Queen of Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  The bolt flew free barely a second after she brought the crossbow to her shoulder, rising and falling in a perfectly judged arc to smack into the sergeant’s breastplate before the riders had covered half the distance, the burly form falling from the saddle to lie limp on the rocky ground. Illian moved with an unconscious speed to reload the crossbow, grunting as she braced the stock against her midriff, slamming the next bolt into place and biting down on another, all in less than three seconds, a feat Frentis had never seen anyone match. The crossbow string snapped again as the riders came within twenty paces, a Free Sword tumbling to the ground with a bolt protruding from his helmet.

  Frentis found himself nurturing a reluctant admiration for the way the commander’s son came on, spurs digging into his horse’s flanks as he strove to get to grips with his father’s murderer, blind hate and rage writ large on his face, seeking to wipe away his shame with courage, a courage that made him oblivious to the fact that the ground had disordered his company and he had outpaced his men to charge alone.

  Frentis ran towards a nearby boulder, the hate-filled Volarian now no more than ten feet away, veering to intercept him. He leapt atop the boulder, bringing him level with the son, whirling to deliver a slash that connected with his long-bladed cavalry sword, the Order blade shattering it above the hilt. The Volarian hauled his horse to a halt and tried to wheel it around, fumbling for a spare short sword strapped to his saddle, then arching his back as Illian’s crossbow bolt slammed into it.

  She ran in as he fell, pinning him to the ground with a boot to his neck and raising her dagger. “Leave him,” Frentis said, striding forward to slam his sword pommel into the Volarian’s temple, leaving him senseless. “We’ll see what he has to tell us later.”

  He surveyed the fight unfolding around them, feeling an indulgent pride in the way the Volarian charge had been successfully blunted, the fighters leaping from rocks to unhorse the riders, whilst Weaver’s Varitai tripped horses with their ropes or dragged the cavalrymen from the saddle before closing in with cudgels flailing. It was done in a few moments, a dozen riderless horses trotting back into the depths of the canyon, every Volarian killed or captured. Their own casualties had been light, four killed and ten wounded. But of course the real battle was yet to begin.

  The Varitai came on with a typical indifference, although the slaughter meted out to the Free Sword cavalry had clearly alarmed their officers from the way they spurred their horses to the rear of the column whilst ordering the battalion onward. The Varitai spread out to form an offensive line, four companies deep, each of four close-packed ranks, the first advancing with their unnerving, faultless rhythm, broad-bladed spears held level at waist height.

  When the Varitai had covered two-thirds of the canyon’s length the archers rose from their hiding places to begin their work. Although few in number their skills were all well honed by now, the arrow storm thin but deadly as it claimed a dozen Varitai with every volley, but, as ever, the slave soldiers barely seemed to notice, coming on with their unfaltering stride, only the slightest ripple of discord in their ranks.

  The first bundle of flaming gorse arced down from the canyon wall to land directly in front of the first rank, white smoke billowing, quickly followed by more until it appeared as if the sky were raining great flaming hailstones. A pall of smoke soon covered the canyon floor from end to end, the Varitai concealed by the choking mist.

  Frentis fixed the dampened cloth over his mouth and raised his sword, turning to address the surrounding fighters, “Fight well and may the Departed guide your hand!”

  They charged forward in a dense knot, running blindly through the smoke to slam into the lead company of Varitai, the momentum of the charge enough to carry them through all four ranks, Frentis and Illian moving in a circular dance, cutting down Varitai left and right. All was soon a confusion of clashing metal and screams of pain or fury. Sometimes they would find themselves in a crush of opponents, shoving and stabbing as they stumbled over the dead, at others all opposition would disappear leaving them isolated in a world of shifting white smoke as the cacophony of battle raged unseen on all sides. Frentis caught glimpses of the freed Varitai at work, dragging their enslaved brothers down and beating them unconscious. But most sights were scenes of slaughter, the Garisai going about their task with all the skill and fury earned in the Varikum. Frentis found himself momentarily distracted by the sight of Ivelda and two other Garisai being lifted by their fellows and thrown over a line of Varitai, twisting in the air like acrobats at the Summertide fair to land and assault their enemy from the rear.

  “Brother!”

  Illian’s warning came a fraction too late, Frentis whirling to confront a Free Sword officer charging out of the smoke on horseback, too close to dodge. He leapt forward instead, grabbing hold of the horse’s bridle and wrapping his legs around its neck. The animal reared as its rider hacked at Frentis. The blow was poorly aimed but left a shallow cut on his forearm, forcing him to lose his grip. He landed hard on the rocky ground, the air forced from his lungs by the impact. He rolled, trying to rise, dragging smoke-laden air into his throat and choking. The Free Sword was far more skilled a rider than the commander’s son and brought his horse around in a swift display of excellent horsemanship, spurring forward with his sword drawn back for a decapitating swipe at Frentis’s neck.

  Illian’s throwing knife smacked into the rider’s face just above the chin guard, forcing him to veer away, though his horse’s flank still connected painfully with Frentis as he managed to gain his feet, sending him sprawling once more. He gulped more tainted air and forced himself upright, searching frantically for the rider but finding the saddle now empty. His eyes caught a vague flurry of shadows in the smoke a dozen feet away and he ran towards it, finding Illian confronting the now-unseated rider. Despite the knife embedded in his cheek the Volarian was assailing the sister with a series of expert blows, his long cavalry sword a blur as he advanced, bloodied face snarling. Illian blocked every stroke and leapt to deliver a kick to the side of his face, driving the throwing knife deeper. The Volarian staggered back, blood flowing thick from his mouth as he sank to his knees, staring up at Illian, all fury faded as his eyes held a desperate entreaty.

  Frentis paused to catch his breath, the sounds of battle fading around them along with the smoke, revealing the ruin of the Varitai’s battalion, their neatly ordered lines shattered into ever-diminishing knots of resistance. Even they couldn’t maintain a formation when blind.

  He moved to Illian’s side as she stood watching the Volarian die. “Killing without need is against the Faith,” she explained in answer to Frentis’s raised eyebrow.

  “Quite so, sister,” he said, briefly clasping her shoulder before moving on to seek out Lekran and ensure some survivors were allowed to flee. “Quite so.”

  She feels his return with a rush of joy, untarnished by the fierce enmity with which he colours his mind. The long days of his absence have been hard. Loneliness, once a long-forgotten sensation, has been difficult to master, provoking a despairing ache as she indulges in memories of their glorious time together. Instead of his voice this time he offers a vision, from the clarity she judges he has spent a long time viewing this scene, trying to capture every detail. She deduces that his return is not accidental, whatever contrivance he has used to mask his dreams now removed; he wants her to see.

  A thousand or more Varitai and Free Swords lie dead in a canyon, somewhere in the hill country east of New Kethia to judge by the landscape. People in mismatched armour wander among the dead finishing the wounded and gathering weapons. She finds herself smiling in amusement. You win a victory, beloved, she tells him. How delightful. I’ve been searching for some excuse to execute the governor of Eskethia.

  The enmity deepens, the thoughts coalescing into words, her heart leaping at the sound of his voice. Come and face me. We will finish this.

  She sighs, pushing a hand through her hair and letting her gaze wander over the grey o
cean stretching away from the cliff. It is starting to rain, the north-western coastline is ever damp in winter, though the seas are calmer than expected. Her slaves scurry forward bearing an awning, keen to shield the Empress from the elements. She dismisses them with an irritated wave. They are expert slaves, attentive in the extreme, but for a woman accustomed to privation and danger, their devotion to her comfort is an annoyance, leaving scant regret at their imminent fate.

  I’m sorry, beloved, she tells him, eyes now fixed on the horizon and her heart beating faster with the joy of anticipation. But I have business here. You’ll have to amuse yourself with my slaves for a while longer.

  The enmity subsides, transforming into a reluctant curiosity. She laughs, exulting as the first masts appear on the horizon, raising her gaze to the sky and finding it rich in clouds. She beckons the captain of her escort to her side, an Arisai like the others, promoted due to his slightly more controlled viciousness. “Kill the slaves,” she tells him. “Also, we passed a village a mile back. There can be no witnesses to my presence here. See to it.”

  “Empress.” He bows, his expression one of near adoration, though, like the others, cruelty is rarely absent from his eyes. He turns away, moving towards the slaves and drawing his sword.

  Her limbs tremble as she turns back to the sea, deaf to the screams as she summons the gift. She is slightly regretful at the necessity, having grown fond of this shell. But another awaits her in Volar, this one a little taller though not quite so athletic.

  Formalities must be observed, my love, she tells him, raising her arms and focusing on the clouds, watching them dance in response to the gift. It is time for an empress to greet a queen.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Vaelin

  The next storm lasted longer than the first, two full days of labouring along behind Cara’s gift-crafted shield. The constant exertion had forced her to reduce its reach, obliging them to move in a dense clutch, Orven’s guardsmen walking shoulder to shoulder with Alturk’s Sentar. For all the jostling and unwelcome proximity there was no trouble; the ferocity of the storm raging on all sides left little room for other preoccupations. Cara began to falter on the second day, stumbling to her knees several times and only managing to maintain the shield by sharing with both Kiral and Marken at once. By the time night fell the other Gifted had all shared to the point of collapse and Cara was barely conscious, mumbling in delirium as blood flowed from her nose and eyes.

  “We have to end this!” Lorkan railed at Vaelin, barely able to stand himself. “Any more and she’ll die.”

  Vaelin turned to Wise Bear with a questioning glance. The old shaman frowned and pushed his way to the edge of the company, poking his staff beyond the shield wall into the howling white fury beyond. “Wind dies, but slowly,” he reported. He hesitated, glancing back at Cara then straightened with decision. “Make circle, horses on outside. Cover all flesh, keep tight together.”

  It took some awkward manoeuvring to arrange the horses and ponies in a circle, by which time Cara had weakened yet further. “Stop now, Little Bird,” Wise Bear said, maintaining his habit of ignoring their own names for those he chose.

  “Can’t,” she breathed, eyes closed and leaking blood. “The storm … the price.”

  “Storm fades,” he said, putting a hand to her forehead. “Stop now.”

  She groaned, her eyes fluttering for a moment … and the shield fell.

  The cold was like a hammerblow, raising a pained groan from every throat as the travelers shrank beneath its weight, pressing together in instinctive need. Vaelin held tight to Scar’s reins as Dahrena wrapped her arms around his waist and Kiral huddled against his back, chanting softly in Lonak, the words unknown but the lilting tone familiar: death song. The horses and ponies screamed as the wind lashed them, some bucking and rearing in terror, tearing free of their tethers to flee into the storm. Scar snorted and stamped, the reins pulling taut in Vaelin’s grip as the warhorse gave a great whinny of protest, threatening to pull him free of the company. Vaelin gritted his teeth and pulled hard on the reins, dragging the horse closer and pressing himself and Dahrena against his side in the hope the faint warmth might reassure him. Scar whinnied again but calmed, probably more from the weakening effects of the cold than any instinctive loyalty.

  Time seemed to elongate as they endured the storm’s assault, every second a test of endurance. The horses started to die after the first hour, slumping down in silent exhaustion, their riders huddling behind the soon-frozen corpses. Vaelin could hear other Lonak voices raised in the same lilting cadence, more death songs gifted to the wind, fading as the endless minutes dragged by.

  He had begun to sag when he felt the storm weaken, a sudden removal of the blade-like chill. He released Scar’s reins, stifling a shout of pain at the sensation of life returning to part-frozen fingers. Dahrena stirred next to him, a weary smile visible through the swaddle of furs. To his amazement Scar was still alive, though slumped to his knees with snow piled on his flanks, blinking dolorous eyes at Vaelin as he scratched his ears.

  Taking stock, they found half the Lonak ponies dead along with a third of the guardsmen’s horses. Four of the Sentar had also perished, all veteran warriors a decade or so older than their comrades. In what appeared to be a Lonak custom, Alturk gathered the belongings and shared them out among the other Sentar as they gathered around the bodies. No words were spoken; their only outward regard for the dead was a brief glance at the corpses before moving away.

  Vaelin went to Wise Bear’s side, watching as the shaman’s gaze roamed the ice on all sides, a worried frown on his brow. “Which direction?” Vaelin asked.

  Wise Bear continued his survey for another moment then lowered his gaze. “None.”

  “But the price…”

  “Ice breaks all around.” The shaman made a circular motion with his bone-staff. “Nowhere to walk. This time we all pay price.”

  They made camp and waited, the Realm folk huddling around their fires, the Lonak occupying themselves by butchering the fallen ponies and horses. Meat should not be wasted on the ice after all. The now-familiar booming crack came soon after sunrise. The sound lasted much longer than before, the ice giving full vent to its torment as walls of white mist rose on all sides. Abruptly the ice shifted beneath their feet, the sky seeming to sway above as the entire field shattered for miles around with a thunderclap crescendo. The subsequent silence seemed vast, all members of the company fallen to their knees and staring about in expectation of some climactic calamity. But nothing came. The ice swayed gently beneath them, the surrounding ice-scape moving in a slow but constant drift to the east.

  Vaelin joined Wise Bear at the edge of the fragment where they were now marooned, looking down at the cavernous gap between them and the nearest berg, so deep the ocean water below was lost to sight. “The ice is kind,” the shaman said in a surprisingly calm voice.

  “Kind?” Vaelin asked.

  “Islands to the east.” A faint smile played over Wise Bear’s aged face. “Home.”

  The weather remained calm for the following week as they accustomed themselves to life on their new home. The berg was a good three hundred paces from end to end allowing for a sprawling camp, and, thanks to the storm, they were well supplied with horse-meat. Occasionally the berg would collide with one of its neighbours, the ice shuddering from the impact but so far failing to crack. For Vaelin the ever-shortening days were more worrying than their immobility, the Long Night was coming and he had no illusions as to their chances when it came.

  “You had no choice,” Kiral told him one morning. He had gone to the edge of the berg in what had become something of a daily ritual. They were so far north now that Avenshura could be glimpsed for a brief time between dusk and sunrise, shining brighter than he had seen before. No war can be fought in the light that it brings. Just an ancient delusion, he knew. Life, death, love, war. It would all be played out on this earth until the end of time and Avenshura didn’t care. It was
just a star.

  “These people followed me,” he said. “To their doom it seems.”

  “The song called and you answered. And our journey is not yet done.”

  She spoke with a calm authority but Vaelin could not suppress his skepticism, gesturing at the slowly moving ice surrounding them. “It holds no warning about this?”

  “It has sounded a warning note since we began this journey. But it also holds certainty. We are on the right course, the endless man awaits our coming. I know it.”

  The first island came into view four days later, a small snow-covered rise some miles to the south, several larger cousins appearing a day later. The berg’s collisions increased as the floe became constricted by the channels through the islands. After many hours constant shuddering, and an ominous crack that shook the ice beneath their feet, it came to a grinding halt.

  Wise Bear led them across the now-fractured ice-scape to the nearest island, taller than the others with bare rock jutting from its snow-covered slopes. His mood became sombre as they tracked around its southern shore, coming eventually to a collection of huts beneath a tall cliff. They were conical in shape, the walls constructed from seal hides over a framework of bone and wood, long out of use from their evident state of disrepair. Many were missing hides and others half-ruined by the constant assault of the elements.

  “You know this place?” Vaelin asked the shaman.

  “Bear People hunting camp,” he said, standing still and expressionless.

  “We could press on,” Vaelin suggested, sensing his reluctance. “Find another island.”

  “Nearest two days away.” Wise Bear started forward, moving with deliberate purpose and pointing his staff towards the north. “More storm coming. We rest here until it passes.”

  They repaired the huts as best they could, using horse-hide to cover the gaps, the night coming on fast and bringing a bitter wind. By now they were all well attuned to the moods of the ice, the speed with which a storm could descend, birthing a new level of cooperation between the Sentar and Orven’s guardsmen. They worked together with wordless efficiency, seemingly unhampered by any language barrier.