On Fire’s Wings (34 page)

Kevla watched in horror as the balance shifted abruptly and the Emperor's men began firing on the Arukani. Some ducked back to safety; others clutched their chests and toppled from Kevla's sight among the boulders.

The attack continued, and while the advance was slowed, it was not stopped. Fewer arrows came from the Arukani side; fewer men rose to fire them.

Kevla swallowed hard and tried not to count up the dead. The rest of the clans' warriors waited in plain sight, at the base of the mountain, armed and silent. Their numbers were a handful compared to what was spilling over the mountainside. Her people were waiting to be slaughtered.

Suddenly, a fierce protectiveness welled inside Kevla. It snuffed out her panic, her fear, her sense of inadequacy, as easily as she might snuff out a candle. She felt as if there was something deep inside her, growing larger, pushing her to extend and open. She was bigger than Kevla Bai-sha. She was bigger than any of the other lives she had ever lived. Her people needed her to be there for them, to fight for them, to embrace every bit of what it meant to be the Flame Dancer, both the light and the dark. She didn't have the luxury of being small anymore, of being afraid of her powers, of being unwilling to use everything she could to defend and protect. And with that surrender, she felt power and knowledge flow into her.

She had been clutching the Dragon's spine ridge so tightly that her hands ached, but now she released her grip. She did not need to worry about balance. She was the Dragon, and it was her. There was no risk of falling.

Kevla lifted her hands, feeling the movement as sensuous and graceful, and for the first time understood on a primal level why the guardians of the worlds were called Dancers.

It is like a dance,
she marveled.
I know each step, but I don't know that I know it—

Suddenly her mind was filled with images of Jashemi holding her, kissing her, making love to her. That fire that had burned in her, roused by his touch, smoldered inside her still. She could call on it, control it. Use it to protect her people.

Her eyes flew open. Her vision took on a clarity it had never had before. Her skin sensed the wind caressing it with vibrant intensity. Everything was heightened, sensitive—ready to accept Fire.

Attuned to her as he was, the Dragon sensed her readiness and swooped down toward the Sacred Mountain. Kevla stared at it, at the smoke that drifted upward. In her mind's eye, she saw again the pool of red-orange liquid. She reached out toward it with her mind and her hands as if to embrace it.

“Not yet,” cautioned the Dragon. Kevla blinked as if emerging from a trance and saw the wisdom in his words. The army had only begun to come down the mountain. She looked over her shoulder at the tiny figures of the clans of Arukan.

“Dragon, they're dying down there!”

“I know,” he said, gently. “But you must wait.”

Kevla kept the simmering energy bottled inside her. Wait. Wait.

 

The sun rose higher and more soldiers flooded down the mountainside. Tahmu, atop Swift-Over-Sand, tensed, but did not charge.

“Hold your ground!” he cried. His men, many from his own Clan but a greater number from the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan, shifted uneasily. He shared their feelings. He had sent his best archers up to the pass, and had watched them kill and be killed with pain and resignation. This was the first place where the Arukani army—strange, to think of it that way—had tried to dam the flood of warriors. They had slowed it, but not stopped it.

Now, it was Tahmu's turn to try to hold them before they reached the open plains. His heart pounded in his chest and every sense was alert as he watched them come, some on foot, some on horses.
Wait. Wait. Let them come to us, waste their energy in running.

“Now!” he cried, and kicked Swift. The warhorse charged, snorting. A hundred other mounted warriors did likewise. Scimitars glinted in the bright morning light as Tahmu's men surged forward, greeting the enemy with naked steel and the resolve that can only come from defending one's homeland.

Tahmu grunted as he swung his scimitar. The men were armed and armed well, and some of the men he led had already fallen beneath their blades, but they were not invincible. Their metal was vulnerable at the joints of neck and shoulder, and once he had spotted the weakness he did not hesitate to exploit it.

Suddenly, Swift screamed and collapsed beneath him. Tahmu barely leaped clear in time. Landing on his feet, he whirled to look at his mount. Swift had been eviscerated by a single long stroke. The blow had missed Tahmu's leg by a hair's breadth. Now the mighty beast churned up sand with its frantic kicking, his entrails spilling forth in a glistening red pool.

Pain sliced through Tahmu's heart. He had ridden Swift for over two decades. Even as he mourned his fallen friend, his heightened senses alerted him to danger and he whirled, bringing up the scimitar just in time to block a sword stroke.

For the briefest span of time, he thought about allowing the enemy to take him. He would make a good end that way, dying in battle. The way he died would be more honorable, more respected, than the way he had lived. It would be sweet, to put down the burden of guilt he bore for all the wrong choices, the lives lost.

But no. That was a coward's way out. Whatever his flaws, Tahmu knew he was a strong and cunning warrior, and Kevla needed every one of her warriors now if she was to succeed. Her success, the protection of their people, was more important to Tahmu than any false peace he could achieve by bowing his neck to the enemy's blade.

He parried his foe's next stroke, calmly eyed the gap in the enemy's armor, and with powerful arms that were strong and sure he struck.

It was then that the sheets of flame erupted.

 

Kevla watched as the Arukani battled the flank that charged forward, but her attention was caught by the second flank. They busied themselves digging ditches and pouring barrels of fluid into the channels. One of them touched a torch to the shiny pools and leaped back.

Fire sped along the pool and Kevla realized what they were doing. The warriors in the first wave were a sacrifice, a distraction. Now the army had made what they perceived to be a successful defense against the gathered Arukani—a wall of flame with a heavily guarded break.

They're protecting themselves from attack until the rest of them get here,
Kevla thought. She felt her lips twist in a harsh smile.

“Take me closer,” she called to the Dragon.

“Kevla, I don't—”

“Take me closer!” she cried, anger flooding her. The Dragon obeyed, tucking his wings and diving down at a staggering speed. Kevla extended her arms out to her sides, her movements fluid and in control. She fastened her eyes on the leaping flames, concentrating on them.

As if they were living things, the sheets of flame dove for their tenders. Men staggered and fell, uselessly beating their bodies in an attempt to douse the fire. Others, seeing what was happening, turned to behold the Great Dragon swooping down. He opened his mouth and breathed a long sheet of flame, further adding to the conflagration.

Kevla heard a strange noise. It was a sharp pinging sound. It took her a moment to realize what it was as an arrow whizzed past her ear. The sound was that of arrows striking the Dragon's heavily scaled frame.

Suddenly, she felt giddy, indestructible. The fire blazed through her and she had never felt more alive in her life. She began singling out men, taking aim and reaching out to them, the fire forming at her fingertips to rush in a glowing orange ball toward their chests.

Abruptly the Dragon began climbing upward again. The pinging diminished.

“Why did you—” Kevla began, but the Dragon interrupted her.

“Look at the pass,” he cried. She did as he asked. Many more had come over in the time she had spent battling the front line. It was at least double, perhaps triple the numbers. She could see that the Arukani line of defense was falling back; could see fallen bodies in
rhias
being trampled upon in the melee.

Now
.

Rage boiled inside her, and she turned again to face Mount Bari, to summon in her mind's eye the image of the boiling pits of liquid fire.

Come forth!

She heard the rumbling even from this distance, and knew that those with their feet on the earth could feel it. Perspiration dewed her forehead and she began to breathe raggedly. It was harder to control than she had expected, but she called it, and it came.

Lava erupted from the depths of the earth with a terrible roar. Bright orange flowed down the mountainside.

“Take me down,” she called to the Dragon. “I need to be closer!”

He obliged. She could see the individual rocks in the tide of liquid fire now, darker spots being swept along in the glowing yellow-orange flow. With a flick of her fingers, she summoned more lava. It spilled over another side of Mount Bari, this flow streaming over the pass. Anyone who had not yet crossed into Arukani lands now was completely cut off. A good quarter of the army would now never make it down the mountain.

The first stream twisted and snaked downward. It chased the men, who screamed and ran before it, into the waiting arms of the Arukani clans. Those who were not swift enough were engulfed in its lethal wave. Men, horses, wagons, casks of oil that exploded on contact, weapons—all fell beneath the merciless lava flow.

She heard the cries of the armies as they met in battle, heard the clash of steel on steel, but suddenly her attention was directed to a handful of men. Some of them clustered around the enormous bow and were pointing up at the dragon. Straining, they tilted the weapon skyward and fitted an arrow. One of them leaned forward, using his weight to pull back the string and—

Numbed with horror, it seemed forever until Kevla regained the use of her tongue.

“Dragon, watch—”

She felt the impact of the enormous arrow as it plunged into the Dragon's body. He let out a dreadful cry and bucked. Kevla clung to his neck, and looking down she could see the awful thing impaled in his left side, between his mighty forepaw and his wing. It had gone deep, and for a long, terrible moment, the Dragon's wings stopped beating.

He bellowed in pain and began to stroke the air once again, desperately trying to keep them both aloft and alive, turning away from the dreadful bow.

Fear for her friend erased everything else. She hugged him, leaning on his neck to cry to him, “Get down, get down! You're hurt!”

Kevla heard a stinging sound and felt a hard blow to her back that almost knocked her off the Dragon. Searing pain ripped through her and she couldn't breathe. Something wet was tricking down her right breast. She looked down and for a moment didn't see the blood, the same color as her flame-created clothing. There was a lump where there shouldn't be and—

A wave of dizziness and white-hot agony swept over her as she reached with her left hand and her questing fingers found the sharp metal tip of an arrow protruding through her shoulder.

“Kevla!” roared the Dragon. “Fight it, Kevla….”

But she couldn't. The world began to turn gray. Kevla swayed forward and tumbled from the Dragon's back.

T
ahmu had watched in awe along with everyone else as Kevla turned the army's own fire against them and caused Mount Bari to erupt.

The sight had rejuvenated the forces he commanded. They now shrieked their battle cries and fell upon their foes with fresh passion. The Emperor's men, by contrast, seemed stunned by the unexpected and shocking turn of events. Some dropped their weapons. Others surrendered eagerly, and Tahmu realized that several of the men they were fighting were actually Arukani.

One boy fell to his feet in front of Tahmu and begged, “Please, lord, they forced us to fight, spare me, spare me!”

“Get up!” cried Tahmu. “Drop your weapons. Keep your hands in front of you so no one will think you armed and head for the tents!”

Others, overhearing, imitated the boy, dropping their weapons and rushing gratefully to safety. Tahmu wondered if this was a battle or a rescue mission.

There came a brief lull in the battle and as Tahmu wiped sweat and blood from his face, his gaze traveled skyward. He saw the Dragon wheeling, saw Kevla as a tiny shape atop it.

Tahmu frowned. Something was wrong.

The Dragon was flying erratically, and as Tahmu watched in horror, a small shape toppled forward from the safety of the Dragon's broad back.

“Kevla!” he cried in impotent horror as his daughter hurtled toward the earth. There was nothing he could do for her, nothing to stop her downward plummet.

The Dragon dove, extending his enormous forepaws and catching the falling woman just in time. Relief washed over Tahmu.

She was safe. His daughter was safe.

“My lord!” The voice was Dumah's. Recovering himself, Tahmu whirled just in time to parry a stroke and begin a counterattack.

 

Kevla awoke from dreams of pain to the reality of agony. She was lying on her side, and as she tried to draw breath the pain increased a thousandfold.

“Gently,” came a familiar voice. “Don't move. Asha is working on your injury now.”

Kevla blinked, trying to keep still. “My lord?”

Tahmu was there, kneeling in front of her, tenderly holding one of her hands in his. “Don't speak, Kevla.”

But she had to. “The Dragon…he's hurt, too….”

“Do not fear for me, I am all right.” Despite the reassuring words, the Dragon's voice was laced with pain. He moved so she could see him. “They were able to remove the arrow. I will heal.”

Tears trickled down her face. “I'm glad,” she whispered, then arched in torment as behind her, someone touched her back.

“Careful, Asha!” cried Tahmu.

“My lord, I am sorry, but—may I speak with you?”

Tahmu squeezed Kevla's hand and then rose. He and his healer walked off a few steps and conversed in whispers. Kevla locked eyes with the Dragon.

“Make them tell me,” she whispered. “I need to know.”

He nodded his understanding, lifted his head and bellowed, “Tell her what is wrong, Asha!”

The healer knelt in front of her, looking more sorrowful and frightened than she had ever seen him.

“It's bad, Kevla,” he said. “An arrow entered your back at an angle. The shaft runs all through your body. The tip comes out in your shoulder. I fear that I will be unable to remove it without causing fatal damage.”

Kevla blinked, not comprehending. To have come this far, to have endured so much, and now one arrow would take her life? Doom the whole world?

She started to shake her head, then hissed as the movement exacerbated the pain. She licked her lips and spoke.

“No. There has to be a way.”

“Truly, there is not. Nothing has been pierced yet, but the arrow's shaft….” Aware that he was repeating himself, Asha fell silent. Tahmu shoved him aside and again gripped his daughter's hand, his gaze roaming over her face.

“Dragon,” Kevla whispered, looking into her father's eyes. “Dragon, you know more about me than I know about myself. Is there nothing that can be done?”

“Yes, there is. But it will be difficult.”

Hope swelled inside her, dimming the pain ever so slightly. Tahmu looked up at the Dragon.

“Save her.”

“She must save herself.”

“How is she to do that?” Tahmu demanded. “She lies near death, an arrow running the length of her body!”

Kevla closed her eyes, drifting. The Dragon continued to speak, but she barely heard him.

“The arrow is made of wood. You are the Flame Dancer. You must burn it, Kevla. Burn it to ashes inside of you. Burn it away to nothing. You know how to do this.”

Because I did it to Jashemi.
Tears leaked past her closed lids.

“Fire destroys,” said the Dragon, as if she had spoken aloud, “but it also cleanses and purifies. Burn the arrow shaft, and cauterize your wounds.”

It sounded so easy and so difficult at the same time. She was holding on to consciousness by a thread, only faintly aware of the pressure of her father's hand on hers.

“Kevla, you must do as the Dragon says,” Tahmu said softly. “I have forsaken Keishla and lost Jashemi. Don't let the Emperor take my daughter, too.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes. She had never seen him look like this; not when she told him about Jashemi, not when he had taken his blood-marked daughter to give to the Dragon. On his strong, handsome face were mingled hope and fear and…love?

Quickly, before she lost her courage, she squeezed her eyes shut and visualized the arrow that had pierced her body. It sprang to her mind's eye immediately. She could see its harsh wooden shaft embedded in her flesh. She understood now the reason for Asha's concern; it would indeed have been impossible to remove.

But not to immolate.

Kevla, my love, you are fire!

She gasped and arched her body as the heat began to burn from deep inside her. It spread rapidly through her body, and she felt her father drop her hand; no doubt it was too hot for him to continue to hold. She willed her body to consume the wooden arrow shaft, and she screamed aloud as the internal heat increased. She felt the shaft catch fire and burn to ashes in the space of one heartbeat to the next.

More. She needed to do more.

The ashes inside her continued to be consumed. Burned away until they had completely dissolved. Now she turned her attention to the entry wound in her lower back, willing her body to concentrate the heat there. She heard gasps and low talking as her father, Asha and the Dragon, and whoever else had clustered around to witness, saw what they could only call a miracle. One final, excruciatingly hot burst, and then it was over.

She had been sweating profusely, but her skin was dry. It was so hot that her sweat had evaporated instantly. Kevla gasped in short, harsh breaths, willing the fire to fade, to leave, to return to wherever it dwelt deep inside of her until she called it again. Slowly, the nearly unbearable heat subsided.

Kevla opened her eyes. “Asha,” she whispered, her hands fluttering to her shoulder. “You can cut out the arrow head now.”

She closed her eyes and knew no more.

 

The man resembled those who had attacked her people, but Kevla knew he was not one of them. Tall, with yellow hair, he waited for her on a hill covered with white. She walked toward him, and the strange whiteness melted at her footsteps.

His face had laugh lines around the bright blue eyes, but now those eyes were hardened with pain and anger. This was a man who understood suffering, and who also understood the desire for vengeance.

And sitting at his feet, blue stripes running along its body, was a creature that resembled a simmar.

Jashemi's dream, she thought; I am dreaming Jashemi's dream. Floating toward her as she slowly swam toward the waking world came a voice she knew and loved. Jashemi's.

“You must hurry, Flame Dancer. Hurry, or you will be too late.”

 

When she awoke, it was to find the Dragon gazing down at her. “You'd sleep through an avalanche, wouldn't you?”

She grinned up at him. The grin faded as memories flooded back: the memory of fireballs leaving her hands to destroy an enemy, the memory of a flow of molten stone that obeyed her commands to engulf hundreds, perhaps thousands, in its flood.

The memory of turning an arrow shaft to ashes inside her own body.

He helped her sit up. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she said. Her garment had been cut away so that Asha could tend to her injured shoulder. It was bandaged securely. She winced. “It hurts.”

“I imagine it would,” said the Dragon. “You melted the arrowhead itself. When Asha removed it, it was but a molten lump of metal.” He eyed her. “You can heal the wound, too, if you choose to do so.”

She shrank from invoking that power again so soon. It was still so strange and frightening to her. But her dream had been laced with urgency, and she would not serve her great duty if she were injured and taking time to heal.

“I don't want to leave so soon,” she said softly.

“I know,” said the Dragon. “But the other Dancers are ready, and you have made an enemy here.”

“The Emperor,” she said, and he nodded. “I felt him. He is full of hatred. He—he wants the Dancers dead, doesn't he?”

Slowly, the Dragon nodded. “I am not certain, but thus far, I think he is only aware of you. You need to find the other four, Kevla. Trust me, they are ready. Fire has always been the leader, the most passionate of the four Dancers. They will follow you.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “Follow me, Kevla Bai-sha. It seems absurd.”

“But you know it is not undeserved,” he said. “You know how well you fought today.”

Bile rose in her throat as she heard again the cries of the dying. She would probably never know exactly how many lives she had taken today, and she did not want to.

“I did what I had to do.”

“As the Dancers and Lorekeepers ever have,” he said gently. “Call on the power again, Kevla. Heal yourself.”

Slowly, she put her left hand to her right shoulder and, wincing, undid the bandages. The wound was clean, but deep where Asha had dug out the arrowhead. The heat came so quickly it was startling. She confined it to her hand, felt it penetrate deeply. Her skin began to crackle and smoke, then suddenly, the heat abated. The wound was seared closed. After a moment, even that redness faded, leaving her skin unscarred.

“Behold the healing power of Fire,” the Dragon said softly.

 

“Fire, then,” said the Emperor. “He was the Flame Dancer.”

The advisor nodded, then said hesitantly, “Our men said they saw a woman riding the Dragon, Your Excellency.”

“Man, woman, it matters not. What matters is that it was one of
them.
It is no wonder we were defeated so abysmally. I did not appreciate how powerful she was. We will not fail again.”

The advisor blanched. “Lord, she decimated our troops. Nearly half of them are dead, and all of the Arukani captives fled back to their Clans. The pass is blocked with stone that yet smokes. We cannot try again!”

“Not a full assault, no,” the Emperor agreed. He glanced down at the imprisoned ki-lyn. “But there are other ways to attack the Dancers. Aren't there, my little friend, hmmm?”

The ki-lyn lowered its head and wept diamond tears.