The Fireborn Chronicles Page 5

  Celeste had to carefully pick each shot for fear of risking the child. Another assassin dropped. She sprinted for cover and a better shot.

  “We declare in the presence of her guardians,” the three assassins chanted in unison, “that they be not viable opponents!” Each of their club-like fists wielded a blade that rose above the child's head ominously.

  Celeste dropped another one.

  Missy's tiny head bobbed lightly between them. The remaining blades began their descent.

  Alandra steeled herself.

  Ira shifted his sight and ‘reached.’ Lifting from his body, he projected himself toward the action, much as he had done for the FINDING. But this time, he did not shift into his target's patterned resonances. This time, he retained his own and deliberately forced it, knifelike, into those of the assassin farthest from Celeste's aim. Everything exploded.

  Celeste dropped the target closest to her.

  Ira and the last assassin dropped to the ground.

  Alandra screamed.

  * * * *

  The Nemesis was deep in space when Ira regained consciousness. Alandra, holding his hand so tightly that it hurt, leaned over him. I thought we'd lost you this time. She smiled in relief. “He should be all right now."

  From behind her, Captain Pointe's voice resounded off the sick bay walls. “Good. Now stop worrying. Everything's gonna be all right."

  Ira felt himself falling back into exhaustion. His senses screamed. “The girl...” he began.

  Rael stepped closer. “You saved the day, kid. When you killed their last assassin, we won. Girl gets to go home; Gov gets another membership, and you two earn the right to work for me.” He smiled really big.

  Now, look what you've done, Alandra frowned.

  Ira smiled as he felt himself drifting back into unconsciousness. “We got our transfers though, didn't we?"

  * * *

  PART THREE

  THE KING'S HEALER

  * * *

  The garden shimmered, almost hauntingly, in the light of the three moons. Physician-Supreme Laynald Lockheim smiled. Safely concealed within the shadowy confines of his balcony, he allowed his senses to drink in the sweet fragrances from below. He was glad for the brief respite that this lull in court life had granted him. Oh, how he longed for the freedom to be able to relax and just let go.

  His smile faded. It had been too long, just too damned long, and he was too old to be daydreaming like this.

  As always, his work beckoned to him from below. Laynald chose to ignore it. Tomorrow would be time enough to harvest the beautiful Z'lanta plants of their deadly pollen, and the Alianti stalks would finally be dry enough to sharpen into dart form. Let it wait.

  Eyes closing, the Physician-Supreme leaned heavily against the shadow-laced wall. Years of caution and habit caused him to drape the dark cloak of office across his chest so that he would virtually disappear from sight below. Is there nowhere in the world, where a thing of beauty does not merely mask a death-tool?

  From within his quarters, a sudden click-click sounded. Dark eyes flashing, his left hand dropped smoothly toward the holster, and in one fluid motion, he spun to face his attacker. His cape awhirl, he loosed the holy gun and fired. As always, his slender target dropped—immediately dead.

  Cursing his carelessness, Laynald scanned the still dark sleep-chamber and reconfirmed that she had, indeed, been the only one. He looked sadly upon the form of his most recent mistress bloodily sprawled upon the floor. The holy beam had crushed her torso, but her hand still tightly clutched a loaded dart-tube.

  She, too, had been beautiful he noted, and once more setting his short cloak awhirl, he turned to summon the removal squad for their services.

  * * * *

  Moneo, the Court-High-Conjurer, thrust a clenched fist skyward and spoke the words of summoning. A high wind arose, and the sky ominously darkened around the spot where he stood atop the castle's conjuring tower. A smell of ozone filled the air; Moneo smiled. This was going even better than he had thought. The first flash of lightning illuminated his finely chiseled young features and made his short cropped red hair seem as though it were ablaze. He hoped that the guards below could see him from their stations, for this was the stuff that true fear, and therefore power, was made of.

  The ancient tomes, the stars, even the prophets foretold that the battle between Diab, the great Lord of Destruction and the Nameless One from the world beyond was at hand. He breathed in the torrid scent of the chaos whirling around him. It was foretold that all would be called upon to take a part when the time was right.

  Moneo searched the heavens for a sign. He had spent his life preparing for this moment. The scriptures claimed that the Nameless One would force a horrible peace upon all armies great and small, a peace that would cause old men to suffer and die in their sleep and condemn the young to flounder, untried, into oblivion. As a child, he had been plagued by nightmare after nightmare of such a time. Finally, at last, Diab had granted him a vision ... this vision.

  When I overturn The Code of Succession nothing will be able to stop me. My path of destruction will dictate civilization's direction for at least...

  In the distance, a flickering light appeared. He squinted to be certain and could scarcely contain his excitement. He reached toward it and repeated the summons.

  It grew larger.

  “Diab, guide me,” he gasped, and with all his might he willed the object to come even closer. He would pluck it from the heavens and force it to the ground.

  It filled the sky now, a raging burst of shimmering light, casting shadows and replacing the storm-sounds with an ear-splitting roar.

  “To me,” Moneo commanded, barely audible amidst the din, “Come to me. Now!"

  It lurched forward and grew larger, becoming more and more blinding—deafening.

  Covering his ears and closing his eyes, the young Conjurer dropped to his knees on the ground. Something had gone wrong.

  The object sped away.

  Moneo cursed. The lightning crashed; the thunder roared, and the Court-High-Conjurer stormed away from the castle tower.

  * * * *

  Laynald awoke feeling unrested and stiff. The scent of death assailed his senses. It always did somehow, but it no longer seemed to send his blood racing or thrill him as it had in his youth. The harsh rays of the new day glared at him from the balcony window, and he considered for the thousandth time walling it up. He imagined the pleasant placing of each cool, dark brick until the offensive orifice had completely disappeared. He smiled briefly at the thought before remembering, as always, that an entrance blocked was also an exit removed, and there were none to spare in these rooms.

  He assassinated windows now instead of men. He had grown soft. Shaking away the thought along with his weariness, Laynald sat up and ran his fingers through his thick tangled hair. Callia had always liked his hair. To her, its unruly locks had seemed a challenge. She never tired of smoothing and resmoothing their every rebellious outburst. Allowing his hands to drop to his lap, he stared at the dark stain still barely visible on the floor. If she had been as good an assassin as she had been a consort ... He let the thought drop.

  From beyond the courtyard, tower bells softly chimed. Court would be called soon and his presence required. He rose and set his day into motion.

  An unnatural storm rolled in from the north, bringing with it oceans of rain and a nasty bolt of lightning unlike any he'd seen before. He glanced suspiciously toward the window while he cleansed his body and dressed, ritualistically placing his day weaponry where it belonged.

  Amidst intricately woven designs, he lined his inner sleeve sheaths with an assortment of specially tinctured throwing darts. He carefully checked and reloaded the wrist-shooters. Then, finally, with a special deliberation, he reached out and retrieved the sacred Gun. He caressed its barrel reverently before finally holstering it. A gift from the Gods, themselves, he remembered proudly.

  From beyond the now drenched courty
ard, tower bells rang again—this time more insistently.

  Donning his dark cloak of office, he paused before the full length mirror on his way out and noted that despite—or maybe even because of—his coarse features, he projected quite an impressive image. Laynald snatched up his sable gauntlets and pulled them on. With his most sinister sneer upon his dark face, he sized himself up.

  “Let any who dare just try!” he jeered, and then, casting a somber glance toward his still empty bed, silently reprimanded himself, noticing again the ever-deepening lines of age on his once smooth face.

  The tower bells tolled. Drawing his cape protectively around himself, he left the rooms and headed once more toward his duty and his sovereign—the King.

  * * * *

  King Alejan IV fiddled with a tassel from his royal red robe. Why are thrones so damned hard? he wondered and glanced past the guard toward the swaggering youth approaching. It was always a pain to have to break in a new member to the court. This one was proving to be no exception. He was young, and worse than that, ambitious. But he had earned his position legally, through assassination—so the Gods must have guided his hand.

  The king grinned as his new Conjurer drew near, silently thanking the Gods that this lucky upstart was forbidden by The Code of Succession to aspire to the Crown. His position as Court Conjurer was the highest he could achieve through the majiks. Now he would have to settle down and hold his own against all comers. The King smiled.

  The new Conjurer drew near. “Good morning, your Majesty.” He bowed a little too deeply.

  “You reek of brimstone,” the King complained sourly. “What mischief have you been up to now, Moneo?"

  “I have been trying to summon the fires from the sky, Majesty, so as to vanquish your enemies and further strengthen your forces."

  “And have you had any success so far?” King Alejan laughed.

  “Only once, Majesty,” he stated flatly. “The fires did start to obey. They headed straight toward me, but broke free from my spell before I could direct the strike. It will not be long until the power will be fully mine.” He stood taller and feigned a proud smile.

  The King shrugged. “Just take care that you don't flood too many of the field crops in the process. Neither kings nor armies do well knee-high in mud without food."

  Moneo looked wounded. “Of course not, Majesty, I seek only to serve you."

  “I realize and appreciate this,” the king lied, “but my duties weigh heavily upon me today, and I am anxious to get the public hearings over with. Did you notice if there were many people waiting when you entered?"

  “No more than usual, Majesty,” he answered and then, leaning forward, continued, “but the Court Healer seems to be late today. Why don't we go ahead and start without him? The Guard and I can handle anything or anyone who could possibly threaten your personage. Why wait for that walking armory, when a single incantation from me could...."

  King Alejan cut him short with a wave of his hand. “There is an equally destructive power in the knowledge of healing,” he admonished the youth. And you may discover that for yourself someday, if some malady should ever befall you.

  From across the room, Laynald entered the hall, rivers of rain pouring heavily from the folds of his cloak. “Forgive my tardiness, Majesty. I will not slow your hearings any further. I know how you hate to hold them during the rain seasons.” Both the King and his Physician glared meaningfully at the Conjurer, who uncomfortably fell back into his position flanking the throne's left side.

  “I always dislike hearing complaints about the weather myself,” Alejan snorted, “but rain seems to bring out the worst in people.” He threw a sidelong glance at Moneo and stifled a laugh. The old Mage would have changed this subject long ago. Absolutely nobody accused or laughed at him in public. Wonder how the kid caught him napping?

  Laynald took his place at the King's right side, his still glistening cloak carefully arranged so as to make the Holy Gun both visible and available. His silent strength and poise easily signaled the commencement of the day's hearings. The doors to the public were finally thrown open.

  The King smothered a surge of pride that this was his man. If Moneo should live long enough to imitate any one man in his court, he hoped it would be the Healer. With two such men of power enforcing his rule, there was very little that could not be accomplished.

  Three land disputes, four theft trials and one fight over a woman later, the hearings seemed to be settling for the day. King Alejan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wrinkling his nose at the annoying dampness permeating the large hall. There was a chill setting in with the humidity. He was about to signal the end of the session, when a great skirmish erupted from the outermost doorway. A tight knot of peasants clamored into the hall, prodding two battered men before them. Gasping and bleeding, with hands bound and clothing torn, the duo staggered forward to collapse at the foot of the throne.

  “What is this?” the King demanded of the mob.

  “Demons,” a lanky fellow bellowed. “That one,” he pointed a bony finger toward the younger of the two, “tried to bewitch my wife. He is of the Majiks!"

  From the King's side, Moneo crept steadily forward, hands tracing patterns of protection in the air before him until he reached the still crouching figures. The youth was about his age, maybe sixteen. He had fallen forward onto his knees and now drew deep, gasping breaths for air. Moneo grabbed a handful of his long raven hair and jerked his head upward. Crystalline blue eyes met the Conjurer's gaze, and a sudden surge of pain ripped through his hand. Moneo lurched away from the lad and looked incredulously at the palm of his throbbing hand.

  “He is of the Power, Majesty, but it is as none I have ever seen before. Beware,” he warned and shook his hand ominously.

  “And what of the other one?” the King inquired.

  A husky man spoke up from the crowd, “He disabled seven strong men before we were able to subdue him, Your Highness. They are powerful demons. We have brought them to you for judgment."

  King Alejan carefully studied the pair, then leaned toward Laynald. “What do you know about Demons, Healer?"

  Laynald deftly palmed a dart from his sleeve and answered, “They are not easily killed.” He pegged the youth in the arm and watched him fall forward. “And they are not easily affected by physical means.” A second dart caught the other before he could react. He too collapsed. The crowd backed a healthy distance away from them.

  “I would recommend examining them closely under more controlled conditions,” he concluded.

  The hall remained silent while the King gazed down at the fallen men. “Guard them carefully,” he finally said to the Healer and motioned for the guards to remove them.

  “Your Majesty,” Moneo warned. “You are harboring a danger in your midst. They should be killed now while they are weakened."

  The King looked to Laynald and motioned for him to follow the prisoners.

  Moneo fell silent again. Though nobody noticed, a smile played around the corners of his mouth. It is beginning.

  * * * *

  Dungeons were seldom suitable for more than containment and cold. Laynald motioned one of the guards to light another torch. It was still too damned dark.

  “Hold it here,” he instructed the guard when it finally sparked into flame. In spite of the harsh glare and flickering shadows, Laynald struggled to study his wards. The older of the two was, roughly, middle-aged, though his hair seemed to be an unusual shade and amount of silvered gray. His hands appeared to be smooth, so he wasn't a farmer, but a wild glimmer from the torchlight showed from amidst the hair by his ear. Laynald leaned forward and cautiously brushed a gloved hand through the stranger's thick locks. The reflective glimmer reappeared. Above the temple area, small metallic implants became evident. Laynald looked more suspiciously at the figure. This may not be a demon, but he is definitely more than a mere man.

  Turning his attention to the youth, he found nothing out of the norm—only cuts and b
ruises. He had definitely taken more of a beating. Since the peasants had been loath to touch him, they had apparently used whatever had been at hand to disable him. Laynald grimaced and shook his head. Alejan had been right about one thing. Bad weather did bring out the worst in people—especially in mobs.

  The Healer searched his medicine bag for the proper herbs to disinfect the worst of the wounds. “Clean him up,” Laynald ordered.

  The nearest guard reluctantly complied by drenching a bit of binding with water and wiping it over the boy's battered face, none too carefully.

  A sudden howl of pain caught Laynald unaware. He instinctively whirled for an attack, only to find the embarrassed guard standing a modest distance away, cradling his hand.

  “What happened?” the Healer demanded.

  The guard just shrugged. “All I did was touch him...."

  Laynald looked sideways at the still unconscious prisoners. Removing his left gauntlet he reached for the boy, pausing just short of physical contact. He drew back in astonishment. It was as though he had felt every one of the boy's wounds all in the passing of a single moment. A residual pain still throbbed along his leg. Broken, the Healer diagnosed, and glancing down at the boy's leg, he noted the discolored and swollen ankle. He reached out again, this time briefly brushing the skin. A searing jolt shot up through his hand at the moment of contact. As an afterthought, he reached over and lightly touched the other prisoner. Nothing happened. He donned his glove, grateful that he always wore them.

  “Absolutely no one enters these chambers before I return,” he told the guards after tending the prisoner's wounds. “That includes you, too."

  They nodded their understanding—not without a touch of relief—and when he was finished, they bolted the heavy door and locked it.

  * * * *

  Laynald entered his private chambers with complete certainty that absolutely nothing more could go wrong. He had been legally targeted for assassination; the King was in an ill humor; the Alanti plants were still inaccessible because of that damnable rain, and now he was responsible for the care and upkeep of those two strangers. He shook his head in resignation. It was not a good day.