Queen of Fire полностью

“These people are fucking disgusting,” Draker said when Thirty-Four translated, casting a dark glower at the slaves keening over the master’s body. “Shut up you simpering dogs!” They scattered as he threw a half-eaten chicken leg at them, fleeing into the darkness or retreating to their quarters, too fearful to even ask about their fate.

The Varitai’s screams ended abruptly, heralding a silence that seemed to last an age. Frentis scanned the faces of his veterans at the fire, for the first time seeing a grim understanding of the magnitude of their task. A handful against an empire was always a hopeless cause. He had known it from the day they sailed, but had they?

“Should we go after the runners?” Illian asked, breaking the silence. “They’ll no doubt spread warning of our arrival.”

“Good,” Frentis said. “We are here to cause as much fear and confusion as possible.”

“We need more fighters,” Lekran stated. “The cowards we keep finding won’t make an army.”

“Then we may be in luck.” Thirty-Four produced a large ledger, opening it to reveal row after row of neatly inscribed figures. “The master’s scribe kept excellent records. It seems he did much business with a Varikum to the south.”

“Varikum?” Frentis asked. “I don’t know this word.”

“Training school,” Lekran translated. “For the Garisai, those chosen to partake in the spectacles.”

“Slaves?”

He nodded. “But not like Varitai or Kuritai. No binding for them. Captured in war and chosen for strength, or savagery. Nearly got sent to one myself but the Kuritai quota was light that year.”

“It will be well defended,” Thirty-Four advised. “Inside and out.”

Frentis turned to Lemera, noticing for the first time the perfection of her profile, skin smooth and flawless. A few hours ago he had seen her stabbing at the master’s body, teeth bared and voicing a joyful laugh every time the knife came down. “It’s a rare man who can guard against beauty,” he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Vaelin

Wise Bear called it The Long Night, the time when the sun vanished from the ice for a full month, its coming heralded by the shortened days and the increased brightness of Grishak’s Breath. “Must reach islands before it comes,” he had warned the first day they set foot on the ice. “Long Night kills all.”

The first week had been easier than expected, the novelty of traversing such a vast and stark environment doing much to dispel their discomfort at the ever-deepening cold. Wise Bear led the way, moving with short economical strides with Iron Claw lumbering along behind. The great bear would sometimes disappear for a day, returning with dried blood on his snout though Vaelin was baffled as to what prey it had managed to find. To him the ice seemed as barren as the Alpiran desert, a place void of life for all its beauty, fully revealed at twilight when the green-tinged fire danced in the sky and the ice became a mirror to its majesty. The Lonak would fall into a reverent hush when the sun fell, whispering thanks for Grishak’s blessing.

Wise Bear seemed to hold a similar reverence for the dancing sky lights, greeting their appearance by sinking to his knees and holding his bone-staff aloft, a lilting song rising from his throat. Vaelin had yet to hear the shaman speak of any god but it was clear the sky-fire held considerable significance.

“He’s not praying,” Kiral said one evening as Vaelin’s gaze went to the old man, her face sombre as her song related the meaning of Wise Bear’s lilting ode. “He offers greetings to his wife and the children they lost on the ice.”

Vaelin looked up at the swirling green fire, watching it coalesce and break apart in an unending dance. It might resemble flame but there was no fury to it, the constant swirl conveying a strange sense of serenity. “He thinks she’s up there?” he asked.

“He knows it. Every soul that ever lived is there, looking down on us until the world’s end.”

The Beyond made real, Vaelin mused, watching Wise Bear finish his song and lever himself upright with his staff. At least he can see the object of his faith.

They moved only in daylight at first, horses and ponies laden with supplies and dragging the sleds Wise Bear had them make before leaving the shore, simple frames of twisted gorse branches skidding along on runners fashioned from seal-bone. Scar, like all the horses, had shied the first time his hoof touched the ice, eyes widening in alarm at the unfamiliar sensation, only consenting to venture further at Vaelin’s gentle insistence. Even after several days the animal still displayed a wariness of his new surroundings, as if understanding the grim warning Wise Bear imparted when they set off: “Horses won’t last. Have to eat them before the end.”