Queen of Fire

“Forget the plan,” he told her, reaching over his shoulder to draw his sword, the quay no more than ten feet away now. “Tell Nortah to get his people ashore and start killing.”

 

 

He hoisted himself onto the rail, watching the arrows streak down from above, Volarians falling by the dozen, Al Hestian visible through the milling confusion, crouched protectively over his son’s body. Vaelin took a final judging glance at the quay and leapt from the rail, landing hard and rolling to absorb the shock. He sprinted towards Al Hestian, finding his way blocked by a knot of Free Swords, using their comrades’ bodies as shields as they backed away under the orders of a veteran sergeant. Vaelin hacked his way into their midst, laying about with his sword in a two-handed grip, two falling in quick succession, the veteran sergeant skewered through chest and neck by multiple arrows, the others attempting to flee but soon tumbling to the stones under the deadly rain.

 

Vaelin ran on, cutting down any Volarian who contrived to block his path. The sword flashed with all the effortless, terrible grace he had thought lost, parrying and killing as he moved without conscious decision. Perhaps it was never the song, he thought grimly, sidestepping a thrust from a Free Sword and moving behind him to lay open the back of his neck. You don’t need a song to be a killer.

 

He saw Al Hestian ahead, still crouched over Alucius, a group of Volarians rushing towards him. Something thrummed past Vaelin’s ear and the lead Volarian fell dead with an arrow protruding from his breastplate. Vaelin glanced behind to see Reva notching and loosing arrows from her finely carved bow with a speed and precision he knew he would never match. He sped on towards Al Hestian, seeing two more Free Swords fall to Reva’s arrows. Another came close enough to hack down at the former Battle Lord. Vaelin leapt, extending his blade to block the blow, hammering a fist into the man’s face. The man staggered, drawing his short sword back for a riposte, then snapped his head back and collapsed as one of Reva’s arrows found his eye.

 

“Alucius!” Vaelin shoved Al Hestian aside and crouched next to the poet, his eyes tracking over the terrible wound in his chest to his face, the features bleached white, eyes half-closed. Reva crouched at his side, touching a hand to Alucius’s face, sighing in sorrow.

 

“Drunken sot,” she muttered.

 

“Weaver!” Vaelin said, standing to cast his gaze out to sea. “He’s on the third ship with the other Gifted . . .”

 

“Vaelin,” she said, reaching out to grasp his arm. “He’s gone.”

 

He stood, dragging his gaze from Alucius’s body as the Seordah swept past them on either side, tearing through the hastily assembled ranks of Free Swords, cutting their line apart. Some fought, hacking and stabbing with their short swords at the too-swift, silent phantoms that assailed them, their blades finding only air as they fell by the dozen. Others fled, sprinting away through the ruins or throwing themselves into the harbour, willing to risk drowning rather than face such an onslaught. Here and there Kuritai could be seen, managing to strike a blow or two before they were clubbed down. Beyond the slaughter Vaelin could see a dense formation of Volarians building in the more open ground near the warehouse district, neat ranks of Varitai falling into place with their uncanny precision.

 

“They’ll fall back to the palace.”

 

Vaelin turned to find Lakrhil Al Hestian regarding him with a vacant frown, his voice dull, listless. “There are fire-traps surrounding it. They could hold out for days.”

 

He looked down at Alucius once more, bent to retrieve the dagger still clutched in the poet’s hand, and raised it towards his own throat. Vaelin’s punch jabbed into the nerve cluster below Al Hestian’s nose, leaving him unconscious on the stones.

 

“Muster your archers on the quay,” he told Reva, nodding towards the dense ranks of Varitai, now attempting a fighting withdrawal into the city, the Seordah continually harrying them with volleys of arrows from their flat bows. Despite their retreat he knew this was far from over; he could see more Volarian formations moving through the ruins, battalions forming in the northern quarter with more to the west. He saw Nortah a short distance away, mustering his fighters amidst the remnants of a Free Sword company, sword bloody from end to end.

 

“Move towards the north gate!” he called to him. “Stop them joining up. I’ll send the Realm Guard to join you when they dock.”

 

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