Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  By the Flames—the boy was stoked with more embers than any Haegan had met. His anger roiled off him like a heat wake. But was his attitude any worse than the one soiling Haegan’s heart even now? The one that wanted him to take Tokar to task for speaking so poorly to and of him? “By definition, aren’t all gypsies lawless?”

  Thiel cocked her head in a half-shake as she ruffled Laertes’s hair and moved on down the path. “I’ve met gypsies who are better and more law-abiding than royals.”

  Haegan’s heart thumped. The words were a dig at him. He was convinced. However, her words were true.

  “But the Ematahri—they take pride in protecting the Way of the Throne,” Tokar said, referring to the main road between Abiassa’s stone seat and Hetaera. “And by protecting, we mean raping, murdering, plundering . . . whatever they want.”

  “That’s not entirely true, but the danger is real enough,” Thiel said. “We are on the edges of their territory. They are ruthless with invaders—and anyone not of them is against them.”

  Tokar sidled up alongside Haegan. “Ematahri earn rank according to the number of those they capture or kill.”

  Haegan shook his head. “Then why are we heading that way?”

  “Yeah, see?” Tokar spun so that he walked backward, pointing at Haegan. “That’s where you messed us up. We had planned to use the Cloud Road.”

  “The what?”

  “Cloud—” Tokar popped the heel of his hand against his temple. “Singewood. That’s what you are, Rigar.” He tapped Haegan’s head. “Do you even have a brain in there?”

  Praegur pushed Tokar along and took up pace with Haegan. “The Cloud Road is the name for the hidden routes in the mountains, among the clouds. Only they’re not hidden. Not anymore.”

  “They was once,” Laertes said. “That’s how me mum got us down to Seultrie before she went and died.”

  “People avoid the Way of the Throne now,” Tokar explained, “especially since Zireli called all the regular soldiers down to fight Sirdar. But it’s the main road between Hetaera and most of the southern kingdom, so they found passage through the mountains. But the Ematahri, they figured out something was going on. They followed people into the hills, tracked them through the mountains. Now, they have spies up there who demand payment for letting them live.”

  “We have to pay to live?”

  Praegur shrugged. “The Siannes and East River are on the other side—the waters are too treacherous, feeding off the waterfalls, so boats can’t make it. Deadly waters, deadly roads, or deadly mountains. At least in the mountains you can pay your way out.”

  Haegan said, “So, if we can’t pay—”

  “Which we can’t,” Tokar growled.

  “Then we . . .?”

  Praegur lifted a shoulder. “Hide.”

  “And if we can’t hide?”

  “We fight.”

  20

  It is of great irony that the mighty bow before the ignoble. That the powerful seek the counsel of the powerless. That darkness should shroud itself within the pretense of great light. Of honor. That Poired Dyrth, once a lowly prince to a crumbling kingdom, should rise on the tide of Nydessan waters to become the most feared creature crawling Primar.

  He stands now before a man clothed humbly in brown, the shade of slaves that Poired once wore. But in his regalia, silver and black to symbolize the power he possesses both day and night, he strikes a terrible pose. His face marred with the blood of victories. His jaw set with the legacy of war.

  “Tell me, Auspex,” Poired Dyrth demands, “what you see. Is it time?”

  Tongue tethered to the will of Sirdar of Tharqnis, the Auspex must speak what is seen or the fire he drank so many years ago will consume him. He has no will. “It is written,” the hollow voice rings, echoing the haunting one who seeps through his thoughts, “that Poired shall mount once more upon his black steed and wait in the shadows of the fortress.”

  The wood table shatters beneath Poired’s fists as his temper again outweighs control. He utters a curse and jerks away. “How long must I play this game? Sit there and stare?” He swings toward the Auspex, fury in his icy irises. “She is in my head! I sense her. I can smell her. Taste her breath in my mouth.” Suffering the consequences of touching thoughts of one She possesses, he spits to the side and growls, slamming his armor-protected fist against a large outer tent post. The heavy draping fabric ripples beneath the exertion of his anger. Soon the table, incense wisping into the air, topples and yields to the greater power.

  Brawny General Onerid remains steadfast immediately before the tent opening, a hand on the hilt of his Caorian blade, hewn from the fiery chasms of his homeland. With his jaw bearded and eyes a stony hazel, he reflects none of the rage his master exhibits. Beside the general, the younger, weaker Jedric shifts uneasily, affected by the surge of anger. An anger he knows has fueled fury against friend and foe alike. None are protected from Poired’s temper and his fierce decisiveness as he pursues victory against the Flames and all the gifted.

  But the will of Sirdar is unaltered. Spiraling through the Auspex, the waft of strong odor vanishes on a hot wind. Drained, the Foreteller sags from the abandonment. Eyes now hooded and body hunched, he stumbles to the side, out of view and reach of the High Lord Commander.

  Recognizing he is now alone with his generals, Poired growls. “How long must I sit?” he shouts. “How long must I suffer inactivity against the Celahars?” A silver platter whips through the air and into a post that shudders in response. “They gloat in their towers, exalted above me when I could demolish that high seat with a tenth of the army!”

  “The army?” Onerid flashes a lazy grin. “You would only need the Maereni.”

  Poired stuffs a hand through his hair, tugging at the leather thong that secures it. “Would that I could send them. Then”—his eyes flash with meaning—“then they would see weakness! But not in me. In Zireli! He must be brought down.”

  “Agreed,” Onerid says. “And it will happen. On my oath!”

  Sneering, Poired is unappeased. “Your words are filled with promise, with things not yet come. Things no man or beast can guarantee. A blade guarantees. Bloodshed guarantees.” He drags a leathered hand across his mouth and heaves a futile sigh. “If only he would release me. But he plays this game—”

  “Sir, with caution,” Onerid says quietly, his gaze bouncing to the Auspex.

  “He is nothing but a bag of bones without Sirdar.” His lip curls. “Anyone can see he is now empty.” He whips around, searching for a target. A pathetic Jedric stumbles back as the High Lord Commander rages toward him. “Blazes! If he would have me speak let me speak. Have me act if I am to act! But to sit—”

  Fierce heat blasts from the Auspex’s mouth, unexpected. Unwanted. The distinct stench of burnt spices stings the nostrils of Onerid and Jedric as an amber haze fills the tent. A scent so searing and acidic, drawn by anger and bloodlust, consuming the host. Those assembled remain still and wary, watching the bony, pale face.

  “High Lord Commander,” the Auspex speaks, a trail of amber spiraling out at the mighty general, along with a hefty dose of sarcasm.

  Poired stands frozen, his muscles stiffened by the will of Sirdar.

  “You chose this path. You said you would do what was necessary to overthrow Zaethien and her allies. To take Primar back. To return the Demas heir to the throne.” Bathed in austerity and conviction of his vassal-state, the Auspex stares with ambivalence through vacant eyes at the warrior. “Answer now forever and hold your peace, Fallen One. Are you the champion of Unelithien?”

  It is not a simple question, the one posed by Sirdar from his High Seat. The question holds promise. Promise of bounty should he yield. Yet another promise lingers therein—one of death should he deny the oath he swore a decade hence.

  Hand fisted, Poired extends it, then snaps it back against his chest as a Maereni warrior salutes. “I am her champion.”

  “The days are numbered before the Fierian
will rise and quench the Flames. You will face the Fires of Demas yourself if the Fierian succeeds.”

  • • •

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  From the valley floor, as they skirted the Throne Road, the Siannes range appeared monstrous and forbidding. White blankets of snow draped its spine, allowing for an occasional intrusion of spruce and pine against the pristine backdrop. Haegan stared up at the peaks, glittering in the sun that cast shadows on him and the others, deeply embedded in the trees. There on the mountain, they’d have found safe passage.

  “You’re right,” Tokar said, challenge etched in his words. “If I remember, you lost our coin.”

  “If I remember,” Haegan countered, “those coins were mine. In truth, you neither lost nor gained anything.”

  “I’ve lost time and precious advantage being stuck with you.” Tokar turned toward Haegan, his shoulders squaring.

  “I set forth no petition for your company nor protection.” Haegan wanted to take back the words as soon as their bitter taste hit his tongue.

  Tokar’s eyebrows winged up. He took a step back. Gave a nod. “Good, Stiff. You’re on your own, then. You’re cursed anyway.”

  “No.” Thiel stomped forward, her brown hair dusting her amber eyes. “We stay together. Now more than ever.” She pointed to the road. “The Way of the Throne is no place for ego or temper. We will need every blade and every strong back—”

  “Then he’s disqualified already. He has neither.” Tokar smiled down at Thiel, his gray eyes sparking with laughter at his own joke and with his obvious attraction to her. “Until now, he had one thing going for him—the paladiums. Now they’re gone, as he should be.”

  Guilt and embarrassment pressed against Haegan. “It’s true. I have little training, and I am not strong as”—he dare not mention the boy and worsen the damage—“one trained in warfare.” He noted Laertes heading toward the trees. “But I will not back down. I do not abandon my friends. I will see this through.”

  “Friends?”

  “Yield,” Thiel snapped to Tokar, then glanced between him and Haegan. “Once we are safely in Hetaera, decisions about who stays and leaves can be made. Until then, anyone who abandons this road has no character or honor.”

  “Don’t do that, Thiel,” Tokar said, his voice soft but filled with warning.

  “Then—”

  “No, it was a different situation. No comparison.” What looked to be grief roiled through Tokar’s expression. “No call to assume I—”

  “That was not my intent, Tokar.” Her expression softened with a fair amount of compassion.

  Clearly, a story lay behind that conversation. One they were unwilling to divulge. Somehow it reminded Haegan that Tokar was more than someone with a chip on his shoulder. He had a past. As did Haegan. And neither of them knew the other’s story.

  They were close to the road and, by logical extension, closer to danger. Haegan eyed a small, dilapidated structure less than a league ahead as the two conversed quietly. Wooden boards leaned to the side, some propped on top of others. Holes gaped like missing teeth.

  And yet—no weeds had sprung up around it. The path to the door was worn. Heavily. Unease slithered through Haegan as he noticed narrow ruts around the perimeter. What were those for?

  “Where’s Laertes?”

  Haegan glanced back. “He’s—” But only a copse filled the spot he’d pointed to. “He was right . . .” The words died on his lips when he saw the boy’s blanket at the base of a mauri. Alarms blared in his head. He sprinted toward the trees. “Laertes!” He threw himself into the forest, ears ringing with panic. “Laertes, where are you?”

  A scream rent the quiet day.

  “This way!” Thiel launched between the thin trunks. “I see him!”

  Haegan, though not as nimble, gained on her. He would not let the lad be hurt. Not if he could help it. He darted around trees. Jumped over shrubs and fallen logs, and ran, using the bark to propel himself faster.

  Ahead, a large man—a large naked man?—had an arm hooked around Laertes’s neck, carrying him off the ground as he thudded through the woods.

  “Laertes!” Thiel shouted. “Stop! Release the boy.”

  Haegan eyed the path the naked man ran along. Thought back . . . it seemed to—

  He banked hard left. Pushed himself faster. His legs burned. Lungs squeezed. No matter. They must save Laertes.

  “Haegan! Wrong way.”

  He might not have fighting skills, or weapons skills, but he had brain skills. At least, he hoped so.

  “Haegan!” Thiel’s voice grew dimmer with each second as he covered the distance.

  A second later, he burst from the trees and flung himself forward. Like a big cat, he lowered his head, hoping for greater speed. Though he kept a straight course, he bounced his gaze between what lay ahead and the naked man carrying off Laertes.

  Shouts tangled air as he ran, the wind blotting out clarity. Had he been wrong in his calculations? Hesitation slowed him.

  But then he saw them. The naked man barreling ahead.

  Not close enough.

  Now!

  The man broke into the open with a shout, no doubt calling for help.

  Haegan lunged, landing a foot on the trunk of a tree, and then arched his back, throwing himself directly into what was—or would be—the path of the naked man. In three . . . two . . .

  Oof!

  Nailing the man in the side felt like dropping from a hundred meters onto a flat rock. Something cracked. A howl rent the air.

  They were on the ground. Haegan rolled and felt pain spike through his arm. He paid no heed, jumping around, aware of the danger the man posed. He turned just in time to avoid a thick, meaty fist slamming into his face.

  Haegan leaned away from the punch, seeing Laertes scrambling for safety.

  Praegur and Thiel erupted from the woods at the same time. The naked man—who wasn’t naked but wore a leather skirt-like contraption around his hips, growled. More leather straps around his thick arms seemed to exist for the sole purpose of emphasizing his muscles.

  “Fool,” the man snarled down at Haegan. Seemingly from thin air he produced a scimitar.

  “Get Laertes to safety,” Tokar shouted, bringing his long blade to bear.

  Haegan resented the order to leave the fight.

  “Go!” Thiel shouted. “Help him—he’s hurt!”

  He was? Haegan glanced at Laertes, who lay coiled on his side, limp. Haegan scooped him up and backed away from the fight. The one chance he had . . . nobody said anything. Admitted he wasn’t as useless as they believed. Now, Thiel and Tokar stalked the Ematahri warrior. Thiel was more fierce than he’d ever seen her, with a dagger in hand. Where had she gotten that?

  “Come,” Praegur mumbled, head low and eyes on the fight. “Hurry.”

  Haegan nodded, and together they made their way back into the safety of the woods with an unconscious Laertes. The boy had a gash on his forehead and his arm hung at an unnatural angle. Guilt pursued Haegan. Had his attack on the warrior injured the boy? They hustled deeper into the woods, but not so far that they couldn’t see the others. From the place he’d identified as a type of guard hut, a half-dozen warriors flooded out.

  “No!” Haegan tripped, his concern over Thiel and Tokar tangling his feet and mind. But he righted himself and started toward them. Forward into the fray. Back into the thick trees.

  “We must hurry. Let me take him,” Praegur said.

  “I’m good.” Haegan readjusted the boy in his arms, grateful Laertes wasn’t conscious to experience the jostling and humiliation. No doubt the boy would object to being carried. “We have to go back. The others are in trouble.”

  “No, we head out. Toward Hetaera.” Praegur’s dark face was etched with a fierce determination Haegan had not noticed before. “They’ll catch up.”

  “What if they’re hurt?”

  At this, Praegur hesitated, too. “That’s normally not an i
ssue, but with those bloodthirsty gypsies . . .” He patted Haegan’s shoulder and nudged him onward, suddenly decisive. “Come. We should hurry. Laertes is pale and needs a pharmakeia.”

  Looking back often, Haegan moved deeper into the woods, his mind lingering on Thiel in the thick of battle. Blazes! Was he a coward that he would yield and allow a girl to battle fierce warriors?

  She said to go.

  And you went because weakness fills the marrow of your bones!

  A high-pitched scream riddled the air, smacking into Haegan like a vat of icy water. He froze and glanced back.

  “No, keep—”

  Something howled on the wind, severing words and thought alike. Haegan pushed his panicked gaze to Praegur, but the taller youth was staring back, the whites of his eyes bulging. His mouth fell open.

  Heat washed over the back of Haegan’s shoulders, drenching him with terror.

  “Give him,” Praegur barked as he grabbed the boy from him.

  “But—”

  “Now!”

  What had he seen? Haegan glanced over his shoulder and hauled in a thick, heavy breath. The forest, once laden with trees, now had been overrun by a flood. Not of water. But of moving, writhing Ematahri warriors.

  21

  “Run!”

  Something in Haegan twisted and clenched at the sight of Thiel sprinting toward him. The warrior-girl, who was never frazzled, now looked terrified, her face flushed and bloodied from the fight she’d already put up. Behind her, Tokar scrambled, fleeing a sword-wielding Ematahri.

  “Go, idiot!” he shouted.

  Haegan started running, realizing Praegur had left him. Apparently the only one with a brain. He scrambled for purchase on the slippery moss of a rocky outcropping, then pushed forward. He beat a hard path over the incline. He slipped and hopped down the other side, all the while feeling the danger like an icy bucket of water down his spine.

  “Faster. Go! Now!”

  I’m going! I’m going! Haegan worked to keep his feet moving and his body upright. The terrain fought him, slick from an earlier rain. Feet thudded against the ground, which shook under the onslaught.