Andalon Arises

by T B Phillips

  Percy felt that he could no longer bear to watch the carnage. He turned his back, but couldn’t tune out the screams. Each one became a woman or child running from their homes and consumed in fire. He stood like that, with his back turned, staring eastward into the night and hoping no one noticed his tears.

  In the distance, a soft glow reflected in the moisture on his face. He gasped, unable to believe his eyes.

  “What is it?” Eachann heard the sudden expression and turned.

  With an outstretched finger Roan asked his friend, “Isn’t that the direction of the mine?”

  Cassus strained his eyes against the night and cursed. “By Cinder’s Crack you’re right!”

  Jagged red lines of flame reached outward from the site like rivers grasping for the sea. They grew rapidly, making their way toward the city. Off in the distance an explosion revealed that the flames had found a buried deposit of gas, sending a fireball high into the sky. The sudden interruption caused the Falconers to turn away from their ensemble of terror, facing the new threat without expression.

  Eachann’s voice shook, suddenly realizing that the tide had turned. “That’s impossible! He had no access to that kind of flame!”

  Percy had seen a coal seam fire once in his childhood. That fire had raged for weeks before spring rains doused it enough to damper the heat. But this was a different kind of flame, as if the Caldera of Cinder had suddenly moved eastward and aimed its eruption directly at Weston. As it approached the city, he could see that the ground had cracked and was splitting wider. All around, gasses bellowed hell into the sky. But the true threat raced alongside the flaming fissures. Riding atop horses and armed with Pescari weapons were the miners following their young leader. Taros advanced on Weston.

  Even from horseback, Taros found it easy to control the inferno, pushing it along the seam toward the city. Whenever he had channeled flames in the past, he had been blinded by rage and possessed limited authority. But now, having bonded with the fires of Cinder, he felt completely dominant and bent the blaze to his will. Up ahead, he sensed several more pockets of flammable gases and guided the fire toward along the branching veins.

  As he neared the city, he noticed several glowing vortices ravaging the Pescari District. He reached out and easily plucked the heat from these, holding it in for later use. Up ahead a line of soldiers formed atop the city wall, waiting to fend off his warriors. A wide grin formed on the shappan’s face as he realized that they perched above one of the chambers of explosive vapor. The report of the blast was deafening as both the stone and their bodies ripped apart before him.

  He surrounded the city with a blazing ring and quickly sought out ways to weaken the foundation of the walls. He focused on those imprisoning his people and went to work, stretching out with his mind. As he did, he raised an image of Felicima high into the sky so that his people would know the source of both his power and their liberation. The vibration of the crumbling stone shook the countryside as the walls disappeared into the glowing chasm below.

  Taros and his entourage reached the entrance easily enough. Once inside Weston, he ordered the miners to fan out and attack the soldiers within. He dismounted and climbed the stairs to the nearest parapet, burning alive any sentry who dared to challenge. Eventually he found the source of the cyclones that had harmed his people. Twenty hooded specters flanked Cassus Eachann atop the city wall. They stared defiantly.

  He addressed the leader of the city and ignored the others. “Sarai trusted you and believed you would treat my people well.”

  “I did not start this fight, Taros.” Cassus gestured at the burning Pescari district, “This came from your own people, and our arrangement has changed.”

  “Sarai once told me that you serve your people and would do so for my own.” The young chieftain fanned outstretched fingers toward the Falconers. “But you serve yourself and these false gods.”

  Eachann roared with laughter. “False gods? Don’t you see yourself as one, Boy?”

  The burning image of Felicima settled above Taros’ head, pushing the city leader and the Falconers back to avoid the heat. “There are no gods, Andalonian, only the goddess Felicima and we are her children.” Fire exploded from the fingers of the shappan. But as soon as he attacked, the flames instantly disappeared, snuffed out as the Falconers removed the air around him. Even the image of Felicima extinguished along with every fire in the city.

  Eachann laughed as wisps of air shot out, lashing Taros’ hands and feet. They bound him tightly in place. A sphere formed around the chieftain trapping him within. Suddenly helpless, the boy’s thoughts returned to the winter day in the courtyard below the palace. He had lashed out with fury after Sarai had rejected his love, burning her with his unintended outburst. Prince Robert had bound him with similar magic, nearly suffocating him within that bubble of air.

  Taros should have been terrified, but he had learned much during his self-imposed exile. His months spent in the watermill had been with purpose. It was a place to grow stronger and learn more about himself without interference by anger or other sources that fueled his flame. He knew that he had many virtues yet to learn.

  Foremost was mercy, previously unknown to the shappan but exhibited by Robert Esterling. He lived to fight the Falconers by that man’s choice alone. But mercy had no place during this night above Weston. Wrath was also a virtue when delivered appropriately.

  He could not defeat the shield of air from within, that had been his mistake when fighting Robert. He had tapped and used up his own supply, choking his internal fire and almost snuffing out his lifeforce in the process. This time Taros remained calm, another lesson learned in his fight over Sarai’s charred body, and he breathed deliberately as in the mine. He closed his eyes and focused on the air outside the bubble, plentiful and infinitely abundant, as he sought Felicima.

  Below he spied his uncle. The man stared with a face full of embarrassment, humility, and fear. Teot’s eyes darted from his nephew to the feathered entourage who held the shappan prisoner, searching for a way to free him. The boy’s hands quickly danced, returning the man’s attention back to him. They danced again, forming figures and spelling out the silent language of the scouts. I am not in danger, lead the people from the city, quickly, so that I may destroy those who blaspheme against our goddess. Teot nodded and quickly signaled the others.

  Not surprisingly, the Falconers and Eachann remained focused on Taros, ignoring the flood of people racing over the crumpled outer wall. Taros had been their real quarry, but the agent of Felicima was finally ready to strike back. His opponents had cut him off from all sources within the city, but had forgotten one vast presence beneath their feet. Underground the goddess burned through the coal seam, building up heat with such intensity that she would no longer be contained.

  He drew that fire up into the granite upon which the city had been built, melting and swirling it into a pool of magma. Pressure built beneath the foundation of the entire city, with ground rumbling slowly at first, then growing into a deafening roar. All over Weston bricks fell from buildings, raining onto the streets below. Soon, not only the Pescari fled, but thousands of citizens trampled women and children to escape the terror.

  The pressure inside the shappan was great, and, when Taros could no longer hold it, he addressed Eachann and the Falconers one final time. “When you die, you will meet my goddess. I pray that you are welcomed by her. For the sake of mercy, I pray that she fully consumes your soul so that you may finally know and fear her true power.” The eruption was deafening as molten rock spewed into the night sky and the new caldera swallowed every stone of the city.

  Taros watched as the Falconers and the city leader slid into the molten rock below, not diverting his eyes until the shield of air finally evaporated. Looking down, he realized that the swirling red and yellow pool reached up to his waist. With a frown he ripped his smoking buckskins from his torso. He
dipped his fingers, unburned as they were, into the magma. He was blessed.

  He waded toward the collection of his people waiting on the distant shore. When he finally emerged, he found Flaya approaching with a blanket which she lovingly wrapped around his naked body. He abruptly shivered from an unknown cold despite the heat all around.

  “Taros,” she said, “your name means brave and you are the truest named warrior of the Pescari.”

  “My Shappan!” A deep voice called from the wretched ranks of the Pescari, once again reduced to refugees without a home. “I beg your forgiveness, Shappan!”

  Taros turned slowly, exhausted from the battle, just in time to see Teot press through the ranks. When he reached his nephew, he knelt on all fours.

  “What have you done that requires forgiveness, Uncle?” Tears fell from the older man’s eyes onto Taros’ bare feet, steaming and disappearing as they contacted his skin. “Rise and look at me, Uncle, I am confused.”

  “I stole the power of Felicima, Taros! I used it as my own, acting as her agent in your stead.”

  “Uncle, no one can steal the power from our goddess. If you wield it, then you truly are her agent, just as I. Your shappan is not angry. On the contrary, I am happy that you have been blessed with her power.”

  “But there is more.” Teot refused to look at his nephew as he drew a Pescari sword from his side and offered it up. “I beg you to remove my head from my shoulders and leave my bones to rot so that I may never face Felicima’s judgement!”

  “I don’t understand, Uncle.”

  Daska stepped forward, clearing his throat. When Taros’ eyes met his, he explained, “Your uncle offered a challenge in your absence. He demanded Shapalote if you did not return willingly, and he professed his defiance against you.”

  Taros looked lovingly upon his uncle, resting a hand on his shoulder. Kneeling down he forced the older man to look directly into his eyes. “You are my only blood, Uncle. If you uttered these words, then you are forgiven.”

  Teot stared up in shock. “But forgiveness goes against the goddess!”

  “I once believed that as well, but I have since learned differently. Besides, you were influenced by another traitor who convinced you to accept his will. You will be held blameless.”

  All eyes turned to the elder standing behind Teot. Daska’s eyes grew wide in fear, suddenly aware of his fate. “No! You cannot! You are an abomination! You were prophesied as a destroyer of cities!” The old man gestured toward the cooling black circle of magma that had once been Weston. Fumbling in his satchel, he retrieved an old and faded parchment, holding it up so that all could see the drawing of a boy destroying a city with fire. “Behold,” he shouted, “look upon the face of your destroyer!” The crowd gasped at the similarities to their leader.

  Taros motioned for his uncle to rise. “If you shall redeem yourself, it will be through the death of this traitor, Teot.”

  Upon hearing the words, the warrior stood and approached the old man, still professing blasphemies against his nephew. He grabbed the man from behind, easily lifting him over his head. The elder thrashed and flailed, the parchment falling to the grass as he did, but Teot ignored his objections. He walked toward the fiery red center of the caldera and tossed in the enemy of Felicima. Taros nodded his approval.

  No one noticed when Flaya bent down and retrieved the parchment, quickly stuffing it into her dress. They were focused too intently on the path of the river next to the caldera. As the magma cooled, the water slowly seeped in and began filling the crater. By morning the city of Weston was unrecognizable and replaced by a lake instead.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Alec stared at the sky, willing the sun to finally set. Time ran differently this far south, with longer days and barely any notice of winter. His best guess was that nightfall was only an hour or so away, but the orb clung to the place where it hung, refusing to sink lower. He shifted his weight on the hard bench and let out a sigh of impatience.

  “They’re checking every wagon,” Marita pointed out.

  “Yes.” He focused his attention on the gate, a delicate wrought iron beauty interwoven with aromatic orchids. Two sentries checked vehicles while six more manned ornamental parapets that were clearly more for show than function. Shouting up ahead filled him with anxiety as a merchant was turned away, sent back down the long road to the city. Marita laughed at the curses he screamed at the guards.

  “What’s a son of a flatulent tavern turner?”

  “Never mind that, forget you ever heard him say it.” He eased the horses forward and settled in behind a cart of entertainers. The driver ahead handed over credentials and waited.

  “That isn’t fair. If you’re my father now, then you have to teach me about the world.”

  “I don’t have to teach you everything. Some things you will have to figure out on your own.”

  Marita feigned hurt, then muttered under her breath. “Don’t be such a tavern turner.”

  “I’m not a woman, so I can’t be a tavern turner.”

  “Oh!” A look of triumphant understanding lighting her face. “It’s a prostitute!”

  “How in Cinder’s crack did you figure…”

  A shouted order from the guard cut off his words, “Next!” The man waved the cart through and reached out a waiting hand. “What business do you have at the manor?”

  “I’m delivering a gift from His Excellency Braen Braston.”

  “Never heard of him! Turn around and leave.”

  “Braen Braston is the newly elected member of the triumvirate in Pirate’s Cove. Your lord would like very much to receive this gift.”

  “Elected member of the what?”

  The other guard moved to the rear of the wagon and climbed aboard. He shuffled his way toward the cask with a small hatchet.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  His command caused the first guard to growl, “What’re you hiding, northerner?”

  Alec calmly handed over the bill of lading and waited. Soon the man’s hand trembled. “Surely not!”

  “Yes. I advise you to allow us entrance straight away. The heat has not been good to the load.”

  Regaining his composure, he shouted at the man on the wagon, “Get off, Bruce!”

  “Why?”

  “I’m waving them through!” He handed the piece of paper to Alec and added, “Besides, an old man and a young girl are no threat.” Pogue ignored the insult and spurred the horses forward. They were inside the gates. He drove the wagon directly to the main building of the manor, but was turned away. They directed him to the servant’s entrance near the pantry.

  This door was also guarded, but not by mercenaries. The portly woman who met him was a nightmare. She lorded over him with arrogance, despite her lowly status in the household.

  “I told you to come back tomorrow,” she barked. “Lord Valencia will not be disturbed until after the banquet!”

  “I’m sorry, Miss…”

  “Pritchett!”

  “Miss Pritchett. Can you at least notify the steward that I am here? I am here on especially important business that cannot wait until tomorrow.”

  “She won’t be seeing you, either.”

  “Then will you please tell her that Captain Alec Pogue has arrived with a gift and message from Pirate’s Cove.” The reddish faced woman blanched at his name.

  She quickly regained her composure and screamed, “Come back tomorrow!” The door slammed so firmly in his face that the frame shook.

  “She knows who I am,” he growled. “Mattie’s in there, for sure!”

  “What now,” Marita asked?

  “I suppose we move the cart to a safe place and start searching for another way in.”

  The man had said that his name was Captain Pogue from The Cove. Penelope Pritchett leaned against the door, barring it with he
r body.

  Mrs. Pogue rounded the corner to the pantry, alarmed by the slamming of the door. As much as Penelope hated the woman, she had no choice but to talk to her.

  “Who was at the door?” The steward asked, “Was there another delivery?”

  “No. Just some riffraff,” Pritchett explained. “I told them to come back tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure that whatever business they had can wait. Thank you, Miss Pritchett.”

  As quickly as she had arrived, Mattie Pogue had left. Penelope waited to a count of ten, then scurried down the opposite hallway. Three more turns brought her to the great hall. The tables were set in the fashion chosen by the new steward. Of course, the layout was hideous and unsuitable for such a grand event, but there was no time to gawk at the woman’s botchery.

  She spied two house guards, trusted men to Miss Pritchett. These men were not hired mercenaries like the others, these had been in the lord’s employment for a decade. She walked directly to the older man, Petr, and addressed him. “There is a man causing alarm outside.”

  “Then go alert the sentries. We’ve been tasked with inside security,” he replied.

  “I overheard him say that he was here to kill Lord Valencia.”

  “Oh you did?” Petr laughed her off. He was trusted by her, but not her favorite.

  “What exactly did he say, Miss Pritchett?” Jon was a patient man, much more polite than his partner.

  “He has a little girl in his wagon, and I heard him tell her that if we didn’t let him in the house, then he would find a way in. He also said that he is on a mission from Pirate’s Cove and plans to assassinate Charro.”

  Petr let out a laugh. “That was nice of him to say all of that in front of you, wasn’t it?”

  “This is serious!” She stepped forward, staring down into his eyes. In a low voice she added, “Do you want the lord to know that you’ve been coming around my quarters drunk? He might want to know that you like to offer coin for a tumble with the lady servants.”