Queen of Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  “You hold my sister?” he asked, dropping into heavily accented but understandable Realm Tongue.

  “Not at present. Though she was well when last I saw her, if slightly aged.”

  “Where is she?”

  “You seem to misunderstand the purpose of this meeting, Council-man. We are not here so I can answer your questions, quite the opposite in fact. And our first order of business is to establish why a member of the Volarian Ruling Council comes to be so easily captured on the high seas.”

  Arklev slumped further, weariness and defeat plain in the sigh that escaped him. “There is no Ruling Council now, just the Ally and the elverah he chooses to name Empress.”

  Lyrna glanced at Brother Verin. He had been carefully instructed in his role though his hands shook a little as he touched a single finger to his wrist.

  “Elverah means witch or sorceress, as I recall,” Lyrna said.

  “The name began with her, she earned it well.” A faint glimmer of defiance crept into his eyes as he raised his head. “You met her the day she had her creature kill your brother.”

  Lyrna fought down the anger and the instant flood of horror-filled memories. Anger is dangerous here, she knew. Provoking unwise action when so much can be learned. “Brother Frentis killed her,” she said.

  “Merely the destruction of an old shell. Now she has a new one.”

  “And this creature alone has seized your empire?”

  “She does the Ally’s bidding. It seems he has decided the Council was superfluous to his needs.”

  “They were killed?”

  He lowered his gaze and nodded.

  “And yet you survive.”

  “I was delayed on a business matter the day she struck. Her Kuritai were everywhere in Volar, killing all who served the Council, every servant, slave and family member. Thousands purged in a single day. I managed to flee to the docks. My family owns many ships, though there was only one in the harbour and we were obliged to sail with scant supplies. The ship was half-wrecked by a storm three days ago.”

  Lyrna saw Brother Verin stiffen and gave him a questioning glance. His nerves clearly hadn’t abated but there was a certainty in his movements as he touched his wrist, this time with two fingers.

  “I assume,” she said, turning back to Arklev, “this new Empress is fully aware of our intentions?”

  “Your invasion was expected in the summer. She gathers forces at the capital and calls the remaining fleet there. It was the Ally’s plan to sail out to meet you with a thousand ships and all the troops we could muster. It seems he becomes impatient and keen to see an end to any more frustrations.”

  Lyrna’s gaze flicked to Verin’s hands, finding he was once again touching his wrist with two fingers instead of one.

  “I realise I have been remiss,” she said to Arklev, gesturing at the young brother, “in not introducing Brother Verin of the Seventh Order, a young man with a very useful ability. Brother, please relate what lies this man has told me.”

  Verin coughed, flushing a little and speaking in slightly tremulous tones. “I … I believe he was present when the Council fell. He lied about running to the docks and taking ship. He lied about the plan to counter the invasion.”

  “Thank you, brother.” She looked down at Arklev, finding him now tense with fear but also a determined defiance, glaring back at her, jaw set and mouth firmly closed. “Lord Iltis,” Lyrna said. “Remove this man’s robe.”

  Arklev tried to fight, flailing at Iltis with his manacled wrists only to be cuffed to the deck and pinned with a knee pressed into his back. The Lord Protector ripped the robes from his back in a few seconds, revealing an intricate pattern of fresh scars covering his torso from waist to chest.

  Lyrna turned to a white-faced Brother Verin who blanched a little under her gaze, edging away a little. “Please fetch Lady Davoka,” she told him. “She will know what to bring.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Frentis

  The Varikum sat on a low hill, a squat stone fortress of five interconnected circular bastions. They had been obliged to wait for three days in the hills to the south for a caravan to appear, twenty wagons bearing supplies and fresh slaves for training. It was well protected with a mix of mounted Varitai and Free Sword mercenaries. Fortunately it appeared news of the Red Brother’s favoured tactics hadn’t made it across the ocean because they reacted with all predictability to the sight of a cluster of terrified slave girls stumbling along the road. Whoever had command of the convoy’s guard promptly sent his Free Swords galloping to investigate without bothering to properly secure the column’s flanks. Frentis waited until the Free Swords surrounded the girls, watching as Lemera tearfully related the tale of her poor murdered master, collapsing to her knees from the terror of it all. The Free Sword leading the riders made the mistake of dismounting to pull her upright, taking hold of her head and turning it side to side in appraisal, then staggering back as her hidden knife came free to slash his neck open.

  The archers accounted for the remaining Free Swords, a cloud of arrows arcing down from the surrounding rocks to claim them, the girls falling on those still living as they lay in the road, daggers rising and falling in a frenzy. Frentis led Illian’s group of freed slaves on foot against the convoy’s flank, Slasher and Blacktooth bounding on ahead to each drag a Varitai from the saddle. The column’s fate was sealed when Master Rensial and their dozen mounted fighters charged against its rear, quickly dispatching the remaining defenders. The convoy’s overseer was the last to fall, a typically hulking figure, standing atop the lead wagon, his whip cracking viciously as he lashed at the circling riders with no apparent sign of fear. Illian ducked under his whip to leap up onto the wagon, slashing his feet from under him and deftly tugging the whip from his hand as he fell. In the Martishe they had always endeavoured to take any overseers alive; newly liberated slaves tended to appreciate it.

  The slaves numbered over thirty people, mostly men, sitting shackled in caged wagons in the centre of the column. There were also half a dozen women, chosen for youth and strength. “The spectacles are more popular when they offer a certain variety,” Lekran explained. “It’s a tradition to match women against beasts in honour of ancient myths. The Volarians discarded their gods but kept much of their stories, especially the bloody tales.”

  Frentis was gratified to find most of the slaves were Realm folk, with some dark-skinned Alpirans from the southern empire. From the treatment meted out to the overseer it was also clear they would make willing recruits.

  “You did well,” Frentis told Lemera, crouched over the body of a Free Sword as she divested it of any useful or shiny items. She replied with a shy smile which faded into a wince at the overseer’s scream. “Freedom is a hard road,” Frentis told her before going to find Thirty-Four.

  “You are content with your part in this?”

  Eight glanced at his two fellow former Varitai and nodded. The days since their liberation had seen them suffer through many hours of sleepless pain as the absence of karn took its toll. However it had also brought a new light to their eyes, plus a tendency to stare at the sky or the landscape, as if seeing them for the first time. They spoke little and Frentis had begun to wonder if they truly understood their situation, but now saw an awareness in their gaze, as well as a sense of certainty.

  “We will free as many Varitai as we can,” Frentis went on, “but we cannot free all. You understand this?”

  Eight nodded again, speaking slowly, his voice raspy and the words formed with deliberate care, “We were … dead. Now … we are alive. We will make others … live.”

  “Yes.” Frentis lifted the sword taken from a fallen Varitai and handed it to Eight. “Many others.”

  Thirty-Four’s brief discussion with the overseer revealed the Varikum to be protected by no less than sixty Varitai supplemented by a dozen overseers. Fortunately they were largely devoted to internal defence with no more than a handful set to guarding against an incursion. “Gari
sai are notoriously difficult to keep,” Thirty-Four advised. “They are never given drugs and are not bound like Kuritai.”

  “How many can we expect to free?” Frentis asked.

  “The overseer estimated over a hundred. But you should not expect all to be willing recruits, brother, or easy to command. Life in the Varikum is brutal and short, many perish in training and fewer still survive their first experience of the spectacles. It is not uncommon for Garisai to be driven mad by their trials.”

  Frentis glanced at Master Rensial, sitting on the ground nearby with the vacant expression that always seemed to grip him in the aftermath of a battle. Then they’ll be in good company.

  He had Lekran play the role of the overseer, clothed in black with whip in hand. Frentis and Master Rensial had donned the garb of Free Sword mercenaries and rode alongside the lead wagon as it ascended the slope to the Varikum’s main gate. The establishment’s lack of preparedness was evident in the fact it was already open, a large man striding forth to greet them with a harsh glower.

  “You fuckers are late!” he snarled at Lekran, then paused with a suspicious frown. “Where’s Mastorek?”

  “If the old women in my village are to be believed,” the former Kuritai said, standing to unsling his axe from where it was hidden beneath his jerkin, “suffering a thousand years torment beyond the endless sea. You can greet him there.”

  The overseer was still wearing a baffled expression as the axe swept down to cleave his skull.

  Frentis spurred his horse forward, sword drawn as he galloped through the gate, cutting down another overseer trying desperately to haul it closed. Two Varitai rushed forward from a shadowed doorway, short swords drawn back, then rolled under the hooves of Master Rensial’s horse as he rode them down. Frentis dismounted, falling in beside Lekran as he came charging past, axe in hand, the three former Varitai close behind along with all the fighters in their small army, Frentis having seen little point in moderation now.

  According to a prearranged plan, their force divided as it reached the inner keep, Lekran taking half the force right whilst Frentis went left. Resistance was sporadic but fierce, three or four Varitai at a time attempting to block their path but soon overwhelmed by the onslaught. Eight, together with Weaver and his two freed Varitai, had been given the role of capturing as many alive as possible; Weaver would loop his thick rope around one and drag him to the ground whilst the others closed in to bind him. Their success was small, only seven more captured alive by the time the Varikum fell, its elegant curving marble hallways liberally streaked with blood from end to end.

  Frentis ordered Illian’s group to scour the Varikum for survivors then sent Draker and his disguised Realm folk to the battlements with instructions to give every appearance that business here continued as normal. He made his way to the wide sand-covered circle in the centre of the main keep, finding a dense knot of men and women standing in a defensive formation. They had arranged themselves in three tight, disciplined ranks, faces set and grim with defiance, although their weapons consisted of only wooden short swords and spears. The sand around them was littered with the bodies of their overseers, cut down by the archers who had occupied the balcony overlooking the arena. It seemed their attack had caught the Varikum in the middle of its afternoon practice.

  “They think we’re bandits on a slaving expedition,” Lekran commented as Frentis entered the circle. “Finding it hard to convince them otherwise.”

  Frentis sheathed his sword and strode towards the group, seeing how they tensed at his approach, his eyes picking out the scars they bore. It appeared none had escaped injury, either from the whip or whatever torments the veterans had suffered in the spectacles. He halted ten paces short, scanning for some semblance of recognition among the faces but seeing only suspicion.

  “Are there any here from the Unified Realm?” he asked in Realm Tongue. The response was mostly a series of baffled glares though one did stir at the words, a light-skinned man slightly older and even more scarred than the others. Like all of them his head was shaven and he wore a loose shift that revealed a body honed to the kind of leanness that only came from years of hard training.

  “Last of the land-bound died two days ago,” he said in a Meldenean accent. He cocked his head at Frentis, mouth twisting in faint contempt. “They rarely last long.”

  One of the others spoke up, a short but well-muscled young woman holding a wooden spear level with Frentis’s eyes. “Tell him if he intends to sell us, he better be prepared to bleed for the privilege,” she said in Volarian.

  “I speak your language,” Frentis told her, raising his hands, palm open. “And we come only to free you.”

  “For what?” she replied, her glower losing none of its intensity.

  “That,” he told her, “is surely for you to decide.”

  In all some two dozen of the freed Garisai opted to leave, the Meldenean among the first to depart. “No offence, but a pox on your rebellion, brother,” he said in an affable tone at the gate, hefting a sack laden with sundry valuables and provisions. “Done two spectacles and that’s enough blood for any life. I’m taking myself to the coast where I’ll find anything that floats and sail to the Isles. Expect my wife’s probably found another willing prick by now, but still, home is home.”

  “Your people are allied with us,” Frentis pointed out. “The Ship Lords have agreed a formal treaty.”

  “Really? Then a pox on them too.” He gave a brief grin of farewell and started off towards the west at a steady run.

  “Coward,” Lekran muttered.

  Or the wisest man I’ve met in a long time, Frentis thought, watching him go.

  The young woman from the practice ground had been elected to speak for her fellow Garisai and named herself as Ivelda. Frentis divined a certain tribal enmity from the hard looks and similar accent she shared with Lekran. “She is Rotha,” he had advised, his gaze darkening. “They cannot be trusted.”

  “Othra means ‘snake’ in our tongue,” she replied, her hand closing on the short sword she had claimed from the pile of captured weapons. “They drink the piss of goats and lie with their sisters.”

  “If you intend to kill each other,” Frentis said as Lekran bridled, finding himself too weary to intervene, “do it outside.”

  He turned his gaze to the map Thirty-Four had laid out in the luxurious apartments where the Varikum’s chief overseer once made his home. Much to the annoyance of the freed Garisai they had failed to take him alive, though great play had been made of his corpse, his head now adorning a spear thrust into the centre of the practice ground.

  “The Volarian garrison will no doubt have word of our activities by now,” Thirty-Four said, tapping an icon some fifteen miles north-west of the Varikum. “It won’t be hard to follow our trail here.”

  “Our full strength?” Frentis asked.

  “Two hundred and seventeen.”

  “Not enough,” Lekran said.

  “Craven sister-fucker,” Ivelda said with a scornful laugh. “Each Garisai here is worth ten Varitai.”

  “He’s right,” Frentis said. “We need more fighters.”

  “If they come here, they’ll have to assault the walls to take us,” Draker pointed out. “Evens the odds a bit.”

  “We can’t linger, much as I’m tempted to. Besides, putting this place to the torch gives a clear signal of our intentions. Perhaps even a rallying call to those in bondage.” His finger tracked to a cluster of hills thirty miles north-east, the route liberally marked with plantations. “We’ll turn to face them there, hopefully in greater numbers. Be ready to march in an hour.”

  They raided four plantations in as many days, their ranks swelling with every attack. The landholdings were larger farther inland, richer in slaves and ample evidence the overseers indulged in a level of cruelty even greater than they had seen on the coast. The bulk of their new recruits were still Realm folk, those born into bondage proving the least willing to forsake a lifetime of servi
tude, in some cases even striving to defend their masters. This had been particularly evident at the fourth plantation where the most loyal slaves had formed a protective cordon around the owner, a tall grey-haired woman dressed head to toe in black, standing with straight-backed and flint-eyed defiance as her villa burned around her. The slaves protecting her were unarmed but had linked arms, refusing to budge despite Frentis’s entreaties.

  “Our mistress is kind and does not deserve this,” one of the slaves told Frentis, a woman of matronly appearance garbed in cloth noticeably less threadbare than most slaves they had encountered. Her fellow slaves were also similarly well attired and he saw little evidence of any scars. This plantation was also unusual in being the only one so far where they had failed to find a single overseer and featured only four poorly maintained Varitai, all but one easily captured.

  Frentis looked at the woman in the centre of the cordon, seeing how she avoided his gaze, stoic in refusing to acknowledge an inferior. “Your mistress has grown wealthy on your labour,” he told the matronly woman. “If she’s so kind, why doesn’t she free you? Come with us and know freedom.”

  It did no good, they all stood in place and proved deaf to any further persuasion.

  “Kill them, brother,” one of the Realm folk said, the former blacksmith from their first raid, snarling as he spat at the cordon of slaves. “They betray us with this disgusting servility.”

  There was a growl of agreement from the other slaves and, he noticed, not all of them Realm folk. The freed fighters were becoming more fierce with every raid, each overseer or master they tormented to death seeming to stoke a greater bloodlust. “Freedom is a choice,” he told them, “gather up these supplies and prepare to march.”

  The blacksmith grunted in frustration, pointing his sword at the straight-backed mistress. “What about the old bitch? Put an arrow in her and they might see sense.”

  He staggered as Illian appeared at his side and delivered a swift punch to his jaw. “This enterprise is under the command of the Sixth Order,” she told him, “and the Order does not make war on old women.” Her hand went to her sword as he rounded on her, spitting blood. “Question Brother Frentis again,” she continued, voice flat and unwavering, “and we’ll settle this with steel. Now pack up and move.”