Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  Graem looked there, too. “Not much of a castle for a Fire King, but—”

  “’Tis enough.” Haegan shifted. “The Fire King should be secreted into the fortress. None should see him. Not like this.”

  “Understood. Our number is too great now to house them all within the walls. But the other streets close to the keep will serve well.”

  “See that it’s done,” Haegan said.

  “Aye, sire.” Two hand signals had a Pathfinder heading to the wagon, where the Drigo tended his father.

  Haegan had never been so glad for crumbling walls and unfeeling piles of rock. The curtain wall gaped in some places, lifted its hem in others. One flanking tower had been obliterated, and a large section of another was missing. The pinnacle of the keep’s tower had sustained significant damage, as had the footbridge, barbican, and drawbridge. But still—’twould work. He was sure of it.

  “Rider,” Captain Laerian called, urging his horse forward to meet the messenger.

  Haegan’s heart lurched as he locked onto the rider—one of their own, Glomain—in the distance, where Laerian met him. The captain came round, rode hard and fast back to Haegan. Was that an urgent stride? Or a jubilant one?

  Laerian drew his horse to a stop. “Glomain reports several hundred refugees within the fortress, encamped in the bailey. The castle itself is now kept by a score of Viddan fighters!”

  Relief struck Haegan as he scanned Ironhall. Their contingent was in much need of rest and stability. A place to organize. ’Twas required they recover in a defensible position, and he could not imagine a better location.

  “Clear the keep,” Graem ordered Laerian. “Make ready for the Fierian and the Fire King!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Like a flood, Pathfinders cantered down the knoll and spread over the scorched fields that had once been lush grass waving beside a wide moat. As he followed at a more sedate trot, Haegan eyed the people spilling out of the bailey with naught but the clothes on their back. They cheered him as they vacated the fortress. He spied men hefting sections of wood—remnants of the portcullis—over the remaining sludge of the moat for the safer crossing of Haegan’s men.

  Once through the gate and past the guardhouse, Graem, Tokar, and Laerian swept around the smaller campsites to the far side of the bailey, where the entrance to the battered castle waited. A man stood in the doorway, hands fisted at his side and shoulders squared. His clothes hung crisply, in sharp contrast to the decay surrounding him. Dozens had made this bailey their home yet apparently received naught but walls for provision.

  Haegan dismounted and started for the man.

  Bodies swarmed him, clamoring and clawing. “Prince Haegan!” someone called.

  Haegan stiffened.

  “Fierian!” another shouted.

  He refused to shield himself from the desperation clinging to their beings. They were his people, Abiassa’s people. They were the reason he existed.

  “Stand clear!” came Graem’s booming voice.

  “Help us,” a woman cried.

  “Save us,” another moaned.

  “Children are dying. Many are sick,” a man shouted. He looked like he’d been recently beaten, with bruises around both eyes and one ear swollen shapeless.

  Haegan met his gaze. “I am no healer.”

  The man snorted, revealing a line of white teeth marred by the black hole of one missing. “Healer? We need no healer. We need a deliverer!”

  The very word made Haegan hesitate. His gaze rose overhead to the covered parapet walk with its large gaps, looking for the Deliverers. Draorin. Medric. Kaiade. Onaven. Zaethien. Bremar. “Be careful the wishes you make,” Haegan warned. “With a Deliverer comes great trouble.”

  “Trouble is already here,” the man retorted.

  “Then pray—”

  “We prayed and you came,” a young man said.

  Haegan stared at the man, then considered the crowded bailey. What was—

  “Something is not right here,” came Vaqar’s voice.

  “Aye,” Haegan muttered, sensing . . . something.

  “We should get you inside,” Graem muttered, nudging Haegan’s shoulder and directing him into the castle.

  The well-dressed man at the entry clapped his shoes together and bowed low with a flourish. “Your highness, I am Drumon Ro’Stu,” he announced, gaze still on his feet. Which seemed crowded into a pair of leather tips. And his breeches seemed a bit long . . . “I thank you,” Haegan said quietly. “Please—be at ease. I am—”

  Air whooshed around Haegan. He started, stepping back as the very large frame of Vaqar broke past him. In a blink, he had Drumon pinned to the wall by the throat.

  “Vaq—”

  Metal clanged against the stones, silencing Haegan’s remonstration as his gaze struck a dagger on the floor. Haegan eyed the man struggling beneath the iron grip of the Tahscan. He writhed, his actions violent. Not out of fear for his life. But rage.

  “That’s not Drumon,” someone in the bailey shouted, and the gap-toothed man slid forward, his bruised face pained. “I am. I beg your mercy, Prince Haegan. He threatened my family and life if I spoke up.”

  Haegan eased back, swallowing.

  “Get the prince to safety,” Graem barked to his men, who ushered Haegan into the castle.

  “Go,” Tili said fervently. “We’ll deal with this then join ye.”

  Numb, startled, Haegan paused just inside, hearing Graem order the Pathfinders and Tahscans to protect the doors and passages, forming a blockade.

  “Blazes,” Laertes murmured as they climbed the steps. “Was him what had the dagger going to cut you? Why? I fought this place was loyal to the Fire King.”

  “The peace was tenuous even before Poired.” The truth slowed Haegan as he realized the man not only intended to kill him, but he’d seized the castle. How many more in the bailey were disloyal? He turned back to the Pathfinders. “Warn your men, Colonel. He probably did not act alone. We need to rout the rebels.”

  “I’ll stay with him. An accelerant would be of use,” Tili said. “And a Tahscan.”

  “Agreed.”

  Nape prickling, Haegan scanned the shadows, tapestries, and corridors as his guard led him deeper into the cold halls. Only one had detected the threat, and he had already made himself scarce. “Vaqar,” he said slowly, then repeated it more assuredly. “I need Vaqar.”

  “I’ll retrieve him,” Tokar said and turned back.

  “No.” Haegan caught his arm. “You stay.” Meeting his gaze, he tried to silently communicate his concern. He knew not whom to trust, save Tili and the four who journeyed with him in the Nine when he’d been known as naught but Rigar.

  Tokar faced the Pathfinders. “Bring Vaqar to him.”

  “In the library.” Haegan pulled on what felt like ancient memories from his childhood as he studied the landing above. “Second level, second door on the right.” His eyes searched that route even now. His father—

  “The Fire King,” he muttered, shaking his head as he took the stairs to the damp and musty passage.

  “That’s you now, Haegan,” Tokar said.

  He slid a look to his friend and kept climbing. As they approached the room, Tokar held out a staying hand. Nodded to Praegur, who sidled up next to Haegan, then eased open the door.

  Tokar and the remaining Pathfinder vanished inside.

  Haegan moved to follow them, but Praegur stopped him and shook his head, his scowl quite loud.

  “I liked it better when you could talk. You said less.”

  A grin tugged at his friend’s ebony features.

  Light bloomed and spread out of the room, inviting them in. “Clear,” Tokar called.

  Entering, Haegan was surprised to find much of the room undisturbed. Sunlight struggled through dirty windows, lighting the dance of dust motes stirred when the curtains had been opened. He dragged his finger across the round table adorned by a single vase filled with brittle blooms and stems. A layer of dust cl
ung to his finger. Musty and dusty. Dingy sheets draped furniture, paintings, and fixtures.

  “I’ll have the housekeeper whipped,” Tokar said, his sarcasm thick. “And maybe fired. This place hasn’t been cleaned in months.” He stalked from the room, returning a moment later with a torch, which he used to light the sconces.

  Haegan paced to the window and tried to peer through the grime. Even with the blurred shapes below, he could make out the hundreds littering the fields. So many . . .

  “Sire,” came a stern voice.

  Haegan pivoted to the doorway.

  Laerian stood there, scowling. “They’re bringing the Fire King through the rear. Drumon—the real one—suggested the councilman’s solar, which has three bedrooms. Will that do?”

  “Show me.”

  “Fierian!” Tokar snapped, coming swiftly to his side.

  Haegan hesitated, surprised both at the use of his title and the tone coloring it.

  His friend came to him. “You should remain here until the castle has been cleared.”

  “Where is Vaqar?”

  “With the colonel and steward, I believe, my prince.” Laerian fastened steady eyes on Haegan. “There was concern for incipients in the crowds.”

  He could not remain holed up while they tended to one thing after another. “All of you—with me.” Haegan started for the door. “Let us see the Fire King to the chambers and verify they’re safe—”

  “But your safety—”

  “I am the Fierian,” he said wearily. “If I cannot defend myself against insurgents, we are in far more trouble than any of us expect.” He nodded to the major, who bowed his head, then started for another flight of stairs. Even as Haegan took them, his mind climbed to Nydelia and Karithia. To the incredible sense of futility and powerlessness that had overtaken him. He had nearly lost himself like his father.

  How easily and effortlessly the inflaming slid into his mind on the field with Poired. What if they got in his head again, and he lost the battle? Lost the Nine? Lost Primar?

  Two Pathfinders waited in the chambers, overseeing a flurry of maids and servants, who pulled sheets from furnishings and laid out linens and thick quilts. The long, narrow space offered a table for six and additional high-backed cushioned chairs hugged the corners. A benched window overlooked the fields. Fireplaces at both ends warmed smaller, more comfortable seating areas. The farthest end boasted double doors, white with gilt trim, that no doubt led to the lord’s chambers. To Haegan’s left, two separate doors were open to smaller rooms.

  Not as roomy as his father’s chambers at Fieri Keep, but just as luxurious, with tapestries, thick rugs, and exquisite paintings. Haegan nodded as he walked to a nearby fireplace. A fire would be too much in this heat, but he ached for light.

  “Blazes,” Laertes muttered, his wide eyes taking in the rooms as he turned a circle.

  Haegan stalked to the open double doors where maids were smoothing clean sheets and bedding onto the four-poster bed. They curtseyed before hurrying from the solar.

  “Haegan,” Tokar said under his breath.

  The Drigo ducked and angled in, his large hands hoisting the stretcher that conveyed his father into the bedchamber. Pathfinders held the other end, followed by Pao’chk and a pharmakeia. Standing aside, Haegan watched as they relocated his father to the bed.

  “Fire,” the Drigo growled, nodding to the fireplace.

  A servant had just placed three logs there and went for matches. “Here,” Haegan said, reaching toward it, sending flames across the wood. When he saw the other servant staring at his father, Haegan groaned. “Enough” he said evenly. The staff rushed out, leaving him with friends.

  Graem and Vaqar entered the solar, closing the doors as they departed.

  Haegan met them. “What of the imposter?”

  “Dead,” Vaqar said, his voice steady.

  “Dead?” Haegan flinched. “But we—”

  “He had one intent and mission and that was to kill you,” Vaqar said. “He would not have stopped until he met with success.”

  Graem nodded. “What the Tahscan did might seem extreme—”

  “Aye, I would say so.”

  “—but ’twas necessary,” Graem finished. “There can be no mercy here. We are at war, not just for the Nine, but for all people, all of Primar.”

  “Our enemy,” Vaqar said, his voice rumbling, “is not one who fights fair or obeys rules of battle. They are merciless and will kill any and all to accomplish their end.”

  “Then we are to become the monster we fight?”

  “Become them?” Graem said. “Nay. But fight viciously, relentlessly? We must. They outnumber us and, as our friend here has stated, will not hesitate to annihilate us.”

  Haegan strolled to the long table and ran a hand along the carved winged fish that adorned the backs of the chairs. He dusted off his hands as the sound of approaching boots met his ears.

  “Ah, Thinblood,” came Tili’s old taunt as he reached the table. “I see ye have the choicest accommodations.”

  “Had to make sure you didn’t get them,” Haegan teased, though a tremor of annoyance ran through his words. He had not even thought to look for his own room. But as they both stood there, he realized the potential problem—both held positions to rule the Nine. He as Fierian and prince of the sick Fire King. Tili as the Council of Nine’s chosen steward.

  “Leave us,” he said, wandering to a rust-colored chair near the fire. When Tokar hesitated, Haegan nodded for him to leave.

  As the entourage started out, Haegan locked on to two men. “Vaqar, Colonel. I would have you stay.”

  Tokar frowned as he and Praegur left with the Pathfinders and Captain Laerian, who closed the doors after barking orders for Pathfinders to stand guard and let none pass without consent from Haegan.

  Alone with them, Haegan turned, not surprised to find the men watching him. Letting the fears fall away, he drew back his shoulders. “Vaqar, I would ask that you remain at my side until—”

  “I will leave when he tells me to leave.”

  “Who? Tili?”

  “No,” Vaqar said, nodding toward the heavy curtains that shielded them from the morning light and prying eyes. “Him, the Guardian.”

  Confused, Haegan met Tili’s gaze, which held fast.

  “The Deliverer,” Tili confirmed.

  But Haegan knew. When he looked and saw nothing, he did not worry. In fact, he grew acutely aware that they were not alone, even if they could not see with their eyes. They must see with their hearts. The Deliverers.

  “Draorin,” Tili said, “was among those who escorted me from Hetaera under Gwogh’s instruction, but he vanished after the Infantessa died.”

  Haegan nodded his understanding before returning his attention to the Tahscan. “I trusted you before we reached Ironhall,” he said, “but your efficient detection of the traitor within the hall proved you are vital. At all times, I ask that you remain at my side. I will trust your word and counsel.”

  Vaqar gave a nod. “It is an honor, Fierian.”

  Haegan could only pray that Abiassa would allow the Tahscan to help him for the duration of this battle and even beyond. But the weightier matter. “Tili, I fear the men do not trust me, and the Jujak and Pathfinders discount me.”

  Tili shifted. “That might be an overstatement.”

  Haegan lifted his head. “I need no pandering.”

  “I have no ability to pander, Thinblood—not when it comes to ye,” Tili said. “The men respect ye because of the blood in yer veins.” He indicated to the door that hid the Fire King. “And out of respect for yer father.”

  “Aye, but I am the one to battle with them. And in that, I lack their confidence.”

  “And perhaps yer own.”

  Haegan considered the words, not meant to be sharp, but singing through the air like a blade. His heart thudded at the accusation. He wanted to argue. “You speak . . . truth.” He managed a weak smile. “The Council chose you as steward
—”

  “I was expendable, not a citizen of the Nine. My mission imperative was to secure ye, and I have succeeded in that.”

  Temptation lurked in the shadows of this room to hide, to relieve himself of any more stress or potential to fail. But as he stared at Tili, he saw the warning in the Northlander’s eyes. Not a threat, but . . . stiff encouragement.

  “Abiassa knew this day was coming.”

  “Aye.” The answer was tight. Controlled.

  “Knew each of us”—Haegan glanced at the other men as well—“would have our own roles to fulfill.”

  Tili lifted his chin. “Aye,” he said, more relaxed, confident.

  “My role is to address Poired. Even if I am not allowed to finish him, I have to be the one to face him,” Haegan said. “Which means I will need someone to head the army. You are much needed if you would remain, Steward.”

  “I will see this through to the end.”

  “Good.” Haegan took a measuring breath. “Colonel, he is as my voice.”

  “You trust him that much, this Northlander?” ’Twas said in jest, but there was uncertainty in Graem’s question as well.

  “Aye. Like a brother.”

  Tili arched an eyebrow, surprise rippling through his face. Or was it question?

  Mercies. Thiel. Tili thought Haegan made reference to taking Thiel as his bound, their families joining. He felt his checks heat. That was not his intention in what he spoke, but in truth—there were greater fights to be met. “We, none of us, can afford to be petty in our dealings. We face a foe intent—as you said, Graem—on our annihilation. We must be just as lethal. If we are divided, we fail.” Haegan looked to Vaqar. “What you did with the imposter, smelling the . . .”

  “The reek,” Vaqar said with a slow nod.

  “The others of your number can detect it as well?”

  Another nod.

  “Why did She not pick a warrior like you or Tili as Fierian?”

  Tili sighed and shook his head, seemingly grieved. “She chose ye, because the weapon ye wield is unfathomable. She needed someone She could trust to use it wisely.”