Fires of Aggar

by Chris Anne Wolfe

  “Enter!” She summoned a half-breath before the heavy knock. But she knew before the door moved that it was Samcin, because there wasn’t another fellow in the Palace whose fist could thunder a honeywood door into shaking.

  The burly frame of the Sword’s Master at Arms could nearly be mistaken for a block of honeywood, his thick beard a rusty-blond and his shoulders wide — usually. But today the tanned skin above the beard was blossom pink with exertion, and the door slammed shut with a heave of his shoulder as he gasped, “Taysa…”

  “Yes! Word comes from the east!” She snapped at him, grey eyes flashing. “What of Llinolae? Have they caught her?!! Do they know where she is?”

  “Aye… but no! Wait!”

  Exasperated at herself, Taysa drew her interrogation to a halt. She knew better than to rattle him with questions when Samcin considered something desperately important. Bide her time a breath or two more, that was it.

  “Now tell me,” Taysa ordered calmly. “First of our young Dracoon.”

  “But… aye then. She’s not been caught. They say there’s been no sign of her or the Marshal, but they suspect the both of them were just on the Plateau.”

  “Not good. When will our shipment be here? If we’re going to stop Llinolae from returning to the city, we’re going to have to equip every Sword with new arms. Marshal in tow or not, she’ll have the sense to call on the City Guards to stand against us.”

  “Well,” Samcin grunted unsurprised, “wouldn’t you, after two blue-cloaked replacements led an ambush against you?”

  “They were stupid with that.”

  “They’re dead. There’s no need to worry about them now,” Samcin ended the matter succinctly. “What you do need to attend to is Llinolae and her Marshal.”

  He caught Taysa’s attention completely this time.

  “They’re together?”

  His broad shoulders seemed to grow a bit squarer and wider as Samcin planted his boots in a solid stance. Taysa felt the rigid ice of caution stiffen her spine. There was very little that threatened Samcin’s bulk enough for him to slip into that iron, steady pose.

  “They are together,” Taysa saw. “Yet there’s more. Why should we think they’re on the Plateau?”

  “Were there,” Samcin amended flatly. “There was another incident.”

  “Another store of fire weapons?” Taysa’s low voice was edged with disbelief and appalled fury. “They got to another one of our store-rooms?”

  “Worse then that. They got to the Base Stockade.”

  Taysa spun and braced herself on the desk. Time hung suspended for an eternal heartbeat — and then she was breathing again. “How did they get past…? No!” She lifted a hand to forestall any attempt at an answer. “It’s no longer important. How bad is it?”

  “Everything went up in a firestorm of… of some kind.” His voice wavered a little and the big man paused to clear his throat.

  “No one got any of the fire weapons out?”

  “Out?” He barked quick. “The place blew! The whole sorry tomb went up in flame! There wasn’t any warning of it coming, it just blew!”

  “Then why do they think it was the girl and Marshal?” Taysa quipped. “No one has ever been able to get that far in past us. What’s made everyone so certain these two did it now? Or did something freakish happen to shake a weapon into overdrive?”

  Samcin took a short breath, thinking about that.

  “It makes a difference, Samcin,” Taysa’s voice grew lower. He nodded, and she felt the steadfastness of his loyalty. Good — she couldn’t afford to lose him now.

  “What do you want us to do?” His voice came even and deep.

  “First things first. Round up the weapons we have here in the Palace. Everything! I don’t want a hand-piece left unaccounted for—”

  “Done.” The bearded chin lifted with half-a-nod. “We’re lucky there, what we do have is pretty well-charged. Just had the turn-in before Feasts. What we’ve got will last.”

  “It doesn’t have to last forever,” Taysa murmured, more to herself than the man. A little judicial rationing of the powerful pieces and a few more scouts in each patrol would keep the raiders just as intimidating with sword and torched arrows. Samcin hadn’t spent the better part of his life training sword carriers and bow men without anticipating the very real need that they be effective with or without the Clan’s technology.

  “But it’ll all be for nothing, if we can’t silence the Marshal and Dracoon!” Taysa’s fingers clenched the desk’s edge ’til they were white. “Ahh, sweet Llinolae, just what exactly are you up to…?”

  Samcin said nothing, knowing the mood of these mutterings and knowing that some of Taysa’s most brilliant maneuvers came in a crisis.

  A rapid pounding at the thick door brought Taysa out of her planning and she turned in alarm.

  “Enter!” They both shouted in the same breath.

  The Chief Scribe scrambled in past the door jamb. Brown ink marred the lap of his sky-blue satins and blotched his fingers, though with his emotions running fearfully high the stuff on his hands was barely discernible. He shied from Samcin, stumbling on the edges of his robes.

  The Master of Arms grunted and palmed the door shut.

  “What is it, Geran?” Taysa’s measured her voice carefully, instilling just the right balance of boredom and concern for her favored Scribe. She’d thought to keep the armory’s destruction a secret from the Swords and Scribes for a little while yet, but if Geran’s reaction was anything to go by, she was obviously going to have to reassess who was to be trusted and who was ready to flee.

  “There’s one of our Swords just in from the border—”

  “We know that, Geran,” Samcin drawled. “It’s no alarm for you.”

  “Samcin,” Taysa interjected quietly, and with one glance to her the man took his cue to ease back for now.

  “He came straight into me — not a… not another soul knows. My oath on it!”

  Samcin lifted a bushy brow in the Steward’s direction. At her glance, he sent her a quick shake of denial; their easterly reports had come only to him.

  “The man’s one of ours!”

  “One of our messenger Swords?” Samcin rumbled. “Why don’t you speak up, man? What can possibly be so awful comin’ out of Churv?”

  Taysa’s stomach dropped, and she unobtrusively clutched at the desk behind her as knees threatened to buckle. Another little piece slipped into place unexpectedly, as she remembered that old Captain of Mha’del’s — Rutkins or something? — had been standing duty at the private little Stable’s Gate this morning when she went riding. He had smiled ever so slightly before clearing her way through. Ever so slightly? It had been almost a salute of some kind.

  Then quite suddenly and completely, Taysa understood what young Llinolae had been doing! The audacity of it — the improbable, impossible gamble of it! And here it was all about to gloriously succeed!

  “But the Pr-prince’s troops are coming!”

  “His what?” Samcin looked at the skinny, quivering clerk like he was as daft in the head as his appearance endorsed.

  “His best and fastest horse troops!”

  “Don’t you see, Samcin?” Taysa broke in softly. The two men turned to her, waiting. “Churv is sending troops against us!”

  “How many?” Samcin rumbled, both hands grabbing Geran by his robe.

  “Just the… the one company, the Sword saw!”

  “A single company we can handle!” He dropped the shaking Scribe as abruptly as he’d collared him, rounding eagerly to Taysa with sparks rekindling in his eyes. “There’s nearly three of us to each of them. We’ve pick of the place and fighting.”

  “No!” Taysa was almost laughing at his incomprehension.

  “We’ve got the weaponry!” He snarled. “We can wipe them out! We don’t need anything but what our Swords’ got in their chests and packs!”

  “And then what?!” Taysa challenged in astonishment.

&nb
sp; “Then we regroup.” Samcin stepped closer, fists clenching in gathering frustration.

  “Regroup?” Taysa shook her head again with a shrill hoot of laughter. “Regroup to deal with the Marshal and Dracoon as they have their turn at us?”

  “Aye!” He picked her up by the arms and barely kept from shaking her silly. “What is wrong with you, Taysa? I can do this! I can do this for you, I tell you!”

  “No!” She spat abruptly, staring at him undaunted by his brutal hold. “Hear me, Samcin! We’ve lost! It’s done! It’s over, Lover! We’ve been found out! There’s no more for us to do, but get out of here before the noose is tight!”

  “The… what…?”

  “The Prince brings his finest troops against us, Samcin! Do you think he’s sending only this one company? No — but this is his fastest. He’ll take what he can by surprise and then bring in more of his veterans behind!”

  “But — ?” Samcin let her go with a gentleness that nearly made Taysa laugh again. “Who did this?”

  “Our fine young lass, of course — Llinolae.”

  He only looked blank.

  “She’s got the City Guard behind her too.”

  “That’s not fact!” he roared.

  “It is!”

  “Oh Mother, dear blessed Mother, what are we going….”

  “Out!” Samcin’s fury spun and dove for the little man. “You’re part of this no more, do you hear? Out!”

  The Scribe scrambled and ran, leaving the door open behind him as the wordless bellow the giant sent after him echoed through and through the stone.

  “Now — !” He swung back to face her with a surprising calm that most would have questioned. But Taysa straightened and smiled. She had seen that release of fury and return to the rational — she trusted it more than any Clan technology.

  “We started with a handful of reprobates and weapons,” Samcin shrugged his blue cloak into a more comfortable fit. “Guess we’re going to end up with the same.”

  “Only our two central corps,” Taysa instructed quickly.

  “I’ll have them tear through the others’ gear kits for what extras we can find.”

  “But don’t shirk the necessities.” Taysa lifted a brow with ire, “We can’t eat steel or leather.”

  “Though once we did try!” His grin was crooked, but Taysa had always led them before; she’d see them through. “When do we ride?”

  “Tonight at dusk.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Llinolae shifted stiffly in the bulky stirruped saddle, leather creaking when she moved. Gwyn glanced at her as did the two sandwolves seated beside the horses. She nodded across the rolling stretch of brushberry farms to the rising walls of her city.

  “Do you notice the difference?”

  Gwyn studied the shape of the twists and curves of the upper galleries. The slender towers of the Palace beyond seemed like pale shadows against the rich blueness of the skies. A steady hum of wagons and people drifted out even to this shady knoll where the Great Forest enclosed their milkdeer trail.

  She shook her head, unable to place anything odd in the scene. “What do you see as changed?”

  “Taysa’s rule is gone. Those banners hung along the upper wall — they are from the days of the old City Guard.”

  Gwyn looked again, but could not make out any design upon the deep blue of the cloth. There was only a simple border of Churv’s ruddy brown-reds.

  “Father believed no single person or symbol of Khirlan should be more important than another. He thought there was a time and place for all things in Aggar’s Living Cycles.” Llinolae smiled as Gwyn grinned at her. “I do not think he would begrudge even the Clan some forgiveness.”

  “Well—” Gwyn shrugged with a shoulder and a tilt of her head, “there is land for the Clan’s resettlement now, only because the Changling Wars ended last season. I can just hear the Archivists of the Council’s Keep arguing in a few generations, adamantly declaring that it was merely time for the Wars to cease and for the Clans to find their way into the fabric of Aggar’s amarin.”

  Llinolae groaned.

  “Aye — it is still a philosophy I find hard to embrace once in a while.”

  “As long as you embrace me at least as often!” Llinolae breathed, her heart suddenly pleading from the depths of her blue, blue eyes.

  Gwyn’s smile softened. She tugged off a glove and reached across to gently pull Llinolae into a kiss. Lips lingered, reassurance rising steady and strong.

  They drew apart. Gwyn’s hand cradled her cheek for a moment longer, then Llinolae caught it and pressed a kiss to the palm.

  She glanced up at Gwyn. “Are you certain this is what you want — for you and your packmates?”

  Ty butted Llinolae’s booted shin indignantly, and Ril rolled her clear eyes in an annoyed human fashion. Gwyn bit back a laugh, then met her lover’s gaze once more. Her voice was level and confident though — all hint of teasing gone as she answered, “We are sure, Soroi! ”

  Llinolae squeezed Gwyn’s hand. Then she drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders as Gwyn slipped her glove on again.

  “Would I sound completely cowardly if I admit I am not looking forward to this welcome I am riding into?”

  Gwyn noted Llinolae’s voice held none of the trepidation her words reflected. She gave a crooked grin, “You’ll manage.”

  “I’ll have to, won’t I?”

  “You will.” A mischievous glint lit in Gwyn’s copper eyes. “At least through eventide.”

  “At least through…?” Llinolae eyed her suspiciously. “What do you mean by that, Soroi? ”

  “Well, if there is a time and place for everything…? And you should not waste the advantage you have here, since you are heartbound to both a Royal Marshal and a sandwolves’ bondmate.” Gwyn’s gaze traveled tellingly down the length of Llinolae’s body and then slowly back to her eyes. “As Marshal I have every right to demand your private attentions, don’t I? And no one — but no one! — will get past Ril or Ty to contest it.” She kicked her heels and Cinder lunged off.

  Llinolae turned in astonishment to the two grinning sandwolves. In unison, their chins bobbed in sneeze-like nods, and then they were trotting off as well. Nia followed on without urging.

  For a full moment, the Dracoon simply sat there. Then a shout of gleeful laughter rang through the forests, and she sent Calypso on to catch up with her new family.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  When I was diagnosed with terminal cancer at age thirty, my crusading in community psychology was forced to the wayside. But not so, my writing. Never my writing. I can’t imagine not writing. I write simply because I breathe. In weaving words… of passion and justice, of love and hope… I try to remind us all of the beauty we can claim.

  So — when the days are gloomy, I listen to Jennifer say, “Snap out of it. Stay out of it!” and pick up my pen to court our mistress, Muse. She lends me peace, and in an odd way I discover more freedom than I’ve ever known. Because I’m dying, I’m free to put my loved ones and my writing first. I am free to make each day a wonder to treasure. Life is incredibly good. It’s never been better.

  Chris Anne Wolfe

  writer / psychologist

  The original biographical statement printed

  in the first edition of Fires of Aggar in 1994

  Dictionary of Aggar Terms

  amarin: the essence of life; the empathic imprint of animate existence; aura; cumulative pattern of feelings, thoughts and reflexes

  basker jackal: a sleek, scavenger canine, native to the Ramains’ plains and renowned for its blood lust; semi-domesticated by militia for chase and guard chores

  black glass: a ceramic-glass compound of especially durable strength that hones to a sharp edge; commonly used in making knife blades

  blackpine: a valuable hardwood conifer with a black, barkless trunk and green-black needles; common to Maltar’s lands

  bondmate: any eitteh, human, or sandwolf who has been empathically
bonded into a sandwolf’s familial unit (see pack bond; sandwolf)

  Blue Sight: the Sight or Blue Gift, a sixth sense genetically linked to blue eyes; an awareness of and ability to manipulate life auras and amarin; a person possessing the Blue Sight

  boko: a food native to the Ramains, a vegetable-meat paste wrapped in boiled leaves

  braygoat: a short-horned goat native to Ramains’ southern districts

  brushberry: an evergreen bush with a sweet-tart berry; a Ramains wine

  bunt: a tall stemmed grain yielding red-brown seedlings; husks often used for animal fodder; a greyish flour produced from the seedlings

  buntsow: a carnivorous, hooved mammal; a scavenger native to the northern forests; a non-venomous cousin of schefea

  “by the Mother’s Hand”: ‘done with the Goddess’ blessings’ (an idiom)

  Changlings: sentient half-human, half-feline beasts native to the Northern Continent; a race of people known for their amoral selling and reselling of information; miners of lifestones

  Clan, the: people of the Clan’s Plateau; descendents of off-worlders who were stranded on Aggar at the fall of the Galactic Terran Empire; renowned for their weapons technology and raiding activities

  Clan Lead: legislative representatives chosen by and from among the Clan folk; (plural) a governing assembly; civil servant

  Clantown: the governing settlement and militia corp of the Clan’s Plateau; a village in the ancient Terran Quadrant, located at the edge of the eastern plateau adjacent to the Ramains’ Great Forests

  commons: a Ramains’ term for the tavern housed by an inn

  Council of Ten: a collection of ten Masters and Mistresses educated in the history and humanity of Aggar; guardians of planet integrity

  Crowned Rule: the designated heir of the Ramains’ Royal Family; usually chosen for skills of statescraft rather than warfare