Queen of Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  “They expect their gods to help?” Vaelin asked.

  “They don’t have gods, as such. They believe these mountains are possessed of souls of their own, either kindly or vindictive according to whim. When the storms come they are angry, when the winter is kind they are pleased. But they always take a dim view of cowardice.”

  “And we will be happy to honour them with our courage. But first I must ask what he has seen of these invaders. Particularly those that lead them.”

  Hirkran’s face darkened and he looked away before voicing a series of short, grunted answers. “When they came we thought it would be as before,” Erlin related. “They come, we fight them, they steal children, they leave. Sometimes the children can be bought back for copper or fire metal. Mostly not. This time they took children and killed them. They killed everything, even the wild goats and elk. We fought…” Hirkran’s face took on a mask-like quality, as if the horrors he had witnessed were beyond expression. “We fought so hard … But they were so many, much more than had come before. We did not see who leads them, though the Rotha spoke of seven red men with powers that rivalled the spirits, but they are notorious liars.”

  Powers that rivalled the spirits. “Are there any Rotha here?” Vaelin asked, gesturing to the other warriors.

  Hirkran spat and made a disgusted noise. “Back at the cave. Their stench dishonours us.”

  Vaelin nodded and moved back from the edge, causing Hirkran to bark a question at Erlin. “Where are you going?”

  “To muster the army for our mighty leader’s attack. Where else?”

  The Rotha were led by a stocky woman of middling years with a deep matrix of decorative scars carved into the flesh around her eyes. “Mirvald,” she stated when Erlin asked her name, going on to add a few other titles which apparently indicated her status. “She’s a mix of counsellor and shaman, said to have the ability to hear the word of the spirits.”

  “She saw the seven red men?” Vaelin asked.

  Mirvald eyed Vaelin closely for a second before replying. “The Rotha were the first to feel their wrath. The Seven came to their settlement alone. Because they were strangers the warriors tried to kill them, but were themselves killed. The Seven are not like other men. They move and fight as one, as if each hears the thoughts of the others. Even so the Rotha would have prevailed had they not had other powers. One could kill with a single touch, another had the power to freeze a man’s heart with fear. They killed many Rotha, and then their army came and killed many more.”

  “Thank her for her knowledge,” Vaelin said.

  The woman inclined her head at Erlin’s words then asked a question of her own. “How do you intend to defeat the Seven when others could not?”

  Vaelin glanced over to where Wise Bear held counsel with the other Gifted, all gathered round as he imparted another lesson from his bottomless well of knowledge. “Tell her we have powers of our own. If she would see them, she should come with us.”

  Erlin listened to her reply and forced a placid smile. “She will, but only if you name her leader of the army. Her people won’t come otherwise.”

  “We already have a leader.”

  “I suspect it won’t matter if you name two. The tribes rarely speak to each other except to exchange insults. I profess myself amazed they’ve managed to spend more than a day here without finishing what the Volarians started.”

  “Very well.” Vaelin gave a weary nod and bowed to Mirvald before turning back to Wise Bear. “I await her wise commands and, with her permission, will now consult with my captains.”

  “How do we find them?” Marken asked. “Hidden in such a host?”

  “The Rotha woman said they move as one,” Vaelin said. “I suspect if we find one, we find them all. Even so it will be no easy task in the midst of battle.”

  “My song may guide us,” Kiral said. “But the tune is so uneven now…”

  “No.” Vaelin shook his head to clear red-tinged memories of Alltor. “Singing during battle is best avoided.” He turned to Astorek. “Could your mother’s spear-hawks find them?”

  “Commanding a beast becomes difficult when the killing begins,” he said. “The sound, the scent of blood, makes them either fearful or hungry. It requires great concentration to ensure they attack the enemy and not our own people. To maintain enough focus to seek out a particular prey would prove difficult, perhaps impossible.”

  “I can find them,” Dahrena said, her tone soft but certain. “Their souls are like black pearls in a sea of red.”

  “You have flown enough during this enterprise,” Vaelin stated.

  “There is no other way, as I suspect you know, my lord. Besides”—she reached for Cara’s hand—“I have friends to share the burden.”

  “More than one,” Marken added, moving to her side. “Doubt my old bones are fit for fighting in any case.”

  “So you see, my lord.” Dahrena met his gaze with a bright smile. “Our course is set.”

  “Remember, they need to be taken alive,” Vaelin told Astorek. “Until Wise Bear touches them, they must not be killed.”

  The Volarian nodded as his wolves moved to take up position alongside Vaelin and Scar. The army had mustered to the north of the ridge, marching through the night to arrive before the onset of dawn. Dahrena would remain atop the ridge with Cara and Marken, their cats prowling the cliff-top with twenty of the Wolf People’s most trusted warriors.

  Vaelin went to Dahrena, the others retreating to a respectful distance. Her anger seemed to have dissipated and she clasped his proffered hands without demur, returning his kiss and letting it linger.

  After a moment he drew back, speaking softly, “I have asked too much of you…”

  She put a hand to his lips. “No more than you ask of yourself. We came to make an end, and I hunger for it. I want to go home, Vaelin. I want to go home with you and that can’t happen until this ends.”

  He touched his forehead to hers and clasped her hands once more before moving back and striding towards Scar and the wolves.

  The Witch’s Bastard had chosen his campsite well; the only cover was provided by the shallow river running through the valley floor. He led Scar at a walk through the waters, the banks just high enough to conceal his tall frame. The wolves moved ahead, keeping to the sides. The predawn gloom was fading fast by the time he paused a mile short of the camp and requested Alturk take his Sentar in a wide sweep around the Volarians.

  “Lorkan will go with you,” he told the Tahlessa. “Carve a hole in their picket line.”

  “Can’t wait,” Lorkan said, forcing a smile, his new-found courage now plainly faltering despite the presence of his cat.

  “The first break of dawn,” Vaelin told Alturk, extending a hand. “Not before.”

  Alturk stared at his hand for a moment before briefly clasping his forearm. “My son’s name was Oskith,” he said. “It means Black Knife, he was aptly named.” He glanced over at Kiral, crouched in the current and playing a hand through her cat’s damp fur. “As was my daughter. I would have her know this.”

  “Then live and tell her yourself.”

  “That would make me a liar. Last night I sang my death song to the gods.”

  Alturk rose from the water and crept up the riverbank at a crouch before disappearing from view followed by the hunched, shadowy forms of the Sentar. Vaelin saw Kiral watch them go, seeing the knowledge in her eyes and realised he would have nothing to tell her if Alturk fell. Few secrets can be hidden from the song.

  A short way on he bade the tribes folk to halt, and, like Alturk, make their attack at the first break of dawn, striking at the camp’s northern edge. They were clumped together in their tribal groupings, obliging him to visit each one with Erlin. The six newly risen chieftains were all now under the impression they held ultimate command of this army and Vaelin thanked them all for the honour of allowing him to make the first attack.

  He led the Wolf People on through the chill current, stopping when parallel
with the main body of the camp. Whale Killer paused at his side with an affable smile before proceeding at the head of the warriors. They would circle around to the camp’s south-facing perimeter, like Alturk making their attack at the first sign of the sun ascending above the eastern mountains.

  Vaelin’s gaze tracked the length of the river, now crowded with wolves, Astorek and the other shamans crouched among them, each strained face telling of the effort required to prevent a betraying explosion of snarls to the proximity of so many disparate packs. The wolves fidgeted but were mostly still, Astorek’s most of all. They had remained close to Vaelin for the entire journey, their gazes rarely leaving him.

  He turned to Erlin and Wise Bear crouched nearby. “You will take no part in this,” he told Erlin, noting the hatchet gripped in his fist.

  “I’ve fought on many occasion, brother,” Erlin replied. “It could be I’ve seen more battles than you.”

  “Even so, remain in the rear. If the day goes against us, take yourself off, perhaps circle the world one more time.”

  “And watch it fall to ruin as I do?” Erlin shook his head. “I think not.”

  “You will be needed.” Vaelin met his gaze, feeling the guilt surge anew. I will not do that … “Stay in the rear.”

  He turned to Wise Bear before Erlin could speak further. “Are you prepared?”

  The shaman glanced to the east where the peaks were starting to take on the golden hue that heralded a new day. The sky was clear today, the air possessed of a pleasing freshness, coloured by a faint floral tint from the heather that covered the valley floor. “The green fire not seen here,” the shaman reflected with a faint note of regret then sloshed through the river to where Iron Claw waited. The great bear issued a low rumbling growl as Wise Bear climbed onto his back and turned him towards the bank.

  Vaelin beckoned to Lord Orven and hauled himself onto Scar’s saddle. “If all goes well, there should be a decent gap in their ranks,” he told the guardsman. “Concentrate on the Varitai if you can.”

  “I shall, my lord.” Orven gave a salute, standing straight as the current flowed about him. “At this moment I’d trade everything I own for a horse.”

  Vaelin grinned and reached over his shoulder to draw his sword. “I expect there’ll be plenty to choose from when we’re done.”

  He kicked Scar into motion, splashing free of the river and waiting as Astorek’s wolves took up position in front, the other packs swarming from the banks to close in on either side. Mishara padded through the throng and sank to her haunches at his side. Vaelin looked down to meet her gaze, wondering if Dahrena saw him through her eyes. Mishara merely blinked and licked her fangs before turning her attention to the Volarians.

  The camp sat about three hundred paces distant, silent beneath the pall birthed by the dead fires of the previous night. Vaelin could see the pickets moving through the morning haze, their gait leisurely and free of any alarm. He waited as the sun grew warm on the back of his neck and his shadow faded into view on the ground ahead, a long dark arrow pointed at the Volarian host.

  Nortah’s words came back to him as he took a firmer grip on Scar’s reins, You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?

  He gave a soft laugh and kicked at Scar’s flanks, the warhorse issuing a shrill, joyous whinny as he spurred to the gallop. The wolves surged forward with them, keeping pace with ease and voicing a collective growl no doubt birthed by the excitement of their shamans. Vaelin saw the pickets start to react, running to form a ragged line as discordant bugles sounded throughout the camp, men stumbling from the tents and scrambling to gather weapons and armour.

  Naturally it was the Varitai who reacted first, two full battalions, probably kept awake to guard against a surprise attack, forming up to bar his path with their customary efficiency. They stood in two ranks, the first kneeling and presenting a hedgerow of spears. However, for all their unconscious discipline, even they were not immune to the sun. Vaelin saw many lowering their heads as the sun rose free of the mountains. It caused a certain ripple in their ranks but was not enough to disrupt them; for that he required something more.

  The first spear-hawk streaked past his ear, close enough to feel the wing-tip brush his skin, dozens more following on either side an instant later. They struck the centre of the Varitai line in a tight black swarm, streaking out of the blinding sun too fast to dodge or duck. The centre of the Varitai’s line became a roiling mass of thrashing birds and men, the hawks rising from the melee trailing blood and flesh from their steel talons, hovering for a brief second then diving back down. By the time the wolves joined the struggle the Volarian ranks had already been broken.

  Vaelin took Scar directly through the chaos, seeing a Volarian officer dragged down by a trio of wolves, his throat torn out in short order. The Volarians had formed more battalions beyond the Varitai, Free Swords standing in much-less-well-ordered ranks. They seemed younger than the Volarian soldiery he had fought before, many youthful faces betraying shock and outright terror at the sight of the horde of beasts wreaking havoc before their eyes. The bulk of the wolves tore into them without pause, the closest battalion falling to pieces under the onslaught in the space of a few seconds. The neighbouring formation fared better, forming itself into a tight defensive circle and managing to cut down many of the wolves that assailed it. They had no answer to the spear-hawks, however. Having dealt with the Varitai, their shamans re?formed their flocks and sent them against the Free Swords, streaking down in a black rain as the wolves continued to attack, running forward in pairs to fasten their jaws on the legs of the Volarians and drag them from the ranks.

  Vaelin caught sight of a battalion commander on horseback nearby, sword raised high as he rallied his men, veteran sergeants running to his side and barking orders. He angled Scar towards the commander, Astorek’s wolves loping ahead to bring down his horse. The man leapt clear as the horse screamed amidst a welter of blood, coming to his feet in time to turn and take Vaelin’s sword full in the face. He galloped on to scatter the partly rallied men, cutting down a sergeant who unwisely chose to stand his ground.

  Vaelin reined Scar to halt, glancing around to find Iron Claw pounding an unfortunate Volarian to death with his massive paws, Wise Bear appearing almost comical as he bounced on his back. Beyond him Vaelin caught glimpses of a vicious fight as the tribesfolk tore furiously at the northern perimeter. The tumult arising from the south and west indicated the plan had worked, at least initially. The Volarians were now assaulted on all sides and their ranks broken in the east. But the camp was not overrun and they were still fighting, too many regiments were formed and moving with the automaton rhythm typical of Varitai. This battle was far from won.

  He looked to Mishara, finding her standing stock still, low to the ground and nose pointed at the centre of the camp where the densest mass of Varitai could be seen. He wheeled Scar about and spurred him to a charge, hearing Iron Claw’s eager growl as he followed, the wolves soon striking out ahead, ignoring the wounded or dazed Free Swords wandering about.

  The spear-hawks re?formed once more, circling the Volarian centre in a dense mass. They were fewer in number now, but their ferocity seemed undimmed as they rose and fell in a ceaseless, deadly spiral, raining blood as eyeless men staggered from the ranks, Free Swords screaming and Varitai lashing out at thin air in dumb obedience to their conditioning.

  Vaelin saw them then, a knot of men at the heart of the Volarian ranks, flickering glimpses of red amidst the roiling black. He angled Scar towards them, the wolves massing around him to tear a hole in the wall of Varitai. He struggled through it, parrying spear-blades and hacking down any who strayed too close.

  The first two red men appeared before him as he slashed his way clear of the throng, both mounted on tall warhorses and wheeling in a tight circle, their swords blurring as they cut spear-hawks from the air. Vaelin charged straight for them, the closest whirling towards him, face livid with hate-filled recognition. He spurred his hors
e to the left whilst his companion went right in a coordinated attack. Vaelin leaned low, half-hanging out of the saddle as they closed, parrying the stroke from the left as the other missed by inches. He regained the saddle and wheeled, hauling Scar to a halt as the two red men turned for another charge. They paused, seemingly puzzled by his immobility, staring back as he waited, meeting their gaze in turn, fixing them.

  Iron Claw reared up with a bellow, both claws raised high. The red men tried to spur their horses aside but too late as the claws came down, digging deep into the spine of both animals. They screamed and thrashed as blood fountained, the red men rolling clear of the carnage, coming swiftly to their feet before being brought down by Astorek’s wolves. They struggled in silence, each held fast by four wolves, their jaws clamped on each limb. They stared up at Vaelin with all the malice he remembered, malice that turned to outright terror as Wise Bear climbed down from Iron Claw’s back.

  They begged and screamed in unison, both uttering the same pleas and guttural exhalations as the shaman knelt and pressed his hands to their foreheads. The shuddering ceased in an instant, both red men falling silent, then blinking in confusion as Wise Bear removed his hands and retreated. They gaped at each other then at Vaelin … then the wolves.

  “Brother…” one said, looking up at him in white-faced entreaty.

  Vaelin turned Scar about as the wolves did their work, deaf to the brief screams rising above the chorus of snarls. Mishara was at his side once more, nose pointed to a dense mass of battling figures near the western edge of what remained of the camp. A brief survey confirmed most of the field was now in their hands. The southern flank had been completely shattered under the weight of the Wolf People’s numbers. He could see the warriors moving through the mist, long spears held low, bunching occasionally to deal with small clusters of resistance. To the north the tribesfolk had surrounded what appeared to be the remnants of the Volarian cavalry, a few hundred mounted men hemmed in and trying vainly to break free. He watched rider after rider falling to the mountain people’s flailing axes, their ingrained disunity seemingly forgotten now.