Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“Brother!” Frentis looked down from the gatehouse, finding a grinning Ivern there, mounted, with Frentisʼs 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 Volarianʼs 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 youʼve 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.”

“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. “Youʼll 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.

“Weʼre five miles from the harbour,” Vaelin told him, drawing a puzzled frown. “Weʼll 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 Dahrenaʼs 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 peopleʼs 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 Vaelinʼs 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?”

“Greed or necessity,” Vaelin replied. “You recall your part in this?”

“Kill all the two-swords we find and make for the big black building.” The Seordah stirred as Vaelin rose, leaning forward, fixing him with the same questing gaze he had shown him since Alltor. What is he looking for? Vaelin wondered again as the war chiefʼs eyes met his. Does he ponder if there is another soul behind these eyes? Or is it more what I may have brought back?

“You…” The Seordah paused, searching for the right words. “You are more… you now, Beral Shak Ur .”

Vaelin replied with a cautious nod. In truth he felt stronger, the chill having lifted from his bones, for the most part. Also his final practice with Davern had actually seen him defeat the shipwright, much to his sisterʼs delight. She had taken to watching the daily contests and gave a squeal of triumph as Vaelinʼs wooden sword found a gap in Davernʼs defences, jabbing into his midriff with enough force to provoke an obscenity-laden shout of pain. His dark-faced fury at Alornisʼs taunts had been something of a guilty pleasure, though Vaelin was careful to hide it as he thanked the sergeant for his service and released him from future obligations.

“I am,” Davern grated, “ always at your disposal, my lord.”

He made his way to the top deck and joined Reva at the helm, dressed in her light mail shirt, sword on her back, and bow in hand, laughing at something the Shield had said. The manʼs humour faded at sight of Vaelin and he beckoned his helmsman forward to take the wheel, offering a cursory bow. “My Lord of Battle.”