Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  The boy’s face twisted in pain. “I . . . I don’ right know. We was with him whats got the muscles and blood-died cords.”

  Haegan started. “Cadeif? Why? And why are you here and she is not?”

  “Aye. Sir Gwogh sent us there when you up and vanished. Then that raqine what helped you kill the Infantessa done brought me here.”

  “But Thiel! Why did you leave her?”

  The boy’s eyes grew large and wet with tears. “She fell. Fell from the beast.” His hands fisted. “That blazin’ raqine wouldn’t go back neither. I tried to make her, I promise I did. What if she’s dead?”

  Haegan lifted his head. Looked to the west. To the skies. Anything but this blasted camp or the boy who had seen Thiel fall. “No, she’s alive. She has to be.” Please . . .

  Only then did he see the way the camp watched him. Sidelong glances that held animosity. Fear.

  They’re afraid of me.

  He caught sight of a barrel-chested man. A vague memory of him at Iteveria skidded through Haegan’s mind, eluding him. He’d talked to him. Taken something—a sword. Yes. The sword. The man was too dark-skinned even for a Kergulian. Who was he?

  When their gazes locked, the man slowly rose. Was the man angry? Something was . . . off. Haegan’s mind buzzed.

  The man came toward him, reaching behind himself.

  Steel glinted.

  Alarmed, Haegan palmed a halo with a warning shout, “Stop!” Focusing the Flames was infinitely easier and less taxing since he’d thrown open his arms to Abiassa’s Fire in the dungeon. It surprised him, startled him. Pleased him.

  “I beg your mercy, Fierian,” the man said in a deep bass, “I but pull my sword—”

  “No!”

  He extended his hands—one of which held a long blade. “My sword is not against you, but for you.” He laid it on the ground. Knelt. Lowered his head.

  “He’s telling the truth,” came a soft voice.

  Haegan glanced to the side. A girl with dark brown hair that dangled in a braid stood watching him. “Astadia.”

  A wry smile tugged at her lips. “Well, I see blowing up all of Karithia didn’t fry everything—your brain is still intact.” She lifted a shoulder. “What little of it you have.” She nodded to the now-kneeling man. “That Tahscan is Vaqar Modia, one-time commander of the royal guard. Fierce but loyal. Saved my life more than once in Karithia’s battle, and that’s saying something.”

  Indeed.

  “Fierian.” Vaqar lowered his shorn head as he raised his sword. “My blade is yours.”

  Unsure what to say, Haegan nodded, only realizing then that the man wasn’t looking. “Thank you. R-rise. Stand.” He sidestepped, anxious to be away, alone. But as he did, a presence lingered behind him. A glance back confirmed his suspicions that Astadia was pacing him. “I thought you were done with me since your brother died.”

  “If you are only going to mock his death—”

  Haegan stopped. “I mock nothing. Trale gave his life for me. Never will I forget nor take lightly that sacrifice.” His heart pounded a death cadence. “In the end, he was the only friend I had.”

  Astadia gave a cockeyed nod. “Which is why I’m following you.”

  A Tahscan bowing to him, an assassin following him. Could things become more twisted? Haegan resumed course, but slowed as he searched the forest of small tents cluttering the field.

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  He sighed and shook his head, feeling the ache of loneliness and confusion. “I’m not sure I’ve known in a very long time.”

  Understanding flickered through her face as she indicated to a large black tent. “Command is there.” She drew closer. “They are all gathered with the steward.”

  Haegan frowned, then looked at the assassin. “Steward? Steward of what?”

  “The Nine.”

  Haegan faltered. They’d installed a steward. Because I failed. Walked away.

  “You should talk to them.”

  Perhaps he should. Yet his feet seemed rooted, refusing another step. The thought of a steward being put in place angered him—not at the steward. At himself. Too long he’d been a prisoner. Too long feasted on his doubts and fears.

  He started forward, then glanced back. “I could do with a friend.”

  Her eyes widened, but she fell in step with him. “I’m not sure you’d call me a friend, if you knew the truth.”

  “You wanted to kill me rather than bring me back to the Infantessa.”

  Astadia’s breathing shifted, but she maintained pace. “You knew?”

  “You kept it no secret.”

  She skidded him a glance as they covered the last dozen steps to the command tent. “I suppose I didn’t.”

  “Then it follows that I owe Trale my life doubly, since he didn’t let you end me.”

  “I’m not sure I’d go that far. She addled his brain with inflaming, made him her lapdog. Trale was smitten with the witch.” Astadia’s tone dropped to a growl. “If you hadn’t killed her, I would have.”

  “Then we are of the same mind and freed of a problem.” Haegan entered the command tent.

  A table sat to the side, accommodating nearly a dozen men in heated conversation. They hadn’t noticed him, and for that, Haegan was grateful. It afforded him time to gain his bearings, work out what they were discussing. They mentioned locations—the hall of iron, Vid, Unelithia—and urgency, time was short.

  At the far end sat Tili—Thiel’s brother—and Sir Gwogh. Near him was Kaelyria’s boyfriend, Captain Grinda—nay, the cords indicated a rank of colonel. As Haegan’s gaze continued its trek, he met familiar eyes. The sight of his friend allowed Haegan to breathe a laugh, feeling warmth and pleasure as he had not in a long while.

  Praegur rose and the conversation din faded.

  Next, Tili stood. “Haegan.”

  Wind rustled as others punched to their feet. Most bowed curtly. “Sire.”

  The recognition and respect they offered froze Haegan for a moment. When the silence hung heavy and cumbersome, he forced himself to speak. “The Fire King yet lives, so I am no sire. But I thank you for the deference.” His considered the seat at the end of the table.

  Praegur was already there, drawing out the chair. “My lord,” he said, his voice rusty and catching.

  Haegan smiled as he reached him. “’Tis good to see you.” Seated, he looked to the others, still standing. Though he was no king or ruler, he realized he was the only able-bodied sovereign they had right now. Or was he? He motioned to the seats, and the men quickly resumed their positions. “I was told there is a steward.” He settled his gaze on Gwogh. “You have set a steward in my place?”

  His old tutor inclined his head. “A steward was chosen by the Council when we thought the king dead and the prince missing.”

  Interesting choice of words and lack of hesitation. “You mean, when I fled.” Haegan swallowed, his gaze skipping around the table again. Who had they named in his stead? Was it Grinda? His youthful vigor and charm so easily swept Kaelyria from her good senses, so why not the Council? Was it Rhaemos? Or Negaer? Though neither was present at this meeting.

  But as Haegan considered the possibilities, he grew convinced of the most unlikely suspect. The one person not of Nine blood. “Tili.”

  “Princeling,” Tili said, acknowledging him with a slight smile. “Good to see ye on yer feet. We are all grateful for yer . . . work in dispatching the Infantessa.”

  The Infantessa. Yes. It seemed an eternity, and yet, he could still feel her talons raking his mind. Had Tili mentioned it to remind Haegan of his failure? To remind him he had walked from the Fire Throne straight into the hands of their powerful enemy?

  “I have failed,” Haegan admitted openly, his pride skewered on the table before them. “I chose a path that seemed right and best, but it was far from what Abiassa willed.”

  Quiet dripped like an annoying tap.

  “I would beg your mercy. When I left the Citadel
and journeyed east, I failed each of you.” It no longer mattered—him, his pride, his insipid selfishness. “I failed Abiassa. I walked from the halls of safety and surety to a false sense of peace, sinking right into disaster.”

  The men shifted. Some looked down, away. Others held fast.

  “I have seen my mistake and regret my actions.” Haegan’s throat grew raw. “We face a powerful enemy who knows how to enter our minds, how to ply our fears and weaknesses against us.”

  “But you killed her,” someone countered.

  “I killed Sirdar’s pawn,” he conceded. “The Infantessa was nothing more than a spoiled child playing in her father’s water garden.” He looked to Graem. “I heard you speak of the hall of iron.”

  “Aye, Ironhall is abandoned.”

  “Yet you mention it as a way station.”

  “Though in ruins, it is a fortress,” Graem said. “Much to work with, unlike an open plain that leaves us exposed.”

  Gwogh cleared his throat. “But we have reinforcements in Vid, and it has been re—”

  “No.” Something stirred in Haegan. “Poired must march east, intersect with Ironhall, if I remember my Histories and its placement. Correct?” he asked the young colonel.

  “Aye,” Graem said warily, eyeing Gwogh and Tili. “But ’tis in ruins.”

  “We are all in ruins, Graem.” As the idea took hold, Haegan grew convinced of its legitimacy. Of the opportunity to quicken his confrontation with the Dark One. He had a thirst, a hunger to deal with the darkness that had pervaded the lands for too long. “We make for Ironhall.”

  23

  “You must stop him!”

  Stuffing on his gauntlets, Tili glanced over his shoulder at the girl. “Why would I do that?”

  Astadia pointed at the tent flap as if Haegan were standing on the other side. “He is bent on going after Poired. Nobody does that! It’s a fool’s errand—worse, it’s idiotic.”

  Tili huffed and turned. “He is the Fierian. His purpose is Sirdar and Poired. He’s seeing the end goal.”

  Wisps of brown hair flung her face as she moved forward, eyes brightened by an angry flush. “He is seeing his end. Period. He will die if he faces that monster!”

  “Then he will die.”

  Jaw jutted, she spun around, defiant. “How can you stand by while the only man worth his salt is walking straight to his death?”

  “Because the only man worth his salt is the one who might not die walking to his death.”

  “You’re singewood, Tili Thurig.”

  A flare of amusement at her use of his names, though backward, glided over his annoyance, smoothing it. “’Tis Thurig as’Tili,” he corrected. “And Haegan is powerful. Did ye not see him in the courtyard? He was designed for this war by the Lady.”

  She slapped his shoulder. “Bah!”

  Disbelieving she’d struck him, he scowled. “Did ye—”

  “I did,” the little nymph said with another jut of her jaw, “and I’ll do more if you don’t grow a brain in that thick skull of yours. Haegan needs help. He’s been through”—she shook her head—“I cannot describe what happened to him while in her grip, but I saw it. Gave witness to the cruelty he and my brother—weak-kneed males that they were—endured at her hand.”

  Curiosity got the better of him. “And what did ye see there?”

  She stomped forward, eyes blazing. “They were changed. Tortured. You do not come away from that untouched. And now? Now he wants to face Poired!”

  “Haegan is not weak-kneed. He is intelligent and—”

  “He was a slobbering fool when he thought the Infantessa a young pretty thing. All men are!” she exclaimed. “We must be strong for him.”

  “But ye just said all men were weak.”

  “Because I know what Inflaming does and am not affected by it.”

  Curious. “And how is it ye are not infected by the inflaming?”

  Astadia drew back an inch, but it felt like a mile. And another slap. “You accuse me?”

  “I question ye, Astadia Kath.”

  “Kath.” She snorted.

  “’Tis not yer name?”

  “I know not my name.” Vulnerability skated through her knotted brow so quickly, it might have been a ruse. “I was an orphan, as was Trale, when we both took the name.”

  “Then he wasn’t yer brother?”

  “He was my brother—everything to me,” she snarled, her eyes flaming and nostrils flaring. “Think not for one second I wouldn’t gut you if I thought—”

  “Gut me?” Tili’s pride was tweaked. “Ye think ye can take me?”

  Ire glinted in her large green eyes as she lifted that dimpled chin. “Before you knew what happened.”

  His eyebrow arched. He smirked. Then stepped back into a sparring stance.

  Astadia started, glancing at the foot he’d planted for more control. “You think that foot makes you stronger.”

  “Aye.” Talk was cheap and distracting. “Are ye all talk, Astadia? The men fear ye. Show me yer best.” He raised his eyebrow again and motioned with his hands. “When yer ready.”

  “I kill men like you for a living.”

  “Well,” he said with a grin that was far too cheeky, but her arrogance stamped his propriety into the ground, “show me. But I have an army to lead, so please—keep at least my foot on this side of the grave.”

  She eased back, defiance sparking. “By how much?”

  Tili fought the laugh crawling through his chest. “I have to protect the prince and represent the Nine.” He scratched his cheek. “Leave enough for that.”

  “Only that?” Astadia walked to the side basin and poured a glass of water. She sipped slowly, then poured another. “You know . . .” she began.

  Tili detected the fabric of her trousers shift—she’d tightened her leg muscles.

  “My brother and I had a routine,” she said quietly, her voice almost grieved. “I distract the target—they’d see only a woman. With curves.” She threw a sultry look over her shoulder.

  Tili chuckled. “To see a woman, ye’d have to be one.” This wasn’t just a conversation. She was a vixen, a wench bent on winning, but he was ready. His hands twitched in anticipation. “I’m sorry ye lost yer brother.”

  Her gaze grew icy. She lifted the cup to her mouth.

  Any reasonable person would think she was drinking, but she never swallowed, at least—not one big enough for imbibing.

  She pivoted around, her heel snapping toward his head. He barked a laugh and ducked, surprised and impressed at the same time, but also expecting a punch or another kick.

  Which came. She hopped, her other leg whipping up then slicing down in a chop. Narrowly missing his head and shoulder.

  When she drove a fist at him, he deflected, shoving her off balance.

  Astadia recovered and spun to face him, hands up and loosely held. Ready but not tense. She had confidence that she didn’t need to attack violently. Quick, short strikes were more efficient, more deadly. And considering she knew that, Tili had better up his game or she’d knock him on his back. Though he might have started this sparring with amusement, he was dead serious now.

  “What?” she taunted. “Too weak to attack?”

  Try to draw him out, force him to attack. Tili bounced to the side, watching. “Show me.”

  Challenge lit her olive complexion.

  Before Tili could process what happened, a flurry of hand strikes flew. He blocked and thwarted the first dozen, but she came on, relentless and furious. Her hands struck and punched and stabbed. It took every bit of training and experience to stop her from knocking the sparks out of him.

  But as he palmed away one strike, she stabbed at his abdomen with her left. He also blocked that. But was too slow to see the round kick that nailed his temple.

  Teeth clattered. Tili staggered, his vision blurring. Hands up, never backing from the fight. And she wasn’t going to allow him. Two more kicks—deflected.

  He responded with
strikes of his own, which she deftly avoided and kept coming. Leaping aside, he tipped over a small table. It crashed, sending silver clattering across the ground. Tili backed up, not caring about the upended table or its contents. He wasn’t going to lose. Or get his brains knocked out.

  He punched, nailing her on the cheek.

  She stumbled back, eyes wide—with surprise or fury, he wasn’t sure. But when she lunged at him, he guessed the latter.

  Anger. She was fighting out of anger now. Rabid. Uncontrolled. Dangerous. A line had been crossed somewhere. She wasn’t playing to win now. She was playing to kill.

  “Astadia,” he said, parrying her strikes. Forcing himself not to punch again. Not to react. Breathe. Breathe, he told himself. Easy.

  But she never slowed. Her kicks. Her punches. Her strikes. Faster. More furious. Fire in her eyes. Lips pulled into a thin, tight line.

  “Astadia,” he repeated more firmly.

  Her fist struck his cheekbone. Pain shot through his skull. Head snapped back, but he cared not. He couldn’t. Not with the way she was fighting. She was taking him to task. Venting, Punishing.

  She growled, punching and kicking again. A jab. Right cross. Uppercut.

  Enough. Tili monitored, caught her rhythm. Then her hand. Twisted it, down. Around and up. Pitched her around.

  She dropped and broke his hold. Shot back up with a right cross. Tili deflected and shoved her backward. Pushed in. Pinned her against the post of the tent. “Astadia!” he hissed, desperate for her to regain her bearings.

  “Augh!” She struggled with him.

  “Astadia. Stop!” he barked, securing both hands and holding her in place. But she bucked. “Hey—hey! Look at me.”

  Green eyes blinked. Confusion mottled with sweat covered her brow. She peered at up him, her chest heaving. Each rise and fall pushed against him. Tili told himself not to think about it. Not to notice her body pressed to his. To focus instead on the eruption of anger and instinct that could have done serious injury or killed him.

  But her curves were surprising against his chest. Her eyes liquid and searching. Strands of hair clung to her sweaty temples, giving her a wild, vicious look bathed in a beauty he had not seen in . . . ever.