Fire That Breaks From Thee

Robin Wright Full Manuscript: 107,000 words

FIRE THAT BREAKS FROM THEE

Adult

Fantasy: Sequel to Dragons And Their Wrath

Epigraph:

I caught this morning morning’s minion, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin,

dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

Buckle! And the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

The Windhover, Gerald Manley Hopkins

Prologue

“Up here, magister. Just a little further.”

The cloaked figure leaned on his staff, breathing a little hard. He was finally feeling old now, and felt every year more and more. Still, there was no choice. The farmer had been brave enough to approach him, and the news he had brought was colossal, if true. A visit to the site was essential, and who else could assess the tale? He was one of the last.

He pressed on, for one more hour, until the farmer brought him finally to the cave mouth. It was cold this far north in Kasparta, at this time of year, but the smell of pine resin hung around them. They were above the treeline, now, but not far. In front of the cave mouth was a curious image.

“’Tis smaller now than I remember it when I first saw it, my lord Cantemerle,” the farmer began, almost whispering the words. “’Twere then as wide as the cave mouth, I swears it!”

Cantemerle realised from the cringing position, the whiteness of Storley’s knuckles on the crook he carried and the babbling speech that the farmer was terrified of being thought a liar and to have wasted the mage’s time.

“Relax, Storley. You were right to bring me the news, and it is as I expected. When was it first noticed?” As he spoke, Cantemerle studied the image in front of the cave-mouth. It was a black circle, maybe twenty feet across, with a billowing edge of swirling cloud, or perhaps mist. The cave mouth was nearly twice the size, and the mage did some calculations in his head as he examined the black circle. Up close, the circle wasn’t black ink, but a profound, hollow absence – a tear in the fabric of this world, looking out into an absolute void. A serpentine path of crushed, ash-grey gravel cut through the featureless plain beyond, dead and unilluminated.

Storley came to his response. “Four months since, lord.”

“Four months? Why did it take so long for you to approach me?”

“Which we set out immediately, lord, but we couldn’t never find you.”

“Hmm.” The mage acknowledged that this was possible. He walked away a few paces, while he factored this into his calculations, and came up with a date just over two years from today. He checked the rear view of the portal, but saw only the mirrored surface of swirling mists. As he came back to the right side, he saw Storley step closer to the portal, looking through it to the plain and then behind it to the cave mouth.

“Get away from it, Storley. It is unlikely to be undefended,” the mage said calmly, preparing a spell with his mind and fingers. A swirl of sulphurous smoke made the farmer cough and wave the cloud from him.

Suddenly a demonic figure stepped out of the black circle, and glowered around. It was nearly ten feet tall, with black leathery skin that seemed to steal the light. Deeply slanted dark eyes focused on the poor farmer, and in barely one bound it was upon him, clawed arms slashing down.

The mage’s fingers snapped into an arcane knot. He shouted a single word of power before the black talons could slash the farmer in two :

“Asgath!”

A blinding white glare erupted from his fingers and the demon screamed as it disappeared in a flash of white fire, just as its claws touched the farmer. Storley collapsed, a jagged tear in his smock revealing dark blood bubbling over his collarbone.

The mage stepped over to him and, keeping an eye on the gateway, muttered a few words in an arcane tongue as he touched his staff to the small cut. The wound sealed itself and vanished, a white scar replacing the deep slash. The healing spell obviously cost the older man, who dropped to his knees.

“Thank you, lord!” The man fell to his knees beside him, and helped him to his feet. “You saved me! I’s your servant for life, sir!”

Cantemerle gasped for breath, briefly. “That is kind of you, Storley, but I have no need of servants, and your life will not be long if you spend time close to demon gates.”

“Is that what this beggar is, lord? A Demon Gate?”

“No, Storley, this is much worse. This is a portal to the Netherworld. Someone has released the Darkness again into the world of men. I must take this news to Queen Cassyria.” He thought for a moment, standing silent as he considered the best course. He turned to the farmer. “Now, listen, Storley, you must set up a distant watch on this portal. No one is to approach it, if they value their lives. No one is to come closer than fifty paces to it. Do you understand? I will arrange for some acolytes to arrive and take over the watch. If anything comes through, anything at all, do not attempt to engage with it, but I am to be informed, at once, at Eventria. Do you understand what I am saying, man?” His frustration boiled over as Storley was staring at the gateway, his gaunt frame shaking with fear. He rippled, like a dog shaking itself clear of water after a soaking, and turned to the mage.

“Yes, yes, lord, Sorry, I am. No one to approach within fifty paces. Constant watch. Tell you if anything comes through.”

“Good man.” The mage turned and, with a grimace at the anticipated effort, prepared to descend the mountain again.

“But, lord, what do we do if anything does come through? We could not defeat such as that creature, without your power.”

“It is not defeated, my friend. Just sent back to where it came from, briefly. I do not have the power to kill such creatures, and that is one of the least of its kind. I don’t think you need worry, Storley. As you can see, the ground is smashed up in that direction.” He pointed down the other side of the slope, opposite to the way they had come up to the ridge.

Cantemerle sighed deeply.

“I think everything that wanted to do so has already come through.”

Chapter 1

“You dare accuse the Queen in her own throne room, Covenanter?” Jamila watched the exchange as her fury mounted, but her father’s lessons held true – calmness in all things was her watchword, as it had been his. The vizier was visibly paling, the shocking accusation having caught him unawares.

“Aye, I do. Six times, before the late king drew his final breath, your so-pure sovereign slunk into the woods north of Tellis under a dead moon. We all know what rots below those black trees. We all know the history. She went to barter with whatever crawls in that dark forest, and the law has a singular remedy for those who bring demon-born hell-rot into this kingdom: light the stake!” With this, Covenanter Akora thrust a thick, ring-distorted finger towards Jamila where she sat outwardly calm, on her small throne at the end of the petitioner’s table. His heavy silk robes rustled as he shook with the intensity of his emotion.

Jamila didn’t blink, her posture rigid, her hands motionless on the carved armrests despite the dark blush burning up her neck. This man wanted her dead! He had found the one way of endangering her that meant she could not just have him arrested, too – a legal challenge and an appeal to the law on demonic magic.

A new, stronger voice made itself heard, and Jamila turned towards the speaker, her spirits responding positively, enabling her to push down the fury. “The law demands that accusations are backed up with facts, and evidence, and in particular the truth. You have none of these, Covenanter, do you? In short, you are lying.” The speaker was a much younger man, lithe and graceful, with short, light brown hair faded to gold at his temples. He was approaching the Covenanter as he spoke, out from the seating reserved for the audience of petitioners. His handsome face was marred only by a very thin white scar which ran from the corner of his left eye to his ear. In his hand he carried a pair of dove-grey suede gloves. He was one of her favourite people in Foldor, though she had never let him know.

“You accuse me of lying? I have a sworn affidavit! You have something you wish to say in her defence, Earl Atherton? We can always widen the accusations.”

“I do, Covenanter Akora, I do.” Atherton walked down the steps from the tiered seating to stand in front of the shorter man. He leaned his head forward, as if a conspirator, but his voice was clear to all in the room. “We take great care to avoid any whisper of evil or demons, in this part of Foldor. Because, as you say, of the history. We are therefore very careful not to listen to the lies of fake, dishonest, idolatrous charlatans like you.”

“You cannot speak to me like that!” the fat man protested. “I am the Covenanter of the Church of Pelossus, and I do not lie.” Akora’s wet little tongue emerged to lick his own lips, which seemed to have become unaccountably dry.

Atherton leaned forward again. “I say you do. I say further that anyone who has heard you in here this morning knows for certain fact that you do. I challenge you to make good your claims with your body.” With that the younger man’s hand snapped forward, slapping his gloves gently across the Covenanter’s face.

The Covenanter recoiled as if it had been a fist. “Striking a Covenanter is an offence punishable by death, Lord Atherton,” the Covenanter spat. “I shall enjoy watching you hang for it.”

“Issuing a lawful challenge or even fighting one is not an offence in this country, you silly little man. Nor is a Covenanter of a foreign church protected by the same law as one of the Church of Foldor. Save your stupid threats. You will be at the fields beside the Cathedral at one hour after dawn tomorrow, or your life is forfeit. Or you may recant your accusation to the Queen here and now. Those are your only options. Pick one.”

The Covenanter looked furtive, aware that all eyes were on him now. All those eyes knew better than he the danger he was in. If he faced Atherton, by reputation a formidable swordsman, he would be hurt, if not killed. If he recanted, his authority was gone in an instant. The Covenanter’s face was turned aside, and he seemed to be thinking hard. Suddenly he turned back towards Atherton.

“I accept your challenge. It will be to first blood, of course.”

Atherton chuckled, his confidence almost visible. “It will not, my fat friend. It will be to the death. Unless you swear before the court here and now that your penalty was intended that the Queen should burn only until she was uncomfortably warm.”

Many around the court laughed, either at the remark or at the Covenanter’s horrified expression. That would be the same as his recanting his accusation, of course. The Covenanter was trapped.

Atherton misunderstood his hesitation.

“Don’t worry, Covenanter, you will still be able to make it to the reception for the King and Queen of Lyressa when they arrive. If you survive.”

“Of course. Then to the death it is. God is on my side.”

“Not if you accuse the Queen, He isn’t, as I have said. We shall see, won’t we?”

The Covenanter decided he could not save any more face if he remained, and so turned toward the throne and with the merest nod at the Queen – a calculated insult – he swept out of the room.

*

“Thank you, Lord Atherton!” the vizier said, though his voice was not strong. Atherton approached the throne himself, and bowed to the young queen, who acknowledged his bow with a bright smile.

“I am proud to defend your reputation, your Majesty,” he said, sweeping low from the waist as protocol demanded.

“I thank you personally, Lord Atherton. Do you know why the Covenanter decided to attack me?” Queen Jamila asked, her now-pale composed face never lovelier to him.

She had almond eyes, revealing her ancestry to have roots in the tribes of the desert, and the blue-black hair of her mother, the late Queen Mother. Her face was a perfect oval with a pretty nose and slim wide lips. She also had a tendency to blush, and he had been smitten with her since he first saw her three years ago on his presentation to her father, the late King, when he took up his own rank.

Atherton balanced his weight carefully on the balls of both feet – a stance drilled into him by six years of sword master training and three army campaigns. He rolled his shoulders, the steady rhythmic movement of a man who spent his mornings practicing forms with rapier and sabre, regardless of the domestic ledger-work that now bound him to his late brother’s estate. Though by no means the largest, the estate was of significant size within Foldor, with some twenty-eight villages within its boundaries.

“I could not say, your Majesty. I presume the visits happened, though not for evil purposes?”

“They did, but not for any demonic rituals. There is a wise woman in those woods, safer there now that fewer people visit. She was helping me with an ordinary herbal potion, to dull my father’s pain towards the end. He found it helpful, but was unable to make the journey himself. His servants were too afraid to enter the woods.”

“Frankly, your Majesty,” Atherton whispered, “I would be willing to take on the Covenanter if you had conjured the Great Demon himself.”

The Queen smiled shyly. “You are, as ever, outrageous, my Lord. Besides, I can’t help but observe that such a feat might probably have been noticed in these last four months.”

“Of course, your Majesty. I had no doubt of your innocence. I was merely expressing my...loyalty.”

“You may have quite an audience tomorrow, my Lord. My guest King Faolán is arriving this evening, I understand. He is a very famous duellist himself, and will no doubt wish to watch your duel.”

“Tonight? Without Queen Ariane?” Atherton’s eyes registered his surprise at the news, though he kept his voice calm and polite.

“They have an agreement that they do not travel together, to prevent a disaster if anything should happen. She will arrive a few hours later, I am informed.”

“We are told she is almost as beautiful as your Majesty,” Atherton said, his attempt at gallantry being met by another sweet smile.

“I wish you every luck in your duel, my Lord, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support and your risk on my behalf. If there is any truth to the beliefs inherent in trial by combat, you will prevail, I am certain.”

*

Zubris saw immediately that his senior colleague was furious.

“Something terrible has happened, Lord Covenanter?” he asked, obsequiousness a second skin to him at all times.

“Yes. That puppy Atherton has stepped in front of the charge against the Queen, by challenging my honesty and authority in a duel.”

“I see – that’s bad.”

The understatement made things worse. He was trapped, and he knew it. This was Zubris’s fault, he knew. The noisome little man had sworn the affidavit as to the Queen’s demonic activities. Zubris had better find a way out of it for him too.

“Bad? He could kill me, Zubris, you stupid idiot. Find me a way out of it.”

From beyond the huge, deep fireplace a rasping voice spoke.

“I could take your place. I would relish the chance, even. That family has been no friend to mine.” The sibilant tones carried an echo of a lifetime – several lifetimes – in the darkness of the grave.

“You could, my lord?” The Covenanter was suddenly very much more interested in their nightmarish visitor than he had been since Zashtar arrived.

“I could. I would need a … spell, of concealment, to ensure no subterfuge was suspected. No human can stand with my kind in a duel. Even if we did not have extra skills.”

The ghastly hacking sound must be the creature laughing, Akora decided. Zashtar had arrived in the night four days earlier, demanding the written allegiance of the Covenanter and his brethren to their ultimate master. The Covenanter had not made that obeisance yet, but he knew he would have to before long. Perhaps now was the time. Zashtar had the appearance of a tall, very pale human. He was almost hairless, and had eyes that were almost pink. His skin was waxy, and very slightly translucent.

“Of course, my Lord Zashtar, if you could, that would be a splendid alternative. If I am to complete the rest of the mission intended by our Great Master, I must of course remain alive. I know the part I played already is much appreciated, which is why he has sent you to me, to assist the next part. Atherton is a gifted swordsman, though, my lord. I should not underestimate him, if I were you.”

“Pchaah. I will be happy to make the necessary alterations, provided that you can see your way to signing the document now.” He withdrew a tiny, sharp dagger from somewhere within his voluminous black sleeve, and passed it to the Covenanter. “You can use this.”

The Covenanter crossed the room, his own robes billowing, and took the knife. He passed beside the dark creature and went to the table, where a scroll lay partly-rolled. Unrolling it to the bottom, he took the knife and a clean quill. A few short cuts demonstrated the sharpness of the knife and the readiness of the quill, and he touched the blade to his left forearm, drawing blood. Dipping the quill into the red drips, he signed his name to the scroll with a flourish. He sanded the signature, and re-rolled the scroll, before wiping the knife with a square of cloth. He handed both scroll and the cleaned knife to the hollow-tooth.

“How will you get that to our master, Zashtar?” he asked.

“There is no need, as it is a magical covenant. You are bound by it now whether he reads it or not.” The hacking sounds came again. “I shall retire, to prepare myself. Send in a servant, and two small, live animals.”

“It will be done, my Lord Zashtar,” Zubris offered. “I will call for you at dawn.”

*

Faolán leaned back against the taffrail of the barque bringing him to Foldor. It was a six day sail across the Southern Ocean to Foldor, and specifically to Ventis, its capital. He hated spending time away from Queen Ariane, but the needs of the new merged kingdom came first. In the four years since the War of the Goblins, as it was now called, he and Ariane had merged Elessia and Lyria into one single kingdom, by far the richest in Masria. They had called it Lyressa, after a competition had been held among schoolchildren in both nations.

Ariane’s ship was half a day behind, so that it could escape any storm which caught his, or vice versa. There had been no storms, nor any other excitement at all, for Faolán’s barque, a sturdy but sleek vessel. It was captained by a formidable Chacran who had worked for Faolán’s father and for him as trading master. In the holds of both ships were chests of gems, metal objects, fine leatherwork and lace, representing artisanry that could not be found in Foldor. The goods were from the whole of the Six Kingdoms, and were intended to be a goodwill gift to Foldor for an alliance of some kind. What sort of alliance would work across the Southern Ocean, Faolán was not sure, but High King Pilotas had asked his good friend to mediate for the best deal available.

The tedium of a long sea voyage under sail was broken only by the occasional sighting of whales and other sea life. He wondered idly whether a dragon could make the long journey unbroken, and suspected they could. He had had frequent conversations with Idris, and with Rhianna, the two dragons he knew best, but he had not flown with them since the War. He knew that they were welcome neighbours to Pilotas in his home kingdom of Chacras, where they were happy to direct Pilotas to point out deposits to his mining engineers. All of these requests had to come through Faolán, as only he and Ariane could communicate with the dragons, so he knew all of Pilotas’ secrets.

*

Just below the horizon, Ariane gripped the wooden stern-rail of the sailing galley, still staring at the empty blue horizon where Faolán’s ship had vanished, mere hours ago. A month away from Lyressa felt like an eternity. Even with Niamh holding the regency back home, Ariane’s fingers twitched, missing the stacks of reports, of ledgers, troop movements and inventories and all of the grinding administrative work of a newly-forged crown.

The former Altair of Elessia, Niamh, had encouraged Faolán to merge Elessia with Lyria, to avoid a situation where he and Ariane would spend months of the year apart.

The warm air stirred her light silk cape, over the silver-steel armour she wore like a second skin. Faolán had had it made recently by the best armourers in Chacras, as a birthday present for her, and she loved it. A fine soldier in her own right, the only indulgence she had made for this trip was to have her horse Serie transported with her. Serie was not enjoying the sea voyage, Ariane knew, but after her family there was no greater joy on this world for Ariane than her own horse, on whose back Faolán had once escaped from the Goblin Army. Now sixteen, Serie was an experienced warhorse. Not that anyone was expecting more than a pleasant visit to Foldor.

Ariane sighed deeply as she watched the sails of Faolán’s ship flicker once again over the horizon. She would arrive some four to six hours after her husband. The six day voyage was the longest period they had spent apart since their marriage, and she hated it. She knew that he hated it, too. They had bowed to the advice from Niamh that if a freak accident should occur while they were sailing together, the kingdom would be left with no ruler. Niamh could continue, of course, or appoint someone else, but the line, such as it was, would be lost and the risk of disruption much greater. Right now, Lyressa was a happy kingdom, prosperous and rich. They wanted to keep it that way as long as possible. She knew she could contact Faolán at any time, through the power of the star jewel at her throat.

She also knew he would be worried the instant she did, so she planned to save that for when she really needed it.