Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  And Astadia. Running with the Fierian straight at the enemy.

  50

  The time was now.

  Haegan sprinted toward the raised foundation on which Poired stood, trusting the Council of Nine—what remained of them—to protect him and the assassin as they made for the stone. They did not need to reach it, but they must be closer.

  The tension in the air went from taut to strained. He glanced up and saw those on the stone foundation shifting, coming around to focus against Haegan.

  “Miembo Thraeïho!” Haegan breathed over and over, never stopping. Next, he called the raqine.

  A deafening roar shocked the air.

  Haegan smiled, glancing at Astadia. But her eyes were wide, trained on their wielding enemy.

  Seconds later, Drigovudd thundered across the battlefield. They leapt and dropped in front of Haegan and Astadia, the ground thundering beneath them.

  The first hyperfocused barrage from the incipients shot out.

  Shrieking filled the skies. The sun blinked and wavered, and Haegan knew raqine were answering his call as well. The great beasts dove in and out, capturing incipients, picking them up, and dropping them from great heights.

  Together with the assassin and Drigovudd, he edged in farther. “Close enough?” Haegan asked, turning to Astadia, who hovered in the shelter of Thelikor.

  She glanced to the stage. Closed her eyes. Stretched out her fingers. She twitched, then squared her shoulders.

  Haegan started at the shadow that rippled through her face. Felt the chilled strain. Eased back. Looked past Thelikor’s massive legs to where the nearest incipient swayed. Legs tangling. Went to a knee. “It’s working!”

  Astadia grunted.

  The incipient fell aside.

  Astadia reached, shook her head. “Too far. I can’t . . .”

  Haegan pushed his own wielding at the stone. It did little and was not powerful like the seeming bladed strikes of those who stood above this field.

  “I can’t reach,” she said.

  The closer they got, the greater the risk. But they were not here to play it safe. “Advance,” he called to those protecting them. Gwogh, face as crimson as the embers roiling off the incipients, fought the current of wielding and pushed ahead.

  Astadia stalked forward, head down as she tested her reach.

  A howl stabbed the air. A Drigovudd stumbled. Tilted.

  “They’re targeting the Drigo,” Tili shouted.

  Haegan gaped in disbelief, in abject horror as the giant canted and fell. Drigo were fierce in their vudd states, but they were the gentlest beings on this field. Anger churned as the Drigo shrank to his normal size and death claimed him.

  Fury raked Haegan’s focus. “Protect the Drigo—counter the wielding against them!”

  A swath of accelerants marched under Gwogh’s command, their hands moving almost in cadence. Song, pure and quiet, rose over the din. Haegan blinked, realizing he was witnessing the demonstration teams, who had once seemed to him so useless. Now there, there was elegance in wielding. With a chanting shout, they advanced. Stomped. Shouted. Stomped. Blasts and bursts, arcs and arrows warred in a beautiful, unusual dance. ’Twas strange to think so in light of what they effected. Too, he could not help but notice the way the incipients slowed their attacks, distracted by the demonstration team.

  “Move! Now,” Haegan urged, pushing ahead, leaving less than a hundred paces between them and the stone foundation. The flurry of arcs and thrusts by Poired only intensified. The Dark One would never surrender or slow. Behind him was the deformed creature with opaque eyes, the one tethered to Sirdar himself.

  “The Auspex,” Haegan whispered. If they targeted him, would that lessen Poired . . . ? He bent to Astadia, who’d taken down another incipient. “Can you reach the Auspex?”

  She shook her head. Frantically.

  Haegan frowned, realizing she wasn’t saying she couldn’t but rather that she wouldn’t. “You must! He is the tether.”

  “Incipients first,” she said, her words a mere feather of breath before she was reaching again.

  “Astadia—target him. Cut the cord.”

  “No.”

  Frustration grew in Haegan. “’Tis the quickest way—”

  “No!” she shouted, chin trembling. “I can sense him from here. He is dark and fathomless. I will not touch that.” Dark eyes darted to him then back. “I will lose myself.”

  “Lose yourself?”

  Face sweating, she grimaced. “I feel it—each time I capture their embers, I feel the darkness that fed them.”

  He glanced at the etchings on his arm. Laughed. “It’s you!” he cried. “You’re the one borne of darkness—of Poired.” He’d thought he was that one. Elation ruptured his haze. “Astadia, you’re the one to bring him down.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I will not, cannot . . . Please. Haegan.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t ask me to—”

  “Look out!”

  Haegan glanced over his shoulder—and right into a focused arrow of flame. He sucked in a breath. Thrust out his hand. It snapped against his palm, searing. Shoving him back, his feet dragging in the dirt.

  • • •

  Tili gaped, seeing the collisions of red and blue. Watching Haegan pitched back twenty feet. Terrifying. Horrifying. And yet, he withstood the flames of Poired.

  “Target the Dark One!” Tili commanded, ordering the Drigovudd to rush him. The accelerants to counter his wielding. He went to Astadia, whose face was ashen. “How close?”

  She frowned up at him.

  “How close do ye need to be to drain him?”

  “I . . . I can’t, Tili,” she whimpered. “They’re too dark.”

  He angled in. “If ye do not, we have lost. The Fierian is dead. People wiped out. Everything good will die.”

  “It is not my fault!” she strained, spittle at the corners of her mouth as tears shot rivulets down her dirty cheeks. “I did not bring this war—”

  “Aye,” he said with a growl, his heart aching and yet writhing that she would not see the truth. “Ye did. We all of us did. We have naught to blame but ourselves.”

  Tears welled, slipping over her round cheeks and streaking dark rivulets toward her lips. “Please . . .” She shook her head, then shuddered through a sigh.

  Tili cupped the back of her head and kissed her ash-covered hair. “Ye must, Astadia. It was given for ye to do this—ye were in the prophecy.”

  A howl wormed through the air, forcing them to look. Haegan, both hands extended, pushed. But he was still losing ground. Though several Jujak braced him and Councilmembers wielded with him, they were all moving.

  Tili glanced back to the stone. His gut cinched. Poired had Drracien. “They will obliterate him,” he muttered. Glanced at the incipients and Silvers guarding the plinth.

  “But why is the prince not wiping them out, like Iteveria?”

  Tili monitored the confrontation, the prince’s twisted expression. “Fear—he’s immersed in fear. Not holy anger.”

  They needed to eliminate the experienced fighters. Which meant that Tili had to deal with Drracien. Cut the power in half.

  Thelikor roared in fury. He moved to interrupt the Flames churning between Haegan and Poired. But the giant howled, yanking back his arm. Tough flesh singed black. He shook his head. Glanced at Haegan. Growled. Then—

  Oh, no. No no no.

  “Zicri!” Tili cupped a hand over his mouth and gave a trilling call. From somewhere in the chaos came the raqine’s response. A great dark shape rose in the smoke-riddled sky. “Thelikor,” Tili shouted.

  The giant heard nothing, for he had set his course to fulfill the purpose Abiassa gave him. With a shout, he lunged into the churning Flames. He howled. Smoke rose from his chest.

  Poired’s gaze darkened, his lips set in a grim line. But he did not yield. In fact, he shouldered into the Flaming. He would bore a hole straight through the Drigo!

  Haegan broke off with a yelp. He sag
ged, held up by a Jujak. “Thelikor!”

  Zicri shrieked as he descended.

  Tili sprinted to meet the beast on an open spot in the blood-drenched field. He swatted aside a sword with a blast of wielding. Then ducked as a jav-rod wobbled. Not a deft throw, that.

  Then he caught Zicri’s fur and hauled himself atop the beast’s blue spine. Four great flaps vaulted them into the sky. As they banked around, Tili sighted the dais—and aye, the entire battlefield. Smoke billowed into the sky from several locations. Ironhall had sustained great damage, though it was still surprisingly intact. The west seemed to be slowing, the great number of green tunics giving witness to how they faired. Thank the Lady. Most of the fighting remained around the dais, between Poired—with the help of Drracien—and the Fierian. Between the Dark One and the Hand of Abiassa.

  “Low and true, Zicri,” he requested.

  The raqine folded his wings and angled. Tili tightened his knees behind Zicri’s shoulders and leaned into the dive. With each second, they cleared hundreds of feet. His eyes burned from the ash-coated air, but he would not break his lock. It was time to even things up. Drracien would meet his end.

  51

  The great giant fell backward, landing with a reverberating thud. Air and smoke plumed from his chest. He gave one last great exhale and began to shrink.

  “No.” Haegan rushed to him in gripping terror. “Noooo!”

  They were servants, answering the call of Abiassa to help others. The brutality with which Poired killed him—

  “Enough!” Haegan shouted.

  But his shout was lost in the scream of a raqine, which pulled his gaze to the skies. Not just one raqine. Dozens. With Tili in the lead, his massive blue raqine diving in for the kill.

  Poired sensed the change and glanced up. He shifted back. Drracien did the same, their wielding momentarily weakened.

  Dive-bombing, the raqine carried Tili, who threw daggers of fire at the incipients. Each hit cracked the air.

  Drracien stumbled, his expression terror-stricken as Tili flew, unheeding, straight at him. He threw out a bolt.

  The raqine dodged. Then spiraled. Somehow—miraculously—Tili remained seated. But in the second corkscrew, he released. And dropped into Drracien.

  Poired turned his attention to the two rolling on the stone plinth.

  As the Dark One lifted a hand, Haegan’s heart thudded. There was no way to aim and hit one but not the other. Surely he would not strike them both! Afraid Poired would unleash a bolt, Haegan flung one of his own. Silvers dove for cover, some hurrying to help Drracien. Others drawing swords and aiming at Haegan and his small band.

  Face carved in rage, the Dark One spun. He focused his gaze, his fury, his wielding—everything—at Haegan.

  Haegan felt the warming presence of other accelerants. Darts and bolts peppered the stage but missed the Dark One. A flurry of movements caught his attention, and he realized it was the Auspex wielding, protecting his puppet.

  Which meant he was distracted—a good thing. It gave Astadia time to skirt the stone. He glanced at her. “Go!”

  Hand on it, she reached up. Her face twisted in grief.

  Poired noticeably staggered.

  The Auspex shrieked and wailed, throwing himself away from Astadia.

  Haegan shot bolts, one after another, pulling Poired’s attention from the girl who would be his undoing. Fury tore through the Dark One’s face when he caught sight of her. “You dare!” he shouted at Astadia, holding a hand to Haegan as if he were no more than a dog to be commanded. “Dare to attack your own father!”

  Astadia kept her gaze low, her eyes squeezed tight, her arm shaking violently as she struggled to drain him. She cried out, quivering in obvious pain, tears streaking her face.

  Behind them, Drracien slammed Tili back with a ferocious blast. The steward tumbled and flipped off the stone. He did not rise.

  “No!” Haegan lurched.

  Poired had turned his full efforts on Astadia. Nostrils flared, he clawed at her. His arms trembled. He wavered.

  She was doing it. Draining his embers.

  But then she lifted. Agony writhed through her features as she growled.

  With a shout, Poired flung her through the air. She slammed into the back of a Drigo. She dropped to the ground like a boulder.

  “Kill the Fierian,” the Auspex shouted. “Kill him now! ”

  Anger churning, Haegan couldn’t see straight. First Thelikor. Then Tili. Now Astadia?

  A blast punched him in the gut. Snapped his gaze back to Poired.

  “You think to turn the tide? To take me down?” Poired glowered. “Think. Again.”

  A shape flew at the Dark One, who felt the shift and turned. And was knocked off the foundation by—

  “Tili!”

  His face was ragged with determination. But it was almost comical. Like one of the stories fed to children at bedtime. Because the Dark One again flung Tili off like a horse shaking off a fly. Angered, he held a hand to Tili and sent embers daggering through his chest.

  Tili arched his spine and howled, long and hard.

  “No!” Haegan jerked but then stopped when Astadia dragged herself to her feet. She stumbled, but came unyielding, palm held out toward the Dark One. Something in her had changed. Gone were her weakness and hesitation. There was now only violence about her as she stalked closer, her expression one of intent and . . . vengeance.

  Poired’s shoulders bunched. He tensed. Stumbled. Snapped around. Threw a halo around Astadia’s throat, strangling her. She did not yield. Did not stop draining, pulling. Crying.

  “Now, Fierian!” Gwogh called.

  Haegan twitched. It was not his to do. Or was it? He lifted his hands.

  A sword flashed around Poired. His head tumbled from his body.

  Behind stood Drracien, eyes wide, as if he didn’t believe what he’d just done.

  Neither did Haegan. He stared, stunned. In that split-second, two things rose to perfect clarity in Haegan’s mind: Tili lay on the field in his own blood. Poired was gone.

  Haegan went to his knees. Choked back tears. Grief. But then his gaze hit the glittering tear between worlds that hovered over the field.

  The Void. Sirdar. Dark shapes loomed around the crackling tear. Sirdarians raced for the Void. So did incipients. Poired had not stepped to safety but others could. Incipients would go through, and in ten, twenty, a hundred years, this terrible day would play out again.

  As it registered, all of Baen’s Six gathered around the field. They turned to him. Extended their swords. “By Her hand.”

  Fire flew from the razored edges, straight at—no, into Haegan. He breathed it in. Aaesh appeared in the glowing fury of it all. Finish it, Fierian.

  His thoughts were pummeled by the ravages, the murders, the inflaming, the deaths—Trale, Thelikor, Tili, hundreds on the field. Father ruined by the inflaming. Mother. As She showed him so many lost to the same fate.

  No more.

  With a bellow that seemed to split his head in two, Haegan obeyed what he saw in his mind. Still on his knees, he slammed both fists into the ground.

  Crack! A strange whistling pierced his eardrums. Clap! Crack!

  Light cascaded over the lands. Incipients were reduced to dust. Mountains trembled, and in the great distance, a geyser shot from the mountain. A cliff wall surrendered and water burst forth, rushing through the lands.

  The air sizzled, smoke rising and embers crackling. Then the planet breathed in the silence of redemption.

  52

  IRONHALL

  It had taken a week to gather the dead, burn the incipients and Sirdarians who had not been killed in the great purge, and bury the Nine’s allies and friends. Curled in the window of the keeping hall, Thiel eyed Haegan, who had yet to awaken since he’d thrown out the wake that destroyed the Void and the lingering darkness of Sirdar.

  She tugged her gown over her legs and watched him sleep. As she’d done since they returned to the fortress, which
had taken a beating in the great battle. Loneliness tugged at her heart. Cadeif was gone. Father and Mother were planning for the journey back to Nivar. Gwogh and the Council would make for Hetaera to rebuild.

  And Thiel wanted to return to Haegan. Or rather, he to her.

  A moan drifted from the semi-darkened room.

  She shot off the sill and leapt to the edge of his mattress. “Haegan?”

  He blinked. Vestiges of sleep hooded his eyes. “Bring Gwogh.” His voice came true and clear.

  Thiel hesitated. “Why?”

  He breathed a smile. “And your father. Hurry.”

  Confused, but giving him the benefit of the doubt, she went to the door. Opened it and met the sentries’ surprised expressions. “Bring Sir Gwogh and King Thurig. The Fierian would see them.”

  After they agreed, she turned, stunned to find Haegan out of bed and lifting the clothes from the divider that provided him privacy. He disappeared behind it.

  “Are ye well?” she asked. “All is well, ye know. It’s over. Ye can rest.”

  He emerged in trousers and a green tunic that made his eyes blaze. “I have spent my life resting. I’m ready to live.”

  A rap at the door delivered her father, then the elder accelerant into the room.

  “Prince Haegan,” her father greeted him. “Good to see ye up.”

  “Thank you,” Haegan said. “I have a question to put to you, sir.”

  Her father hesitated. “Aye?”

  “I would have your permission to take Thiel as my bound.”

  “A little late after giving her the Celahar seal,” her father said around a laugh.

  Haegan flushed a little. “Aye, but I would have your permission all the same.”

  “Ye have it, Haegan. I would be a fool to refuse.”

  Haegan smiled. Nodded. Held a hand to Thiel.

  She took it. “What are ye—”

  “Will ye have me, Thurig Kiethiel?”

  “Aye.” Then she saw the determination in his eyes. Glanced at Gwogh. “Oh.”

  Haegan smiled, lifting an eyebrow as if to ask her approval.