Firebrand

by Kristen Britain

  THE UNCERTAINTY OF THE WAIT

  Karigan was disappointed to discover she had missed seeing Zachary and Enver off, and was rather surprised to find it full dark when she rose and stepped out of the tent. She breathed deep of the chill air, feeling rested and peaceful. She had found her way to the starry meadow that Enver had shown her, even without his special tea ceremony, but the day horse, Seastaria, had not appeared. It had been a good exercise nonetheless, and she had slept well after.

  She pushed her hands into her pockets and walked over to the fire where she was greeted by Connly and Estral. Estral ladled out some sausage and gravy over biscuits for her.

  “More food from the River Unit?” Karigan asked, sniffing the fine aroma.

  “Yes,” Estral replied. “They do know how to keep their soldiers well fed.”

  “A well-fed army,” Connly said, “is a fighting army.”

  Karigan sat with her bowl, once again surprised by her own desire to eat. She spied one of their guards beyond the light of the campfire. The others remained unseen. She learned Zachary and his forces had departed for the Lone Forest about an hour previous.

  As she ate, Connly caught her up about the doings in Sacor City following her departure, about Captain Mapstone’s shoulder, the aureas slee, and how Anna had begun taking riding lessons and other classes with the Riders.

  Karigan was pleased. “She’d make a good Rider, if only she’d hear the call.”

  “Yes,” Connly said, an odd look on his face. “The captain has certainly felt the same.”

  He then told her about the arrival of the Rhovan delegation and how the captain revealed an assassin who had been one of Prince Tuandre’s advisors. Karigan listened raptly and was surprised when her fork hit the bottom of her bowl.

  “It sounds like I’ve missed a lot of excitement,” she said.

  Connly and Estral exchanged looks of disbelief.

  “I guess,” she conceded, “it’s been a little exciting here, too.”

  Estral’s expression was particularly pained.

  “All right,” Karigan said, “more than a little.”

  Connly was about to take a sip of tea when he paused. His eyes grew distant, glassy. He set the mug aside without looking, stood, and walked off without saying a word to stare into the dark.

  “What’s that about?” Estral asked.

  “Trace,” Karigan said.

  “Ah.” Estral, who had spent so much time down at the wall with the Riders, was well acquainted with the ability that Trace and Connly shared. “Useful.”

  “Yes.”

  Connly laughed suddenly at something they could not hear.

  “And a bit disconcerting,” Estral added.

  “Very,” Karigan agreed. It had been disconcerting back when she and Trace had shared a tent. Trace would go into rapport with Connly and laugh and smile, seemingly at nothing. Karigan, of course, could only guess at what was transpiring between the two, but didn’t really want to know. “It’s very cold tonight,” she said. She could see her breath upon the air.

  “Feels like winter is coming back.”

  “What did you end up giving Rennard to take?”

  “My harp brooch.”

  “Your what?” That brooch was the badge of a minstrel, just as the winged horse was that of a Green Rider.

  Estral shrugged. “It was the only thing that wasn’t a well-used handkerchief or dirty socks.”

  Karigan laughed at the idea of Rennard going off to battle with Estral’s dirty socks, but neither of them spoke of the impending battle. She stood to ease her back.

  “You all right?” Estral asked.

  “Fine. Or what passes for fine these days.” She might not speak of the battle, but her thoughts were there. She wished to be with the king, to help as she could, but even with her ability she’d be a hindrance. She was still so weak and useless. She stopped herself when she realized the downward spiral of her thoughts. They sounded too like Nyssa.

  Connly returned and warmed his hands over the fire. “They’ve been riding hard for Sacor City,” he said of Trace and the other Riders who had been assigned to the wall. “Trace says Dale is whining a lot.”

  “About what?” Estral asked. “Being separated from Captain Wallace?”

  Connly chuckled. “Not even. If you think about it, she’s been at the wall for close to two years. Without any regular message errands. She’s feeling the ride.”

  Karigan smiled. Poor Dale. Had it really been that long? “Where are they?”

  “They’ve stopped for the night in Cloverville.”

  They’d still days to go before they reached Sacor City.

  “It’ll be a race to see who reaches Sacor City first,” he said. “Trace and her group from the south, or Tegan from the north. Though, really, coming from the north is the longer ride. The sooner the queen gets word of the king, the better.”

  Estral smiled.

  “What is it?” Karigan asked.

  “Huh?”

  “That big smile.”

  “Oh, when Connly mentioned Tegan. My father gave her messages for the dean and my masters, telling them that I am to be raised to master.”

  Karigan and Connly congratulated her. Rising in the ranks of Selium took serious study, ability, and true life experience. Estral had likely surpassed all the requirements, but as her smile slowly died, Karigan said, “You don’t look as happy about it now.”

  “I didn’t want him to go off with the others,” she replied.

  Karigan could have spoken words of comfort, but words would not ensure the survival of Lord Fiori, or any of them. The words would only be false assurances, palliatives. There was no telling how it would all fall out, and she worried about the outcome for one man in particular. So, instead of words, she reached over and clasped Estral’s hand, and squeezed it.

  “It is always hardest for those left behind,” Connly said, “those who must endure the uncertainty of the wait.”

  Karigan shivered and pulled her collar up. It was going to be a long, cold night.

  SETTING THE TRAP

  A bound and gagged Terrik knelt before the seal, still alive, his eyes wide as blood leaked out of his neck from the artery Grandmother had nicked. Meanwhile, she wrestled with a length of brown yarn, the color of earth, for they were underground. She knotted frantically, desiring to finish the spell, a variation of one she had tried before, but this time she exerted better control over it, would not let it master her.

  The knots resisted being tied, forced her hands apart, stung her fingers. Sweat beaded on her brow as she concentrated. She made the yarn go under and over and through. She tightened the knot and felt the pressure within the chamber quicken.

  She spoke the words of power in a precise cadence. She tried not to gag as she spoke these words of shadows and death. The things beneath the seal boiled and clamored all the more. The symbols on the seal writhed and glowed as though to increase its protection. The sluggish ones did not change. She rocked back and forth as she chanted and felt the burgeoning power build. Had she made a mistake doing this at night? When entities of the dark were strongest? Could she control it, dark within dark?

  An end of the yarn started to untwine, separate into individual strands. Hastily she commanded it to cease, and then tied a knot for awakening.

  Before the yarn defied her again, she tied a knot to call.

  The last time she had tried this spell, it had failed to awaken the dead in the royal tombs, or at least she had not heard that it had. She thought she would’ve if it had proven successful. Perhaps it would have worked if she had been at the source commanding the spell herself, as she did now.

  Terrik made a gurgling sound and collapsed to his side. Swiftly, she tied a knot to rise.

  Her fingers stung, stung with the sensation of burning needles. Wind howled throug
h the passage into the chamber, tossing her cloak about her shoulders. It bit her cheeks and caused the flame in her lantern to flicker. The shadows were preternaturally deep, her lantern light so feeble.

  She must finish the sequence and use all her strength to do so. The wind now roared, an unnatural wind that felt not refreshing, but foul. As it careened around the chamber, it seemed to carry voices of another world, from the land of the dead, voices of the past, of those begging her not to kill them, voices of her sacrifices, the wail of a baby.

  She spoke words of power, and the knotted yarn bulged and contracted and contorted. She felt the power she loosed rush out into the forest, seeking life, feeding as it went. It fed on greenery, even that which had yet to sprout from the earth, and the small lives of forest creatures. She directed it with single-minded purpose outward, seeking, seeking. It must not feed on the soldiers of Second Empire, no, and not even that of the enemy. She must be precise, control how much the power consumed, or it would become utterly unstoppable and destroy all, which was not her goal. She diverted it, and it flushed out sleeping birds, took foxes in their dens, caught a doe and day-old fawn even as they tried to run away. Coyotes in a pack . . .

  It hungered, seeking with greedy fingers till it found the groundmites—Skarrl and his group—where her people had trapped them. It sucked the life from them, all eight of them, and when her control slipped for a panicked moment, it took those of her people who guarded them, as well.

  She called the power back, lured it back with the promise of fresh blood. It surrounded her, a restive breeze that tapped her cheek. It pressed in on her as if to crush her. She caught her breath. Would her personal shields hold?

  She used everything she had and drew the power into the knots. They bulged and expanded, the strands of yarn worming as though alive, then melding into one another and darkening until a black sphere hovered above her blistered and oozing hand. It lowered until it sat on her palm as smooth and cold as the first one she had ever made. Now she must bind it.

  Blood pooled beneath Terrik’s throat. She touched his forehead. His eyelids flickered. He was barely conscious. The sphere quivered on her hand in anticipation.

  “You are doing your duty for the empire,” she told Terrik. She had actually attended his birth all those years ago, assisting his mother’s midwife. He had always been a good boy, but he’d failed as a captain. “I now absolve you of your sins and failures,” she told him, “as you provide this one final service for your people and empire.” She did not know if he heard her, but in the afterlife he would know. She was certain, with her blessing, he would find paradise, and they would remember him as a martyr. Yes, that’s how she would explain it to his mother—he was a martyr for the cause.

  She placed the sphere in the pool of blood beside his throat, and it drank. When it was sated, Terrik’s corpse was drained of blood and the sphere was a dull silver that pulsated. Grandmother dared not pick it up.

  “Cole!” she called.

  It took a few minutes for him to reach the chamber. He looked around warily, his gaze settling on Terrik and the sphere, and then her. He looked rattled.

  “Are you all right, Grandmother? That was some wind that tore through, shrubs dying before my eyes, birds dropping dead out of trees.”

  “Yes, Cole, I am fine.” Truth was, she was exhausted and her hands, with their blistered and open sores, pained her. She wished Lala was there to coat them with ointment, but she’d been evacuated with the others. “Please bring the slaves. I am ready for them.”

  “Yes, Grandmother.” He gave the chamber one more look before heading back up the passage.

  All was ready. The time had come. She glanced at the sphere and sensed an eagerness about it. It wanted to fulfill its purpose. She was sad about Terrik, but proud of him, too. Perhaps he’d been a poor choice for captain, but he’d faced sacrifice without fear.

  She then glanced up at the chamber’s ceiling where her great working hung like a canopy of knots, twined with the Greenie’s hair. It obscured the painting of Westrion. The strands and knots crawled with restless energy. All the elements were in place, and once Cole returned with the slaves, the trap would be set.

  “Soon,” she told the unquiet ones beyond the seal. “Soon.”

  THE BERSERKER

  Zachary spun round and drove the sword through his opponent’s midsection. The soldier’s mouth fell open as if to scream, but only blood gushed out. Zachary tilted the sword, and the man slid off it and crumpled to the ground. He wiped the blade clean on the man’s tunic, then paused, panting hard, but alert, his senses heightened. Sounds of clashes came to him through the woods, the clang of metal, shouts and cries, the crack of branches. He glanced skyward and through the spaces between the limbs of evergreens he saw that clouds encroached on the stars. He wiped chill sweat from his brow.

  The fighting around him waned as his companions subdued the enemy, but there was the sound of more clashes deeper in the forest, so he and his group ran again, leaping logs, thrashing through deadfall, and weaving between tree trunks. Now and again they came across bodies, either that of their foe wearing buckskin, or of their own. They found traps that had been tripped—nets hanging limp from trees, bear traps that clasped stout limbs, and pits with their camouflage of branches removed. They ran past watch fires guarded by only the dead.

  Zachary’s Weapons stayed right with him. Rennard ranged farther out, and Fiori disappeared in and out of the shadows. Other members of the River Unit blended into the night wood and were all but silent. He wondered how Enver fared when he stumbled across a Second Empire corpse with a white Eletian arrow in one eye.

  They came upon another knot of fighting. The Weapons cleared the path ahead with swift and deadly strikes, but not to be left out, Zachary rammed his buckler into the face of one foe and engaged another with his sword. The warriors of Second Empire had not the prowess with a blade that a swordmaster possessed, but some were better than others. This one was not. Zachary did not play at showing his superior skill, but killed expediently and moved on to the next.

  Swordplay in the thick of the forest was not always easy. The sword or his arm got caught up in grasping branches. Maintaining solid footing proved a challenge on the uneven terrain, and tree roots were apt to trip one at a crucial moment. The darkness sent some thrusts askew, lending a dangerous unpredictability to bouts. He rounded on an assailant creeping up on him and bashed the pommel of his sword into the man’s gut.

  When they quashed this knot of the enemy, they paused again to catch their breath, the air thick with the foul stench of blood and rent bowels, and the cold cutting edge of winter. The eaves of the forest groaned in an unruly prelude to a storm.

  “Weather moving in,” Donal muttered.

  “How far to the keep?” Zachary asked.

  “I have lost track,” Fiori said. “Lieutenant?”

  Rennard was about to answer when a wild gust of wind bent and whipped the trees around and almost knocked Zachary off his feet. Pine cones and branches pelted them. The wind grasped his breath, and he felt the air being drawn from his lungs. The wind hungered, sought sustenance. Undergrowth shriveled right before his eyes and birds fell dead from their perches in the trees. The wind died as suddenly as it had surged, and pine needles drifted softly down on them.

  “What in the name of the gods?” Rennard said.

  “That was no natural wind,” Zachary said.

  “You’re right,” Fiori replied. “Not natural. I wonder what Grandmother is up to. She was devising some major spell during my time at the keep. She called it her ‘great working.’”

  “I remember. The Aeon Iire, the seal. She must have found it.”

  The others had heard of this aspect of Grandmother’s pursuits during their strategy meetings, so they were not surprised, but they looked disturbed.

  “There can’t really be a portal to the hells, ca
n there?” Rennard asked.

  “It is in our lore,” Fiori replied. “If it is real, one can see how it would be of interest to Grandmother. As for her use of magic, it is known.”

  “Yes, we will proceed with this in mind,” Zachary said, “though I don’t know what we can do to counter the magic. It could all be a big trap, and not just for Westrion’s avatar.”

  “It’s all very strange,” Rennard muttered.

  Zachary understood. Though he had become accustomed to the concept of magic actively affecting his world, he had also been exposed to it more than most, and not just around his Green Riders. The average Sacoridian was less likely to have encountered magic even as it became more present in the world. As for an avatar of the death god? Even he had a hard time swallowing that bit.

  “With respect, sire,” Donal said, “I think we should return you to—”

  “We will do no such thing,” he interrupted. “Captain Treman needs all the swords he can muster. Now, we had better move on before the rear guard runs into us.”

  Donal looked ready to protest, but Zachary strode off. The others hurried so they would not be left behind.

  • • •

  “What’s that?” Fiori asked. He gestured toward a flickering light some distance off to their side.

  “Let us see,” Zachary replied.

  Donal put his hand up to stop him. “Let us investigate first.”

  Donal and Rye moved through the underbrush, and in their black uniforms, they vanished into the night. Only the rustling of branches minutes later announced the return of one of them.