Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“What did you see?” Erlin asked, his brow creased in an uncertain frown. “It kept you. It must have shown you something more.”

What greater power is there? Vaelin looked away, finding the confusion in Erlinʼs eyes hard to bear. I will not do that. He moved back from the stone and started towards the steps. “As you said, we have much to think on.”

Lorkan blinked into existence and slumped down beside Vaelin, ignoring the agitated murmur from the Sentar. Astorekʼs wolves also began a distressed chorus of whines until he calmed them with a look. “Iʼd guess about five thousand people,” Lorkan said. “All crammed into the guts of that mountain.” He pointed to a steep-sided peak little over a mile away, a jagged scar visible in the rock a third of the way up its flank. “I didnʼt go too far in, but saw enough to know theyʼre in a grim state, plenty recently wounded, some dying. Perhaps half are children. The older ones donʼt seem to be getting on, sitting in different groups and glowering at each other.”

Vaelin had been angered to discover Dahrena had flown once more in his absence, returning to the camp to find her slumped next to the fire with Cara and Kiral pressed close on either side. “No more of this,” he said, sinking to his haunches before her, smoothing a hand over her ice-chilled brow. “Even if I have to drug you unconscious.”

“Oh donʼt grumble,” she murmured with a smile, lips pale and eyes dim with fatigue. “I think I may have found some allies.”

“Did any see you?” Vaelin asked Lorkan.

“A little boy started pointing and screaming when I tried to go farther in. Assuming he was gifted, he was the only one amongst them.”

“We should go alone,” Erlin said. “A large party will arouse too much fear.”

“Fear can be useful.” Vaelin turned to Astorek. “Tell your father to bring the full host to this valley.”

He waited until midday then guided Scar towards the mountain at a walk, coming to a halt at its base. He gazed up at the jagged scar in its side, now revealed as a cave mouth, dark and silent, not even a tendril of smoke emerging to betray its occupants, though he had little doubt they had seen his approach.

He relaxed his grip on Scarʼs reins, allowing him to nibble on the sparse grass of the valley floor, eyes fixed on the cave mouth. He had no real certainty of achieving his aim. Pertak had laughed when Erlin related Vaelinʼs request for an alliance. The Lathera chieftain had a fresh scar on his jawline and a newly dug grave had appeared outside the walls of his settlement. He kept one hand close to the pouch on his belt and moved with the hunched, narrowed-eyed pose of a man in constant fear of attack. His laughter though, was entirely genuine.

“Let the southern goat-fuckers die,” Erlin translated as Pertak stomped back to the settlement, still chuckling. “Then their seams will be ours to mine.”

The first of them appeared after a wait of several moments, a single kilted figure standing at the cave mouth, staring down at Vaelin with axe in hand. Vaelin raised both arms, showing his hands to be empty. Several more figures resolved out of the blackness of the cave, growing in number until perhaps six hundred people stood regarding him in silence. Vaelin lowered his arms and waited, hearing the growing tumult raised by the approach of the Wolf People. The spear-hawks came first, calling out their pealing cries as they glided into the valley and wheeled above, then the wolves, several packs numbering well over a hundred individuals. They loped forward to surround Vaelin, drawing an involuntary shudder from Scar.

Vaelin peered at the face of the first figure to appear as the Wolf People marched into the valley. He was too distant to fully make out his features, but Vaelin judged him to be the oldest tribesman present, possibly a chieftain. However, judging from the mismatched symbols and colours adorning the clothing of his companions, he doubted this man would be able to speak for all those who had taken refuge here. Nevertheless, he clearly commanded some form of regard, exchanging a few short words with the others before starting down the slope. Some of his companions followed immediately, all wearing similar colours and symbols to his own. The others lingered for a short time, exhibiting a fractious disunity as they exchanged shouts and threatened each other with raised weapons. Their disagreement proved short-lived, however, and soon all were following the older man to the valley floor.

Vaelin kept his eyes on the leading figure, not turning to witness the Wolf People coming to a halt at his back. The man walked towards him without undue haste, though there was a definite purpose to his gait. He halted twenty paces away, the other tribesfolk lining up on either side. Vaelin took hold of Scarʼs reins and trotted him forward, stirring a ripple of unease throughout the small throng, though they made no move to oppose him.

He halted Scar a few yards short of the possible chieftain, looking into his face and seeing the besmirched, near-maddened gaze of a man who had lost much of his world in the space of a few days. Kiral had advised her song told of rage and confusion among these people, but sounded no note confirming they were on the right course. “My song grows darker and less tuneful every day,” she said. “Ever since we found the endless man. I doubt I have any more certainty to offer.”

But looking into the pain behind this manʼs eyes, Vaelin saw all the certainty he needed. He had seen this face many times during the march towards Alltor. The face of the tortured, the raped, the widowed… and the vengeful.

His Volarian was poor, but Erlin had coached him on the correct pronunciation. “We go south,” he said, patting his chest and pointing to the southern end of the valley. “Kill Volarians. Come with us.”

Aspect Arlynʼs face betrayed no recognition as he regarded Nortah, nor any emotion at all as his gaze shifted to Lyrna, though his eyes narrowed slightly. Bound, Lyrna realised. Like Brother Frentis or the Kuritai. The Aspect reached over his shoulder to draw a sword of the Asraelin pattern, the steel bearing the signature flame-like markings of an Order blade.

“Aspect!” Nortah said again, taking a forward step, sword arm now limp at his side. “Do you know me?”

The Aspectʼs gaze switched back to Nortah, the long features giving a faint tic of remembrance. “I know you, brother,” he said in a soft, reflective tone. “You died.”

He raised his free hand, paused a moment in expressionless consideration, then gave a barely perceptible flick of his wrist and the Arisai surged forward, manic joy on every face, swords moving in a blur of expertly wrought carnage. At first the Queenʼs Daggers recoiled from the assault, Lyrna finding herself crushed between Davoka and Iltis as the surrounding ranks compressed, but the pressure slackened as they voiced another savage roar, rallied and fought back.

She struggled to turn, catching a glimpse of Nortah in combat with the Aspect, face drawn in reluctance as he fended off Arlynʼs blows. “Sister!” Lyrna called to Davoka, holding her spear above the thrashing ranks, eyes watching hawk-like for an opportunity to use it.

“The flasks!” Lyrna forced her way to the Lonakʼs side, grabbing her arm. “Do you have the flasks?”

Davoka blinked at her in momentary bafflement then nodded, patting the small satchel at her side. “Only two.”