Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  Drracien nodded slowly, his expression a muddle of confusion, understanding, and uncertainty. “You don’t want her hurt.” He shrugged. “Makes sense.”

  “Does it? Because I fear every hour that the fall from Chima took her from me forever, and if it didn’t, she remains with the Ematahri. According to Laertes, they hauled her away one day, and he didn’t see her again until the morning Chima came to me. As I prepare to face Poired, what happens to her?”

  “Then why not act? Take that raqine and go for her.”

  “You think I haven’t considered it?” Haegan sighed and shook his head. “Much have I pondered on what I could do. But whatever power Abiassa has given me, I cannot confront the enemy alone. It is the same reason I cannot fly off and find Poired, end this right now. This”—he gestured widely to the soldiers and wagons and civilian followers—“the long, agonizing road, is right. We fight together. The Nine, the North, Iteverians, even Tahscans. I know not when Poired will return, but I must be here. I must be ready.”

  “And if he goes after Thiel? Everyone knows she’s important to you. A band of Sirdarians were marching west to join an Ematahri clan. What if she is with them?”

  “How have you knowledge of this?”

  “I told you,” Drracien said with a smirk. “I’ve been traveling. And you know I can get in and out of places without anyone knowing.”

  “We are not even sure she’s alive.”

  “You sound guilty now, Princeling.”

  “I am. Had we not argued, she might not have fled and taken Gwogh’s treacherous mission.”

  Silence settled between them for a few minutes.

  “Any more giants since Baen’s Crossing?”

  Haegan sighed. His friend had many questions. Too many? “Very few. They returned to the mountains, and as you can see, there are no mountains here.” Only a carved road through two chunks of rock that jutted upward, defiant of the flat terrain. “A handful, not in their vudd state travel here, I’ve heard. I guess them only by the height.”

  “But what—”

  “Enough,” Haegan said around a half-hearted laugh. “The day is long and your queries longer.” He cast his friend a sidelong glance, finding strange solace in the clopping hooves. “You are much changed since Hetaera.”

  Shorn hills rose steeply on either side, their shadows stretching deep and reminding him of the Throne Road. Of Thiel. Of the encounter with the Ematahri. Which again reminded him of Thiel. If only she traveled with him instead of Drracien or Laertes. Or anyone.

  “Me?” Drracien laughed. “Speak for yourself. You go off with assassins, angry and weak wielding, yet here you are, roiling with Flames and a shaved head. How am I to taunt you about your pretty looks now?”

  Though he chuckled, Haegan didn’t feel the laughter. In truth, the words hurt. Shame that he had willingly fled the course Abiassa set left him irrevocably altered.

  “I fear we are none the same.” Even as he spoke, Haegan felt something shift in the air.

  “Then you’ve accepted your role as Fierian?”

  More like embraced—at least that’s how he’d felt when he realized how widespread Nydelia’s inflaming had become. When he saw strong people reduced to cowering in dark cages well below the surface. When he found his father . . . The foul stench. The sizzle that had prickled the hairs on his arm.

  Haegan glanced there now, surprised to see the hairs standing on end again. Was the memory so virulent? Wait . . . The air!

  Shouts rose ahead, and a steady din grew as scouts approached from the front and sides. They pulled up sharply beside Graem, and Tili came charging up from the rear of the column, three Tahscans with him. They converged in a cluster of agitation.

  Haegan drew back the reins, slowing. What was it? Why did this feel familiar? It left a very bad taste in his mouth. So familiar. What . . . ? Homing in on what changed, Haegan’s gaze settled on the road ahead. Then struck the walls of the crevasse.

  Laerian galloped back to Haegan and pulled up alongside. The Tahscan approached. “Fierian, are you well?”

  “Aye . . .” Haegan murmured, half distracted, tracing the terrain. Breathing the scent. “Nay.”

  A nervous chuckle came from Drracien. “Which is it?”

  “This isn’t right.” Haegan studied the shale walls. Scanned the heights where hedges bordered—

  “Aye, the steward is concerned as well,” Laerian said as Tokar eased in, assuming the position on Haegan’s left.

  “Ambush! To arms!” In a flash, Tili barreled his horse between Haegan and Drracien. “Protect the Fierian!”

  Bewildered, Haegan found himself swarmed by Pathfinders. Immersed in confusion, he then saw the hedges moving. They were not shrubs but people with sprigs of vegetation stuck to their clothing. “Incipients,” he whispered, his gaze tracking the ridge.

  “Get him back!” Tili shouted.

  Tokar grabbed Haegan’s bridle and pulled.

  But even as he was led away, Haegan yanked back his reins. The road before him shifted. The air tingled, different. Strangely transformed from full rise to dusk. Bodies were strewn about, blood soaking heavily into the hard-packed earth. Defeat. There lay Laertes beneath Praegur, whose back had been flayed open as he protected the younger boy. Friends in a crimson river that filled the ravine. Utter defeat.

  What is this? Grief curled around his throat and constricted.

  He blinked and the sun once more burned bright. His friends remained mounted, watching him warily. And he knew—knew if he fled, if he was ruled by fear and shut off, their blood would be on his hands.

  “Remove him,” Tili ordered as he and Graem closed up ranks around Haegan.

  “No!” Haegan attempted to wrest his horse free, but another grabbed the other side. Hemmed in, he could not break loose. “Release me!”

  Unyielding, the Pathfinders led his horse toward the middle of the column.

  He tried slipping a leg over the side, but there were too many riders. He glanced back to where a violent frenzy erupted—Pathfinders riding hard into the chokepoint, a horde of Sirdarians flooding out. Incipients blasted chunks of the cliff down on the Pathfinders. Steel glinted in the sky—the Tahscan swords sparking against rock and the Sirdarians’ weapons.

  Haegan gaped. There were many Sirdarians. So very many.

  “Stop!” Haegan shouted to his protectors. “Stop or every one of our men who dies will be on your heads!”

  But they continued, driving him to the rear. To where his father lay senseless. “No!” Haegan flexed his hand, sending a bubble of heat that nudged the nearby horses backward. His focused intent—distance and protection—ensured no harm would come to animal or man. Thrilled at the breathing room the wielding afforded, he pushed more . . . more . . . His mount shifted. He pitched himself down and wheeled around.

  “Haegan, no!” Tokar shouted.

  Heedless of the pleas, Haegan sprinted toward the battle, using a halo to protect himself. Determined he would not let another man die because of him. Determined the river of blood in the ravine would be the Sirdarians’.

  A giant boulder rolled from the cliff’s edge, plummeting toward the Pathfinders.

  Haegan skidded to a stop, rolled his hands around each other, and shot a blast at the rock. The pale-blue volley catapulted through the air and shattered the boulder into a million tiny pieces. Another leapt from the cliff. He dealt with that as well.

  They needed every accelerant they could get. Where was Drracien? And Tili? He advanced and found the Northlander wielding with one hand to hold back an incipient and slicing his sword at a Sirdarian with the other. Haegan marveled at Tili’s skill, wondering how he’d perfected that when his ability to wield had only just come to light. But the Sirdarian seemed fueled by rage and pushed forward.

  Haegan flicked a fiery dart into the Sirdarian’s temple, crumpling him.

  Tili shot him a surprised look, then nodded. “’Bout time ye showed up.”

  “You tried to lock me
away, remember?”

  “That was the petulant prince I protected.” He drew back his arm and shoved a blast at the incipient, knocking back a dozen feet. It gave Tili time to send a hyperfocused shot that dropped the man for good. “Ye are the Fierian.”

  Haegan caught another large rock, feeling its weight press against his wielding, and obliterated it. “They intend to bury us.”

  And where was Drracien?

  “Less talk, Twig.” Tili gripped his sword with both hands, stepping into a deadly dance with a Sirdarian.

  “Think you can send another blue wave and turn them to dust, too?” Tokar shouted from a dozen feet away.

  Blue wave?

  • • •

  Amazement froze Tili as he watched Haegan rally and pick up his role as Fierian, wielding with that fierce, pale light. It was blazingly powerful and left him a little envious. Gone were the haphazard bolts that held as much danger for Haegan and those around him as the intended target. These were tight, focused. Obedient to Haegan’s will. And Abiassa’s.

  Tili had been at the rear when Vaqar’s people alerted them to the reek roiling through that canyon. Had their senses not been aroused, the Pathfinders and Haegan—even Tili—would’ve been ambushed. As Tili rode back to Haegan with the warning, Laerian sent twenty Tahscan fighters up around to flank the enemy. Where were those warriors?

  Palms slick with blood, Tili struggled for a firm grip on his sword.

  A Silver rushed him, the sun’s glare on his helm excruciating. Blinded, Tili struggled not to lose sight of the enemy. He felt the air swirl and brought up his sword. Vibrations rang through the steel. His grip faltered. With the next blow, the sword rattled from his hand. Tili lunged away, but not soon enough. Fire seared his neck. He hissed through the pain. For his own survival, he thrust out a bolt but the distraction of the pain and blood running down his neck weakened his wielding.

  Blazes! Is this where he would die? Far from home, family, and Ybienn? Get yer head out of the grave, fool. He braced, focused on forming a searing arrow to shoot—

  The Silver lunged again, his blade swift and hungry for Tili’s life. His sword raised for a killing strike.

  Tili stepped back to thrust a blast, but his heel hit something hard. He pitched to the side. Stumbled, lost focus. His blast went far too wide. Hiel-touck! The Silver was coming. Right at him.

  So. Death it was. Right here. Now.

  Wind stirred and a meaty thunk sounded very close to his ear before Tili recognized its source—the hilt of a scimitar sticking from the Silver’s chest. Shock widened eyes and mouth.

  Stunned but not stupid, Tili leapt to his feet again, readying for another Silver or incipient. Cast a furtive glance around. One of Vaqar’s men stomped forward with an angry, annoyed set to his mouth, pried his blade free from the Silver. Tili would have offered a nod of thanks, but the Tahscan lunged back into the fight.

  A blur to his left. Astadia made for an incipient who’d targeted a Pathfinder. But even as the two engaged, Tili saw a third racing at her. Her blade was quick and the kill clean as she whirled to the newcomer before Tili could even sound a warning.

  When a Silver swung his sword at her, Tili sucked in a breath, but Astadia ducked. Whirled around, lowering into a crouch. When she rose, Astadia swept the man’s feet out from under him. She was like a tornado of rage. He recalled being on the receiving end of that rage in his tent.

  The Silver landed with a thud. Astadia leapt and drove her dagger into his chest.

  A scream from the canyon snapped Tili back into action. Haegan was advancing, his shoulders squared, his confidence sure. Amazing. Blue light haloed as the Fierian moved with fury and determination that could only be called perfection. Every incipient that encountered the Fierian fell. Every Sirdarian who raised a blade vanished.

  It was horrifying. Beautiful. Daunting. Exhilarating.

  And that’s when Tili realized what was happening in the canyon—Pathfinders and Tahscans were advancing, incredibly, and from the other side, the small band sent to flank and ambush were tightening the perimeter, forcing the Sirdarians and incipients into a state of panic.

  • • •

  The farther Haegan progressed, the more he sensed the pure fire of Abiassa. Felt Her anger over the Dark One sending so many to their deaths. These had chosen their own paths, but it still grieved Her that Primar’s children were lost. The blood he’d seen in the vision had changed from that of his friends to that of Abiassa’s enemies. To those who put no value on human life.

  Tili took a serious hit, nearly decapitated. If the girl hadn’t saved him . . . That even one Pathfinder had lost their life here was one too many.

  Where was the Dark One? Was he hiding, sending minions to dispatch Haegan to the grave? The thought spun a web of anger and frustration through him. He’d been gifted, not to toil with these, but to cut the beast off at the knees. Send him back to the Void from which he’d crawled.

  “Come out,” Haegan shouted, his voice echoing beyond time. “Show yourself!”

  The Pathfinders hesitated, unable to surrender the fight when there were those who still sought their lives.

  “This is between you and me! Come out!” he bellowed.

  Wrapping a cloth around his bloody neck, Tili stalked toward him. Not dead then. “What’re ye doing? We’ve enough trouble as it is.”

  Though he heard and understood the concern, Haegan turned, shielding himself from the onslaught. Ignored Tili. Called again to his enemy. “This is not their war, Poired.” Haegan sensed something pulling, tearing the air. As if the elements themselves agreed and sought to regurgitate the Dark One from their bowels. “’Tis yours—answer for what you have done!”

  “Haegan,” Tili barked. “No. ’Tis not done nor right. Leave—”

  Though it was impossible, though his mind struggled and his eyes strained, night stretched its dark veil over the crevasse in which they stood and hazed the land. Heart in his throat, Haegan watched a dark form coalesce in the midst.

  As if he had walked from behind a milky glass, Poired Dyrth emerged from the haze. Beneath his boots, the ground squished with the blood of one the Silvers.

  Shouts went up. The Pathfinders and Jujak struggled against their own fear. They shifted back, yet did not flee, their training too ingrained. Their honor refusing a knee to this specter.

  With Poired came a half-dozen others. Three robed in black. High collars. Red belts. Vacant eyes somehow filled with darkness and death. Slinking along the ground like a viper, a black raqine wisped in and out of sight. He was massive. Terrifying.

  Shouts and cries went up.

  “Stop, stop! Let them go,” someone shouted.

  Fear galloped across the battlefield, filling every pore and sinew of flesh and bone with terror. Palpable. The taste bitter on his tongue and familiar.

  “We should leave now,” another said.

  “This is a lost cause,” another declared.

  “Fierian, we must go before we end up like your father.”

  I don’t know what I’m doing.

  I’ll fail, just as I did at Fieri Keep.

  Just as—

  “He’s inflaming,” came a deep voice of warning from Vaqar.

  The revelation cut Haegan free. The Tahscan was right. Poired and his legion were inflaming, working the fears of the Pathfinders, Jujak, and remnant against themselves.

  “Shut out the thoughts,” Haegan called to their people. “Focus on your purpose, on Abiassa.” He hefted the sword, realizing that while he might be able to drag his mind from the grip of the Dark One, those he led were new to inflaming. They were weak, drenched in fears, prone to thoughts that grew and overtook them, convincing them they would fail.

  “Release them,” he demanded, feeling the heat of Abiassa’s Fire roil through him. “Leave their minds.”

  “You do not control me, Prince,” Poired sneered. “You are weak! Worse than your father—he was this great and mighty Fire King, and look how
I reduced him!”

  “You claim victory that is not yours,” Haegan growled. “And my father is recovered and healing—evidence to the power of Abiassa!”

  The Dark One’s brow knotted and he lowered his chin. “Her power. How has She done in protecting Her own Hand—you? We shall see who is more powerful. Who is worth serving!” With each word, the Dark One advanced, his hands talon-like. Wrists turning. His left then his right. Drawing back. Pushing out.

  As if tendrils of fire were connected to his very chest, Haegan felt the plying. Felt the pull on his gift. He braced himself and drew back his hand, holding his left in place—aimed at the Dark One. “I am no longer your puppet. She has not given us fear, but power!”

  “What of this?” Poired tossed a volley at him as he would toss an apple. “Look what she allowed.”

  Haegan felt a strange, sticky warmth slide over him, peeling back the barrier of his mind. Past his father. Past his own shame. Across the lands. Hills. Right over a sea of Sirdarians and savages . . . right into a tent. And there, prostrate on a pallet, lay the archon. Cadeif. To what end was—

  The archon stretched an arm over a thin frame. Dark hair spilled over a light-colored blanket. The woman rolled onto her back.

  Haegan staggered at the familiar brown eyes. Thiel. “No,” he breathed. The vision vanished. The excruciating image of Thiel abed with Cadeif pummeled him. Numb, he blinked. It wasn’t possible.

  “He inflames your fears, Fierian,” Vaqar spoke firmly, quietly.

  But it was so real. As if he stood amid their intimacy. The embers crackled and fell limp from his hands.

  “Fierian, fight!” Tili’s voice was a rescue net as he turned to Haegan, blood seeping through the cloth around his neck.

  Haegan blinked again. Saw bodies dropping around him, dead. Pathfinders being cut down. The vision he’d had before the battle—it was true. It wasn’t a pretense. It was real.

  He would fail, as he always had.

  “Bend not to the reek,” Vaqar growled.

  Defeated. By Poired. Taunted. By Poired. Ruined. By Poired. And all because Haegan called him from Void.

  With a shout, he thrust out a bolt.