Lightning and Flame

by V. S. Holmes

  “We’re being crushed.” Colonel Currow spat.

  Raven glanced around. “The general?”

  Hamacad shook his head. “Fallen. I’m acting now.”

  Raven snarled and fixed Bren with a glare. “Where’s your damned sister? She made a promise to us!”

  Bren grabbed the man’s tabard. “She promised we would win, she did not promise there wouldn’t be a cost!” He thrust the man away and spun his horse. “Those shields Azirik laid are powerful. We’d be drinking to victory already if not for them. Blame that if you must.” The thunder of hooves behind them interrupted his next words. “Toar!”

  Raven wheeled, blinking against the burning red clouds. “To me!” The men rallied, preparing for whatever new attack approached. A rider dashed past them, then another and a third. Dozens of grey chargers bearing pale, horned warriors.

  A crack rang through the battle and gun smoke joined the acrid gas. An’thor broke from the group, slowing as he passed Bren. His teeth were bared in a vicious grin. “You just going to stand there or join in the fun?”

  Bren whooped and kicked his mount after them. Raven led his men about the flank again, mirroring Hamacad’s infantry in a second charge. Bren’s riders streamed after the Ageless warriors. The chaos and smell and noise filled Bren’s head, strangling any thought beyond staying alive. His new armor already bore marks, earning the dings and dents he would value and love like those that had marred his own armor. His broadsword looped with the momentum of his charging horse. The mount came to a shuddering halt, pole arm embedded in the muscles of its chest. The squealing animal thudded to the ground, thrashing. Bren’s left thigh was pinned under its heavy girth. Bren checked for imminent descending blades, then kicked his right foot from the stirrup, planting it on the seat of the saddle for leverage. He groaned, his leg already beginning to tingle as the weight pinched his nerves. “Dammit!” He shoved again, harder, flexing his trapped limb in an effort to free it. Suddenly two hard arms gripped his chest.

  “Help, you damned oaf!” Arman hissed. Bren pushed a third time, wriggling free. He lurched to his feet. Arman backed into the fog. Scales covered his entire body, white and gold and green. Bren staggered, his leg still regaining its feeling. His view of the Rakos was blocked by the bulk of An’thor’s borrowed horse.

  An’thor grabbed Bren’s arm. “Up you get, Barrackborn.”

  Bren swung himself into the saddle behind An’thor. When he looked for Arman again there was only swirling white smoke.

  “You can swing that sword if you want, but if you take my arm with it I’m kicking you from the saddle faster than my blood will cover you.”

  Bren laughed and held up his sword, shouting to form a phalanx of riders. They punched through the Berrin forces, scattering them to the sides then wheeling to pursue. The Ageless had helped in number, certainly, but what men still stood were marred with blood and Bren could see Miriken scaling the cliff face beneath Alea.

  Seeing a rider-less horse, Bren pounded his fist on An’thor shoulder and pointed. He slipped off the gray charger and jogged towards the lighter Athrolani mount whose reins were tangled in a mess of weapons and bodies. He was up in moments, tugging the animal about. All order had gone from the battlefield. Pockets of fighting made it seem as if the ground between the cliffs seethed. Bren rounded as many of his men as he could before leading them towards a dense group of Azirik’s men. Please let there be no familiar faces here.

  Φ

  Alea felt Azirik’s hold falter. Azirik, stop!

  You think this is me? You think I have the strength to wield this anymore? You want to destroy the gods? Then come and get me.

  She felt the ferocity in his snarl. Careful what you ask. You should be terrified. The past year cauterized any mercy I could have felt. Cold bloomed in her abdomen, spinning up her spine and down her limbs. Her focus turned to the sparks of white flames dotting the clouds. Arman, are they ready? She felt the brush of power on her mind as he opened his thoughts to her.

  We lost Erek, but the rest of us hold strong. What do you need from me?

  I need you to mirror what I do, with your fire.

  How?

  You are connected to the earth and the sun as I am to the ocean and the air. Her voice was gentle.

  Alea tested the threads to each of her allies and held them fast with one mental hand. With the other, she drew power from the aquifers deep in the earth. She pulled from the ocean to the north. The power exploded through the Crown. Cold from every ocean in the world answered her gentle beckon. She wove her power into each wave. This might hurt.

  I’ve died before, Alea. It can’t be much worse. Now!

  At Arman’s shout, Alea gripped her power. The ground trembled beneath her boots. Her thoughts coalesced into a single word, bursting into Bren’s mind, the commanders, the colonels. Now. With a last great tug, she ripped herself open. There was no difference between Alea and Destruction.

  Φ

  Arman whirled through the clouds, a white spiral of smoke worming through the poisonous brown. He sank through the conduit ringing his brow and into the power beneath. He felt the billowing chill of Alea’s breathing, but now he could not distinguish between her breath and his, between the thunder of her heartbeat and his own pulse. He had been wrong. The pain ignited every nerve. He curled in on himself, hands clenched in fists, arms wrapped around his head.

  The pain exploded every thought from his mind and his body solidified. He plummeted towards the ground. A grating moan began deep inside his chest, turning into a keening cry that dragged itself from his lips as his power snapped open. His skin burst into flames, a burning ray of light piercing upwards through the clouds from the body of each Rakos. Sun. Earth.

  His clothes turned to ash, metal dripping from the heat of his body. The flesh between his scales glowed brilliant yellow, like magma in the heart of the earth. He glanced down as he fell. He had seen this before, seen the ground rushing to meet him, seen the body of an Earth Shaker replace his own.

  Arman, the fire!

  His power punched through the clouds again, light igniting the poisonous air as he channeled the power of the sun. Below, the earth growled. He closed his eyes. Surrender.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-ONE

  The 9th Day of Valemord, 1252

  The City of Ceir Athrolan

  ELLE CROUCHED BEHIND WHAT was left of the palace’s southeast tower. It had been decades since the Laen used their powers in battle. Even then, most who fought, died. But she, who had run for months to find a place to hide her daughter, knew more about deception and bloodshed. Her hands shook and she brought them to her brow. Hooves tore the fields to pieces and the shining white walls of the city were cracked and blackened from Berrin war machines.

  Tzatia had taken up a post in the kitchens with the household staff and noble women who would not fight. The eastern wing of the palace was crushed under catapult ballast and the walls threatened to fall. If the walls gave, it would be over.

  A young boy dashed from cover to cover, finally sliding down beside her. He offered a water skin in the hand he still had. “Milady Laen, here.” His voice cracked from puberty and smoke.

  “Thank you.” She smiled and took a few sips before handing it back. It was the third time he had brought her water and food. “What are you called?”

  “Bren, milady.”

  She winced at the snap and whistle of another missile being loosed. The air screamed before its passage moments before it crashed into the wall beside her. The stone shuddered. “Excuse me?”

  “Vanabren Westing, milady. They call me Bren.” His eyes somehow still sparked through fatigue and wariness.

  “It’s a good name,” she offered. “My son’s short-name is Bren.” She watched the wall with the men below, wondering if it would hold. “That cannot take another hit.”

  The boy glanced at her. “Athrolan cannot fall, you know. The Dhoah’ Laen promised us.”

  Her heart chafed at
the innocence in the words. “I hope not, Bren.” She stepped from behind the tower, arrows slicing the air around her. Her body trembled from fear and exhaustion. Power flowed from her hands, holding the stones. Deep moaning filled the air. The sound went on and she realized it came from the north. Wind whipped the ocean’s surface, whirling the water into the air. The water continued to rise. The sound deafened her and stinging droplets shot across the waves, collected more and more and racing over the cliffs and hills as if drawn by a great storm. The scent of ocean and salt and time drifted in its wake. Lyne’alea. Elle straightened and raised her hands. “Bren, give the others a message!” Her voice arched against the buffeting wind. “We’re balance and all things end. Age them. Fray the ropes. Rust their weapons.”

  The message was passed along the chain of Laen on the ramparts. Pale hands rose, grey hair whipping back. The Berrin did not notice until their catapults no longer shot. The swords rusted from the hilts. Horse leathers dried and cracked.

  The battle did not end with the Berrin driven into the hills amidst Athrolani war cries, though the legends would tell it so. The attackers eased back, staring at the sky that still swirled with rain. Their ruined weapons littered the hills and the machines crumbled where they stood. Those who still could disappeared back into the trees. Elle turned as Vanabren emerged from behind the remnants of the tower. His hand shielded his eyes from the smoke and dust in the wet air.

  “Your queen shelters in the palace, in the kitchens. Tell her Athrolan is saved.”

  “Shall I tell her you’ll see her when you’ve rested?”

  Elle shook her head and relayed the rest of her message for the queen. She straightened and closed her eyes. They had saved their power for so long, waiting for battle. Now, it was finally over.

  Vanabren scrambled down the shattered tower and into the palace. Walls were toppled, rooms destroyed and the royal suites were nothing more than memory. He found his way to the barred doors of the kitchen after three tries. The guards let him through and he slowed, peering through the dark to find the queen. She perched on a barrel of smoked meat, holding quiet conversation with one of the other women.

  Her gaze turned to him as he knelt. “What is it?”

  “I bring a message from the Laen, your majesty.”

  “Has the city fallen?”

  He dared to look up at her. “Athrolan stands.”

  Tzatia stared, almost in disbelief. Finally she rose and smoothed her skirts. “Thank you.” She turned and issued orders, sending guards and nobles and servants rushing through the palace. Seeing that he had not moved, she glanced back at Vanabren. “Was there something else?”

  “Yes, your majesty. Lady Elle, with the black in her hair, told me something else. She said Lyne’alea will win.”

  Φ

  The Ruins of Claimiirn

  The blow of Alea’s mind against Bren’s sent him reeling. Pebbles dislodged and skittered down the cliff faces, larger rocks tumbled after. “Alea!” His voice was joined by that of the commander and the colonels. Officers took it up, her names bounding across the battlefield. The ground heaved, cracking as geysers burst through the stone.

  Bren urged his horse alongside An’thor’s. “Get out of here! She protected us, not you!” His warning came too late as black water exploding from the screaming earth. He grabbed An’thor’s cloak and dragged the man from his horse. The scent of salt filled the air. The fields flooded in minutes and still the water came. Moaning rose in the south and the clouds above burst into flames. The ground shuddered again and gouts of thick magma roared through the dirt. The screams of opposing elements meeting each other drowned out those of the men caught between. Bren shielded his eyes against the battering forces, looking up as water solidified the lava coating his shield of power.

  The destruction seemed to last forever, the roaring outside the shell of rock fading slowly. The silence replacing it was far worse. After a moment Bren glanced over at An’thor. Bren had pulled the warrior under the protection just in time. An’thor shook, his eyes wide. His face paled further and he retched.

  Bren looked away. What his sister had done was terrible, but he had killed Laen, and nothing twisted the gut worse. He pushed himself to his feet and tested the shell. It was like black glass, shot through with flecks of red and green and blue. After a few solid blows it cracked then shattered.

  Bren stumbled free and stopped. He stared at the battlefield before him, heedless of the blood drawn by the razor edges of the glass shell. “An’thor.”

  “I know.”

  Corpses were strewn everywhere, those in the lowlands charred to ash and skeletons. Piles of blackened bones marked fallen horses. Water dripped from the higher plain, salty runnels of seawater waving their way back into the earth. The bodies it left were pale and bloated. Flies already gathered. Dotting the fields were other shells along what had been the boundary of the two elements. Others rose from crouches, their armor and uniforms dry and unburnt. There was nothing left of the Berrin or the enemy Miriken that he could see, save a few hundred troops what managed to escape the carnage by climbing into the ruins.

  Azirik. Alea’s mind-voice howled through Bren’s thoughts, devoid of emotion or haste.

  “Right.” He looked around for a mount, only to wish he had not. The only horses near enough were swollen bodies or blackened grizzle. He staggered across the field to the stairway winding up to the palace. Adrenaline was rage in his limbs, but it faded quickly. Hard, cold hands caught him the third time his boots slipped on the granite stairs.

  The creature that crouched on the landing before him was not his sister. Her features echoed in the face, but the resemblance ended there. Her hair writhed like black snakes, rivulets of water trickling from her solid black eyes. Shadows filled her skin. “Almost there.”

  He pulled himself up and followed her silent steps. The journey ended at Claimiirn’s great hall. A pair of guards flanked the door, blades drawn. Bren’s laugh was closer to a hoarse bark. “Everyone’s dead. Forget it.”

  “Lieutenant Barrackborn, sir?” The younger guard stepped forward, peering closer.

  Bren wiped blood and sweat from his eyes. “Captain Sorier?”

  “Don’t you remember? You made me lieutenant before you left.” He frowned, glancing from Bren to the figure beside him. “Is this where you were going?”

  “It appears both our roads led here, eh?” Bren swallowed hard, hands tightening on the hilt of his broadsword. He had recognized enough faces under his blows for a dozen lifetimes. “I’ve about had it with killing for today. Please don’t try to stop us.”

  Sorier glanced at the other guard, a man Bren did not know. “We’re not here to stop you, Barrackborn. We’re here to escort you.”

  Bren glanced between them, then over at Alea’s sparking eyes. Her hand was ice freezing around his own. “What?”

  “Come in and he’ll explain. Hurry, though, he’s got little time left.” Sorier led them into the hall. Unlit torches lined the walls. Trees grew through the cracked flagging and vines draped the pillars. Several tents stood along the rear wall. Azirik slumped in the center of the hall, body still wreathed in bubbling red-brown light. Bren stopped a few paces away, distantly aware of Alea beside him. Azirik’s eyes were narrowed in pain and disbelief and a hundred other things that stampeded through Bren’s own mind. His hands shook. “Do I have to fight you?”

  Azirik jerked his head. The bruised, rotting flesh around the Crown pulsed and blood-laced fluid seeped over the copper. “No. Not anymore.” His eyes flicked to Alea. “Hello, again.”

  Φ

  Power thundered through Alea’s head, almost drowning the words. Again? She took in the mess of Crown and skin and bone on his brow and heard the rattling cough of his voice. The smell of decay met her nose. “It was you. You talked to me while I waited for the moon to set.”

  Bren turned to look at her, by his expression clearly wondering whether she had lost her wits.

  Azirik’
s body racked with a strangled gasp. After a moment she realized it was a laugh. “Yes. You didn’t know?”

  “How could I have?”

  “I recognized you immediately. If I saw you, so would the gods, and neither of us were ready for that.” He hauled himself up until he sat on the flagging. “You think I could see you now?”

  Alea shuddered and her power rolled back into her skin, writhing into the Crown on her head and disappearing. She would never look entirely human, but she was recognizable. She tilted her head at him. “You let me go.”

  “I spent these last months putting everything in place. An’thor was the last piece. I had close to a hundred Ageless just waiting for my word.” He swallowed hard. “Tell me what you’ll do. Will you raise the Laen to their rightful place?”

  She shook her head. Her cheeks were damp and salty. “Is that why you did this? You thought you could reverse everything that ever harmed the Laen? Oh, fates, no.” She stepped forward cautiously, ignoring Bren’s murmured warning. “No. The gods weren’t wrong. Everything has an end. Every reign will fall. Some in fire and some in death and some simply ease away like an old dog in the night. They weren’t right, either, though. They are not what comes next.” She was a pace away.

  “Is it your people? You and your Rakos?”

  She knelt beside him and reached out tentatively. She had never felt more vulnerable. This madman gave his last months for her victory. He tore his people, his allies, his masters apart from within and all for her. “No, something new. I don’t know exactly, but I know it’s coming. It is mighty and different, and beautiful.”

  “Can’t be more beautiful than you.” He took her hand. “Take it. Please.”

  “You won’t live though it.”

  “I know. The world you’re saving has no place for people like you and me. We’re killers. We are not meant for peace. We might walk in it a while, but never will we fit.” He squeezed her hand. “Go on. I’ll hold them back for the second it takes, but I can’t do it forever.”