Voices of Blaze

by H. O. Charles

  “They’re climbing in through the outflow!” called another below.

  Ravendasor shouted to Artemi, “Emmi, go to the outflow and see that it’s sealed – now!” And then he soared off into the mists to solve the problems at the top of the cave.

  Artemi was quick to obey his orders. She swooped down to the glow of the city beneath her, and headed directly for the lowest point. There was a narrow tunnel there – too narrow for a full-grown mraki to climb down, and it was where all of the waste water coursed from the cave to the river systems beyond the mountain. Evidently the pintrata were trying to use it to gain access to the cave.

  There was another boom, but this time it sounded closer. It seemed perfectly possible that they were trying to blast their way through the outflow. Artemi could not imagine anything more disgusting or stupid.

  When she landed at the wastewater exit, she could see nothing of note: no wingless people and no damp explosives. All that was present was a bad smell and a collection of other mraki, ready for a good fight. Artemi could well understand their anticipation; she did long to throw a few punches at some deserving faces, pintrata or no.

  “He likes you a little too much, I think,” one of the mraki women said to her. “Rav, I mean. You should be careful with him.”

  “Why?” Artemi asked.

  The woman crawled toward her on impossibly long, winged arms and said beneath her breath, “When the last attack came, he lost everything. He had just become a father to five little pups – still hairless – and his injra still had them suckling from her in the nursery up there. Pintrata attacked by throwing their fireballs and shooting their weapons, and they brought down Rav’s injra and his little ones. Screamed loud enough for the whole city to hear as they fell, I’m told. His wife left him after that. Very sad.”

  Rav had been married? And with babies? “Who was his wife?”

  “Wendala,” the woman said.

  Fires of Achellon! That was just what Artemi needed! She had not even tried to pursue Ravendasor, and now she was at risk of rousing the jealousy of one of the toughest women in the cavern. Blazes!

  Another boom sounded from the tunnel, only this time it made the wastewaters surge backward and bubble. The stench was horrific. “They’re using explosives that are good underwater,” Artemi said. “Flooding might drown them, but they’re clever. They may have prepared for it… We need to drown them in rock.”

  “You know explosives now? Do not insult us, child!” one of the men said with a growl. He looked like Learkin, but older and wrinklier. His father, perhaps?

  Artemi decided not to answer. Sometimes it was better to show rather than tell. It just so happened that she had seen a stash of explosives, presumably stolen from pintrata settlements at one time or another, locked away in one of the city’s storerooms. With a noisome flap of her new wings, Artemi hopped into the air and went in search of the stuff. She tried her best to ignore the calls of pintrata sympathiser and deserter as she left, though it would be a difficult thing to explain to Rav if he came to inspect the area before she returned.

  She soon located the cavelet beneath a roof that was flat rather than conical, and discovered that the door was not much of a hindrance to her. Her strength had become a feature that others remarked upon now, even Learkin and Wendala, at least when they were not busy picking fights with Rav. But it was the taqqa that truly gave her the strength she had, and it gave her the will to live another hour in this blaze-forsaken place.

  The storeroom was woefully damp, but Artemi recognised the nutty smell well enough to know that it was a type unaffected by moisture. She sighed quietly as she stacked the blocks in her arms, and thought of the father who had taught her about them. He had been brash and uncouth, but he had armed her with more than a few useful skills. How she would have liked to thank him now.

  When she had enough explosives to collapse most of the cavern, she departed directly for the outflow, and prepared her arguments.

  “You don’t understand,” she said to the other mraki when she arrived, “their explosions are very controlled. They are doing it in a highly skilled manner with just the right amounts. If we send this stuff down the shaft – uncontrolled - nine times out of ten it will blow up the wrong piece of rock and crush them. Which is exactly what we want.”

  The men and women looked at her askance. Blazes, there was no time to convince them!

  There was another boom from the outflow, and this time the water surged backward enough to make some of the onlookers’ feet wet.

  “I say wait and fight!” one of them said.

  “Yes, fight!” another responded, and Artemi ground her teeth. They would be so much more successful if they weren’t so consumed by fist-fighting!

  A whistle and flap of ragged wings announced Ravendasor’s arrival, and Artemi had her chance. “Let me blow them up,” she said excitedly. “Please?”

  He frowned at her, and looked to the other mraki about him. They all began clamouring about the virtues of smashing pintrata faces and breaking bones and drawing blood. At the very least, Artemi’s method would be more humane. It would be a better death for them – a quicker death.

  Ravendasor looked back to her. “You were born with such strength for a reason, Emmi. Use it. Leave this pintrata explosive nonsense for them.” He gesticulated lazily at the blocks. “That is their technology, but we have our ways. Our identity.”

  Almost as soon as he had finished speaking, the next explosion broke through to the cavern. Artemi was thrown onto her back and left with her ears ringing, but she was upon her feet again in a heartbeat. A horde of pintrata surged through the opening they had made with more of their tube devices raised and pointed toward her, but this time Artemi knew how to react. She danced and dodged and advanced upon them faster than they moved toward her. Soon she was smashing their faces and breaking bones and drawing blood, just as the other mraki had hoped.

  She knew that she ought to have manipulated their sight just as she had been taught by Rav, but in that moment, it seemed a waste of effort that could be better-focussed in her fists. The uniformed men rapidly became a mass of bloodied bodies, and Artemi found herself stood in the middle of them. She knew war better than most, but she did not know, and could not remember, how she had cut down all these people. What was happening to her? She was a swordfighter with a code of honour, not some brute!

  The rest of the battle passed in a blur, with Artemi only able to recollect small moments of it afterward. Inevitably, those moments were ones where she was not fighting, but standing in the midst of fallen bodies and feeling confused about how she had arrived there. When the pintrata’s small army retreated, Artemi went to lie against a hidden corner of the cavern wall to recover. She badly needed her next dose of taqqa, and a great deal of food. Meat would be just the thing – lots of pintrata meat, fried on the hot coals and dusted with uddiban roasted pea powder.

  As she closed her eyes, she felt the air swirl about her and whistle. “Rav,” she said without opening her eyes.

  “Emmi.” There followed the sound of him folding his wings and shuffling to sit next to her. “What are you thinking about?”

  “A pea roast.”

  His voice altered in pitch suddenly. “A pea roast? Why would you roast a pea? I hate pea roasts. Such a waste of everyone’s time.”

  Artemi chuckled. “It was a messy fight, that one.”

  “All fights are messy,” Rav said firmly. “You distinguished yourself. Such stamina. Such brutality.”

  Artemi recalled a time when people had said of her: When Artemi goes to battle, she makes love with death. And it had been more of a love-making than this… thing. This had been something far more basic and callous. Manipulating the vision of the pintrata would at least have put some artistry in her killing, or given them something calming to look upon before they died, but she had bypassed her new skills altogether.

  She opened her eyes and looked at her fingers, which were still crusted over with
dried blood. A blade could end a man’s life in seconds and give him an opportunity to dance his way out of life. But fist fights – fist fights produced slow deaths and inelegance. Artemi manipulated her own vision to make her fingers appear clean; much better.

  “I heard about the family you had, Rav. I am sorry for what you have lost – I know what it is to lose a pup, and the pain it causes.”

  He was silent for a moment as he picked at his claws. Then he said, “You cannot possibly know; you are too young to have had children.”

  “I did and I do. Three. One is dead.” Her stomach felt as if it had dropped through the floor when she said those words. Blazes, but it hurt to admit it!

  Ravendasor still shook his head in disbelief, and Artemi did not have the strength to argue with him. “Rink was a good injra – so clever. I think of it, and the children it cared for, every day.”

  “Were you still commander when the attack happened?”

  He nodded. “A new one. I had everything planned: the city made safe, family, years of besting others in fights… it was not to be. But then you came-”

  “I am married, Rav.”

  He leaned across to kiss her, but Artemi pushed him away and sprang to her feet. “If you want to impress me,” she said, “change the way you lead these people. Change the way everything is done here. Put your fights aside and learn to discuss your differences.”

  “It is who we are, Emmi. We are not pintrata weaklings!”

  “No, but their technology is better than yours. In a few years, they could well develop something that will be more than a match for your fists. That is unless you get over this perpetual squabbling, and get organised.”

  He hissed beneath his breath and uttered a curse that Artemi was not familiar with, before running off the ledge and spreading his wings to glide to the bottom. She might have followed him to try and convince him, but she needed taqqa as soon as possible. There was a stash secreted beneath her hammock in the chamber she was staying in, and she intended to make use of it as soon as possible.

  Chapter 9

  Hirrah’s royalty may still have laid the blame entirely at the feet of the Calidellians for the disaster, or perhaps at Artemi’s feet, but Morghiad knew well enough that the sentiments of many of Hirrah’s remaining nobles were not the same. They knew that the battle had been a disaster for Hirrah, but they blamed Xarrelsar for having led the attack in the first place. Tigers led to war by a mule, or so some said. That was a poor metaphor: mules were stubborn and unwilling because they knew all too well what tasks they were being put to. Xarrelsar had just been an arrogant fool. Tigers led to war by a goat, Morghiad corrected.

  “Queen Irannya is still very much in love with the memory of her husband, or how she would like him to have been. The noble houses of Hirrah are not the same,” Morghiad said, “And they will throw their weight behind whomever they perceive has the most power.”

  Kalad set his papers down in front of him. “Let me see if I understand you. The Calyrish family unites, shows favour to Calidell and Sunidara, and all of the noble houses of Hirrah will swarm about it like mice to a great big lump of cheese? And then what, oust Queen Irannya and her seventeen daughters? Put Lord Cal – ah, grandfather on the throne?”

  Morghiad’s father coughed. “No, thank you.”

  “She has fifteen daughters, Kal,” Morghiad corrected, though he thought better of mentioning the sixteenth, Eryth. “I don’t think unseating her will win us many friends, and it will cause more unnecessary turmoil in Hirrah besides. We are here for peace, after all. No, our position gives us the benefit of making her isolated, and with that, we can guide her hand when she comes to write her part of the terms of the treaty.”

  Dorlunh had already drawn up a list of ‘suggestions’ for the Hirrahan section of the treaty, though Morghiad considered some of them too radical for even the most hard-pressed of rulers to accept.

  “Hirrah is not wealthy at present,” Morghiad’s father added. “It needs peace because it cannot afford more wars. Irannya will not be difficult to manipulate at all, which is an excellent reason to support her and ensure that support remains permanent.”

  “Then it is a good thing I found a pretty one amongst her daughters,” Qeneris said, “And Kal, I did you the favour of finding one to suit your tastes. Her name’s Yulia. She’s quite petite, but has a wonderful…” He mimed cupping his backside.

  The frown lines multiplied on Kalad’s forehead, but he did well not utter any complaint. Instead, he stroked his black beard, a beard that Morghiad had repeatedly urged him to trim in advance of the talks.

  “What we need to consider,” Dorlunh said, “is that if Hirrah so desperately needs peace, then it is unlikely anyone from Irannya’s council sent Ulena. She was sent by someone who does not want peace, but profits from war.”

  “And who is that?” Morghiad asked.

  Dorlunh pulled his thin mouth to one side. “To be honest, I have no idea.”

  What a wonderful fount of information you turned out to be, Morghiad thought at him, and when Dorlunh’s pale eyes narrowed, Morghiad could have sworn the Kusuru had heard it. “We’ll have to discuss Ulena later. We are running out of time before the talks begin. Kalad, are you ready?”

  His son looked down at the pile of documents and sighed. “As I’ll ever be.”

  With papers in hand and the most expensive clothes they owned on their backs, the group made its way through the red corridors and toward the Grand Hall. The Calyrish manor at Haeron was not all that different since his father had cleared it of clutter, Morghiad mused, it was just slightly smaller and breezier.

  Not as fine as the palace we built.

  No, nothing was as fine as that, or would ever be.

  When they arrived at the Hall, Queen Irannya was already seated upon her silver throne and her daughters were scattered artfully upon the steps beneath. The dress she wore was pale green and emblazoned with hundreds of red roses, the symbol of Hirrah, while her crown was formed of silver petals. More roses decorated the orange walls above and around her, and a great, painted window was suspended to her right, setting the image of a golden rose at her feet from the sunlight that shone through it. Morghiad had met the golden-haired queen once before, after the Battle of Gorena, but that meeting had not been nearly so cordial.

  “Good day to you all,” Irannya said with a smile. Not one of her daughters smiled however, not even at Qeneris, who always seemed to make the girls smile.

  Morghiad was, of course, ushered into a remote and shadowy corner from where he was expected to watch the proceedings unfold. Clearly Irannya was eager to act as both leader and chair at these talks, and marginalise him as much as possible, which was just as he had anticipated. The Calyrish household were given seating near him, but not close enough to talk privately, and Kalad was given a chair all of his own, quite isolated from anyone. He looked like a lost traveller with his long beard, worn clothing and the wolf at his feet. Blazes, why had he not listened to his father’s advice to tidy himself up?!

  Son of a dead man, not a son of ours, the monsters whispered.

  What do you mean by that?

  The creatures did not answer.

  Soon, the Grand Hall was filled with rulers from all nine nations of the Sennefhal continent, a handful of the more powerful Houses, and even three representatives of tribes from the Polar Regions. If anyone had thought to attack Astalon now, it would take just one carefully placed wielder strike to behead every government in Sennefhal.

  This is it! the creatures cried in his head. Kill them all; kill every one of them! This is our chance to rule! Now, do it now! Now, now, now!

  The monsters were whipping themselves into a frenzy, chanting, galloping around the perimeters of his mind and clawing at its limits. We will be king again – emperor! The world will lay itself prone at our feet and weep with gratitude!

  Morghiad reached for the bundle of Blaze in his pocket, but could not find it.

  Yes, we w
ield. We will show them our power.

  He fished around deeper in his pocket, and felt the tips of his fingers brush it briefly. It was as Artemi had said: he had to seek the light. Burn it to ashes and smoke, where was the damned thing?

  “Ah, my lord?” a woman’s voice said.

  Morghiad’s line of thought snapped into many tatters, and the creatures of his mind fell silent. “Yes?” Morghiad said, withdrawing his hand from the pocket in his doublet.

  “While I do not expect you to obey me by crawling on your hands and knees, Lord Calyrish, it would be nice if you would do me the honour of at least listening,” Queen Irannya said, leaning forward in her delicate throne. “Now, I suppose, since you are the arbiter of this… meeting of meetings, you should say a few words to get things started. Do you have any words?”

  That throne of hers was delicate, Morghiad thought, far too delicate to have accommodated Xarrelsar’s backside. “Of course,” he said, moving to take a more central spot in the Hall.

  “Cold are we, my lord?” a grinning Calidellian noblewoman said before he could begin.

  It probably did appear unusual, he considered, that he wore a lined doublet, heavy breeches and fur cloak when the sun was shining outside. Few of the other nobles wore more than thin silk or loose-fitted shirts with the weather as it was, but Morghiad was cold. He needed those clothes to prevent himself from shivering like a lost foal.

  “I have seen enough of war,” he began, ignoring the noblewoman’s comment, “to have seen enough of it. It serves no one…”

  The talks stretched on until that bright sun had set, and Morghiad’s patience was tested more than it had ever been. The rulers bickered over tiny points of insignificance, over border disputes that had remained marked and unchanged on maps for centuries, or about who should be given more time to speak. Irannya repeatedly tried to direct the discussions herself and claimed that she controlled more land than Kemen, which meant that she should be given greater leave to speak. The King of Wilrea claimed to have more usable land than either of the two countries, which meant he should be permitted to speak for longer, and the Queen of Tegra ruled more people than anyone else, so she wished to talk endlessly too. By the end of it, Morghiad felt very much like the parent of young children again, marshalling stupid arguments and instructing each of them to be quiet.