans was nothing new but it took on a new intensity, the battles grew in size, the campaigns lasted years instead of months, though victory still eluded us. Eventually the Alpirans became tired of our endless attacks and launched one of their own, overrunning the southern provinces in a matter of months. Crisis has a tendency to reveal noteworthy talent and thus it was that a young general from the southern city of Mirtesk rose to prominence, a general with a revolutionary notion, and the means to make it happen. If our slaves could build our cities and work our fields, why not also fight our wars? And so, via his new-found knowledge, we created the Varitai and Kuritai. Through tactical genius and prodigious use of his slave soldiers, our new genera
l won eternal fame by driving the Alpirans back. He was lauded the length and breadth of the empire, statues were raised in his honour, epics composed by our finest scholars to document his wondrous life.”

  Fornella paused, her lips forming a wry smile, though her eyes betrayed a sadness I hadn’t seen before. “But it was not a normal life. For our young general stayed young, whilst his fellow officers grew old and withered around him, he stayed young.”

  “He was the first,” I said.

  “Indeed. The first Volarian blessed by the Ally’s voice, or, I assume, the first he sent one of his creatures to seduce. But his gifts didn’t end with the secret of binding slaves so completely they would fight and die at their masters’ command. No, he had more to offer, the greatest gift of all. It was from him the Council learned the secret of endless life, at the Ally’s behest of course. And, over time, they all made themselves its creatures. The general became the Ally’s voice on the Council, speaking softly at first, guiding rather than commanding, hinting at the great task it had chosen for the empire. Although, as the years passed, the general’s behaviour became ever more erratic.

  “My mother said she met him once, at a feast held in his honour. My family is, as you may understand, vastly wealthy and has held a Council Seat since the empire’s earliest days. I asked my mother what he was like and she laughed, ‘Quite dreadfully mad,’ she said, ‘though I hear his daughter is worse.’”