Queen of Fire

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The first attack came the following day as they traversed a deep canyon half a day’s march from the plateau. A group of some two dozen Lonak appeared out of a cave mouth to launch a volley of arrows before hurling themselves at the Sentar, clearly intent on fighting their way through to the hated Merim Her. Only one managed to breach the cordon, the others being clubbed down or speared in short order, seemingly without any loss to the Sentar. The lone warrior ran directly for Vaelin, screaming madly with war club raised, then skidding to a halt as Iron Claw lumbered into his path. The Lonak stared, eyes wide in horror as the bear bellowed his challenge, rising to his full height. The warrior dropped his club, apparently now unreasoned by terror and numb to the arrow that punched through his chest a second later. Kiral walked to the corpse, bow in hand, kicking his legs to make sure before kneeling to reclaim her arrow.

 

They were attacked again three nights later, though this time their assailants were content to linger in the shadows and loose arrows at the campfires, claiming the life of a Sentar who had stepped in front of the glow at the wrong moment. Alturk gathered together twenty warriors and led them into the darkness, returning a little while later with bloodied clubs and lance points. Their efforts seemed to have been enough to ensure an untroubled night and a group of Sentar soon appeared at their fire in search of a story in what was becoming a nightly ritual.

 

“I’ll take a turn,” Orven said. “The Tale of Lord Vaelin’s Charge at the Battle of Alltor.”

 

Vaelin got to his feet with a groan. “Spare me.”

 

“But they want a story, my lord,” Orven said with a small grin.

 

“I, however, do not.” He walked away from the fire as Orven began the tale, moving through the camp where the other Sentar greeted him with cautious eyes or studied indifference. He found Alturk sitting alone, wiping a buckskin rag over his war club, a recently sharpened knife placed close to his side.

 

“I come to ask more of your son,” Vaelin said. “I hope my actions had no part in his death.”

 

Alturk didn’t look up, grunting, “Your hope is wasted.”

 

“You killed him for disobeying the Mahlessa?”

 

The Lonak’s eyes rose from his work, bright with warning. “My clan killed him. His death was right and just. And I’ll speak no more of it.”

 

Vaelin moved to the fire, squatting down to extend his hands to the warmth. The nights grew ever colder, the northerly winds stiff with ample warning of what lay ahead. “My queen told me men are forbidden the company of your Mahlessa,” he said. “You have never met her, yet you follow her word without question.”

 

“Do you question your queen?”

 

Vaelin grinned a little. “Not openly.” Alturk failed to respond, putting his war club aside and settling his gaze on the fire. Vaelin saw that the years had aged his face if not his body, lines etched deep into the ink around his eyes.

 

“You should know,” he told the Lonak, “I believe few of us will return from this journey. Those not claimed by the ice may well fall in battle.”

 

Alturk sat in silence for several minutes, watching the fire with his aged eyes. Finally, as Vaelin made to leave, he said, “A man already dead need fear nothing.”

 

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Two more weeks brought them in sight of the ice, a ribbon of white on the eastern horizon beyond a curving shoreline fringing grey ocean waters. The mountains had begun to diminish in size in recent days until now they were but foothills, mostly bare of greenery and affording little cover to their enemies. The attacks had become more sporadic the farther north they travelled, possibly through simple weariness, though Vaelin suspected the constant attrition exacted by the Sentar to be the main reason. For all their lack of uniformity or soldierly custom they were every bit as disciplined as any company from the Sixth Order, and perhaps nearly as skilled; only two more had been lost since the night raid.

 

“Faith, that bites!” Lorkan said, wincing at the cutting wind and casting a questioning glance at Cara. “Can’t you do something?”

 

She confined her response to a disgusted glance and dismounted as Wise Bear arrived with Iron Claw. The horses had grown only partially accustomed to the bear’s presence and the shaman usually travelled at a short remove from the main body of the company, bouncing along on the beast’s back. There was an odd wariness in the Lonak’s attitude to Wise Bear, moving around him with a cautious silence, and he was the only one of the outsiders not required to share a story at the fire.

 

“Hello you!” Cara said, scratching at Iron Claw’s mighty head, the animal snorting in pleasure and hunkering down at her feet, though his shoulder still reached as high as her chest.

 

“Need hunt more,” Wise Bear told Vaelin. “More meat.”

 

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