Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution)

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Mercenaries were at the bridge's gatehouse, sliding the timbers barring it out of the sockets in the stonework. As the gates swung open, the swordsmen ran out, every warrior staying within reach of his neighbour's protective blade. Half were crying out desperately for assistance, the rest shrieking vile threats or cheering loudly for Parnilesse as they ran up the slope towards the walls of Emirle Town. Tathrin saw the first startled lights being kindled along the ramparts.

  "Come on." Sorgrad ran to the end of the bridge and threw the notched sword down among the scorned weapons littering the road. Tathrin tossed the broken pike after it.

  Sorgrad turned and flung his hand out as if he were strewing sawdust onto a treacherous floor.

  Scarlet flame sprang out of the darkness and rolled along the pounded earth. Where the red fire touched a weapon, the blade glowed white hot, as if it had just been taken from the heart of a forge. Leather bindings and wooden hafts flared to ash in an instant of ruby flame. Blades melted into puddles reflecting the eerie magelight.

  Tathrin took a hasty step backwards, seeing the liquid metal running together like quicksilver. How could anything burn with such an improbable colour? How could anyone mistake this unearthly fire for anything but wizardry? He could feel the searing heat on his face.

  Molten metal pooled beneath the gates of the bridge. Sorcerous fingers crawled up the ancient weathered wood, glinting savage red. Silver threads spun off to ease themselves into knots and crevices. Inside a few breaths, the timbers split. A handful of men with axes couldn't have done as much damage if they'd hacked at the wood for a long summer's day. The iron bindings screeched with protest, stretching like softening wax.

  "That'll do." Sorgrad turned towards the town.

  Tathrin saw a shadowy void in the wall, piercing pale stone reflecting the red of the magefire. Who had been fool enough to open the town's gates? He followed Sorgrad up the slope. What else could he do?

  As they ran through the arch of the gate, unchallenged, he saw lights in windows. Shutters slammed open on shouts of alarm. Arest's mercenaries were running up the main street now, kicking in doors and smashing lanterns hung out by conscientious householders.

  Gouts of red fire dripped from Sorgrad's fingers as he set the town's gates burning. Tathrin watched, dumbfounded. How could the Mountain Man do such a thing? How could anyone be born with the ability to command the fleeting mystery of fire? How could Sorgrad use his talent to wreak such havoc? What else could he do, if he chose to? What could he do to a living thing?

  "Shit!" Tathrin flinched as a rivet sprang from the tortured gate and struck a chip from the stonework beside him.

  "Come on."

  Dragging his gaze from the burning gates, Tathrin followed Sorgrad along the road into the little town. He was sweating, yet at the same time chilled to the bone. Shouts and screams came from all directions. Weapons clashed, glass shattered and wood splintered. All around, men and women were screaming. Sorgrad loped on ahead, looking this way and that, his sword ready.

  Drawing his own blade with a trembling hand, Tathrin smelled smoke. A whitewashed wall reflected the orange glow of ordinary fire running out of control. A girl ran shrieking from an alley, her white nightgown splashed with dark vileness.

  Sorgrad let her pass before heading into the shadows she had fled. Hurrying after him, Tathrin nearly fell as he skidded on slick cobblestones.

  "You bastards!" A townsman raged at Sorgrad, a murderous billhook raised.

  The Mountain Man's sword met the stroke before it could descend. He smashed the small shield on his forearm into the man's face. The townsman fell backwards, his head hitting a windowsill with a sickening crack. Sorgrad bent over him, forcing his head back to bare his throat. A stray gleam of moonlight caught the blade in his other hand.

  "No!" Tathrin couldn't see an innocent man's throat cut. "You can't kill him." He tightened his grip on his own sword. Was this how he was going to die? Defending someone he didn't even know from Sorgrad?

  "That windowsill's smashed his skull. He's better off dead than lingering." Sorgrad thrust the narrow dagger into the man's eye and straightened up. He frowned at the wet cobbles. "Where's all this blood come from?" He stepped into a black shadow cast by a nearby gable. "Ah, sheepshit."

  "What?" Tathrin took a reluctant pace after him.

  "It's Jik." Sorgrad snapped his fingers and a scarlet flame danced on his palm.

  Tathrin saw Jik sprawled gracelessly in the dirt. A massive gash split his head just in front of his ear, running down his neck. Bone and gristle shone in the murderous wound, the exposed skull rosy in the light of Sorgrad's magefire.

  "Go and fight Poldrion's demons, old pal." Sorgrad tilted his hand and dripped ruby magic onto Jik's bloody chest. "Till they're the ones hammering on the door to the Otherworld just to get away from you."

  "But he's not dead!" Aghast, Tathrin saw the magelight shimmer. Jik's chest struggled to rise.

  "You think he can be saved?" Sorgrad asked savagely. "You think he'd want to be thrown into some charnel pit to rot like vermin?"

  "But--" Tathrin gagged on the stink of burning flesh.

  The flames of the magefire sprang up as if fanned by the Mountain Man's anger. A spasm racked Jik from helmet to boots. His corpse writhed, hands drawn up as if to ward off some hideous foe. The hobnails on his boots scraped the cobbles. A moment later, a charred and splintered skeleton lay wrapped in the smouldering remains of Jik's clothes. His helm was twisted and blackened, patches of his chain mail melted.

  Tathrin whirled around to vomit up his supper.

  "This way no one can identify him as Arest's man," Sorgrad added with vicious satisfaction. "He's just another victim of Parnilesse's treacherous mage." He snapped his fingers and the sorcerous fire vanished. "Come on. We don't want to get left behind."

  That prospect was too hideous to contemplate. Wiping his mouth, his throat seared with sickness and loathing, Tathrin followed Sorgrad along the alley.

  The Mountain Man looked around warily as they emerged into a deserted street. "We should make sure no other friendly bodies need an impromptu pyre. Then we find Arest and whoever else comes safely through the night. We wait for Gren and Reher and then we head back to Evord."

  "How could you do that?" Tathrin spat bile into the gutter. "Have you no conscience at all?"

  Sorgrad looked at him, his angular features cold in the moonlight. He looked older than Tathrin usually thought him, more dangerous than ever. "Why do you think I'm helping you people?"

  "What?" Unnerved, Tathrin retreated a step.

  "I'm not just in this for the coin, long lad, or for the fun and games like Gren. How many friends do you think I've seen die? How many more do you think I've had to give a quick death like Jik? Or killed like that poor bastard who was only trying to defend his home? I've lived like this since I was younger than you. I've seen more bloodshed than you'll ever know and I've had a bellyful of it. Now come on, before I have to cut anyone else down just to save your lanky skin!"

  The Mountain Man broke into a measured run. Dizzy and nauseous, Tathrin followed. What else could he do?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Litasse

  Triolle Castle, in the Kingdom of Lescar,

  2nd of For-Autumn

  "What have you heard?" Litasse didn't wait to knock, shoving open the door to Hamare's study.

  He looked up from his letter, his eyes blank with shock. "How did you know?"

  "What?" She halted, perplexed. "The whole castle's in an uproar!"

  She'd finally had to slap some sense into her maid, just so the silly girl would finish dressing her hair so she could leave her chamber.

  "You're talking about this bridge in Draximal?" He looked down at his letter again.

  "What else would I be talking about?" Litasse saw that Hamare's haggardness was far beyond his usual pallor. She closed the door. "What are you talking about?"

  He set the letter carefully down and smoothed it out. "Ka
rn is dead."

  "You said he was travelling through the mercenary camps." Litasse sank onto a chair. "Those are dangerous places."

  "Not for Karn." Hamare looked up. "Besides, he was among friends. One of them sent me word."

  "What happened?" Litasse didn't want to think of Karn being dead. Hearing that nameless, faceless militiamen had died in Draximal was one thing. Knowing that hapless peasants had been burned out of their homes was distressing but a regrettable part of life. Karn was someone she had known, someone she had talked to.

  "There's a woman called Ridianne who keeps a leash on some mercenary companies for Duke Ferdain of Marlier," Hamare began.

  Litasse nodded. "I know all about that scandal."

  Hamare waved the irrelevance aside. "Karn was asking questions there. He disappeared in the night."

  "Couldn't he simply have left?" Litasse wondered.

  "Not without taking leave of Ridianne." Hamare sighed. "And if he did slip away, he'd make sure no one called attention to his absence by asking awkward questions. Besides, this friend of Karn's found fresh blood on the grass the next morning, in a hollow by the river."

  "I'm so sorry." Litasse knotted her fingers. The hollowness in Hamare's eyes was a painful reminder of the horror of learning her brother Jaras was dead.

  "Ridianne turned the camp upside down. They couldn't find anyone with fresh wounds to explain the blood. All had--" Hamare glanced down at the letter again, eyes hooded. "She did discover that Karn had beaten off an attack by some ruffians earlier in the day. We can only suppose they caught up with him in the darkness." He screwed the letter up in sudden fury. "What a stupid, pointless waste of his life!"

  "I'll have to tell Valesti," Litasse realised suddenly. "But he had no family, surely?" Did that make it better or worse?

  Hamare gazed towards the window, eyes unseeing. "All his family were killed when he was a child. He told me about it once. A great swathe of Marlier and Carluse was laid waste over one summer. All the crops had been burned, all the cattle stolen or killed. There was famine in the autumn and some desperate men decided their wives and children would fare better enslaved or in the Otherworld instead of starving through the winter. Karn said they drove the women and children into a camp full of drunken mercenaries and then started attacking the swordsmen with their cudgels and axes. Karn said he saw his father force his mother onto a mercenary's blade, to be certain she died before him. He doesn't recall anything after that, until he woke in the night in a ditch full of corpses."

  "That cannot be true." Litasse recoiled from such a tale.

  "Karn wouldn't disappear without telling me what he'd learned. And if someone's had him killed, there's definitely something to be learned." Hamare was scowling, though not at Litasse. "In Vanam, as likely as not."

  "You still believe there's something in this tale of an exiles' brigade gathering?" Litasse looked doubtfully at him.

  "If not in Vanam, somewhere," Hamare said savagely.

  "What could a few bands of hired swords do?" Litasse protested.

  "How much better do you think these exiles would fare," Hamare challenged her, "if their bold youths were led by real swordsmen?" His expression darkened further. "I want to know what part Lady Alaric has played in all this. Karn wasn't sure he trusted her. And Pelletria tells me there's fresh rumour that Duke Garnot's doxy has been seen in Carluse."

  "What in the name of Poldrion's stinking demons is going on?" Duke Iruvain threw the door open so hard it crashed against the wall. "Hamare?" Irate, he strode up to the table and swept a sheaf of papers to the floor with an angry hand. "You spend all my silver gathering this stable litter? You don't know that there are wizards in Draximal?"

  Litasse froze in her chair as the spymaster shouted back, frustrated.

  "There's only so much I can discover. Some secrets are kept from everyone." Hamare rose to his feet. "And who's to say this is even true!"

  "The men who whipped their horses half to death to bring me the news that Emirle Bridge has burned to its foundations," Iruvain bellowed back. "That the woods along Draximal's border with Parnilesse are ablaze. Every vassal lord along our eastern border tells me he's overrun with clamouring peasants who've risked drowning in the Anock and taking a beating from our militias rather than face magefire burning the roofs over their heads!"

  "All of which is as much an unwelcome surprise to Duke Secaris of Draximal and Duke Orlin of Parnilesse," Hamare retorted. "Their private letters are as full of confusion and outrage as any you've had from your vassal lords." He brandished a handful. "They're promising vast rewards for anyone who can bring them the truth of what went on."

  "You expect them to admit their own guilt?" Iruvain threw up his hands. "Defying all honour, custom and the Archmage besides?"

  Litasse spoke up. "I've had letters from the duchesses of both Draximal and Parnilesse, my lord. They're pleading their innocence, begging me to believe them."

  "Which only proves Duke Secaris has enough sense to keep his mouth shut inside his bed curtains." Iruvain waved her away impatiently. "Along with Duke Orlin. Hamare, who's responsible for this outrage?"

  "Neither duke." He had no doubt. "Neither would have acted without a plan to follow up such a bold move. Neither would risk every other dukedom uniting against him, with the blessing of Tormalin's Emperor and Caladhria's barons." Hamare threw the letters down. "What do we see? No moves by Draximal or Parnilesse. No mercenaries erupting from ambush, no militias thrown into the fray. Neither side has done anything but panic as chaos burns along their border."

  "They've done nothing that you know of," spat Iruvain.

  "If there was anything to know, I would have learned it." Hamare was adamant.

  "You didn't know one of them was suborning a wizard," Iruvain shouted.

  Hamare shook his head. "We don't even know that wizardry was worked."

  Iruvain stared at him. "Woods and fields and houses burned for a night and a day, with scarlet fire that couldn't be quenched."

  Hamare shrugged. "The Aldabreshi have sticky fire and Misaen only knows what other foul alchemies. One of their warlords visited Emperor Tadriol not so long ago, not for the first time. Who knows what knowledge came north with him?"

  Iruvain looked contemptuously at the spymaster. "Do you have the least shred of evidence to suggest an Aldabreshin alchemist has set foot in Draximal or Parnilesse?"

  "No, Your Grace, I do not," Hamare said steadily. "Just as I have no shred of evidence that either Duke Secaris or Duke Orlin has attempted to suborn a wizard. Believe me, Your Grace, I would know about that. I make it my business to keep a very close eye on any mage who might be bought or coerced."

  Iruvain narrowed his eyes. "Why would you do that?"

  "Because there are persistent rumours that barons along the Caladhrian coast are seeking magic to defend them against the corsairs raiding up from the northernmost domains of the Aldabreshin Archipelago." Hamare's voice was determinedly reasonable. "They have made repeated representations to the Archmage and to the Council of Hadrumal. Since the Aldabreshi murder any wizard they capture, they argue these corsairs are just as much Hadrumal's foes. Rumour has it some mages in Hadrumal and a few of those living on the mainland agree. One might be persuaded to act, for the right price."

  As far as Litasse could discern, Hamare was telling the truth. He wasn't telling the whole truth, though. Couldn't Iruvain see that?

  "Rumour." Iruvain's lip curled. "You spend your days mired so deep in suspicion and supposition that you cannot see what's in plain sight. Draximal and Parnilesse have gone to war!"

  "A war that neither side has prepared for! At the very turn of Aft-Summer into For-Autumn? When we could be only half a season from weather that will put an end to all campaigning? At very best, they'll be bogged down by the end of Aft-Autumn." Hamare shook his head, obdurate. "When fighting will outrage the Tormalin Emperor, after both these noble dukes have been so desperate to placate him?"

  "Then what is goin
g on?" demanded Iruvain, infuriated.

  "Have you never seen a festival trickster pretend a rune bone has vanished from his closed fist only to reappear behind someone's ear?" Hamare bent to retrieve the papers the duke had swept from the table. "Someone wants us looking the other way."

  "Who?" Iruvain stared down at him.

  "Caladhrians have been selling their harvests for fat profits to Vanam merchants, but there's no sign of that grain reaching their markets." Hamare searched among the papers on the table and found another letter. "Someone has been buying up quantities of cloth and canvas and leather but no one knows where the goods have been shipped. Someone's been quietly making ready for war."

  "Draximal or Parnilesse," Iruvain retorted.

  "No, Your Grace," Hamare said swiftly. "Vanam."

  "Vanam?" Iruvain's incredulity warred with anger. "This again?"

  "Let him speak, my lord," Litasse said, irritated.

  Hamare slid her a warning glance before continuing. "Every thread I pull on leads back there. Even muckraking rabble-rousers have been printing their lies in Vanam. Accusing Duke Secaris of suborning wizardry. Condemning Duke Orlin for bringing magecraft into Lescar." Hamare held out a crudely printed leaf, then another and another. "I have others fanning the flames of panic with identical tales of supposed atrocities on both sides of the border. I know the style of old. They're all written by a man called Reniack, who's made it his life's work to attack Duke Orlin in pamphlets carried along the high roads and round the taverns by ballad singers and beggars. He was last heard of in Vanam."

  Iruvain thumped the table with a clenched fist. "What's your point?"

  Hamare threw the papers down. "Now Reniack's condemning all the dukes of Lescar. Declaring that the common folk have suffered so much for so long, for the sake of noble quarrels they have no part in, that their noble lords have forfeited all right to their fealty. Saying bringing magic into battle is the final treachery that cannot be forgiven. He knows what's going on. He knew what was going to happen. All these slanders were printed and ready, Your Grace. They were being shared around the alehouses and the market squares of both Draximal and Parnilesse inside a day of this so-called wizardry."