Firestorm Read online

  ‘It’s huge,’ Kul’Das whispered finally. ‘How many are buried here?’

  ‘According to Kyndra, Ben-haugr was built on the remains of a city called Kalast.’ Brégenne clasped her elbows, hugging them close to her body. She fancied the cold wasn’t just in the air. It seemed to flow from the very earth. ‘There was a great battle here. The city fell.’

  Gareth abruptly began to cough, his left hand raised to cover his mouth.

  Alarmed, Brégenne steadied him. ‘Gareth, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Smoke,’ he said faintly and then he shook her off. ‘I mean … I’m fine, Brégenne. It’s this place, the memories. I can see them, smell them.’

  Brégenne exchanged a look with Kul’Das. She suspected they shared the same thought: whatever corrupting power was in the gauntlet had grown stronger. They needed to find the other one and free Gareth before it was too late.

  ‘I’m not mad,’ he said angrily. ‘There’s something here, something keeping the land from forgetting.’

  Before Brégenne could reply, he started down the hill. She and Kul’Das followed hastily, slipping on the silky grass. As they lost height, the mounds gained it, until they loomed like slumped giants, mossy chests stilled in death. Brégenne spotted a hint of road here and there, but most of Kalast had been swallowed by the earth, its buildings long since fallen. The silence was extreme; they’d left the wind behind on the hilltop.

  ‘Can you feel that?’ Kul’Das whispered. ‘There’s something here. Suffocating. I cannot describe it.’

  Brégenne couldn’t either. ‘Hard to breathe,’ she agreed, pulling at her collar.

  Gareth glanced around. ‘It’s not safe for you,’ he said. ‘Go back.’

  ‘We’ve come this far together.’ Brégenne tried to ignore how tight her throat felt. ‘I won’t abandon you now.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Gareth held her gaze. ‘This is not a place for the living.’

  ‘You’re no safer than we,’ Kul’Das said.

  He shook his head and a bitter smile pulled at his lips. ‘But I am, Kul’Das. I am.’

  ‘We’re fine,’ Brégenne said more firmly than she felt. ‘Let’s just keep going.’

  Gareth immediately turned westward, crossing over uneven ground that could conceal any number of horrors. The earthworks of the dead towered over them and it was all too easy to imagine their fragile top layer shearing away at the pressure of the bodies packed inside.

  Then, without warning, Gareth’s right arm lifted and he broke into a stumbling run. Brégenne heard his hiss of shock and she reached for him, but he was already several metres ahead, his gauntleted arm rigid before him, as if some unseen force had hold of it.

  ‘Gareth!’

  It was becoming harder to breathe. The suffocating presence in the mounds pressed against her chest and Brégenne drew in great gulps of air. ‘Gareth, stop!’ she gasped.

  ‘I can’t!’ She heard the panic in his voice and willed herself to go faster.

  Up ahead, Brégenne caught sight of a much larger mound; long instead of circular, its shallow ends rising to a peak in the middle. She gave a shout of frustration. ‘Do something,’ she shot at Kul’Das.

  ‘I … I don’t know –’ The woman beside her was in no better state. Kul’Das’s brow creased, her hands beginning to glow, but Brégenne could see it in her eyes – she hadn’t the first clue how to wield the Solar.

  The walls of the mound loomed larger than ever. Mosses sheathed the stone, their slimy green blanket oddly menacing. Gareth cried out, dug in his heels and slowed just enough for Brégenne and Kul’Das to grab hold of his waist. His arm was scant inches from the wall. Brégenne gritted her teeth, but the gauntlet’s strength was incredible. Her fingers began to slip.

  ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘Gareth!’

  He managed a strangled scream before the gauntlet pulled him headfirst into the solid stone.

  5

  Hagdon

  They say that when a wind sweeps through the blackened heart of the Deadwood, it brings with it the scent of fire. At least that’s what James Hagdon had heard. He tilted his head back, sniffed the air, and, indeed, caught the acrid tang of charcoal.

  He’d had little cause to visit the wood during his years in the army. A ravaged place, home to bandits and cutthroats, it had no strategic or economic importance. And as the Fist’s general, he’d always had more pressing battles to fight. Hagdon shrugged deeper into his cloak. Every day, he strove to put that time behind him. Every day, it was a challenge.

  ‘Is this the only way to Ben-haugr?’

  Irilin rode beside him. The young Wielder’s hair lay tangled in the feathers of her cloak; wind had left a dusting of ash on her temple and Hagdon felt a passing urge to brush it away. Instead he said, ‘No, but it’s the swiftest.’

  The edge of the Deadwood loomed ahead of them; despite the distance they still had to cross, Hagdon could clearly see the line where scrubland met blackened earth. Irilin gave it a dark glance. ‘I don’t much like the look of it.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to reach this Gareth as quickly as possible,’ Hagdon replied mildly.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Irilin stiffen. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked with a hint of defiance. ‘Why are you helping us find him?’

  ‘I told you. It’ll be good to have another Wielder on our side. Plus,’ Hagdon added, squarely meeting her gaze, ‘he’s your friend.’

  Irilin looked away, a faint flush in her cheeks.

  Behind him, Hagdon could hear the tumbling tramp of many hooves. About fifty men and women accompanied him, all mantled in the black feathers of the Republic. Amon Taske, his old commandant – and the man who offered me this job, Hagdon thought wryly – led another group, aiming to gather intelligence on Iresonté. Hagdon’s fist tightened on the reins. How long had she been planning this takeover? She’d not lifted a finger to help the emperor, but had calmly watched him bleed to death at Hagdon’s feet. He fought back the memory. It’s over, he told himself harshly. He led the Republic now, and that meant preventing Iresonté from marching the Fist into Rairam, the one land Sartya had never managed to conquer. If she dug in there, they’d never dislodge her.

  Hagdon sighed. I need more men. The Republic might have contacts all over Acre, but using them to gather a force strong enough to challenge the Fist seemed impossible. Taske, however, was convinced of finding Sartyan soldiers still loyal to Hagdon, that once news of the emperor’s death began to spread, they would come forward to join him.

  Hagdon wasn’t so sure. Having served in the Sartyan Fist for most of his life, he had been bred to obey, to respect the hierarchy, to stamp out any resistance.

  Now he was the resistance.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Irilin asked him.

  ‘That Taske is wrong. We won’t find many friends among the Fist.’

  ‘Perhaps you are both wrong,’ Irilin said, her eyes on the dark smudge of the Deadwood ahead of them. ‘There are men loyal to you, but they won’t come forward without a show of strength. The Republic is a fractured group with no base of operations, no visible presence.’ She switched her gaze to him. ‘If you were not already committed, would you side openly with us?’

  Hagdon studied her. ‘Taske claims the Republic has connections in all the major cities, including New Sartya.’

  ‘Then use them.’ She returned his gaze evenly. ‘The time for secrecy is over. Someone has to come forward to lead.’ Irilin raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you want it to be Iresonté?’

  She made a good point, Hagdon thought. They did need a solid, visible presence in Acre. If there were Sartyans sympathetic to the cause, they would not declare for the Republic without, as Irilin said, a show of strength. ‘What do you propose?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t there anywhere the Republic can call home?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe so. While the emperor lived, it would have been too dangerous.’

  ‘Well, then,’
Irilin said, ‘now that the emperor is dead, there is no reason not to establish the Republic as an official power. All you need is a base.’ She paused. ‘A fortress would be good.’

  Hagdon chuckled. ‘Spoken by someone who’s spent most of her life in an impregnable mountain. If only there were a stray fortress just lying around.’

  Irilin folded her arms, letting the reins rest in her lap. ‘This is Acre. You’re saying there isn’t?’

  ‘Of course there—’ Hagdon reined in abruptly, held up a hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Horses ahead of us.’

  Irilin tilted her head. ‘Where? How do you know?’

  ‘Hoof beats. Can’t you hear?’

  As if to confirm his words, Nediah and Kait cantered up beside them. ‘People ahead.’ Kait pointed vaguely to the north. There was ash in her hair too, grey upon brown.

  ‘How many?’ Hagdon snapped, feeling himself slide back into the habit of command.

  ‘Twenty, perhaps more.’ Nediah glanced at the sky; the sun had already slipped far down the horizon, weakening the Solar powers they both commanded.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Kait said, nudging the other Wielder. ‘Nediah and I can deal with them.’

  Nediah moved his horse away from her. ‘You forget I’m not in the business of killing.’

  His words deepened the spots of colour in Kait’s cheeks. ‘Fine,’ she said, turning back to Hagdon. ‘I’ll deal with them.’

  Hagdon gave the signal to halt and the soldiers of the Republic formed up around him. They were only a league from the garrison at Artiba. It might be a normal patrol. Then again it might not – likely, Iresonté had some stealth force stationed in the old fort. One message from her could rouse fifty men against him.

  The hoof beats were easily heard now, metal shoes ringing against dirt. Hagdon caught a glimpse of familiar red plate as the horsemen crested a rise in the land. The dying afternoon cast a bloody glow over their armour and Hagdon felt a strange pang that he no longer wore it. He counted swiftly; thirty, give or take a few. Could be better, could be worse. Much of the Republic was still untrained and those who were able to fight would struggle to match a soldier of the Fist. Better if it did not come to bloodshed. But that was a hope he couldn’t afford to entertain.

  Hagdon squinted at the group as they neared; of the uncovered faces, none were familiar. He felt the unease of those behind him in the shifting of their horses, in the creak of leather as hands curled around hilts.

  The Sartyans reined in and there was silence as the two forces studied each other. One soldier raised the visor of their helm. Hagdon saw a woman with pale eyes under dark brows and, for a terrible, frozen moment, thought it was Iresonté herself. But this woman was older. Without a word, she reached down, untied a sack from her saddle straps and opened it. In one smooth motion, she drew out a head, still bloody at the neck and tossed it into the dirt at Hagdon’s horse’s feet. The face was obscured, but it made no difference: he’d recognize the mask of the stealth force anywhere.

  ‘General,’ the woman said and smacked a fist to her shoulder.

  It took the relieved Hagdon several seconds to return the salute. ‘Your name?’ he asked, hearing his voice crack slightly.

  ‘Mercia,’ she said. ‘Lieutenant of the Artiban Garrison.’

  ‘Mercia.’ Hagdon nodded. ‘First, general is no longer my rank. Second, where is your captain?’

  ‘Disinclined to break with tradition,’ Mercia said in the crisp tones of the Vordon lakelanders. ‘He will swear allegiance to Iresonté.’ Her lip curled. ‘Her agents were in and out faster than a gull on a fish. I don’t know what this one offered him –’ she nodded at the head – ‘but I ensured she wouldn’t make the same offer elsewhere.’

  ‘The emperor is dead.’ Hagdon felt a numbing chill in the pit of his stomach; it had been there ever since he’d driven his sword into his ruler’s chest. ‘You know this, I presume?’

  For the first time, Mercia hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you know that you’d be joining a traitor.’ He paused. ‘A murderer.’

  Mercia swallowed. Other Sartyans exchanged glances. Hagdon was aware he’d confirmed the story Iresonté must have spread. Perhaps these soldiers had believed it to be just that, a tall tale of treason to discredit the ex-general, to discourage any desire to rally behind him.

  They needed an explanation, but Hagdon wasn’t sure what to give them. He had no wish to talk about his nephew, Tristan, dead at the emperor’s hands, or his sister, the boy’s mother, swinging from the tree in her little garden. He focused on those faces turned to him, trying to banish Tristan’s.

  ‘Change is coming. The emperor was a symbol of the old order, an order that has been falling apart for twenty years. Our strength, our success, was based on ambertrix, not good government. Our resources dwindle, outlying territories falling into poverty. Slavers once again thrive in the Beaches. Did the emperor address any of this? No. He was content to see Acre dissolve around us.’

  Hagdon heard mutters; whether they were mutters of agreement, he couldn’t tell.

  ‘In the days following Rairam’s return, we need new leadership, a body comprised not only of Heartlanders, but of people of every territory. I will not ask you to swear allegiance to me,’ he added, meeting as many gazes as he could. ‘If you join us, you will no longer be part of the Fist, but the new Republic.’

  More muttering, and this time it was animated. Too much too soon? Hagdon wondered. He hurried on. ‘Iresonté is waging the wrong war. We cannot afford to treat Rairam as an enemy when the true and greater threat is Khronosta.’ He caught Irilin nodding out of the corner of his eye and, strangely heartened, added, ‘They seek to change history, to alter what has been.’

  Silence.

  Hagdon almost let slip a wry smile. Once, he too would have found it hard to believe. He took a breath. ‘The Starborn works to stop them in the past. I work to build Acre a future.’

  He’d been prepared for it, known it was coming, but the hostility on every face still shocked him.

  ‘You’re allied with her?’ Mercia said, disgust plain in her voice. ‘She slaughtered five hundred of us.’

  ‘An act my poor leadership forced her to commit,’ Hagdon said firmly. ‘The deaths of my men rest, as ever, on my shoulders.’

  A volatile mix of unease and anger rippled back through the thirty or so Sartyans. Any hope of an alliance might have ended there, but for Irilin. She urged her horse past Hagdon’s, stopping in front of Mercia. ‘Kyndra is my friend,’ she said bravely into the face of the other woman’s anger. ‘She may have made mistakes, mistakes for which she punished herself far more severely than you ever could, but she’s also a young woman who shouldered the burden of leadership because no one else wanted it.’ She paused, looked to the east. ‘She reunited Rairam with Acre, she came for peace not war. And now she works to save the very people who captured her, cornered her and forced her to kill when all she wished was compromise. I know there is bad blood between you, and I’m sorry for the part I played in that.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Hagdon, at his face, at the scratches long since faded from his cheek. ‘But why make an enemy of her when there are enemies enough already?’ She smiled then, albeit grimly. ‘I watched her fight du-alakat. You’d much rather stand beside that power than against it.’

  In the silence that followed her speech, it seemed Irilin abruptly became aware of where she was and what she was doing. Flushing, she glanced at Hagdon again and he rode up to join her. ‘What do you say, Lieutenant Mercia?’ he asked the pale-eyed soldier. ‘Will we fight this day? Or will you and your men stay to hear the whole story?’

  He could almost feel the Wielders tensing, ready to call down fire at a moment’s notice. Beside him, Irilin trembled slightly, but she sat tall in her saddle. Without her Lunar power, she was defenceless and she knew it. Hagdon admired her courage.

  Finally, Mercia sighed. ‘You should get her to write your speeches,
Hagdon.’

  They told their story beneath the eaves of the Deadwood. The charred forest loomed on their left; they were camped at its fringes, waiting until they had light on their side.

  ‘The Sisters have expanded their territory,’ Mercia said, biting into a steaming haunch of venison. She wiped the juice from her chin. ‘Their numbers too. We’ve been half expecting a raid.’

  ‘The Sisters are thieves and smugglers,’ Hagdon said, frowning. ‘Why would they attack you?’

  ‘We have a long-standing agreement that they bring us aberrations in exchange for coin.’ Mercia gave a grunt of displeasure. ‘But they grow increasingly bold in their demands.’

  Across the fire, Irilin looked up sharply. ‘My friends passed through there,’ she said. ‘Do you think they ran into these women?’

  ‘More than likely.’ Mercia gestured expansively with the haunch. ‘The Sisters know the Deadwood, have turned it into a trap. You see, aberrations fleeing Sartyan patrols will take the forest road rather than pass too close to the garrison.’ She shook her head. ‘Caught between the two of us, poor fools.’

  ‘You pity them?’ The question was out before Hagdon could stop it; he felt the chill around the fire as the Wielders turned frosty gazes upon him.

  ‘I do,’ Mercia said, ignoring the tension and ripping off another mouthful of meat. She chewed slowly. ‘Buying aberrations only to put them to work in Parakat – it’s no better than slavery.’

  Irilin closed her open mouth. She looked somewhat chastened as she stared at Mercia. ‘Do more Sartyans share your opinion?’ she asked.

  ‘Good venison.’ Mercia finished the haunch, licked her fingers. ‘A few. Others believe the aberrations should be restrained for their own protection. The rest take the emperor’s line and think to work them to death.’

  Hagdon could have sworn Irilin flashed him a dark glance. For a moment he shifted uncomfortably before some of his old defiance returned. ‘Years ago,’ he said, ‘when I was assigned to the prison wagons, we stopped at a village known to be sheltering aberrations. It was a family – the father and all three children born with the ability. When he saw us coming, he told his children to go inside and lock the doors.’ Hagdon could hear it in his voice, the dispassion he’d cultivated over years of doing the emperor’s work. He glanced at his listeners. Kait looked as fierce as she always did, Nediah simply sad. Irilin’s eyes were narrowed; he couldn’t read her expression at all.