Queen of Fire

“Thank you for the practice, my lady,” he said, turning to offer a bow. “But I think I need a less caring tutor.”

• • •

Davern’s ash sword batted Vaelin’s parry aside and cracked against his unarmoured ribs, leaving him winded and doubled over. Davern stepped back as Vaelin gasped for air, glaring up at him. “Who told you to stop, sergeant?”

The former shipwright gave a momentary frown, which quickly transformed into a bright-toothed grin, lunging forward to deliver a jab at Vaelin’s nose. He twisted, the ash blade missing by a whisker, grabbing the sergeant’s arm and throwing him over his shoulder. Davern was quick to recover, leaping to his feet and whirling to deliver a round-house slash at Vaelin’s legs. Wood cracked as Vaelin blocked the blow then replied with a series of two-handed strokes aimed at chest and head, the sergeant backing away and blocking every blow, deaf to the calls of the onlookers.

Three days now and Vaelin had yet to land a blow, drawing a larger crowd with each repeated bout of practice. Davern, as expected, had needed little persuasion to fight with the Battle Lord, his evident delight increasing further when Vaelin’s reduced skills became apparent. It would have been easy to do this away from the eyes of the army but Vaelin resisted the temptation, finding the scrutiny of so many critical eyes a useful impetus to greater effort.

He was improving, he could feel it, the chill not so deep now. But still the sword felt strange in his hand, the once-sublime artistry replaced with workmanlike efficiency. How much was the song? he wondered continually. How much do I need it?

Davern ducked under another stroke, jerking to the side then delivering a precise thrust that found its way past Vaelin’s guard to jab into his upper lip, drawing blood and making him reel backwards.

“Apologies, my lord,” Davern said, his sword smacking into Vaelin’s right leg and sending him to the ground, slapping his feeble counterstroke away and raising his weapon for a no-doubt-painful final blow. “But you did say to display no restraint.”

“That’s enough!” Alornis was striding forward, face red with fury. She shoved a smirking Davern aside and knelt by Vaelin, pressing a clean rag to his bleeding lip. “This is over,” she told the sergeant. “Go back to your regiment.”

“Does your lady sister command here now, my lord?” Davern asked Vaelin. “Perhaps she should.”

“Sergeant.” The voice was soft but Davern’s smirk disappeared in an instant. Nortah stood nearby, casting his eye about the onlooking soldiers, mostly free fighters from his own regiment, all quickly finding somewhere else to be. Snowdance moved from Nortah’s side to nudge at Vaelin’s shoulder, purring insistently until he got to his feet.

“Your man is a brute,” Alornis told Nortah, continuing to staunch the blood flowing from Vaelin’s lip.

“Merely following his lordship’s order, Teacher,” Davern said to Nortah. Whereas he showed a complete absence of fear in regard to Vaelin, his attitude to Nortah was always markedly more respectful.

“Indeed he was,” Vaelin said, pausing to hawk a red glob onto the ground. “And very well too, I might add.”

Nortah spared Davern a brief glance. “See to the pickets,” he ordered quietly.

The sergeant bowed and hurried off.

“A thousand things can happen in a battle,” Nortah said to Vaelin. “You put too much stock in one dropped sword.”

“Wars aren’t won with dropped swords, brother.” Vaelin took the rag from Alornis and walked towards the tree where he had tethered Scar.

“Brother Kehlan should see to that,” she called after him but he just waved and climbed into the saddle.

• • •

Finding Caenis wasn’t difficult. The Seventh Order contingent, now grown to some four brothers and two sisters, were housed in a canvas roofed ruin near the harbour, somewhat removed from the rest of the army, who continued to eye them with unabashed suspicion. Caenis sat with the others, talking in low but earnest tones, each of them listening with keen attention. They were all younger than his brother. The gift of youth provided a greater chance of surviving the Volarian onslaught, the young being better suited to the rigours of battle or more likely to catch the slavers’ eye. One young man had clearly endured some harsh treatment, sitting shirtless as he listened to Caenis, his back striped with recent whip-strokes, raw and red in the evening light.

“The province of war is no longer confined to the Sixth Order,” Caenis was saying. “Now all the Faithful are called to join this struggle. Now we are all warriors. Concealment is a luxury we can no longer afford.”

He fell silent as Vaelin stepped from the shadows, the others turning to regard him with a mixture of customary awe and grave respect.

“Brother,” Vaelin said. “I would speak with you.”