Lightning and Flame

by V. S. Holmes

  lightning

  AND

  flames

  book two in the reforged quartet

  Φ

  V.S. Holmes

  AMPHIBIAN PRESS

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  LIGHTNING AND FLAMES

  Copyright © 2016 by Sara Voorhis

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

  Amphibian Press

  www.amphibianpressbooks.com

  www.vs-holmes.com

  Cover by Ben R. Donahue

  www.bendonahueart.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN : 978-0-9961330-3-6

  First Edition

  To Marissa, whose strength lent Alea hers

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to Angie Frazier, who first suggested splitting the first half of Reforged into two books. If I hadn’t I would never have explored the world more fully and found the path to which this story was leading. Your continued support and guidance—as well as your success—was a wonderful inspiration.

  Thank you, also, to Ben Donahue, whose incredible talent lent this series its beautiful covers. Your vision and collaboration has helped bring my characters to life.

  Thank you to Dr. Greggory Knouff for teaching the fantastic course “Modern U.S. Military History.” Your enthusiasm and wealth of political and military knowledge was invaluable

  Thank you, also, to the wonderful people who put together National Novel Writing Month and the programers who developed Scrivener and Krita.

  As always, thank you to my irreplaceable friends, co-workers, and family.

  A DARKNESS IN THE MIND

  Chapter One

  The 36th Day of Lleume, 1252

  The City of Ceir Athrolan

  THE WIND OFF THE OCEAN bit at Alea’s cheeks with salty teeth. She smiled, not minding the cold. It was a lover’s bite, nothing more. She preferred the hour just before dawn. The city below barely stirred. It was as if she were the only woman in the world. It should not have been a comforting thought. She leaned on the palace parapet. Below, a runner was bringing her letter to the queen and to Arman. She hated goodbye, hated explaining herself. The Dhoah’ Laen shouldn’t have to explain herself so often.

  “You thought you could sneak away without me knowing?” Arman’s voice was low, the hint of a smile blunting the accusation.

  “Not really. I thought I might try, though.” She brushed a strand of black hair away from her face. “I leave today. In an hour.”

  “So you said.” The blond man leaned on the wall beside her. “Are you nervous?”

  Nervous was such a simple word. Emotions were not simple things. Yes, she was nervous. She was terrified. The shadow crouching in the back of her mind was excited. “A bit. I’m not certain how to feel. Elle’s my mother, but I have no memory of her. I’m excited, too. Learning to control this thing will be good. Hopefully I’ll learn more about myself as well.”

  “And what then? Will you be full Laen? Cold? Austere? Proud?”

  She looked over incredulously. It did not matter that she knew he was afraid, that she could see the tremble in his hands. “You’re scared I’ll be different? What if I want to be?”

  “You act as if you’re alone in this battle. All the Laen do. You never share your plans. You’re not alone. You never will be.” He dug his fingers into the rough, weathered stone. “Fates forbid you actually tell me anything.”

  “You’ve been a part of this journey since the beginning.”

  “But have I known any detail until I absolutely had to? Did I know you were going to battle before you announced it to the queen? Did I know you were hurting before you got drunk?” He shook his head. “Damn, I didn’t know you would draw my daggers in Fort Shadow until it was too late.”

  She closed her eyes. She was tired. Sleep could not banish the deep, aching fatigue that weighed on her mind. She was too exhausted to deal with one of Arman’s tempers. “Perhaps if you assumed I was a person, those decisions wouldn’t have surprised you.”

  “How can I protect you when I’m ignorant? Your refusal to explain anything cost me my life!”

  She drew back as if he’d slapped her. This was why she hated good-byes. Everything left unsaid bubbled to the surface, jumbled and painful. “What?”

  “You disarmed me in the middle of battle.”

  “And you have no idea what I paid to bring you back. You may have been there, you may remember it, but you will never understand the cost.” Her words were low, almost a curse, almost a sob. She shoved away from the parapet. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone—a week, a month, a year. However long it is, I hope to fate I do change. And I hope when I come back I’m everything they need me to be.” She hunched her shoulders as she trotted down the staircase. The wind howled through the series of open windows. It was still a lover’s touch, but this time it stung with anger.

  Φ

  The 39th Day of Lleume, 1252

  The City of Mirik

  Bren tilted his chair back on two legs. His feet ached. He had worked the entirety of the day and was glad for the rest. I’m getting old if a day’s work tires me. Athrolan’s navy had set up a makeshift headquarters in Mirik’s old army barracks. Though the flags were now Athrolani turquoise and white, it still felt as if he was in the wrong room.

  A stack of books sat on his desk, mostly ones he had found in a chest tossed on a rubbish heap. A washed spittoon held three rolled maps. He opened a tattered copy of Raulde’s Tales for an Officer. The pages smelled of dirt and wet soot.

  He winced as someone pounded on his door, but called for them to enter. Seeing the thin man leaning on the doorframe, he scrambled to his feet. “Commodore Veren, good evening.”

  The man waved Bren’s formality away. “The patrol exploring the southeast quad of the city sent word back from the slums a few minutes ago. Said they found something unexpected and need extra hands. I’m sending you and Parlin with the reinforcements.”

  “I’ll be down in a moment, sir.” When Veren had gone, Bren gathered his scout-pack with a frown. Parlin’s a speak-well. Why would they need negotiations in an abandoned city? A thrill of foreboding crawled up his spine. The city folk who worked for the army during Azirik’s time were rough. He had never known where they lived—they were like animals, appearing and disappearing at will. After a moment he strapped on his sword and joined the group gathering in the courtyard.

  “Patrol said they were in the slums. We’ll start there. Keep your weapons ready, eyes sharp.” The shipman shouldered his own gear and headed off at a steady jog. The men fell into a line behind him. Bren took up the tail. They’d been scouting for days now, and the men knew the city well. After a dozen minutes they arrived at the broad wall that separated what had been upscale residences and inns from the grime of the slums. The broken gates hung at an angle, allowing them to pass through two-abreast.

  “Jug-end Square.” The shipman glanced about them. “This place is a warren.”

  “The east wall, down that way.” Bren pointed right. “In all the books it’s the worst area.” He ignored the muttered insult of “Parchment-nose.” If they had been in Mirik’s army, where the predominant order usually involved “later” or “
wait,” they’d understand. The city was quiet and the spring rains—heavier than usual for Mirik, but far lighter than those in Athrolan—turned many of the streets into marshlands. The gutters were more formality than functional.

  Over the squelch of their boots, Bren heard voices, most in Athrolani. Their path rounded a bend and they entered a small square bordered by haphazardly built and repaired houses. The patrol ranged about, hands on their weapons. Their expressions were annoyed. Surprised, perhaps, but not frightened. Most stared at the largest of the houses. It was an old thing, originally built in the over-hung style of old Miriken architecture. Now it was derelict. Torchlight burnt in the windows.

  Bren edge around the men to the shipman who led the original scouting group. “Guilie, what happened?”

  “Damned urchin-clan jumped us as we crossed the wall. Stole half our packs before we could blink. We chased them here where they holed up. They’re like rats, jabbering in a tongue I’ve never heard.”

  Parlin stepped forward, the thin man straightening as he prepared to speak with the thieves. “Men of Mirik, I speak to your natures. We come not to roust you from your homes. We come instead to ask your help.”

  Bren groaned and glanced at Guilie as Parlin continued. “They don’t give one Toar’s hair for helping us. All he’ll do is make them laugh if we’re lucky, drive them away if we’re not.”

  “Parlin’s good at speaking to stubborn nobles. Common-folk with heads as hard as cobbles are another thing entirely. Appeasing to their morals will be hard when to a one they look as starved as a man can be and still walk.” He glanced at Bren. “You deal with these folk at all?”

  Bren’s mouth was a grim line. “They’ve been here since before the city closed. We hired them, traded with them sometimes. They speak Common, but with a Miriken accent so thick it sounds foreign.” He absently fingered the amulet around his neck. “There were several dozen then, I think, but those were the only ones we saw.”

  “Close to a score were the ones that jumped us.”

  “Azirik said for every one you see there are four more in the woodworking.” Bren turned his attention back to Parlin’s futile efforts. After another exasperating minute, Bren nudged the speak-well’s shoulder. “I dealt with these folk before. Might I try?”

  Bren saw the relief in the man’s eyes and moved towards the house. The boards creaked as men shifted inside. Sighting their bows, no doubt. He grimaced and edged a few paces closer before looking up to the higher windows. “Kit of Jug-end?” He used their word for people. “We mean no harm to you or the city. In that, Parlin spoke true. We come to repair and strengthen her for the war. We thought you’d all have left.”

  The square was quiet, save for the guttering of torches and the patter of feet behind the walls. Finally a shutter in the door cracked open. Eyes glinted in the darkness beyond. “That ye, King Azirik?” The dialect of the gruff voice left half the consonants from the words. “Kit dealt with ye. Afore ye left the city.”

  Bren raised a hand against the torch glare to see the speaker. Perhaps the resemblance is greater than we knew. Who else suspected my blood?

  The door opened and a man stepped out. A stubby, scavenged arrow was nocked to his recurved bow. The weapon was drawn, but lowered. He stared a second longer, then the bow came up quickly, sighted on Bren’s chest. “Yer not Azirik.”

  The Athrolani shifted, raising their own weapons. Bren raised an empty hand. “No, but I’m his blood. I served as a lieutenant in Azirik’s army.”

  “No longer?”

  “Mirik was a great city and could be again. My allies, the Athrolani, promise to help make it so. Time was we traded with them.” Bren offered what he hoped was a friendly smile. “What are you called?”

  “Arik Oland of Mirik.” The man did not lower his bow, but his gaze appraised the men before him. “And ye?”

  “Former Lieutenant Brentemir Barrackborn of Mirik.”

  “Yer his son.”

  Bren had never considered himself Azirik’s son in the way most men were sons. Owning your blood is the first step to surpassing it. “I was raised by the army, truly, but yes. I’m his.”

  Arik approached then, curiosity replacing wariness in his gaze. Deep shadows hung under his eyes and hollowed his cheeks. His clothes bagged around thin limbs.

  “The years have not been kind to you, have they?” Bren asked.

  Arik shrugged. “The city’s dead. The army was our only livelihood.”

  “You’re welcome to come across the harbor with us.” When the man made no move, Bren prodded. “We’ve food and we could talk. And it’s simply conversation, nothing sworn, nothing promised. Just talk.”

  Arik shifted his meager weight once, twice, then raised his voice. “‘Ken that? King’s son wishes us to dine with his ally-men.” Dust and mold filtered down as the houses’ occupants moved towards the street. Bren could have sworn the men and women suddenly vastly outnumbering the Athrolani had appeared magically in the street. His brows raised, but he extended a hand to Arik. “Thank you, Master Oland.”

  Arik shook the hand, a grudging respect growing on his features. “Where this sup you offer?”

  Bren laughed and did a rough count of the three-score Kit. “I hope we have enough!” The trip back through the city was shorter and the mood lighter. The Athrolani laughed ruefully as they tried to decipher the bright, quick talk of the Miriken. Bewilderment and incredulous stares welcomed the crowd back into the barracks.

  The rafters of the dining hall rang with Miriken chatter. Bren wedged himself next to Arik with a smile, sliding a second plate over to the man. “Try these. I’m not much one for gravy, but they’re good.” He watched Arik shovel the food into his mouth for a minute. “Are you their leader?”

  Arik shrugged. “Someone had to take them up. We stayed in the back alleys of the city. There was nowhere to go, no money to buy passage on a boat south. The army was our lifeline.”

  Bren looked away. “No one should have to eat garbage to live.”

  “We damn near starved o’er the winter.” Arik’s thick lips curled. “But now ye come in to take Mirik’s crown and shine ‘er up bright.”

  Bren choked on his ale. When he finished sputtering, he waved away the pounding on his back. “I beg pardon?”

  “Ye’ve come to be the new king, yes?”

  “I was bred a fighting man. Queen Tzatia will take over Mirik’s ruling. Perhaps Mirik might rise on her own again, but it would be years from now. She’ll be fostered under Athrolan’s guidance.” He tried to keep the guilt from his voice, but the expression on the Miriken faces made him turn away.

  Φ

  The 40th Day of Lleume, 1252

  Alea eyed the woman at the bow. Elle was unremarkable for a Laen woman. Her black hair was laced with silver, her bright eyes nested in crows’ feet. Years among humans had not treated her well. “How old are you?”

  Elle glanced over, brows raised. “Fifty-seven.”

  “Laen age differently?”

  “Slower, usually. It appears you grew like a human girl, though.”

  “Not entirely.” Alea looked out at Mirik’s harbor, her gaze distant. She still was uncertain how to treat her mother. “What are we looking for?”

  Elle leaned beside her daughter with a sigh. “Simply a place in the woods. Mirik was once a larger island. It broke into three during the Division. One piece belongs to the gods, another to the Laen. The Rakos left their third to the humans as shelter. Because they were here, long ago, this is the place where the barriers are thinnest.” She glanced sidelong at Alea. “I don’t suppose you wish to spend the night in the capital.”

  “You want to see Bren.” Alea ran a hand through the tangled hair the wind pulled from her braid. She was not sure whether Bren wanted to see their mother yet. He had seemed indifferent. The ship creaked as the sails were furled and she glided up to the dock. “You think he wants to see you?”

  Elle’s eyes sharpened on her daughter. “You th
ink he doesn’t?”

  “I think we’re at war and every moment counts.” Her surrender came as a sigh. “I’ve letters I want to send before we go, however, and I didn’t manage a proper good-bye.” She shouldered her pack, not waiting to see if her mother followed. The dock seemed to sway under her feet and she stumbled. No sooner have I learned my sea legs then I’m back on land. She laughed softly at herself and took the stairs from the dock two at a time. Mirik may have once been beautiful. The stone was a rich brown and the steep hills beyond thickly forested. Alea made for the barracks, her steps unconsciously quickening as she approached. She heard Elle’s murmured apologies as the older woman wove through the sailors mooring the ship.

  The barracks themselves were clean and tidy, though Alea suspected it might not have been so two weeks before. Alea waved over a young deck-boy by the flagpole in the courtyard’s center. “Might you tell me if Lieutenant Barrackborn is here?”

  The boy’s eyes were huge as he stared up at her. When Elle appeared behind her, he swallowed once, then nodded quickly. “Right this way, ma’am.”

  The officer’s rooms were more spacious than those of Athrolan’s forts, and lined against the outside wall. Bren’s door was propped open with one large boot and the sound of turning pages drifted from within. Alea hesitated at the door, glancing back to where Elle waited at the top of the stairs. Finally, she knocked. “Bren, it’s Alea.”

  The sound of scrambling preceded her brother jerking the door open with a broad grin. “Alea! I was starting to wonder if you’d changed your mind. Want to come in?”

  “We’re only staying for a few hours.”

  “We? Did Arman come with you?”

  Alea glanced over her shoulder. “No. It’s someone you’ve not seen in a long time.” She stepped aside and gestured Elle forward. Bren’s face sobered. He blinked, then stepped back and slammed his door.