Queen of Fire

Frentis nodded to the others and slipped from their shadow, crawling closer under concealment of a low pile of blackened bricks, no more than fifteen feet from the gate.

“A revolt, Honoured Citizen!” Thirty-Four said to the sergeant, an impressively convincing whine colouring his voice. “Please! Oh please!”

“Shut up,” the sergeant said wearily, moving towards Thirty-Four, clearly puzzled by his clothing, mean even for a slave, and the sight of his sword. “Who gave you that? Give it here!”

“Certainly, honoured sir,” Thirty-Four said as the sergeant reached for his sword, drawing it in a single fluid motion and flicking the blade across the man’s eyes. Thirty-Four stepped nimbly past him as he collapsed to his knees, screaming and clutching at his face, killing a Varitai with a thrust to the neck then turning and running. Six Varitai took off in pursuit, one falling dead with Frentis’s throwing knife in his throat, two more quickly hacked down by Davoka and Draker.

Frentis hefted a spear dropped by the Varitai he had killed, hurling it at his onrushing comrade with enough force to pierce his breastplate. Thirty-Four skidded to a halt, pivoted and delivered a precise cut to the leg of the Varitai chasing him, Draker’s blow nearly decapitating the slave soldier as he fell.

“Stay close!” Frentis ordered, scooping up a fallen blade and charging for the gate, a sword in each hand. The five remaining Varitai formed a tidy defensive knot, impassive faces behind levelled spears. Frentis threw his left-hand sword at the one in the centre, the blade sinking into his face just beneath his helmet. Frentis leapt through the gap, slashing left and right, the others moving in to finish those he wounded. A pain-filled yell drew his gaze and he found Draker on his back, parrying thrusts from a Varitai’s spear, a newly earned gash on his forehead. Davoka moved to help him but the outlaw proved his hard-won skills by rolling under the Varitai’s guard to stab at his groin, spoiling the accomplishment somewhat by proceeding to bring the slave soldier down with a series of frenzied blows, obscenities flowing from his snarling lips in a torrent.

“Raise the gate,” Frentis told Davoka, making for the steps leading to the parapet. He found two Free Swords there, youthful faces aghast at the carnage they had witnessed below, pointing their swords at him with trembling hands.

“Fight or run,” Frentis told them in Volarian. “You’ll die today in either case.”

They ran, sprinting away across the parapet without a backward glance. “Tell your comrades the Red Brother’s here!” Frentis yelled after them before turning to pull a torch from a stanchion. He hopped onto the battlement and waved the torch back and forth, peering into the misted fields beyond the walls. A few heartbeats later he saw it, a single torch flaring to life, burning brighter as the bearer came closer, and two thousand Renfaelin knights resolved out of the mist at full gallop. Banders was clearly visible at the head of the tight column, his faux-rusted armour catching the rising sun, Arendil and Ermund on either side of him. They thundered through the gate without pause, the clatter of steel-shod hooves on cobbles rising to a deafening pitch as they charged along Gate Lane. A few Varitai came running from the western quarter to oppose them, a single company managing to form ranks across the lane before being smashed aside by the tide of horse and steel.

“Brother!” Frentis looked down from the gatehouse, finding a grinning Ivern there, mounted, with Frentis’s horse at his side. “The Blackhold awaits!”

• • •

The squat fortress was already in uproar when they got there, two Varitai lying dead at the main gate and several more inside. They were obliged to fight their way into the courtyard as more guards came rushing from a maze of shadowed doorways, mostly Varitai with a few Free Swords showing none of the cowardice of their comrades on the wall. Sollis took his brothers up the stairs and into the upper levels, clearing the archers from the parapet and sending their own arrows down on the defenders below.

Frentis led his company from doorway to doorway, Draker breaking them open as they searched for the Aspects, finding only more Volarians, most willing to fight, others cowering, but all destined to die. He was emerging from a storeroom when a Kuritai appeared out of the shadows, twin short swords flashing. Frentis parried his first blow but slipped on a patch of blood, tumbling to the flagstones, the Kuritai looming above . . . then falling dead when a crossbow bolt punched through his breastplate.

“Not like you to be so clumsy, brother,” Illian observed from across the courtyard, words garbled somewhat by the bolt held between her teeth as she braced the crossbow against her midriff to draw the string back.

He was about to tell her to join Brother Sollis on the parapet but found his attention drawn to a commotion rising from a half-open door at the rear of the courtyard. He went to it, finding a set of steps leading into the bowels of the Blackhold. He called to Davoka to follow and took the stairs at a run. At the base of the steps he found a dead Free Sword with what appeared to be steel darts embedded in both eyes; beside him lay the body of a man in a bedraggled City Guard uniform, bloodied sword in hand and belly rent open.

In the chamber beyond the stairwell lay three Varitai, steel darts jutting from their necks; beyond them a young woman was grappling with a burly Free Sword, blood streaming from her nose and eyes as he forced her to her knees, short sword inching towards her throat. Frentis drew his sword back for a throw but Illian was faster, sending a bolt into the Volarian’s temple before he could bring his blade to bear.

The woman slumped beneath the collapsing Free Sword, blood bubbling on her lips as she issued a groan of near-complete exhaustion. Frentis hauled the corpse away and helped her upright, finding her eyes still bright despite the paleness of her skin. “My brother . . .” she whispered.

“Brother?”

“Rhelkin . . . City Guard.”

Frentis shook his head and the woman moaned in sorrow, blinking red tears before speaking again. “Aspects . . . are they safe?”

He cast his gaze around the chamber, taking in the sight of the cells. From one of them he could hear an implacable thumping noise, a voice within shouting something unintelligible but with an odd note of authority. “Search the bodies,” he told Illian. “Find the keys.”

Aspect Dendrish stood still and straight-backed as the door swung open, face rigid and composed though his rapidly blinking eyes told of a man expectant of a swift death. “Aspect,” Frentis greeted him with a bow. “Brother Frentis. I doubt you remember, but we met at my Test of Knowledge . . .”

The Aspect seemed to deflate, issuing an explosive sigh of relief and doubling over, as much as his bulk would allow. “Where is Aspect Elera?” he demanded after a moment, raising a haggard face that somehow managed to retain a vestige of the imperious self-regard Frentis recalled.

“Brother Frentis,” she said as the door opened, sitting on her bed, smiling in welcome, her hands clasped in her lap. “How you’ve grown. Is Alucius with you?”

There was a pounding of running feet and Ivern appeared at the door to the cell, his grin even wider than usual. “Brother Sollis sends his regards, Aspects,” he said, nodding briefly at them in turn before addressing Frentis. “He says to gather your people and forget about holding this place. We need to get to the docks.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Vaelin

“Have I ever told you,” Nortah began, his pallor somewhat grey in the dim light of the hold, “how much I detest sea travel?”

Behind him one of his fighters gave a grunt of agreement before heaving into his helmet. “Do it in the bilges,” Nortah rebuked him. “You’ll have to wear that before long.”

Vaelin gave his brother a soft pat on the arm and moved deeper into the hold, passing ranks of free fighters dressed in Volarian armour, taking the steps to the lower deck where the Seordah sat in equal misery. He found Hera Drakil sitting next to a half-open porthole, eyes closed and mouth open to suck in the sweet outside air.

“We’re five miles from the harbour,” Vaelin told him, drawing a puzzled frown. “We’ll be there soon,” he clarified. “Make your people ready.”

“They have been ready to get off this horrible thing since they stepped on it,” the war chief returned with a baleful glint in his eye. Without Dahrena’s guidance, persuading them to this stratagem had not been an easy thing. He had explained it all in detail to Hera Drakil, the queen adding her voice with promises of great rewards and everlasting gratitude should they consent to take ship to Varinshold. The Seordah listened to it all in silence then walked back to his people’s encampment. Vaelin and Lyrna lingered on the periphery watching the argument unfold. The Seordah were not a demonstrative people, rarely given to raised voices or gesticulation, so there had been a certain ominous quality to the increasing stillness and quietude evident in the various war chiefs as they sat in a circle and debated the merits of Vaelin’s plan. Eventually, after several hours and with night coming on, Hera Drakil returned, his face rigid with reluctance as he said, “We go on the big water.”

“Salt staining every breath,” the Seordah said now. “No earth beneath your feet. How can such a thing be borne for any time?”