Queen of Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  When the elk were within thirty paces the hunters rose as one, their spears flying free in quick succession, the lead stag and two others tumbling to the ground in a mass of flailing hooves and shattered antlers. The rest of the herd veered away from the danger, streaking off to the north with the wolves in pursuit. One of the wounded stags managed to rise, snorting and swaying its part-broken antlers about, before charging directly at the nearest hunter. Kiral sent an arrow into its neck, Vaelin following with two more, but the animal barely slowed, antlers scraping the ground as it bore down on the hunter. However, it transpired he had little need of their help, sprinting forward at the last second to leap over the stag’s head, revolving in the air to plant both hands on its neck and vault himself over it in a somersault that would have impressed any acrobat.

  The stag snorted and wheeled about, trailing blood and bellowing in frustration before Kiral finished it with a carefully aimed shaft through its eye, a feat of archery Vaelin doubted even Reva could have matched. Vaelin moved to Astorek as the hunters fell to butchering their prey, long knives flashing as they gutted and dismembered the carcasses with automatic speed. He could see the wolves a hundred paces off, clustered around another carcass, their usual placidity vanished as they squabbled and snapped at each other, white fur besmirched with gore from snout to tail.

  “Their reward,” Astorek said. “Isn’t good to bind them too tight. Sometimes they need to remember what they are.”

  In the distance a dust cloud told of the remaining elk continuing their flight. “You don’t take them all,” Vaelin observed.

  “If we do, there’ll be none to take next year.”

  “When we come to fight the Volarians it will not be a hunt, but a battle. None can be allowed to flee. We will take them all.”

  “You imagine I have some scruple about killing my former people? It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

  “This will be different. This time they are led by something far worse than an overambitious general.”

  Kiral approached, wiping gore from her arrows and casting a cautious glance at the shaman. “Lord Vaelin speaks true,” she told him. “I feel your compassion. But it will kill you when we face the Ally’s favoured dog.”

  Astorek frowned, shaking his head in bafflement. “Ally?”

  “And it lives in this … beyond place? A place beyond death?”

  Vaelin struggled to formulate a precise answer. Explaining the concept of the Beyond to someone raised without any form of faith was proving difficult. Also, unlike the people who had adopted him, Astorek felt no worshipful tendencies towards the green fire that continued to flicker in the night sky, though its light was now just a dim glow on the northern horizon. “One of nature’s many mysteries,” was his only opinion.

  They had begun the march the day before, the Wolf People’s warriors gathering together in loose affiliation and moving south without particular order or ceremony save brief, intimate farewells to family. However, there were some who would neither be travelling south nor staying on the tundra. Vaelin watched as a group of people gathered on the shoreline, men and women of advanced age each with his or her own canoe carrying only a small stock of provisions. He saw Far Walker among them, handing out various items to a group of younger folk he took to be the elder’s children or grandchildren: a knife, a necklace, a spear. They all accepted the gifts in silent respect, the youngest sniffling as the old man climbed alone into his canoe and pushed away from the shore, paddling off towards the north without a backward glance. His will, Vaelin thought.

  Later he joined Astorek at the head of the army, leading Scar at a walk as the shaman sent his wolves ahead to scout their line of march.

  “I realise it may be hard to credit,” Vaelin said. “But I have been there, and heard his voice. Much as I would like to dismiss him as a figment of legend or delusion, his hunger for our destruction is all too real.”

  “I thought you had to die to gain entry to the Beyond.”

  Vaelin turned his gaze to the horizon. Talking of what had happened at Alltor was never easy, perhaps because so much of it still escaped his understanding. “You do.”

  “Then how do you come to be here?”

  Vaelin glanced back at Dahrena, laughing with Cara as their cats rolled together in a play fight a short way off. “I have always been greatly fortunate in my friends.”

  Another week’s march brought them in sight of the mountains, a range of steep-sided ridges and peaks stretching away south for as far as they could see. The valleys seemed rich in pine but the peaks were mostly bare granite, painted a pale blue in the haze. Off to the east a dim orange glow could be seen beneath a low bank of dark cloud. “Fire mountains,” Astorek said. “Even the tribesfolk don’t go there.”

  “Do your people trade with them?” Vaelin asked. “Speak their language?”

  “They speak Volarian, of a sort. Difficult to make out for the less-attuned ear. And no, there is no trade between us. They keep to their hills fighting their endless feuds, or the Volarians when they come to fill their slave quotas, rarely venturing across the tundra.” Astorek glanced up at the ever-present swirl of spear-hawks as a group separated from the main flock to fly towards the hills. “Mother will warn of any who come to greet us.”

  But there was no one waiting as they crested the foothills, the heights ahead free of any sign their way might be barred. “My people would do the same,” Alturk said, eyes narrowed as he scanned the silent hills. “Allow us to enter, march on until we imagine ourselves safe then attack in the night.”

  “There are no eyes on us,” Kiral said with a note of certainty. She turned to Vaelin, her expression grave, “But someone comes. My song is clear: we should wait.”

  They camped on a series of hills affording good views of the surrounding country, the spear-hawks providing constant vigilance and the wolves kept in tight packs on the perimeter. But still the hills remained silent. As night fell the glow of the eastern fire mountains grew bright, occasional flashes of lightning threading through the smoke they cast into the sky.

  “So Nishak’s arm reaches around the world,” Alturk observed in a rare fireside comment, his gaze lingering on the distant fires. He had recently abandoned his usual practice of eating and sleeping away from the main body of the company, his head once again shaven to stubble. The contempt still felt by some of the Sentar was evident in their faces, but others showed a grudging resumption of respect.

  Looking around the company, Vaelin noted how they were mingled now, guardsmen and Lonak sitting alongside each other with a natural ease, the Gifted among them, their cats snapping at the scraps tossed to them by the warriors. The ice was a forge, he decided, recalling distant days spent watching Master Jestin at the anvil, the three rods of an unborn sword gradually melding under his ceaseless hammer. It beat us into something new.

  “Did you really hear his voice?” Dahrena asked.

  Alturk’s gaze lowered in discomfort, though there seemed to be no anger in him, just regretted memory. “I heard it, a sound that could only have come from the mouth of a god.”

  “The Cave of Mists,” Kiral said. “The Mahlessa told me only one other besides her has ever seen it.”

  “It was the Mahlessa who guided me to it. Though my club and my knife had made me Tahlessa of the Grey Hawks, husband to six wives and father to a fine son, I was still a youth dreaming of greatness, a greatness I thought I would find in the Cave of Mists where the voices of the gods are said to still echo. So I went to the Mountain and asked for guidance from the Mahlessa. I was not permitted in her presence, for no man is worthy, but she gave me a guide and sent us forth with words I thought a blessing but later knew as a warning—‘There is only truth to be heard from the gods.’”

  Alturk paused to regard Kiral with a faint grin. “My guide was a woman of grim aspect who spoke rarely except to voice insult, calling me a fool, and a braggart, and son to a mother who had clearly spread her legs for an ape. Were she not a
Servant of the Mountain I would have pitched her from the highest cliff, as she well knew.”

  “You would have tried,” Kiral said in a hard voice.

  “Your blood-mother was the harshest-tongued woman I ever met,” Alturk returned. “And I married the worst six bitches in the mountains.”

  “And wanted her for the seventh.” Kiral returned his grin. “Only she had more sense.”

  Alturk grunted and waved a dismissive hand. “In any case she guided me to a cave, a small gap in the side of an unremarkable mountain. ‘You’ll die in there, ape-spawn,’ she told me, then walked off with no other word spoken. I could feel the heat flowing from the cave, knowing that what lay beneath would prove the greatest trial. But I wanted so much to hear Nishak’s voice, I knew he had great things to tell me.

  “At first all was blackness, my torch the only light as I climbed ever lower. Sometimes the walls of the cave would fall away, leaving me crouched on a narrow ledge with the void all around, not knowing if a single stumble would send me tumbling to my death. Then I came to the bridge, in truth a narrow arch of rock spanning a great chasm, with a fierce torrent of water falling like a curtain halfway across. On the far side there was only blackness. The test was clear, if I went on my torch would die in the torrent and I might never find my way again. The gods are wise in their tests, choosing only those worthy of their voice, for a coward would have turned back.” Alturk paused, the softest laugh escaping his lips. “And only a fool would have gone on. And I did.

  “The bridge was slippery, the water chill as ice, and all became dark when it claimed my torch. I dropped to my belly and crawled, feeling my way forward until the narrow bridge became broad rock and ahead, the faintest glimmer of light, drawing me ever onward. The light grew as I neared, the walls of the great cavern I had entered giving off a green glow and in the centre a pool of roiling water, constantly bubbling and birthing a fine mist. At first I found the smell of it harsh and like to turn my stomach but the scent faded as I drew close to the pool, as close as I dared for its heat was vast … And I heard it, low at first, like a tremor in the earth, but building, becoming clearer and stronger until I felt my ears might burst from it.

  “I knew then I was a fool, a bug crawling across the feet of a giant, for what would such a voice have to say to a speck such as I? But … he did. ‘Do you know who speaks to you?’ he asked me and through my fear I babbled his name. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I who gave the gift of fire to all mankind. I who saved you from the all-dark. I who has succoured you with warmth for all the ages. For I am the most generous of gods, and yet you always ask for more.’

  “I would have fled if my legs had not failed me, left me crawling on the cave floor like the bug I knew myself to be. I begged him, like a captured Merim Her facing the just knife, I begged and wailed and soiled myself in fear. But Nishak knows neither pity nor anger, he is generous but his gift can burn as well as succour, for truth is a flame that burns deep. ‘I know what you came for, Tahlessa of the Grey Hawks,’ he told me. ‘Your mind is so easily picked apart. So much anger, so much ambition, and what’s this? A child you imagine worthy of a great future, a child you believe will lead the Lonak against the Merim Her. Look closer, see more.’

  “And through the fog of memory I saw it; the boy’s cruelty to all around him, the time I had found him with a strangled pup, the older boy who had fallen to his death when they climbed together, the lies I deafened myself to as he told of an accident, a missed handhold that led to a broken neck. I saw it all.”

  Alturk’s head slumped in shame, his craggy features so steeped in sorrow even Kiral seemed discomforted by it, wincing and averting her gaze. “Instead of accepting this gift,” Alturk went on, “I raged at Nishak, finding the strength to stand. ‘My son has greatness in him!’ I cried. ‘He will sweep the Merim Her into the sea.’ And Nishak laughed, long and hard. ‘Think on that when you kill him,’ he said. ‘Now go.’

  “All became silent save the roiling of the water. I lingered a while longer, calling for Nishak to return and take back his lies, but he had no more words for such an ungrateful bug. I found another passage from the cavern, narrow and winding, but also lit with the same green glow. After hours uncounted it brought me back to the world above, which now seemed so very cold.”

  Alturk fell silent, looking towards the distant fires with the eyes of a tired man soon to confront the twilight of his life. He didn’t turn when he spoke again, though it was obvious to whom he addressed his question, “That thing the Mahlessa freed you from. Did it find him or did he find it?”

  “The Sentar had already been reborn before I was … taken,” Kiral said. “Your son had been one of those who remade it, finding others of similar mind, hungry for blood and seeking to justify their cruelty. He hated the Mahlessa for his disgrace, claiming he could have killed the greatest of the Merim Her but for her weakness, for she was old, and corrupted by the ages. But they were few in number and their plans chaotic, being possessed of a shared madness. To fulfil their mission the Sentar needed leadership, and found it in me.” She grimaced, her voice taking on a note of apology, “You would always have had to kill him, Tahlessa. Only truth can be heard from the gods.”

  He was roused by one of the wolves, a huge male with an insistent tongue and foul-smelling breath. It jumped back a little as Vaelin jerked awake, dagger in hand, angling its head at him in curiosity before voicing an impatient yelp.

  “What is it?” Dahrena groaned at his side, her pale and bleary-eyed face appearing above the furs.

  “I think someone has finally come to welcome us,” he said, reaching for his boots.

  Astorek, Kiral and Wise Bear waited at the foot of the south-facing slope, a line of wolves spread out before them and a cluster of spear-hawks overhead. “How many?” Vaelin asked, coming to Kiral’s side.

  “Just one.”

  Vaelin peered into the distance, picking out a single figure, hooded and cloaked, striding towards them without any apparent alarm at the cloud of spear-hawks descending to circle him at head height. Vaelin went forward to welcome him as he came to a halt before the line of wolves, a man of average height, broad but not overly muscular, drawing his hood back to reveal lean but deeply lined features, and eyes that spoke of a depth of experience Vaelin now knew to be vast.

  “Ah,” said Erlin. “I thought it might be you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Reva

  She awoke to pain, a fierce, piercing ache in her right hand, banishing the blackness with a persistent, pulsing agony. She groaned, shaking her hand, but the pain flared rather than faded. She winced as her eyes opened, sunlight sending a bolt of white fire into her brain. For a time all she could see was a faint yellow blur, her ears constantly assaulted by a roaring hiss. Forcing herself to blink, she managed to focus, the yellow blur resolving into a beach, the roar the rushing waves that jostled her, and the pain in her hand the result of a small red crab attempting to eat her thumb.

  She pinched its claw and tugged it free, tossing it into the surf, gritting her teeth against the sting of salt in the wound but finding herself oddly grateful for the sensation; it confirmed she was, much to her surprise, alive. Barely able to move and lying prostrate on a beach whilst waves pounded her, but still undeniably alive.

  Why? she asked the Father, more curious than angry. You cannot think I deserve to live. You cannot reward one whose lie has killed so many.

  The voice was so unexpected, and shocking in its volume, she thought for an instant the Father had actually deigned to respond. Her heart calmed when she realised the voice called out words she couldn’t understand, her still-cloudy vision finding the owner, a hulking shape in black labouring through the surf towards her. The details of his garb became clear as he neared, a black leather jerkin, a silver medallion worn around the neck, and a whip on his belt. Overseer.

  She let him take hold of her hair and haul her free of the water, keeping her features slack and uncomprehending as his brutish fa
ce came closer, eyes moving over her in expert appraisal. He called over his shoulder to an unseen companion, confirming he wasn’t alone. She kept her eyes half-open as he dragged her from the sea, counting six more shapes standing on the beach, and many more lying prostrate and unmoving.

  The overseer dumped her on the sand where she forced herself to remain limp and immobile, breathing deep but soft, gathering strength. They made the mistake of waiting several minutes before returning to examine their catch, the overseer who had found her pulling her onto her back as his companions gathered round. She counted two with spears as her head lolled to one side, the others with short swords. The overseer pulled up her blouse, revealing her breasts as he voiced a question to his companions. There were a few murmurs of agreement, one of them adding something with an appreciative cackle.

  “My friend … like you,” the overseer said in broken Realm Tongue, taking hold of her face and turning it so she could see his leer. “Want to … fuck you. Might lower the price … But I owe him. You … want fucked, pretty thing?”

  It was really the smile that killed him, not so much the blow, making him frown in puzzlement at her welcoming, lustful grin, drawing back in surprise just enough to expose his throat. Vaelin had taught her the blow; the priest’s lessons in unarmed combat had never been so thorough, nor so effective in practice. Her stiff fingers drove into the overseer’s neck with enough force to crush his larynx, leaving him writhing on the sand, bloody froth gouting from his mouth. Reva rolled on the sand, dodging a plunging spear-point then grabbing the haft before its owner could withdraw for another try. She flicked a kick into his face, sending him reeling, then surged to her feet with his spear in her hands.