City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array)

by H. O. Charles

  Life on the lowest levels was a rather gloomy affair; the only daylight came from foot-wide wells that bore their way to the surface. Orange paraffin lamps shed their own, weak light here and there. The noise of cart traffic, footfalls and chatter was constant even at night as it tended to reverberate down the raised roads and through the fabric of the stacked houses.

  Cadra had long been a city of war and the outer walls were beyond vast. Their height seemed to caress the clouds while their width took a full minute to traverse. A thousand years earlier the city had outgrown its massive walls and no one had the money or inclination to rebuild them or add extensions. And so new residents had set up home on the outskirts, only to be obliterated with each successive assault on the city. One day, following a particularly vicious attack, a brilliant Cadran mason hit upon the idea of building up instead of out. King Rugosa ordered that each new resident would finance their own construction and consultation with the mason. In the early days, the poorer district suffered numerous collapses and the lower residents charged extortionate rents. Murder rates in the city rocketed as developers vied to buy the best base properties.

  A millennium had quieted the controversy and had seen the construction reach its zenith. At the centre lay the castle, a giant black urchin now deeply embedded in the surrounding stone network. Only its spine-like towers protruded above the other buildings.

  The castle boasted two open-air courtyards and some heavily shaded gardens. In one of those courtyards there was a broad fountain, cut from white marble. Water spouted from the top at high pressure and tumbled down over depictions of mysterious sea creatures where, at the bottom, it filled a wide pool of several yards in diameter. The afternoon’s yellow sunlight skittered off the white marble lip, across the water, to where Morghiad and Silar stood mocking each other over the previous night’s events.

  Lord-Lieutenant Silar Forllan was one of those men, often seen with beautiful women and on several occasions observed suffering the pangs of nalka. But Kahr Morghiad did not socialise much with females, which only served to add to the gossip about him. The kahr’s father, King Acher, had repeatedly insisted that he should take a benay-gosa in order to prove his masculinity. In truth, Morghiad had as much desire to sleep with one of those as he did a viper. He also found the noblewomen to be shallow and manipulative harridans. Oh, it might be fun for a few nights but when it was over he’d have to go through the horrors of separation. Too many men depended on him now that he was captain. He couldn’t afford to be crawling around on his hands and knees, helpless and in agony while his men died. A good army could not sleep around. There was already too much of that. Worse, his cast-off women would become property of the king. And King Acher’s cast-offs usually ended up without a head.

  Morghiad stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt. It had been a tough session lasting the entire morning, working through every move in the book. He was sure it was much harder leading the formations than following them. Even though the leader repeated them fewer times, one still had to walk between the men: checking, correcting, shouting and instructing. It surprised him how some had been fighting for Cadra over a hundred years and yet they still made foolish mistakes. Left-armed sweeps too extended; down-slices far too heavy. A few had become exhausted after only half the session was complete. It really wasn’t acceptable for an army this well-established. They needed more discipline and less wine, with fewer casual women. He intended to see at least some of these changes made while he was captain, assuming he lived long enough to implement them.

  He suppressed a frown. His sword tutor had enthused about discipline over and again, saying that one could only become a master of the blade if all emotion was dispensed with. Anger was dangerous, fear was only valuable immediately before a fight and love was simply out of the question. Recreation was necessary, but was to be pursued in moderation. Yet this same tutor had captained what Morghiad was fast learning was an operation consisting, to a large degree, of contradictions. Outwardly the men seemed well-ordered and smart in their green and black uniforms. Their actual fighting ability was questionable.

  The old captain had lost his life a few months earlier at a skirmish on the northern Calidell borders, and there had been some discussion as to who should take over his command. Morghiad was the best swordsman and a kahr to boot, but he was hugely inexperienced and didn’t particularly want the post, anyway. In addition, he would have to win over all the disgruntled men who had been better-qualified for the position. His father had intervened, as always, and now he had the responsibility. There was no shifting it.

  He fought off another frown; it felt like more of a grimace this time. He could do with a good duel right now, or maybe a flat-out gallop across the grasslands would clear his head. Silar was happily chatting away about a brunette he’d seen in the city. Another girl who could quite possibly be the love of his life, if only she had met him at the bar last night like she’d promised.

  Morghiad arched an eyebrow. “So you decided to bury your sorrows in the bosom of Lady Allain, instead?”

  Silar’s overly youthful features formed a passable impression of incredulity, and he proceeded to remove his shirt. “Morghiad, Lady Allain is very good company. You’d know that if you spoke to her privately.”

  “...And removed her robes too, no doubt?” Morghiad reached for the wooden bucket at the side of the pool and dunked it in the water.

  “I just think you shouldn’t knock women until you’ve tried them. Some can be quite agreeable, really.”

  Morghiad upended the bucket over his head, relishing the cold water that fell from it. He scraped his hair back, set the bucket down and wiped the remaining water from his face with both hands. “And what am I supposed to do if the King of Hirrah decides to invade in two weeks’ time? Shall I ask him if he wouldn’t mind waiting, only my best swordsman isn’t feeling very well?”

  “Second-best,” Silar said with a smile, “Besides, you can’t just avoid women while you wait around for a war to come along. What sort of life is that? And nalka only happens if you stop sleeping with them, anyway!” The blond lieutenant picked up the bucket and commenced his own ablutions.

  Morghiad scanned the courtyard, water still dripping off his face and body. The sun had brought out representatives of almost every section of the castle’s population. In the northern corner a group of linen washers scrubbed away, their arms red from effort - their pale blue skirts shivering in the soft breeze. To the left of them a cook seemed to be manoeuvring a large, dead animal, probably a boar, into a position that would facilitate gutting. In the western corner six of the castle guards stood smirking and guffawing at the three benay-gosa immediately in front of them. The women wore the standard red scarves denoting their role, and not much else. Red strips of material darted around their bodies like splashes of crimson paint, covering the parts that the king had reserved for himself yet revealing a sliver of hip here, a smooth shoulder there, all of their lower legs and a great deal of décolletage. All were very pretty, of course. Hand-selected by the king. Morghiad tried not to linger too long on them. He didn’t want to get a reputation.

  At the southern end of the courtyard a small gathering of noblemen and women were chatting and exchanging glasses of tanno wine. Two of the women were looking at him, or perhaps Silar. They always gazed at Silar. Morghiad found himself wondering if he’d get more attention as a blond, blue-eyed man; not that he wanted it of course. He couldn’t be doing with women falling about him everywhere he went.

  He continued his visual tour of the court. A messenger was examining the condition of his grey-white horse. It looked to have thrown a shoe and was playing lame. Further round, at the east end, a group of children were chasing stones between the cobbles. Watching them were two waiters in blue uniforms, each with a red-leaf cigar in their mouth. Grey wisps grew from the smouldering cigar ends, meandering back toward the linen washers upon invisible hands of air. A girl rose from among those linen washers, and she possessed a mane
of dark reddish hair that plunged down one shoulder.

  As she moved from the shadow of the wall and into the sunlight, her hair seemed to come ablaze to a fiery gold. The breeze whipped the hair flames across to her other shoulder, while her bored expression conflicted with the drama that occurred about her head. In her arms she cradled a large pile of roughly folded sheets, while her feet kicked at the blue skirt of her servant’s dress. She approached the opposite side of the pond before setting down her washing. Her face was quite striking: young, perhaps not yet twenty, but with even features and dark eyes. She reminded him of a picture he had seen somewhere. He trawled his memory. He could not place it. Morghiad traced his eyes down her neck to the line of her bodice. It curved in a very pleasing way before it cinched in at a narrow waist.

  “That. I would like to see with fewer clothes on,” Silar whispered. His lower jaw seemed to have lost all connection with the rest of his head.

  Morghiad gave his friend a fierce look. “Get a hold of yourself. I thought you were deeply in love with the brunette.”

  “I prefer red-heads. Haven’t I always said that?” Silar said with hushed tones. He drew himself up and folded his arms. “Excuse me, my lady?”

  The girl continued with her task of soaking the linen in the pond’s water, seemingly unaware of his communication.

  Silar’s mouth tightened at the corners. “Girl!”

  She looked up, eyes wide. The girl maintained her composure, although her back remained stiff. “Sir- my... lord?”

  Somewhat satisfied with her stumbling response, the lieutenant said, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. What is your name, girl?”

  Morghiad was unable to suppress a small, exasperated sigh.

  She held his friend’s gaze, however. “Artemi. I have only been working here a few months: mostly in the washrooms. So yes, it is unlikely you have seen me before.”

  Silar grinned. “Named after the warrior, eh? I think we have a wit here, Morghiad. How would you like to dance with a real swordsman of Cadra’s army this evening?”

  She started at the mention of the kahr’s name. Her eyes released the lieutenant and focused on the dark-haired man instead. She didn’t look away as she spat, “I’d rather put my head in the jaws of a Tegran tiger.” She gathered up the soaking sheets in haste. “Thank you, my lord!” With that she turned and strode back toward her coterie, leaving a trail of pond water behind her.

  Silar unfolded his arms and turned to his friend. “I don’t think she - ...can you tear your eyes off her for a moment?”

  The kahr watched her hair return to the shade before meeting his friend’s accusatory stare. A small smile touched his mouth. It grew into a quiet laugh.

  Silar, who was not normally a man to be confused in social encounters with women, appeared utterly perplexed. His forehead creased, though it swiftly began to smooth out again. Finally he smiled, too. “You like her. I can see it.”

  Morghiad snapped his features back into their usual positions. “No.”

  “Yes. You’ve gone all watery-eyed and soft on the inside. You never smile for anyone or anything.”

  “I can’t like anyone. We’ve discussed this. Whichever way you look at it someone winds up losing their life.”

  “How can you possibly know that? Did a seer predict it? I doubt it.”

  The kahr ran his hand along the smooth marble lip of the pond. “The minute I grow tired of a woman she becomes part of my father’s collection, then she dies. If I take a wife, she must produce an heir. We have a boy: she will die. We have a girl: the child will be executed. I see no way around it.” He could feel his temper mounting and immediately set about containing it.

  “You don’t know the children will be... like you. And all that is years off, besides,” Silar said softly.

  “There has been no kanaala as strong in generations. I think I can be pretty sure. Forget about her, Silar.”

  The lieutenant huffed loudly and looked instead at the benay-gosa group. How could anyone believe that this Lieutenant of Calidell was twenty-three, let alone a year older than Morghiad? His views always seemed to lack any consideration for the consequences of… well, anything.

  Picking up his shirt, the kahr turned and strode to the southern exit of the court. A few of the nobles there acknowledged him; some continued to watch as he walked by. He really did need a good fight. He’d had enough of Silar’s goading for one day so he would have to settle for a lesser swordsman, which meant a lesser challenge. Maybe a ride out in the wilderness was called for. Tyshar could probably do with the exercise. Yes, a good ride would clear his mind of everything. And remove that fire-head woman from the insides of his skull. Silar seemed to fall in love with every pretty girl he met. He’d probably fall in love with a mop if it had breasts and a nice handle. Well, Morghiad was not that sort of idiot.

  Lady Aval di Certa watched the two men stripping to their waists by the fountain pond. She took a moment to appreciate their broad shoulders and hard, muscled arms. She had always intended to marry a diplomat or politician; army officers had an unfortunate tendency to die unnecessarily young. They were such a delight to look at, though. The blond one was pretty. Her cousin had tasted that one, or so the gossip said. But the black haired one, the kahr, he was beautiful. Far more beautiful than such an introspective man ought to have been. There had to be something wrong with him. It seemed unfair for a man to look that way. Perhaps his occupation would scar him a little, given time - make him a bit rougher round the edges. She noted that both men had already collected a few small scars on their backs and arms; nothing worth bringing up in tavern banter, however.

  Aval’s eyes focused solely on Morghiad once more. His black hair now dripped with water from the pond. She followed the water down his spine and to his backside. The man had an excellent backside. Firm and round like a pair of kefruits: a woman could squeeze that all night. Shame it was still clothed.

  Aval caught herself blushing and put a hand to her hair, before resuming her conversation with Lady Tala. Perhaps she ought to pursue a fighting man, after all. It couldn’t hurt to have a little fun, surely?

  “Tala, what do you know about the young kahr?”

  “Difficult to talk to.Interested in swords. Kanaala.” Tala sniffed. “Not worth chasing unless you want a short-lived decoration for a husband and a nine-year sentence.”

  “Kanaala?” That put Aval off her balance, though perhaps it did explain his distant nature. It meant that he could control Blaze Energy. He could not create it like the female witches, but he could bend it. Kanaala had the ability to unpick any nasty webs made by wielders, and better still, they could neuter wielders altogether. Very useful. She examined Tala’s golden ringlets. They were always so neatly arranged. How did she get them like that?

  Tala sipped her tanno wine and eyed the tower guards. “Yes. The mother is well-and-truly dead. Boy’s quite powerful: graded twelve, I understand.” Tala did get right to the point: an admirable quality sorely lacking in most.

  “How...entertaining,” Aval commented.

  Tala nodded sagely and finished her glass.

  Artemi dropped the bundle of wet sheets into the drying pallet. It did seem a little ridiculous that she had spent hours scrubbing them with soap and hot water, only to rinse them in the same pond that sweaty men washed in. Perhaps the sweat of a nobleman was considered less polluting than that of a commoner here. Both smelled just as bad to her. Arrogant men!

  Caala had warned her to stay out of sight of the army soldiers. Apparently they liked to visit the new female servants in the cellars as a form of sport, though they seemed to like the old servants just as well. Besides, the noblewomen behaved equally as badly. Everyone in this castle seemed to be preoccupied with sex. Whatever happened to reading a nice book or playing a game of kernels? Not that very many could read. She had spent two long, tiresome weeks teaching Caala some basic letters and sounds. Caala was over two-hundred years old and she had only just read her first w
ord. Such a waste of a mind.

  She wondered if the blond man at the fountain could read. By the look of him it seemed unlikely; he probably spent more time waving his sword about in the hope of arousing silly women. The green-eyed man had given the impression of some meagre intelligence through his reticence. That or he was too stupid to string a sentence together. He was the kahr, after all. The next bundle of sheets lay in front of her, menacing with their grey, beige and black threads that seemed to weave in impossible patterns she could not comprehend. Artemi caught them up in her arms and trudged over to a free washing bowl. Washing linen had to be the most boring task ever created. She began scrubbing in as ill-tempered a manner as she could get away with. At least the sheets would not try to charm her with a big, shiny weapon.

  She worked her way through the rest of the washing allotted to her, finishing as the sun descended behind the dark grey walls of the courtyard. The stones glittered in places but the effect of a whole wall of them was still dreadfully overbearing.

  Artemi interlocked her fingers in the air above her head and stretched as far as she could. The tightness in her muscles evaporated with instantaneous effect. She straightened her dress and made her way to leave the courtyard, which had lost its noise just as it had lost light. Most of the other servants and benay-gosa had departed with their blocks of colour. The children had gone inside long ago in search of food; the tower guards had dissipated bar one, who was now pacing the perimeter. The blond man had joined the nobles for a while, unashamedly bare-chested, before moving indoors with them. She wondered at the politics of those people and if any of it actually affected her. The thought made her shiver, remembering her father’s favourite book on leadership: “Power is rarely in the hands of those capable or deserving,” the first paragraph had declared.