Summer of Fire

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Summer of Fire - book excerpt

Prologue

The Time Before…

One speaks of the time before the Summer of Fire in the same hushed tones as one speaks of the time before the cataclysm, as though the world was somehow softer then, as though we were more innocent and more lovely. As though no trouble existed. The golden age, not long ago but far away, seen as almost out of reach by those who don’t really know of what they speak.

To speak of a time before the Summer of Fire, a time truly before the cacophony of events that chose to confluence in those short months, is to speak of a time more than four hundred years gone by. Very few have a genuine understanding of what led to the time known as the Summer of Fire, of the rising powers that had grown with the patience of mountains, over centuries. Only in looking back could scholars completely understand the full scale of events that preceded it.

It is particularly difficult to distinguish what came ‘before’, as this is a relative term. Each individual will have a point in time that they consider to be the time ‘before’, after which their life will have irrevocably changed. General consensus suggests that by 1099 AC it was already too late, but for some it started long before that.

Aberddu City 1093 AC

Severin drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. He belched languidly and stood up, the brawl outside seemed to be escalating quickly. Flexing his knuckles, he noticed yesterday’s grazes were still raw and stinging but he didn’t care. He wiped his hands lazily on his threadbare tunic he belched again, then he looked down at his front and shook his head. Three months in Aberddu and this was what he had come to: third-hand clothes, drinking, belching and bar brawls. This was a far cry from Alendria, and this was hardly becoming behaviour for the High Elf Court. Mercifully, this was not the High Elf Court and that was what he loved about it. In Aberddu he was just another elf adventurer, and a grubby drunken one at that. He couldn’t remember ever being this happy.

Weighing up his options, he picked up his empty tankard. The bar had more ale and possibly some cheap Albion Brandy but outside the brawl was reaching a crescendo. Metal on metal, shouting and thumping feet told him that the militia was on its way. Celyn was already out there and he wasn’t likely to come back inside until the whole thing was done. Drinking alone was dull thought Severin, as he headed towards the door, cudgel in one hand, tankard still in the other.

Celyn slunk back into an alleyway panting as the militia patrol jogged past. It had just started raining and judging by the knotted bulging clouds above him it was set to get heavier. Something big was going on at the city walls judging by the racket. That was the second militia patrol to jog past in as many minutes. He didn’t really care what was going on if it kept the militia off his back. The last patrol had been heading for the Eastern Gate with some urgency and their swords already drawn, they had completely ignored the fight. Whatever it was was obviously a higher priority than a bar brawl.

There had been a few lackadaisical rumours of an invasion force coming this way but it was hardly news. As the northern-most trade port of Albion, Aberddu was constantly under threat of invasion even now it had Royal status. If it wasn’t the Frisians, it was the Paravelians or even the mighty war barges of Hasselt. Such was life in this cesspool city, among the mongrel nobles and flamboyant ship captains that liked to lord it over the rest of the pestilent rabble. In Aberddu you took your chances. But the ale was good for the price and the adventuring was lucrative, if this hadn’t been the case Celyn would have gone back to Frisia where he belonged long ago.

Tonight, however, he was on a personal errand. Somewhere, in the shadows across the thoroughfare that bloody dwarf was lurking, waiting for the rest of his beating. The rain quickened, falling in stinging sheets that soaked him through his leathers. Still, he was wet now and a guilder was a guilder. He would get it out of that tight-fisted stunty bastard if he had to garrotte him, turn him upside down and shake him until his gold fillings fell out. In the distance the sky grumbled, adding foreboding to the sounds of heightened conflict that carried from the Eastern Gates on the evening air.

Celyn exhaled and swung his sword at nothing in particular. His fingers were starting to go numb in the freezing January downpour. The orange light of the tavern spilled into the murk and he saw Severin stagger out. The elf stood stupidly in the doorway looking at the rain, his club hanging limply from his hand. Peering into the darkness, he was clearly wondering where the fight had gone. Celyn was almost tempted to ignore him, let the silly sod wander off alone into the storm. It would be an entertaining few minutes to be sure, but it would probably end in either a temple or a militia cell, neither of which were a good place to go when soaked through to the skin.

The wind picked up, racing up the wide street catching the rain and throwing it into curls. Stepping into the muddy light of the small square, he made himself obvious and waited for Severin to look his way. A third militia patrol passed by, sprinting and red in the face. Like the others they ignored Celyn. Peering into the gloom, he tried to pick out the dwarf. The little bastard had concealed himself well in the shadow of a tall boarding house opposite when the first militia patrol had appeared, however he hadn’t moved since. Celyn was prepared to stake his reputation if not his life on that much.

He skirted around the edge of the fountain that blocked the middle of the little plaza. Judging by the rank aroma of the stagnant water in the stone basin, the sluice had been closed for the whole winter and what was sitting there was accumulated rainfall. The raindrops pelted down into the cloudy pool with astonishing force, creating waves that splashed over the edge. The water level had risen in seconds. It would make a nasty dip for his dwarven friend when he eventually found him.

Then, without warning a much bigger wave slopped over the stone basin and a seven-foot figure erupted out of the foul water. It paused for a moment, illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning – the terrifying countenance glowed in the white electrical light. Not only tall but broad and made wider still by hide and furs draped about his shoulders, the warrior was gruesome to behold. His face was painted with fearsome patterns and across his eyes was a deep red stripe. In each hand, he brandished a well-worn bastard sword, ready for combat. His wild starring eyes flickered, and his gaze fell hungrily on Celyn. He stepped out of the fountain in a long sweeping stride, raised both swords to shoulder height and with one brutal, fluid motion cut Celyn down where he stood.

Severin, still in the door way, held his breath; a single movement could be his last. He was beginning to regret not going to the bar. The storm was almost directly overhead now, another thunder-clap deafened him and two more of the massive warriors appeared in thefountain. Their terrifying, greedy eyes glowing in night. They pausedmomentarily in the fountain, taking in the street. Severin prayed toany god that would listen for the ground to open up and swallow him.In his entire life, he had never seen warriors of this size or ferocity. Their bared teeth and sword blades gleamed as a fork of lightningarched across the city. All around him, chaos was descending. He couldhear yelps and shouts of panic as more of these gargantuan soldiersappeared out of nowhere in the neighbouring streets. The Law Temple bells began a frantic, panicked peal, the round notes toppling indisorganised cadences and amplifying the fear he felt. The bells onlyrang like that when the city was under siege. Ashamed of his suddencowardice, he slipped slowly into an alleyway and was about to runtowards the Docks when he heard a swoosh and felt a cold dull lump contact the back of his head. His head spinning, sweat pouring from his brow, Severin pulled himself to sitting. The Law Temple bells were ringing a complex change in the dawn light. It must be the Feast of the Warden’s Keys. He had lost track of time. His heart was pounding and he was fighting to catch his breath as he went over the dream he had just been pulled out of, so vivid it felt like only a few seconds ago. He had no idea why, after nearly four hundred years that memory had suddenly appeared in his dreams but only one word was springing to mind: tartars.

Tartaria 1093 AC

Clan Stallion Lands

Gathered with the other children in the shade of the mighty Indaba tree, Talia eyed the storyteller with suspicion. She had reached the doubting age and found it odd that he seemed to know about everything and have been everywhere, and yet he could only be barely twenty or so years older than her. It seemed like a lot of learning for that short time, particularly as she knew exactly where he had been for the last ten years or so. She had almost reconciled herself with the fact that she would not be able to listen to these stories much longer - more grown up concerns beckoned to her. She was reaching that awkward between point, she had left the age of believing behind her last summer. Too old and too tall to listen to the storyteller in the afternoon before supper; she had more duties and jobs now, brothers and sisters to wrangle, game to stalk, food to prepare - it was rare she got to the tree at all. She was fully grown nearly and it had been many summers in the coming. She wished for the excitement of an older life. But she wasn’t yet old enough or tall enough to come back to the tree after dark and a hard day. She was not yet old enough to hear the storyteller’s other tales and drink to them. She had not quite reached the understanding age.

She wasn’t listening to the storyteller now, she was watching Syrne. He was a season or two older than her but no more. His dark, piercing eyes were so still they could put you right off thinking. He gazed at the storyteller so intently that he had let his dagger slip out of his hand. Talia wished she could understand why he was still so gripped by this story: The Legend of Salamander. She had heard it so often she could pick up where they were without really listening, the storyteller never changed his phrases.

… soldiers stood taller than ordinary tartars, their muscles bound by wicked spirits and the power of the poison totem Salamander. Each one with glistening fangs and eyes like obsidian, a five-foot blade in each hand.

It was difficult to tell whether he was happy or horrified by the Legend of Salamander, his face was rapt but expressionless. Talia wondered what the Chieftain thought of her son spending so long with the bard that he was often late for training. Even now, when he was supposed to be a man, he never missed a tale. Talia thought he must know the stories so well by now that he probably didn’t need the teller to speak.

… stepped out of the flames of the camp fires and the waters of the rivers, weapons raised. They cut down all who stood in their way. Lead by a mighty general…

Bored with a story she had heard too often, Talia set out to entertain herself. She shuffled around the circle cautiously, careful not to stir up too much dust. She was going to find out for herself how hard Syrne was concentrating on the story.

… marched south west to the Albion territories. One night a foul storm plagued the port of Aberddu. Thunder echoed across the city and far out to sea. Lightning flashed through the rain that beat down on the buildings and the gates…

She had wriggled to within an arm’s reach of Syrne and his gaze had not yet broken. The hilt of his knife was sitting in the dirt, inches from her fingers. She waited for the story to reach its thrilling climax, as Salamander’s armies besieged Aberddu and lay waste to the city. Then, whilst his attention was held, she stretched forward until her fingers were wrapped around the hilt.

Her concentration was broken by the sounds of angry feet stamping across the dry earth. Then a voice bellowed

“Syrne,” and the teller fell silent. The story spell was broken. Talialooked around with trepidation, as did all the others. Varl the clan war-leader, enraged as he was, in his full fur battle armour with a six-foot broadsword balanced easily on one shoulder, was a terrifying sighteven for his own clan. He was standing about ten feet away, his faceand neck almost purple with fury, veins bulging and spittle flying ashe hollered. Syrne’s face still registered no emotion. Even in the faceof such anger, he appeared composed and assured. He simply stoodup unhurriedly and checked his belt. Noting calmly that his knife wasmissing, he reached down to pick it up and came face to face with Talia.Talia had her hand wrapped firmly around the hilt of his knife andshowed no intention of letting go. Syrne recognised a dominance challenge when he saw one. Unarmed as he was, he was not able to fighther in the traditional sense. Without a pause or even a change of facialexpression, he ducked forward, grabbed her ear and twisted. Talia letout a surprised yelp and relinquished the knife. Syrne snatched it upand walked towards the still-seething Varl with a sureness of step thatseemed to anger the war-leader even more. Talia snarled at the otherchildren before they could crow, and then turned to watch Syrne’s back as he disappeared back into the village.

Jaffria 1094 AC

In the heat of the day, Jamar sweated. The white-hot sun glared down on to his head and his back, blistering the raw flesh where Danil’s spiked whip had contacted. Splayed on the temple step, heavily armoured acolytes kneeling on his wrists and ankles, he waited for the next lash. Twenty lashes for dishonourable behaviour, five more for cheek and three for squealing like a farmyard beast after the first one. Simultaneously, he heard the whip crack and felt the searing line of pain drawn across his back, adding to the agony. He bit his lip to stop himself screaming and blood trickled into his mouth.

He had lost count, although he was sure there were only a few left to go. He prayed hard for unconsciousness but was unsurprised when it did not come. Amroth could be a vicious master to those that came up short. As Danil prepared for another swing, the echoing harmony of three hundred priests rose up around him as they chanted the next verse of the contrition reel. Their voices resonated around the amphitheatre and another crack rang out. Jamar never felt the hot streak as the peppered leather skimmed his skin. The turmoil that came in the space of that whip-crack superseded all pain.

At first Jamar thought he had managed to faint as the world turned cold and dark, but then he realised that the pandemonium exploding behind him was not part of his unconsciousness. The acolytes on his limbs clambered frantically to their feet and, surprised by his sudden unrestricted movement, it took him a few seconds to follow. When at last he turned to look out over the amphitheatre, he was unable to process what he saw.

A thick, dark grey fog had rolled in, choking the gathered congregation, many of whom were starting to turn blue and purple through lack of air, and some of whom had already keeled forward on their prayer mats. Solidifying out of the sinister smoke were about a dozen dark, winged figures, the size of a tall man - perhaps a foot or so larger. As they began to take shape and detail started to form, Jamar struggled to his feet, adrenaline overriding the pain of his raw back.

The smoke eased and all eyes that were able had fixed on the black angels, that were now hanging two feet from the ground, fully formed and terrible. Their ragged wings spread out, casting chilling shadows over the crowds. The figures were broadly man-shaped but made entirely from smoke so thick that they were no longer translucent. Many of their features were ill-defined but their eyes were both bright and hollow. Slowly, with obscene grace, they started to rise up over the cowering crowd, spreading their arms wide in some kind of grotesque benediction. A white freezing mist crept over the ground beneath them, engulfing those who were prone and clinging to the ankles and feet of those who were not. The stunned congregation remained transfixed.

An unholy, guttural hiss filled Jamar’s head and he saw several beleaguered clerics clamp their hands over their ears, writhing and contorted with pain. He could feel the surprisingly chilly air circling the amphitheatre in the same way it did on the plains when a whirlwind was rising. Looking around, he could see no exit point that wasn’t crowded with people, nearly all of whom were hunched in pain or unconscious. There was nothing he could do for them, he had no power and he could not carry them all to safety. Getting out of here was the only way to survive. Those gargantuan angels floating above him were the opening chorus and he did not want to be here when the main act arrived. With no feeling of guilt whatsoever, he climbed over the bleeding bodies of the acolytes that had been restraining him only seconds previously and began to run towards the nearest exit tunnel.

The wind snatched his breath and froze his lungs. It was almost crippling to take in the air now, but he persisted. The tunnel couldn’t be much more than twenty feet away now. Chased by the wind, angry indigo clouds covered the white-hot sun and day turned to night in an instant. In the darkness Jamar stumbled and lost his bearings. A fork of black lightning arced menacingly across the sky, followed by a clash of thunder that echoed around the amphitheatre, deafening them all. Another lightning arc flashed and Jamar used the bizarre dark-light to reorientate himself in his dash for the exit. This time no thunder followed. Jamar did not stop to look around, he just fled.

On his knees on the altar steps, his face twisted in excruciation, Danil could only gaze up as the figure appeared from the lightning. It was not as big as the angels that had heralded it, but it was far more terrible to behold. It had once been a man - that much was apparent - still dressed in the opulent grey robes of a powerful cleric, although they were now tattered and scorched as though he had run through a fire. What had once been flesh was now charred and scabrous, flaking away in places, exposing the bone,which glowed white in another arc of lightning. More distressing still was the figure’s face. Half of the cheek skin had been peeled away and was hanging limply, displaying a livid patch of muscle and sinew around an ugly, skeletal grin. The other half of the face was sallow and clammy, the loose flesh green-grey and rotten. Piercing black eyes looked out at them all, gloating at the agony of the congregation. The thin, cruel half-mouth curled into a smile. Time slowed as Danil watched the figure raise a taloned hand. With a menacing hiss that seemed to resonate around the amphitheatre, the creature conjured tendrils of white fire that fountained from his hand and entwined themselves around each of the dark angels. The angels began to glow and in turn the same white flames poured from their outstretched palms, flooding over the cowering clerics on the ground. Racked with pain, and weeping for swift oblivion, Danil heard the creature hiss again, and within the swarming of the hiss he heard these words: I am the Defiler, you will fear me and die.

Tartaria 1097 AC

Clan Boar Lands

Rurik pulled another chunk of flesh from the slowly charring goat’s rump and fell on it ravenously. His horse had been lost to enemy scouts and it had been a long way back to the war-band on foot. He had run further than he had imagined he could to bring the news to the clan chieftain, and he had thought when he had first opened his mouth to speak that he might vomit from the exertion instead. From the look on the chieftain’s face he would probably have been less affronted by the puke than by the news that Rurik had been forced to convey.

Within moments of speaking, he had been flung out of the command tent in the general direction of the firepit and the roast and the war-leaders had been called in. Rurik’s plan for the rest of the night was to get himself on to the outside of several large chunks of roast goat and oat bread and at least three flagons of the shaman’s best. Maybe then he would collapse by the fire and let the storytelling and singing wash over him. Maybe the dancers would dance, although it was unlikely as they hadn’t been in battle today and weren’t likely to be tomorrow. It didn’t really matter because most importantly of all he was not going to move, not even to find a snug tent space.

Far from being a delicate feminine display, Tartarian dancing was martial and adrenaline fuelled, an activity coupled with the heat of fierce battle. As a scout, it was a spectacle that fascinated Rurik. He rarely saw the thick of battle except from a distant concealed spot on a cliff top or at the top of a baobab tree. Different things made his adrenaline rush, his heart pound and his feet run themselves raw - like the news he had heard not twelve hours ago. It was not the kind of rush that made you want to dance all night. In fact, Rurik was hoping that if he ate and drank enough, he would pass out at the fireside quite soon so he didn’t have to think about it for too long. He certainly wasn’t going to be mentioning it to anyone else. He was chewing his last mouthful and licking the grease from his palms when a deep voice bellowed his name from the darkness.

“Rurik, come here.” The voice from the command tent carried out across the chattering night. Everybody at the fire turned and stared at him as he struggled crossly to his bleeding feet and hobbled towards the voice.