City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) (5 page)

“Perhaps.” She grinned and left the room, the only noise the slow swishing of her skirt.

Silar studied his reflection in the mirror. He had not shaved and was looking fairly unkempt. Not the best way to present oneself before the king, but time was short; it would have to do. He buckled his sword to his waist, hauled on a pair of well-worn boots and grabbed the green and black army coat. The bedroom door noiselessly slid shut behind him as he marched down the broad hallway, his feet making just as little sound.

He threaded his arms into the coat sleeves, ascended the curving stairs and began closing a diagonal row of buckles. The coat was tightly fitted, exhibiting four stripes of green across the chest and shoulders. These denoted the rank he held in Cadra’s army, which was lieutenant. Cadra had nine other lieutenants: every one in charge of a battalion nearing a thousand men. The battalions would take daily shifts guarding the castle and city, half of each guarding during the day and the other half at night. The responsibility sometimes pinched at Silar, but he wasn’t about to cry about it. The rank had been a generous gift from Morghiad, who would not be best-pleased at his impending delay.

Silar stepped to the main doors of the Malachite Hall where two soldiers flanked each side in their Calidellian finery; both raised their eyebrows. He gave them a brief nod and pushed the giant, green stone doors open. The hall beyond was immense, glittering and, by Silar’s reckoning, just as dimly lit as the rest.

It was similar to stepping into a colossal geode. Great chunks of polished green limestone jutted from the walls, their corners cut to simulate gemstones. The floor was of a black marble and interspersed with streaks of grey and flecks of white quartz. Square, malachite-edged mirrors clung to the lower perimeter of the hall, fronted by slender, tall and silver stand lamps. These had to stay lit even during the day, as the only natural light came from three lengthy, glazed slits in the ceiling. At the end of the hall stood nine men garbed in the black and green. Eight were lieutenants and the ninth, taller than the others and wearing a black cloak that touched the floor, was Morghiad. So, one man was later than Silar. That was something of a relief. He jogged to the men with his hand on hilt, offering them a nod once he drew close. Before them, on a low dais, sat King Acher.

Silar proffered a bow to the broad man. The resemblance between he and Morghiad was very slight. The king was a head shorter than his son, brown-eyed, lump-nosed and lighter-haired. Something in the jaw line, possibly. Morghiad ought to be thankful he had taken his looks from elsewhere. The girls had always liked Morghiad’s looks. On one occasion the lieutenant had taken a fine, bright-eyed dressmaker back to his chambers only to have her ask if she could meet ‘the handsome and broody kahr.’ Silar had obliged, naturally, and then left Morghiad alone to deal with his adoring devotee. Riling the kahr created endless entertainment. The man worked so hard to reign-in emotion and keep his face free of animation that Silar could spend days thinking of ways to break him. Women made the man uncomfortable, that much was obvious. He hoped the kahr-captain would not think his being late for duty was another ruse.

Morghiad’s close-shaven face and relaxed shoulders would have revealed nothing to lazy eyes; the whiteness of his knuckles upon his sword hilt, however, betrayed his mood. Beetan was the missing lieutenant of the group. He was probably recovering from the previous night’s excesses in a ditch somewhere.

“Women keeping you busy, eh, Lord Forllan?” bellowed the king with a smirk.

“Er...yes. Well...” He drew himself up. “Ladies are as they will do, sire.” He wasn’t even sure if that made any sense.

“That they are, indeed! Hah! Why don’t you take the lead of your young friend here, Morghiad? Or aren’t you man-enough?” The king leaned towards his son.

Morghiad gradually released the hilt of his sword, bringing whatever embarrassment or anger he had into check. He clasped his hands behind his back so that they were beyond sight. Evidently the king enjoyed baiting his son as much as Silar did. At least
he
was more merciful than the king with his teases, the lieutenant considered.

Morghiad took a long, deep breath. “What arrangements do we need to make for the Gialdin Feast Day?”

That was a celebration held to commemorate the destruction, and subsequent acquisition, of the small country of Gialdin. The state had been wealthy and its people charitable enough to support a welfare system. Orphaned children were housed, out-of-work men and women were given apprenticeships to develop new skills and injured nationals were given suitable work until they were recovered. Its capital shared the country’s name and had been crowned by an ivory palace, forged from Blaze Energy. The palace had been there for thousands of years, and was purported to be indestructible. Somehow, King Acher’s army had found a weakness within the white walls and had promptly set about levelling it. Its rulers, the Jade’an family, were each dispatched by Acher’s own hand at the conclusion of the battle, eighteen years earlier. The international community had reacted variously with horror and disgust when he achieved this, fearing that he had destroyed something sacred. To the king, it was one of his greatest accomplishments.

King Acher twitched at Morghiad’s response. ”Boy, I am going to find you a little whore if it’s the last thing I do. Maybe a pretty noble one. I don’t know what it is you’re afraid of. Eh?”

Morghiad’s shoulders tensed for a moment and then loosened. “We can discuss the matter later. I am here to talk about security.” His voice remained level, though the words came out slowly.

The other lieutenants shuffled their feet and fiddled with their coat buckles uncomfortably.

“This is security, boy; the security of our succession! It’s going to take nine years to generate an heir so you need to get started now! Now, now, now!” Acher punctuated each ‘now’ with a slam of his fist on the throne arm. His face had darkened considerably.

“Well, it took you over three-hundred years to procure me so I rather think you are becoming over-anxious about the situation.” Morghiad stayed composed. Silar hadn’t noticed before how much the kahr blended into the colour scheme of the Hall. The uniform was an intentional match but the hair and eyes... curious.

Acher growled: “The women were not... suitable. It took me a while to find your mother.”

“Perhaps you would have had better luck if you hadn’t persisted in executing them.” Morghiad shut his mouth before uttering more. It was no secret that the benay-gosa frequently rejected the king.

Silar re-adjusted his sword belt. The air suddenly felt very thick.

King Acher leaned back into his arched throne and smiled with unbridled menace. “You think their superficial lives are worth something? Don’t want the wife to die, eh? It’s inevitable, boy. And, don’t forget,
you
killed your own mother. You’ll be avoiding battles next to try and save one of these
precious women’s
blasted husbands!”

Morghiad blinked and ground his teeth. “We have fought some... unnecessary... battles in the last year, father.”

“Unnecessary? Unnecessary?!” Acher exclaimed, wide-eyed. “This is something all of you lads need to realise.” He settled more deeply into his throne. “Have you ever noticed the difference between us and the other living things? The birds, the deer, the wolves and even the mighty plains tigers? Come on, men. No? Shoot any of them with an arrow, remove it and they bleed and die. Chop a leg off - it doesn’t grow back. If they become diseased, they die. They are engineered to expire. Yet
they
are the superior beings. Our world is cursed. We need battles because there are too many of us, crammed into our tiny countries.” Acher’s eyes became distant. “Death. Is. Necessary.”

Silar was finding it harder to breathe. Had the vents been shut?

“If it is population that concerns you then perhaps breeding ought not to be such a high priority,” Morghiad stated matter-of-factly. “As for the Gialdin Day arrangements, I trust you will want extra men on the main gates and at the palace doors?”

Acher pressed his lips together and sighed: “Fine, fine. Which battalion will be on duty?”

“Beodrin’s. I will join him and-”

“You will not. You will be at those celebrations meeting the people you need to meet. And bring Lord Forllan, too. He is a good influence.”

Silar gave a weak smile. He felt a thin veil of guilt settle over him, woven by the part he had played in Morghiad’s women trouble. Had Acher always spoken to his son in this way? Silar had not been party to many of their discussions, and Morghiad had been almost entirely raised by army captains, historians and strategists - so how much time father and son had spent together was a mystery.

Morghiad nodded with disinterest at his father’s instruction and went on to list the provisions required by the army in order to see the feast day made safe. His father nodded absently, occasionally questioning the number of arrowheads or the amount of pinh poison required.

Tall, orange-haired Beetan turned up halfway through, reeking of yesterday’s wine. Nothing was made of his less-than-salubrious entrance, however, and the meeting pressed on at its lethargic pace. A rough schedule was mapped out and handed between the men, detailing what to do if there should be intruders. This lasted for three, possibly four, long hours until King Acher caught himself and doubled over in pain.

“Damn
nalka
- such a bloody inconvenience,” he coughed, “Still, a new lover should lessen the effect, eh lads?” The king took another deep breath, “Meeting dismissed.”

Silar caught up with Morghiad in the grey hallway outside. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to be late. All that... it was my fault, I’m sorry, Morghiad.” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Don’t be late to anything again,” the kahr uttered. “If I am to stay captain, I’ll need your help.”

Silar looked at the floor. “You’re right. You do need my help. You need someone to see that your father doesn’t marry you off to some lizard.” Morghiad nodded and Silar was sure he had seen a smile in his eyes. “In all seriousness, I will do everything I can to assist you, my friend.”

The two men paced towards the practice hall. It was equally as large as the Malachite Hall, perhaps even bigger, requiring six entrances. Nine-thousand men could stand in there at one time with just enough room to swing a sword, meaning that it could take two hours to fill.

The practice courtyard was more pleasant, in Silar’s opinion, but then he enjoyed the daylight - apparently unlike everyone else in this blasted place. The hall was of the usual basalt stone, rough to the touch and fairly dark. The curved roof, gently sloping floor and walls had been specifically designed to channel sound from the front to the back. Morghiad barely had to raise his voice to be heard there; it was quite a marvel in acoustic engineering.

One wall held a row of tall windows, arched and criss-crossed with leading. Collapsible tables lined the opposite wall, and these most often held practice weapons such as wooden swords or blunted daggers. At the nearest end there was a wide, square opening that led to the changing rooms and showers. The facilities could only accommodate two-hundred men at a time, so most soldiers would return to their own rooms to bathe.

Morghiad caught Silar by the arm as they came to the giant wooden doors. The other lieutenants filtered in past them. “Silar, I need your advice. I want to make a... considerable change to the way things are done here.”

“What manner?”

“No more pinh on our blades, arrows or any weapon for that matter.” Morghiad had a determined set to his face.

The lieutenant felt the cold fingers of unease creep along his spine. He wasn’t sure if his advice was going to have much of an effect. “Do you want to see your entire army annihilated? Why in blazes have you got this bullock-brained idea in your head?”

“Some of the greatest battles in history were won by legions that did not use it. Lobesia was one of those.”

Silar winced. His great grandparents had fought in that battle.

Morghiad continued, “If we all become better fighters we won’t need it. Poison causes unnecessary suffering. I think it is dishonourable. Worse, I think it reeks of a last resort made by a weak army.”

He had a point, but Cadra’s army had suffered its many problems for a long time. Morghiad’s hopes might have had merit, but the chances of them coming to reality… “These are all very noble reasons, Morghiad. But you have to look at it from the point of view of those men. How are you going to get them to believe that this is in their best interest?”

“They will see what is right.” Morghiad’s grass-green eyes glinted.

Silar grunted and then said, “I’ve heard... Some of the men.... they aren’t sure of you yet. Win them over first. Then maybe you can try something like this.”

Morghiad’s hand dropped from Silar’s arm. He looked thoughtful, or as thoughtful as he ever did. “Very well.” The captain stood back and folded his arms. “I’ll work on that first.”

Silar’s mouth almost fell to the floor out of astonishment. That stubborn, stone-faced kahr had listened to him? Something odd was going on with the man.

The kahr walked onward through the doors, bold strides consuming the floor beneath. His cloak flowed softly behind him with its fibres that invariably caught the light and devoured it. Silar strolled in behind to move through the lines and take his position at the head of his battalion. He observed how every man watched Morghiad carefully, either through fight-readiness or suspicion. The kahr’s walk across the vast hall took some time to complete before he stepped up to the raised platform at the front, stood firmly and began speaking.

“The city of Cadra is suffering from a sickness and this army has played a major part in it.”

That
was how he intended to win them over? By telling them they were the source of all evil? Silar felt as if he’d drunk a cup of pinh.

The kahr went on: “The old captain was a fool. He preached discipline but practised none of it. He has allowed you to lose hope in your own abilities, he allowed you to lose direction. He allowed you to lose discipline.”