Firestorm Read online

  Some were occupied.

  Gareth took an automatic step back, scanning the chamber frantically before he realized they were just skeletons, their bony wrists propped upon the armrests. Several reclined, as if replete after a large meal, others sat straight. Rags hung from their shoulders, the remnants of once-fine clothes. Whoever had arranged them as corpses had a dubious sense of humour, Gareth thought, or, rather, no sense of humour at all. There was an air of utter seriousness about the tableau, as if this macabre gathering was meant to last for eternity. Studying the skeleton at the head of the table, he wondered who it had worn in life. It clutched a silver cup in its left hand, ivory digits curled around the metal, on the cusp of raising it to drink. A sword leaned against the chair.

  Gareth’s foot touched the top step. He hadn’t meant to descend, but rather to follow the balcony round to the opposite side. But something about the scene called to him, as if a part of him wished to take a place at the table, to feast on dust and memory. Moving slowly, he walked down the wide stairs and across the floor. Close up, the table appeared larger, long enough to seat twenty men. Gareth peered into one of the pitchers; only a rusty patina remained to stain its sides.

  A flutter of movement caught his eye and he froze. Slowly, slowly, the skeletal warrior in the top chair turned to look at him.

  Gareth watched with dreadful fascination as its fingers closed tighter around the silver cup. They squeezed the metal until it crumpled like paper. With the same slow grace, the warrior stood, easing out of the chair. It stooped to retrieve its sword, gave it a practice swing. The gesture was so human, so out of place that Gareth felt light-headed. The dead don’t walk.

  ‘Not unless I ask them to.’

  The voice was both within and without. Gareth felt it resonate in his chest cavity; saw it shiver through the walls of the great tomb, as if to imbue the stone with life. Other figures rose, skeletal hands reaching for blades: the only things not rusted or tarnished, Gareth realized, stumbling back. He was ungainly in this decaying body, his movements stiff and stilted – unlike the fleshless warriors. They came for him with deliberate, unhurried steps.

  One swing of that greatsword would sever limbs. It wouldn’t kill him – at least Gareth didn’t think so – but how would he walk or fight? So he drew his mother’s sword, the Kul blade she’d hurled at him when he’d left home, and brought it up before his face.

  He backed towards the staircase, but it was too wide, too open. He needed to find a bottleneck, somewhere they could only come at him one at a time. Turning his stumbling into a measured retreat, Gareth edged his way up the steps and along the corridor that formed the balcony, glancing over his shoulder to check the way was clear. The warriors followed with no sense of urgency; to them, Gareth guessed, time had lost all meaning.

  The first lunged at him just as he reached the bend in the passage. He caught the blow on his sword, but it staggered him; the warrior’s strength was amazing. With a cry of effort, he forced the thing back, but it swung again, uncaring of the gap it left in its defences. Gareth thrust his sword between its ribs and tore downwards. He expected to feel the pelvis shatter; instead, his sword was wrenched out of his hand as the warrior stepped back, Gareth’s blade stuck fast in its lower ribs.

  For a moment, Gareth blinked, stunned, then he had to leap aside as the greatsword came again, slicing a shallow gash in his chest. He clamped a hand to the wound, but there was nothing, no blood, no pain, and he found himself smiling, a rictus grin. He tripped the warrior, planted a foot on its fallen femur and, with another shout, pulled his blade free.

  The attacking warriors had no throats to cry out their challenge. Even in the midst of battle, Gareth wondered how long it would be until his own larynx decayed to the point where he could no longer speak. Was this the fate that awaited him? The dead came at him, each giving way to another as they failed to draw blood. But nothing Gareth did could harm them either. There was an archway on the far side of the balcony, leading deeper into the tombs. Another snatched glance revealed a kind of portcullis, its mechanism rusty but seemingly undamaged. If he could reach it …

  Another blow parried, another warrior held at bay. Gareth began to inch along the balcony, rounding the corner, keeping his opponents always in sight. He was steps away from the portcullis door when the nearest warrior’s hand shot out, catching him off guard. Gareth’s sword skittered uselessly off its breastbone, severing the decaying straps of an ancient cuirass. The next moment, thin fingers closed around his throat.

  The grip would have crushed the windpipe of a living man. Gareth found himself wondering whether, if the skeletal warrior had had a face, it would have worn consternation. He backed up, taking the thing with him, until he was underneath the gate. The mechanism was little more than a handle set into a metal plate. Gareth struck it with the hilt of his sword.

  He leapt back, as the portcullis plummeted. Its downward spikes missed his nose by inches, but ripped the warrior away from him. Pinned to the stone floor, all semblance of life left the creature; it became a shapeless pile of bones and rotting cloth. With a grunt of disgust, Gareth plucked the dismembered hand from his throat. It fell to dust between his fingers.

  When he looked up, the other warriors simply stood there, studying him. Even though the gate stood between them, the regard of the dead drove Gareth back until a bend in the corridor blocked them from view. He could still hear them, though; the grating jangle of ancient armour, the sheathing of swords as they left the gate. They would find another way through. The thought was a chill one. They won’t give up.

  His only option was to go on and hope he lost the warriors in this maze of chambers.

  Before Gareth could take another step, wind roared through the corridor and knocked him off his feet. ‘Hverr nálgask sjá stadr?’

  The voice came and went with the wind. This time, he felt no kinship with it. Gareth hauled himself up with the help of a torch bracket. ‘Who are you?’ His shout was more of a croak. He watched the straight corridor ahead for any sign of movement, but there was none and the voice did not answer.

  He couldn’t afford to waste time here. The warriors knew Ben-haugr; it wouldn’t take them long to catch up with him. Holding tightly to his mother’s blade, Gareth set off down the corridor. When he reached an intersection, he didn’t hesitate but took the left passage, prompted silently by the gauntlet.

  ‘Hví ydarr ki svar?’

  Buffeted by the wind, Gareth straightened, struck out again.

  ‘Why do you not answer?’

  This time, he weathered the wind, braced himself against a spiral-carved wall.

  ‘You have the blood, but not the tongue.’ Gareth thought he detected faint disgust beneath the confusion. ‘And you think to challenge me?’

  ‘I’m here for the gauntlet.’ His voice wavered, partly with the effort it cost to force it through his throat.

  ‘You wear what is mine.’ Anger now. ‘You are here to return it and to die.’

  ‘I am already dead,’ Gareth whispered, but the voice heard him.

  ‘Your death is a gift from Hond’Myrkr. Few would consider it such.’ Amusement. ‘Come to me and I will take it from you.’

  ‘Hond’Myrkr,’ Gareth murmured and the gauntlet gave a dark pulse. ‘So that is your name.’

  ‘A true son of Yrmfast would know this. You are unworthy.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Gareth said. He tried to inject strength into his failing voice. ‘When I come for you.’

  ‘Come, then,’ Kingswold whispered.

  8

  Hagdon

  ‘Soon we’ll have two more Wielders on our side when we go to Parakat,’ Irilin said to Hagdon the next morning as they wove their way between the Deadwood’s blackened trees.

  ‘The Republic needs all the help it can get.’ His horse’s ear twitched irritably; Hagdon leaned forward and brushed off some ash. ‘In theory, freeing the aberrations is a sound idea. In reality, potentially suicidal.’
/>   Irilin laughed. ‘Don’t forget you have me.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ he murmured.

  ‘Wait until you meet Brégenne,’ she said rather quickly. ‘She’s a Lunar too, but much stronger.’ There was no jealousy in her voice, only admiration. ‘That’s why I don’t fear for Gareth’s life. Brégenne will look after him.’

  ‘Tell me more about your friend and this gauntlet of his,’ Hagdon said.

  Irilin had only given him a brief version of the story. The full tale, as she told it now, went right back to Naris and the night she, Shika, Gareth and Kyndra had sneaked into the archives. Hagdon had a vision of them all, out of bed like errant children, and felt uncomfortable. ‘It’s easy to forget how young you are,’ he said, thinking of Kyndra. Eighteen years old and already she’d done so much. At her age, he’d only just received his first commission, a young officer, wet behind the ears and hungry for command. Foolish.

  ‘I’ll be twenty-two in a month,’ Irilin said stiffly, snapping him back to the present. ‘I’m not a child.’ Chagrined, perhaps, at her own words, she flushed.

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you were,’ he answered carefully. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘When the Nerian attacked, Gareth put on the gauntlet. He didn’t know it wouldn’t come off again. Now they believe it belonged to Kingswold, one of the cursed pair he wore into battle.’

  ‘Kingswold …’ Hagdon nodded to himself. ‘Yes, I’ve heard the story. A master warrior, leader of the famous knights.’ He sighed. ‘Slaughtered by Sartya at Kalast. They came from the tribes of Yrmfast.’

  ‘In Rairam, it’s pronounced Ümvast. Gareth’s home –’ Irilin paused – ‘that’s interesting. Gareth finding it is almost like fate.’

  ‘I don’t believe in fate. It’s too easy to shirk responsibility in its name.’ Hagdon knew his tone was bitter, but he couldn’t lighten it. ‘We must be held accountable for our actions.’

  ‘Including you?’

  Her gaze was direct. ‘Especially me,’ Hagdon said. He did not look away.

  They didn’t talk much after that, though the silence wasn’t an unpleasant one. Hagdon found himself remembering his manservant, Carn, not ragged and ripped as he had last seen him, but as he had been in the days they’d travelled together. He remembered the banter they’d shared, Carn’s laments over Hagdon’s appearance, mocking words softened by a grin.

  His eyes prickled. Shocked, he blinked rapidly, took several deep breaths. Irilin wasn’t looking his way and he swiftly dragged a sleeve across his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wept. Even when he’d found his sister’s body in the garden; Paasa – driven to suicide by her son’s murder. His anger at the emperor had hardened any tears into ice. Only Carn and his easy friendship had ever been able to thaw it. Perhaps his brother might have too, but Hagdon hadn’t seen Mikael for years. His own duties kept him busy in the far south.

  ‘Wait.’ Irilin held up a hand. She pulled on her horse’s reins and slid out of the saddle almost before the animal stopped moving. Hagdon reined in too, watching the young woman as she bent down. ‘There are tracks here,’ she said.

  Hagdon dismounted. Crouching beside her, he drew a finger through the ash. ‘Recent,’ he agreed.

  ‘They lead north-west.’ Irilin smiled. ‘We’re on the right path.’

  He stood up, offering her a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it. Her fingers were small and warm.

  ‘What is it?’

  Hagdon quickly let go of Irilin’s hand and stepped back to show Nediah their find. ‘Tracks,’ he said, ‘and not a day old, I’m guessing.’

  ‘It has to be Brégenne and Gareth,’ Irilin added. She looked happier than she had in days.

  The Wielder glanced at the scuffed footprints; when it came, his smile was a little strained. ‘That’s good,’ he said finally. Kait neither dismounted nor bothered to hide her ill humour. She also ignored Nediah when he attempted to speak to her. Hagdon remounted, wondering what had upset the woman.

  An hour’s ride later, they found an arrow sunk firmly into blackened wood. It was about head height for someone standing; Hagdon leaned over and yanked it free.

  ‘Let me see.’ Mercia stroked a thumb over its grey fletching. ‘The Sisters use arrows like these,’ she said, her eyes sweeping their immediate area with a soldier’s practised vigilance. ‘I think your friends might indeed have met with them. Look there.’

  Hagdon followed her gesture and saw blood, garish in the monochrome world of the Deadwood. It was concentrated in one patch; drops freckled the ashen ground around it, as if the wounded party had thrashed or grappled with an opponent.

  Nediah’s face was grim. ‘They can’t be far,’ the healer said before dismounting to run a finger through the mix of blood and ash. ‘Yes. It’s only hours old.’

  ‘I suggest we split up,’ Mercia said. ‘We may have a sizable force, but we’re deep in the Sisters’ territory and I don’t know their numbers. Takendo always was careful to keep that information close.’ She looked at Hagdon. ‘We don’t want them to flank us. We’ve men enough to fan out and flares enough to send up a warning.’

  Hagdon regarded her through narrowed eyes. After the incident at Khronosta, when Iresonté had abandoned him to the mercy of the du-alakat, he’d sworn not to trust so easily again.

  Mercia’s smile was crooked. ‘No, I’m not working with the Sisters and I don’t intend to betray you.’ She swept an arm at his followers. ‘But feel free to send some of your people with me.’

  ‘Forgive my caution, but I’ll do that.’ Hagdon nodded at the man and woman Taske had appointed his lieutenants. ‘Hu, choose ten others and accompany Mercia north. Avery, you parallel us to the south. The Wielders and I will follow the trail.’

  Avery frowned. ‘That doesn’t leave you with much backup, Commander.’

  Hagdon waved away her concern. ‘I have the Wielders, remember.’ He smiled tightly at Kait and Nediah. ‘They’re more than enough on their own.’

  Kait bared her teeth at him.

  When the afternoon began to fail, however, evening filtering between the trunks, Hagdon had to admit that perhaps he’d miscalculated. They had ridden the day away, following the scuffed trail through the Deadwood, constantly alert. Now he could feel his concentration waning. If this was part of the Sisters’ plan, it was a sound tactic, one employed by thieves and bandits, groups that relied not on military prowess but on surprise.

  ‘Only minutes,’ Nediah told him softly, ‘then we’ll have to rely on Irilin.’

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ the young woman complained.

  Kait waved a hand. ‘Blades are blades, whether they’re made of metal or flame.’ She raised an eyebrow at Hagdon. ‘And our commander here isn’t without ability.’

  Hagdon tested the edge of the handaxe that hung from a loop on his belt. He felt the weight of the sword strapped across his back, a dagger at his waist, another hidden in his boot. Kait was right. They should be able to handle an attack.

  When it became necessary for Irilin to light their way, the silver glow made Hagdon uncomfortable; he felt as if he stood under a spotlight. ‘We need to stop,’ he told the others. ‘We’re too vulnerable here. With a camp, we can at least stand sentry.’ He glanced at Irilin. ‘If the Sisters see that light, they’ll know it isn’t natural. Mercia said they make a living hunting aberrations.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t use that word,’ she muttered. ‘Aberration implies that there’s something wrong with us. We’re Wielders.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Hagdon said absently. His senses were taut, primed for the slightest movement. They halted in the lee of a large boulder, part of a series scattered east to west across this part of the wood. With lack of movement came a greater stillness; the darkness seemed to conceal a myriad host; little sounds that could have been footfalls in ash, an exhaled breath, or merely wind. The sharp, burned tang of the forest filled Hagdon’s nostrils, obscuring any possible
scent of sweat, or old leather, such as a group of bandits might wear.

  When the horses were lightly tethered, he said, ‘Keep alert. I don’t want—’

  The widening of Nediah’s eyes was his only warning. Sword in hand, Hagdon whirled around, his blade clashing against another wielded by a dark-eyed woman, two horizontal stripes crossing her left cheek. She swung her blade down and disengaged with a snarl. Now that she’d broken cover, others emerged from the shadows, swiftly surrounding them. Before he could tell her not to, Irilin blazed silver.

  ‘I thought we saw a little aberration magic,’ one of the women said. She held a crossbow levelled at Irilin, two points of blue glowing on its frame. ‘If you come quietly, child, I won’t have to use this.’

  The pause she left was punctuated by the ring of steel. Kait stood ready, twin blades in hand, radiant with the thrill of anticipated violence. Hagdon scanned the darkness, trying to gauge their opponents’ numbers.

  Irilin answered with a wave of force, so that the woman with the crossbow fell to one knee. In the time that bought her, she raised her hand and traced a hasty shape in the air, light trailing from her fingertips. Irilin slapped a palm to its centre, the rune spun into the Sisters’ midst and exploded, Lunar flames cartwheeling in every direction. The woman with the crossbow threw herself aside, cradling the weapon to her chest. The sole of one boot smoked.

  Others weren’t so lucky. One woman clutched her face, screaming, and for a moment Irilin’s fierce expression wavered. She lowered her hands.

  Hagdon knew what was about to happen. He leapt forward, but his lunge was arrested by a hooded woman, both hands clamped around a stave as she forced him back. Her strength was incredible for one so slight, but then he noticed the telltale glow of ambertrix infusing the wood. The crossbow fired; from the corner of his eye, he saw Irilin throw up a shield, Lunar walls solid and bright.