The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  Nation of Blaze copyright H.O.

  Charles 2011

  All illustrations by the author

  Copyright Page Nation of Blaze. Copyright 2011 by

  H.O. Charles. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including

  information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  In the interests of fairness to other customers, Amazon monitors accounts for suspicious activity. Fraudulent purchases of this book or abuses of Amazon policy will result in buyer privileges being removed, account bans and blocking of reading devices.

  The Fireblade Array

  City of Blaze

  Nation of Blaze

  Anomaly of Blaze

  Blazed Union

  Voices of Blaze

  Also by the same author:

  Snowlands

  Follow @ HOCharles on Twitter http://citvofblaze.blogspot.com/ http ://www. facebook. com/Hadleigh. O. (

  An array of fires; an array of lives. The Fireblade’s array is eternal, but the beginnings and ends of each life are ever the same. It must always begin with death and end with death.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Glossary of Terms

  Rainwater drizzled down the black walls of the carved tunnels beneath the castle, creating a sheen that reflected splinters of grey light from the wells above. The passageways were silent, save for the occasional catch in the kahr’s breath or drip of water. To the few, wretched creatures that lived down there, he appeared as a dead man - his eyes were glazed over, his face expressionless and body inert.

  For all the stillness of his countenance, his mind worked at considerable speed. Three days had passed since he had taken up his position, and three days remained before his pain would be gone. Nalka had not spared him in his mourning, though Morghiad would rather have remained imprisoned by its pain forever. He considered the same problems in sequence. First, no one had come to arrest him for his crime. The guilt of it weighed upon him; he had sought justified retribution and yet he had committed an unjust act. He had to pay the price as any other Calidellian would. Second, Artemi would return in a few days, but he had no idea where to start looking for her. Third, the country was leaderless, and he had a responsibility to secure it.

  The short beard that had propagated

  along his jaw itched furiously. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed. He should have bathed for Artemi’s funeral. He should have attended Artemi’s funeral. Instead he had hidden in the darkest corners of the castle and only visited her when everyone else had departed. She had looked very pale, he remembered, paler even than her naturally fair skin should have been.

  They had dressed her in her uniform and given her an officer’s burial, but they had strewn fire-blossoms through her hair as if she were a queen. Morghiad could not comprehend where anyone could have found fire-blossoms in the heart of winter. Their smell had been spicy, powerful and hot like the height of summer. It was a scent that would stay with him. He wanted to hear her voice, or see a

  smile unfold on her lips. But many years would pass before he’d know those things again - if they found her, or if she chose to return to him, and if he still lived.

  He moved his green eyes to examine the earthen floor; it was damp and smelled heavily of mould. She could be anywhere in the world, and no books he’d read ever spoke of a pattern in vanha-sielu rebirths.

  She should have been his queen.

  He had to find a new leader, but no one else knew the intimate workings of the country so well as Acher’s old inner circle. Morghiad trusted none of them to look after Calidell and Gialdin responsibly. More and more, he was pushed to the conclusion that he would have to step in. He deserved to be in prison, but the country would be better off if he

  was not. This brought him back to the other problem: who could respect and follow a king who was a murderer?

  A sharp spasm shot its way through his muscles, causing him to grunt involuntarily. Morghiad shifted his position slightly to relieve some of the pain, but it had little effect.

  If he were king, he would have the means to care for Artemi through her vulnerable years. Perhaps it would be better if Calidell had a well-meaning criminal for a king in the short-term. It was possible, he thought, that he could stabilise the situation before he was hunted down in the streets. Right at this moment, he had very little to lose either way.

  Morghiad stumbled to his feet. His whole body had been weakened by his prolonged stillness. He couldn’t remember

  when he had last eaten, though it would probably have tasted like sawdust if he’d tried. He placed a hand on the tomb door and rested his forehead against it. He whispered to it, “I hope our paths cross again,” then the First Heir of Calidell straightened and staggered to the lamp light at the head of the tunnel. It was time to take The Marble Throne.

  A scruffy administrator stumbled in with a leaning tower of creased and brown papers. He barely stayed upright before setting them

  onto the desk with a presumptive thud. “Updates of pending trials, my lord.”

  Silar muttered thanks and went back to the document in hand. It was worrying. Acher had only been dead eleven days, and already rulers from neighbouring nations were staking their claim on the crown. An especially slimy group of nobles had been present at the king’s execution, and it had not taken long for the truth of Morghiad’s parentage to become public knowledge. And now a multitude of hidden problems had begun to surface. There were accounts to be settled, lords to be appeased and laws to be bent. Thankfully Acher’s old council, more like valets than advisors, had gone to ground as soon as the king had been dispatched. It had left a clear path for new administration, but also some

  large holes in day-to-day governance.

  Silar felt utterly out of his depth. He was far too young for this! The sooner KahrBloody-Self-Flagellating-Morghiad crawled out from his hole, the better. He was needed, but his state of mind was fragile at best. Of course, they had all lost something dear to them with Artemi’s death. Silar still couldn’t expunge the image of her descent to the floor from his mind. He’d never managed to subdue his affection for her.

  “We all miss her, Lord Forllan. But there’s plenty to keep us occupied through it.” Beodrin stood at the door, holding yet another set of reports.

  “Captain.” Silar offered the man a chair. “I take it you have some news on the city rioting?”

  Beodrin nodded and added his paperwork to the growing mountain. “Suppressed, for now. Oddly enough, some of them seemed to believe we’d conspired to kill Morghiad as well. ThoughI suppose his obscurity would give many cause for concern.”

  Silar kept his smile hidden. Rumours of a murderer becoming a victim worked very well to elevate such a man to hero. The army’s reputation would suffer in the short-term, but that would be rectified as soon as the kahr showed himself. “He’ll take charge once he’s finished guarding her grave.”

  “That could take months.” The stocky captain rubbed at his arms awkwardly.

  Silar pushed that particular concern aside. “Let’s keep things together for now. We need to plan for a few invasions. I have reason

  to believe Hirrah is alr
eady mustering its force-”

  A servant burst into the room, redfaced and breathless. “Kah – ah... Lord Morghiad, my lords. He’s in the Malachite Hall, demanding to be made king!”

  Silar immediately stood and rearranged his crumpled, red coat. “That is good timing. We’d better see that it is done, had we not, Captain Mori?”

  “Aye, GeneralForllan. That, we should.”

  The pair paced down the bitter grey corridors, dim shafts of light brushing the men with each well they passed. The castle had become very quiet in the last few days. Most of Acher’s lackeying court of nobles had left, fearing a war, and many of the servants found themselves with no one to wait upon. Most

  now remained in their quarters or wandered the city. Silar couldn’t help feeling a degree of pleasure at the lack of aristocrats. Courtiers were the worst breed: they worked little yet lived in the most extravagant luxury. The old king had handed out some rather meaningless titles to the most slippery ones, and had granted them even more money and liberties to gorge themselves upon their chosen fetishes. Morghiad would have to entertain these people as well, as much as he would despise it. He’d already offended a number of the larger families by rejecting their daughters, and would now have to find a way of regaining their friendships. In spite of these fractures in Calidellian politics, Morghiad’s preparations for Artemi’s rule had fallen into place very smoothly. The only problem, of course, had been the rather

  significant absence of a figurehead.

  Beodrin and Silar paused only momentarily as the guards pushed open the grand, stone doors of the Malachite Hall. The light from the outer corridor appeared to drain helplessly into the enormous chamber beyond. They stepped into the heavy gloom with giant cuts of limestone glittering above them, and at the far end, Silar could make out a tall and dark figure leaning on the back of the throne.

  The great chair was carved from the darkest shade of onyx, which was striated with deep-green veins. Its arms and legs had been moulded in such a sinuous and organic fashion that it appeared to have grown from the small dais it crowned. As Silar drew closer, he realised with horror that Morghiad looked barely strong enough to lower himselfto sit in

  such a chair. He had lost a great deal of weight. Though once smooth-muscled and exuding strength, this man’s clothes hung limply from his frame as if borrowed from a giant. Black hair dangled in bedraggled strands from his head, a short, straight beard had grown along his jaw and his eyes looked an age older than their twenty-seven years. The wizened creature nodded at the two men once they had stopped walking.

  “Good to see you’ve kept the place in order in my absence. I must offer you my thanks.” His voice sounded considerably stronger than his body looked.

  Beodrin frowned. “Are you sure this is the right time to do this? You look like y-”

  “Now is the time,” Morghiad said calmly.

  Captain Mori looked at Silar with resignation, and Silar compressed his lips. “What do we need to do to get this underway?”

  Morghiad’s eyes darted to the collection of administrators who had gathered to their left. “Do you have the oath and charter ready?”

  At their front, a short man with long hair nodded keenly. “Yes, my lord.” Silar noticed that the man next to him held a heavy seal and wax.

  “As General and Captain of the Army of Calidell, I will need you both to witness...” Morghiad inhaled sharply before continuing, “... witness the documents.” He seated himself confidently on the throne and bade the secretaries come closer.

  A series of promises followed, and Silar inscribed his name next to Beodrin’s rounded script.

  Lord-General Silar Forllan of the Army of Calidell sounded a little excessive, he had to admit.

  With the paperwork done, the diminutive record-keeper announced that Morghiad of House Jade’an, once DefenderKahr of Gialdin, was now King of Calidell in name and in law. The new king stood and clasped his sinewy hands behind his back. “Set the coronation for three days from now. I should at least be standing upright for it, and I ought to bathe.”

  Inspiring first words for a king, Silar thought drily. “You really ought to eat something, too. No one will appreciate you

  falling over from malnutrition on a national feast day.”

  King Morghiad locked eyes with him but ignored the comment. “I want you to see to it that Acher’s benay-gosa are returned to their families, if they have them. See that all of them are well looked-after.”

  A wiry, bookish-looking administrator spluttered, “But they are royal property! It is more typical for the new king to adopt them or have them executed if they have exceeded...”

  Morghiad’s glare shamed the man into silence. “There will be no more benay-gosa in Calidell, ever. Also, this country’s laws on wielders must be changed immediately. The banishment must be lifted and penalties of execution removed. They are now equal and honoured members of Calidellian society.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Silar caught a small smile as it flashed briefly across Beodrin’s lips.

  The king paused and looked at the floor. “Finally, and most importantly, I want you two to work together to find Artemi. Silar, we’ll need to exploit whatever sources we can. Beodrin, put together six groups of the best men for the task. Toryn should be among them. There should be no more than three men per group, but each must have a kanaala. We’ll have them scour the globe for her. I don’t care how long it takes. I need to know that our queen is safe.”

  Artemi padded silently down the redpainted hallway; a soft leather bag crossed her back atop a sword, and six highly polished knives marched up her black-swathed legs. The building smelled heavily of damp stone and burning lamp oil, this far into the night. She pulled the headscarf more tightly across her face with a gloved hand. Now was not the time to be identifiable.

  The office door drew near, and from

  her position in the shadows Artemi could see a lone guard. She withdrew her sword without so much as a whisper, scaled the wall and clambered into the ceiling joists. From there she jumped nimbly between the posts, always keeping her movements inaudible, until she reached a position above the guard. As was usually the case, he leaned upright against the wall, half-asleep and barely sentient.

  She dropped down onto his shoulders, clamping a gloved hand across his mouth as he fell to the floor. Artemi thrust her knee into his left temple before he became fully aware of his predicament, and stood quickly to meet any reinforcements. None came. She glanced back down at the guard as she re-sheathed her blade. He would be stunned for just enough time to allow her to find what she needed. She

  placed her hand on the door, and put her head close to listen for people inside. It was quiet. Artemi pressed down on the iron-wrought handle, slid the door open and stepped inside.

  Dim candlelight barely illuminated the book-lined room. It had to hold what she was looking for, but where to start looking for it? Artemi scanned the shelves for a tall, brown binding. It soon became clear that the item was not hidden in plain sight. A broad, wooden desk sat in one corner of the green-carpeted room. She went to it, and began rifling through the drawers.

  Nothing.

  Nor was it in the cupboards, under paperwork or in boxes. She checked for loose boards and removable areas of carpet, behind books and inside the window shutters.

  A sound outside alerted her that the guard was stirring. Time was short. Artemi sat on the desk chair to think for a few seconds, and something crunched. Curious. She stood to inspect the seat. There was something inside the padding... A soft groan touched her ears from behind the office door. Drawing one of her knives, she neatly cut along the lining and reached inside. Her hands touched something flat, soft and smooth. As she gritted her teeth, Artemi pulled out a thin, tan-leather object and opened it. A long list of names and signatures, together with a heavy seal, lay inside.

  That was it, she had her evidence!

  She quickly stuffed it into her bag, refilled the chair with some
of the papers on the desk and pressed the seat down. No one would notice it had been tampered with, unless

  they specifically went looking for the document. Artemi ran back to the hallway. She was in luck - the guard was still drowsy on the floor. She took the opportunity to close the office door, and gingerly stepped over him before running softly back to the stairs.

  Buoyed by the thrill of her acquisition, she pondered what this evening’s distraction might be. She had already rustled horses, released farm animals, started fires, cut leaks into pumping systems and stolen dresses. What would be appropriate here? The house of Lord Gadlond di Certa was well-known for harbouring great stores of gold. Perhaps a bit of good, old-fashioned thievery would be just the thing. Artemi trotted down towards the cellars where she knew she would find the strong room. Town architects did have very

  free mouths when a young, suggestively dressed lady winked at them and bought them an ale... or four.

  The back stairs soon opened out into a subterranean chamber, just as her informant had promised. Its walls were lined with black moss and white effervescence, while the floor was plain, noise-absorbing, footprint-covered earth. Artemi took the fourth tunnel from the chamber and paced silently towards a low, orange glow of lamplight. The corridor soon widened into a galleried area, where she took cover behind a curved stone pillar and peered around it to assess the strong room door.