by Trudi Jaye
As he looked up at her, his breathing became shallow, then stopped. His head went limp in her arms. Jena pulled his body toward her and hugged his slight frame, tears mingling with the blood.
Thunder rumbled above the house.
CHAPTER FOUR
His heart pounding, Nate scrambled backward, away from the open trapdoor, unsure if one of the Hashishin would follow the blade down into the room. He could see nothing other than smoke and dust swirling above. He glanced around him, trying to find the bolt-hole he knew existed somewhere in this cellar. He’d need it if the stranger couldn’t beat the Hashishin.
His fingers flicked over a tiny demon light he’d formed almost absently in one hand. The other fire demon would still be lurking around, making it difficult to call a second one so soon. He’d have to wait a little longer.
The clash of steel on steel rang out above as swords met in battle. His protector was fighting the Hashishin.
The entire kingdom was raised on stories of the mighty Hashishin guards, exclusive soldiers to the king himself. How was one mercenary wearing mismatched armour going to beat them? Nate moved cautiously forward, trying to watch the battle through the open trapdoor. Crouching low, he put his foot on the first step of the stairs, straining upward. He jerked back as steel clashed on steel near the entrance. The discordant blows made the hairs down his spine stand on end.
Nate crept another step up the stairwell, then another. From the second step, he could see the opponents circling the lodge’s main room, each treading carefully. Both men looked deadly, their swords held ready to strike.
Then it began in earnest. Steel hit steel, quickly, strike and then block. Nate’s breath moved in time with the battle. It was like a dance, each move perfectly timed, two masters at their best. He couldn’t see a clear winner.
Nate was transfixed. Blood pounded in his head, thumping through his body like a drum beating out a death knell. Time seemed to slow, the seconds dragging like hours. He could think of nothing he could do to help, no way to interfere and turn the battle to their advantage. His mage skills were useless against the Hashishin, and calling a demon wasn’t yet an option.
There was a quick movement from the Hashishin, the sound of bones crunching, and then the mercenary fell heavily to the floor. He didn’t rise, and the Hashishin spun toward Nate, his whole body ready to attack. Almost casually, the Hashishin picked up and threw a kitchen chair toward Nate’s hiding place at the cellar door. Nate jerked back, ducking the chair, but tripping over the bottom stair. He fell hard onto his back, cracking his elbows, then his head on the floor. For a moment, he saw stars.
A dark head appeared at the top of the cellar opening, staring down.
Nate scrambled backward, moving out of instinct. The Hashishin’s burning red eyes focused on him, holding Nate mesmerized. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. Some kind of magic was holding him immobile, and he had nothing that could fight it. Another knife came out, and Nate watched helplessly as the Hashishin took aim.
And then it was over.
The Hashishin’s whole body jerked and he put a hand to his chest, looking almost surprised. The fiery light went out in his eyes, and the now lifeless body collapsed down the steps and into the cellar next to Nate. A large hunting knife, as practical as it was ugly, stood out in his back.
“He didn’t keep his eyes on his opponent. Made it easy for me,” said the stranger from above, his voice slightly slower than before. “There will be another one or two of them around. Stay down there this time.”
The trapdoor slammed shut, and Nate was left in the small space with the dead Hashishin. The smell of blood mixed with the smoke and fire from above. Nate covered his mouth and nose with one hand, trying to concentrate on what he needed to do to survive.
He crawled over to the body, and gazed down at the Royal guard. Why had they been sent to kill him? It made no sense; it had to be some kind of mistake. The only possibility that Nate could think of was that it was some kind of political move against his grandfather to do with the Mage Council. If it was, they hadn’t done their research properly. The old man would be grateful to have his number one festering sore removed from his proverbial backside.
Nate searched the pockets of the Hashishin with shaking hands, looking for something that might help. The man wore pure black with tiny blood-colored accents on the ends of his sleeves and trousers. The clothes were made of a light woolen material that would be excellent to fight in, but provided no protection from swords or knives. If someone got close enough and stabbed them with a knife, Hashishin believed they deserved to die.
He found several knives of different sizes hidden around the body and placed them on the floor beside him. None were as ornate as the one embedded in the trap door.
As he thought about it, Nate looked up at the knife stuck in the wood. The ruby on the hilt glinted in the uncertain light from above.
He moved up the steps, grasped the knife handle, and pulled hard. The knife came out easily. It sat well, almost perfectly, in the palm of his hand. The fire ruby glowed, its warm light touching something inside Nate. It called to him, and he stared down at the patterns of light and dark swirling through the exotic jewel. They seemed to reach out and grasp him, pulling him into the dazzling center. He was cocooned in the warm embrace of the fire ruby, and it whispered sweet nothings to him that made him smile and curl deeper into its embrace. Light and color churned around him: reds, oranges, and yellows, the brilliance of fire. He felt at home for the first time in many years, if ever.
Shadows moved above, a loud crash of noise, and someone crossed the lines of light in the wooden cellar roof. He blinked, realizing he’d been in the thrall of the fire ruby, and had no idea how much time had passed. Shaking his head to clear it, he strained to hear what was happening. Had the mercenary been killed while he was in the ruby’s embrace?
A whooshing noise seemed to indicate that the blazing flames were eating greedily at the lower lodge’s wooden structure. He heard grunts—recognized the stranger—plus the sound of fast and experienced feet moving over the floor, then flesh hitting flesh. They were fighting close, hand to hand, and without weapons.
The stranger would need to be fast, or they wouldn’t have time to get out of here. The cellar itself might survive a fire, but he wasn’t sure he would. The gagging smoke that filled his lungs was far more dangerous than any flames that might make it this far down.
A body hit the floor above with a heavy thump, making the floor shudder, and casting a dark shadow down into the cellar. Nate flinched, covering his eyes as dust floated down through the wood, like the ashes of the dead. He couldn’t tell if it was his protector or another Hashishin who had fallen, but he was pretty sure they were dead.
He backed away from the stairs and the trapdoor. If that was the mercenary’s body, he needed to call a demon or get out of there fast. He had no other defence against the Royal assassins. His hand tightened on the fire ruby knife.
An explosion ruptured the air, loud and painful. Nate fell to the floor with his arms over his head. Dust and debris drifted down. Feet pounded the floor above. He heard a grunt of effort and then swords clashed directly above. The mercenary was still alive.
He let out a breath, but stayed where he was on the ground. He could feel every muscle in his body. Above, swords collided. Goosebumps rose over his skin. It would take only one good hit from a Hashishin’s sword to bring the stranger down. It didn’t matter that he’d already killed two of them.
A light voice whispered in his ear, “I can save you from the mercenary.”
Nate jumped. “By the Flames, spirit, this is not the time!” Above, the shadows flicked and flittered brutally.
“Help me, and I will repay you with a way to escape.”
Nate turned to the ghost. “Leave here! I cannot help you.”
“The mercenary’s master is setting a trap. Do not go with him. Promise to help me, and I will set you free.
”
Nate glanced up at the floorboards above. Feet thumped, swords clashed. A grunt, then silence from the men fighting for their lives, as they circled the room, their bodies casting strange shadows across the cellar.
It was tempting. He didn’t know who would win the battle above. “He’s a mercenary, then?” Nate had caught a piece of information that was useful. He needed to know more about his protector.
A flurry of movement from above made dust fall across the cellar. The dead Hashishin was covered in the same brown dust that coated Nate. He wiped some off his sleeve, trying not to look at the ghost floating nearby.
What if the spirit really could save him? Wasn’t it worth a chance? He wasn’t sure about his other options. Did the Hashishin protection from mage spells extend to fire demons? He really didn’t want to find out.
The ghost waited silently, its arms crossed.
He paused, tempted, then shook his head. “No, I can’t help you. You have to find your own way.”
Scuffling sounded above, and his gaze flicked to the trap door. A thump indicated someone had landed on the floor again. Bodies hit, and then it began again, shadows circling.
When he looked back to where the ghost had been, it was gone. He knew enough not to trust a ghost; they always spoke in twisted words and double meanings, but he would take heed. The mercenary wasn’t all he said he was, and he should be cautious… if he made it out of here alive.
The trap door banged open, and Nate jumped. The sudden bright light hurt his eyes, and he flung up one hand to partially cover them. Smoke gushed into the room as a figure ran down the steps. Nate scrambled back, until he recognised the mercenary’s rough clothing, and relaxed. The big man slammed the door shut after him, returning the space to eerie darkness, and locked it from the inside.
Nate coughed on the smoke. He could see a flickering glow above; the fire was spreading. “We need to leave the house,” he said urgently. “We’ll burn alive.”
A flint sparked and the mercenary lit a small lantern, filling the cellar with shadows. The man was covered in blood, and an open wound gaped on his arm. “I have a plan,” he said.
“Are they all dead?” asked Nate, watching the stranger closely. He was ready to leap up and escape the cellar without the big man if he had to.
The mercenary glanced up. “The Hashishin are dead. But there are other creatures waiting to enter the house.”
“What do you mean?” Nate looked up at the dim light above and shivered. What more could there be?
“Wolvans. And I’m fairly sure I saw a lavaen in the sky.”
“A lavaen!” Nate thought of the drawings he had seen of the large molten creatures bathing in the center of a volcano. He’d thought they were a myth. Who was powerful enough to summon such creatures?
“Prince Lothar is controlling the beasts.” The mercenary seemed to read his thoughts.
“Prince Lothar?” Nate frowned, trying to understand what the mercenary was telling him. The crown prince of Ignisia was a distant figure he’d never even met. His grandfather was the one who mixed in such exalted circles.
“He wants you dead.” The mercenary didn’t even blink an eye as he spoke.
Nate sat back, stunned. “But why? What could he possibly want with me?”
“If he is to become Flame King of Ignisia at his coronation in two months’ time, you must die.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Something sharp pecked Jena’s arm. She raised her head; she was groggy, her body somehow heavier than usual. A faint throb of pain drummed its way down her spine, dancing in time to the rumbling thunder crossing the sky overhead.
Next to her, Thornal’s raven hopped from one leg to the other, its dark eyes intent on her face. Jena blinked and realized what the raven was trying to communicate. Thornal’s body had started to heat up rather than cool. Unwrapping her arms from around his chest, she laid him carefully on the floor and edged back on her hands and knees.
The raven at her feet gave a single caw, then flew to her shoulder, where it balanced unsteadily, flapping its wings. Barely registering the pain from its over-large claws, Jena watched Thornal’s body. She knew what came next; they had attended the death of an old mage only a month before. She stood up and moved further away, the determined raven still balancing on her shoulder.
One spark, then another, flicked from his eyes and danced along his thin frame. More and more sparks flicked over his body, and soon small flames lit up his legs, then his torso, and finally surrounded his face and arms. The flames danced over his whole body, covering him in a shimmering coat. The center became a white light that hid his body from view.
A long white jagged burst of lightning erupted out of his body and up into the sky, traveling through the house as though it wasn’t even there. It sparked and flashed, connecting his body to the gathering storm outside the house. Jena gasped, too surprised to move. That hadn’t happened the last time.
The lightning burned her eyes, too bright to look at. Jena watched anyway, her eyes not moving from the glowing shape in front of her, and the trail of light extending up through the roof. All too soon, the lightning inside the house ceased and Thornal’s body crumbled into a small pile of white-hot ashes. Jena gave a sob and covered her mouth.
Outside, the lightning continued to pulse down from the sky, heating up the storm. Jena could see flashes through the windows, matching the rumbling thunder that now curled around heavy rain. The storm was directly over their home.
The raven took wing back to its perch and Jena walked forward to say the death rites over the ashes, the heat still pulsating like a forge. She stared down at the place where her master had died, tears drying on her face, and the fire dying in the hearth.
Eventually, the raven took wing around the room, demanding attention. Jena didn’t understand how the massive bird had survived the death of its master. She’d known Thornal could do powerful magic, and it had taken a massive burst of energy to overcome the Hashishin and their protective magic. But Thornal’s companion should have accompanied its master into death.
Jena sighed softly. It didn’t really matter how the raven had survived. She was glad it had. It gave her a small sense of security, something familiar to hold onto. She wiped her face and took a step back, right into the ashes of one of the Hashishin.
She kicked her foot viciously, sending the ash up into the air. Coughing, she waved her arms to clear the floating cloud. It was settling on her skin and clothes, a fine layer of human dust. She shuddered. Fragments of evil floated in this room. They’d destroyed her life, in one quick knife-thrust.
What had they wanted? A book. They had killed Thornal over a stupid book.
Thornal had told her to destroy the house and go to the Forest of Ghosts; it was his dying wish. Jena blocked everything else out of her head and set to work.
She climbed up to her small attic bedroom, and found a change of clothes. She slid out of her blood-and-ash-stained clothes, then wiped her face and arms clean with a cloth. She dressed again in trousers and a thick woolen shirt. It would be safer if she appeared to be a man during her travels. She touched her long hair, but the thought of cutting it off made her fingers tremble. It would just have to be secured inside her woollen hat.
After loading a travel bag with warm clothes and a woollen scarf, hat and coat, she grabbed her prized possession from the bedside table, a small wooden trinket Thornal had given her when they celebrated their first Flame’s Eve together. Holding it in her hands for a moment, she looked down at the hand-carved raven, its wings spread in flight. He’d said that it was her keepsake, that the raven was protecting her in this world.
Jena shook her head, her dark hair falling about her scarred face. It wasn’t doing a very good job of protection. She stuffed it into her pocket and left the room without looking back.
Her next stop was the kitchen where she rummaged through their travel rations, picking out the best. She chose several bundles of dried herbs and shoved t
hem into her bag. He’d insisted she overstock the cabinet throughout the autumn. Now she understood why. A mage knows when and how he is to die, and Thornal was the greatest of all mages. He’d been planning this for a while.
Finally, she went to the spell room. Standing by the door, she gazed around at the cluttered shelves and tables. She’d spent many long hours in this room, mixing potions, watching and helping with spells.
She rummaged around until she found an empty spell pouch and put it in her pocket. The lump in her throat threatened to choke her, but she swallowed it down. Touching the old, worn bench with a reluctant finger, she took a last blurry look around the room and then strode out.
Jena returned to the main room, kicking the blackened and burned body of the third Hashishin to one side. She walked over to Thornal’s ashes, standing over him, fingering the pouch in her pocket. The yawning gap that now existed in her life seemed too big to ever fill. A dull heavy feeling had settled in her stomach.
She wanted to fall to her knees and sob great heaving gasps, to cry until there was nothing more inside her. She wanted to lunge down and gather his ashes to her body, gasping in breaths of air that would contain his very essence.
But she didn’t.
She would follow his last dying wishes. And he’d specifically said she was to take some of his ashes with her.
She knelt down beside the pile on the floor. With shaking fingers, she scooped some of his ashes into the leather pocket and tied it tight with the leather cord. She placed the pouch in the inside pocket of her winter coat.
A flash of silver caught her eye. She reached into the pile of ashes and pulled out the knife that had killed her master. The blade was sharp, Thornal’s blood staining its edge. Jena swallowed down the bitter taste in her mouth. She forced her gaze past the blood and concentrated on the knife.
The handle was ornate, with the coat of arms of Ignisia adorning its front. She rubbed her finger over the image of the Flames, crown, and sword. Below her finger, the Ember Volcanoes billowed smoke and fire. Like the other Hashishin’s knife, it had a brilliant red stone set at the base of the handle where it met the blade.
