Fireblade: A Dance of Fire & Shadow, #3

By Jay Aspen

A fiery dragon at the heart of the dune sea. A hoped-for ally or instant death?

 

In a last desperate attempt save Samaran from the invaders, Ariel ventures into the scorching deserts of Annubia to train with the deadly Nishan assassins.

 

She knows the old king is too weak to inspire and lead a rebellion to oust the occupying army. If she fails to return home in time to use her new skills, Marin will be forced to break his oath to the Eldrin, reveal his lineage and claim the throne.

 

If she can survive her encounter with the formidable Guardian of Rahimar, there may be another way to defeat new threats and old treacheries.

 

Fireblade is the third book in A Dance of Fire & Shadow, the epic fantasy adventure-romance series from Jay Aspen

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandfire Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Aug 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393371632

Jay Aspen

Jay writes from experiences in wilderness travel and extreme sports; snow peaks in the Andes, big walls in Yosemite and Baffin Island, sailing the Irish sea to photograph puffins and dolphins. A science degree and training with Himalayan shamans led to an interest in bio-psychology. She lives in the wild Welsh Borders, sings jazz, rides horses.

Book preview

1

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PALE DAWN LIGHT OUTLINES the russet cliff face above me and the night-chilled air is eating into my bones. Eldrin chainmail may be light and supple and protective but it draws in the cold like a thin blanket of ice clinging to my body, even with the silk shirt and leather tunic underneath.

From the little I learned from traders whose caravans passed through my village before this savage war wrecked everything, I thought Annubia would be scorching-hot and dry. I think longingly of the warm wolfskin cloak I left behind outside Corinium’s city walls before sneaking into the palace for my disastrous assassination attempt.

But I failed. The tyrant who ruthlessly conquered Samaran still lives. The Rapathian military still controls my country. My sister is still enslaved for the pleasure of the invaders’ wealthy elite. The man I love is still bound to break his oath to the Eldrin, reclaim his royal birthright and lead a bloody battle for freedom as warlord to a host of dangerous Blade adepts.

Thousands will die unless my next attempt on the Usurper’s life succeeds.

The half healed slash along my arm aches with the stab of anger and self-recrimination that runs through me as I contemplate my dismal failure. How could I have let myself get so easily distracted by mere words? I know it was not only because the Usurper knew how to manipulate my distrust of the Shadowblade who had sworn to fight at my side. The sinister power behind the Emperor’s poisonous voice comes from Nagal, the corrupted Elemental working with him––and I have to learn how to resist it.

That is why I now find myself far from my own country with little idea how to find the new knowledge and skill I so desperately need.

Shadow is standing in the gloom of the massive rock overhang, watching me. A cloud of deeper shade seems to follow him––or else it is simply the effect of those great black leathery wings folded around him like a cloak of darkness. His mood has not improved since I failed to carry out his deadly plan. He turns to me, derision edging his words.

Ariel, soon you will remember the cold of these mountains with desperate longing. When you reach the plains the sun will burn your skin and dry out your body in the desert heat. Then you will gasp for cool water and see nothing but sand-mirages.

For one apprehensive moment I wonder if he can read my thoughts, now the binding between us is complete––before I remember that I am shivering and my discomfort is all too obvious.

"So why are we up here in the freezing cold? You could have flown anywhere in Annubia. There is no reason to be halfway up a mountain."

I need time to work out what I should do with you.

Maybe I’m getting used to his evasions now, learning to read between the fragments of information. He does not lie, but he is deceptively selective with the truth.

He wants to avoid the desert heat. Ice and shadow are the source of his power and what is waiting in the deserts of this sun-scorched country will limit his strength. I experiment with a sly taunt to see if he reacts.

So. If you don’t want to spend time in the heat, you had better tell me where to go next. Seems like I shall have to do all this without you.

There it is. That momentary flicker of irritation that shows he has accidently revealed a weakness. As if he believes I am only bound to him by fear instead of my obligation to everyone who is relying on me. Well, not exactly relying on me, more the fearful strength and skill I have acquired from this deadly binding with him.

Maybe I can extract more information if I push him a bit harder.

"Shadow, if you want me to train as a Nishan assassin, find out where in Annubia Shan’domir is, and at least get me as close to him as you can. I can ask him for acceptance into the Order of Assassins and then I’ll do the rest on my own. When I was fighting the invaders back in Samaran I didn’t need you standing behind me the whole time."

We both know that is not entirely true. The only reason I’m still alive is because I asked for his help in the battle of the Northlands. He glares at me from the shadows the cloud of raven black hair casts around his pale face.

Maybe best not to provoke him too much.

Elementals don’t seem to live by the same rules and reactions as humans and I haven’t yet learned enough about them to know how far I can stretch his tolerance. Just because we share the same enemies at the moment does not necessarily make me immune to his unpredictable nature.

Grudgingly, he takes out a small bowl and fills it from the trickle of water running down the corner behind this rocky ledge. That is probably another reason he hates the desert. He would be blind to so much distant activity without his scrying mirror.

He stares at the water in silence for a few minutes until impatience makes me seize my chance, never mind if I am seriously pushing my luck now.

Show me where Marin is first.

Another irritated glare. But maybe he figures that helping Marin is the main part of my motivation, because he moves the bowl across so that I can see the surface of the water.

The vision is not very clear on such a small surface area but there is enough to see Marin desperately fighting against a raiding party of fifty Rapathian soldiers who are attacking a village. Deris and Nem are at his side but there are barely fifteen more Eldrin warriors at his back. The handsome contours of Marin’s face are taut with strain and exhaustion. The Eldrin must be stretched to their limit already and my heart aches for the danger Marin is in.

Marin once told me that Ashur Purmut the Usurper pays his soldiers by sending them out, one division at a time, to raid their new conquests for anything they can steal. Including slaves. I have seen for myself how it happens. The sight and stench of my devastated village after my sister was captured will never leave me. So many reasons to complete this training with the Nishan and get back to Samaran to end this nightmare.

Soon.

I make sure to keep my voice calm and grateful.

Thank you, Shadow. Now please find Shan’domir.

He draws the bowl close and turns away into the rock shadows, as if that might help him see more clearly.

He is in Khotann. Find him and learn the skills you have so unfortunately been lacking. I will return when you are ready.

I ignore his derisive tone. Arguing is pointless.

I assume you won’t want to show yourself to the city’s inhabitants, so tell me what I need to know about Khotann before you abandon me on the outskirts.

"You will not like it. The city is the last oasis before the Taskana desert. The name, Taskana, means to die alone."

I don’t ask any more questions. I think I would rather get answers from Shan’domir when I find him. I only met the trader-spy once before he returned to his homeland carrying letters from Marin and the King, Samaran’s petition to the Khalim for an alliance between Samaran and Annubia.

The fact that Shan’domir succeeded so quickly suggests that he must have enough influence with Annubia’s all-powerful ruler to be granted a royal audience on request. I have to trust that he knows the path I should take now. And that he has the means to make it happen.

Khotann and the lonely desert sound quite delightful. I can’t wait.

All I get is a blank stare. Unlikely that Elementals appreciate sarcasm. I scramble to my feet, glad that the waiting is over and this sun-scorched foreign city will at least feel warm for the first few minutes.

Before I start to notice that it is really far too hot.

The disorienting blur is becoming familiar, my surroundings fading into misty shadow as Shadow grips my waist and his dark wings fold around me. A few more sudden relocations like this and I might even feel confident of being able to land in the middle of a battle fully alert and able to fight.

To my relief there is no need for defensive moves this time as he sets me down outside the massive red-gold bastion of city walls, concealed from the gate guards by a cluster of thorn bushes.

He points to the gate. You will find Shan’domir at the Hawk and Scorpion.

Which is what? An alehouse? A name like that wouldn’t attract many customers in my village back in Samaran.

Something like that. He gives a dismissive flap of a pale hand. I have other business to attend to, but I shall be watching you from afar. You would be wise not to stray from the path I have set before you.

While we have the same objectives there isn’t much chance of that. Just bear in mind that circumstances often change and adaptability can be useful. I turn and walk away before he can issue direct orders that I probably won’t want to follow. After a moment’s pause the cold air of his departure is ghosting shivers across my back.

I know he is using me to wreak revenge on his old enemy Nagal, just as I am using him to free my country, but I am determined not to slip into the habit of doing his bidding without question. I have an uneasy feeling that the corruption and cruelty of the Rapathian Emperor and his infernal Elemental might be the result of their close association in pursuit of power.

Somehow I have to find a way to avoid the same thing happening to me, although I’m not encouraged by the stories of how Blade adepts become ruthless murderers after taking on his gift of skill and strength. I have already made several of my own bloody excursions into the dark side of this power. Each time, my potential as a weapon to save my country has been the only factor earning my reprieve from the mandated death sentence Samarian law demands for Blade adepts.

The morning is still young but there is already a queue of people and carts on the dusty road, waiting to get through the city gate. I have no way of knowing if this is normal or if the heightened security is because Annubia is now at war with Rapathia on its western border.

Allies or not, I have an uneasy feeling that the gate guards might look suspiciously on someone trying to get into the city while kitted out in a mailshirt and bristling with weapons. Eldrin gear is the opposite of showy, with a focus on efficiency and speed, but anyone with a military background is going to notice that it looks, well, very efficient.

I sidle up to one of the peasants driving a cart toward the gate. Or rather, cursing the tired donkey pulling it. I rehearse the few words I will need for this exchange, wishing I had paid more attention to the Annubian traders passing through Caerlen, back when village life was predictable and peaceful.

In the event, the small silver piece I’m offering and my exaggerated shiver to illustrate my halting Annubian for ‘The nights here are too cold’, seem to make my desire to buy his worn cloak convincing enough. Or maybe his careful analysis was simply pushed aside by his enthusiasm to make the most of someone dumb or desperate enough to offer three times what the garment is worth.

I fall into step behind one of the merchant carts with the thin cloak draped over my shoulders, reducing my appearance to a shapeless bundle. It has the same slits along the sides as peasants’ cloaks in Samaran, allowing the wearer to slip both arms through and tie the folds around the waist with a piece of cord. Useful when the wearer is chopping wood or loading donkey carts––or in my case making sure it doesn’t get brushed aside and reveal my weapons.

The guards are not being too meticulous in their checking and I slink through the portal in the wake of the overloaded wagon.

2

I FOLLOW IN THE MERCHANT’S dust for a while, feeling the need to remain inconspicuous while I get a sense of this baked-dry foreign city. Noise, dirt, street traders, and a variety of entertainments from cock-fighting to dice and gambling produce a cacophony of noise and smell but tell me little about where I might find Shan’domir.

The merchant is probably heading off to meet whoever holds the contract to buy his goods, so I take the next turning into a narrow side street occupied by street vendors, hoping to find someone who can direct me to the Hawk and Scorpion.

Turns out to be a big mistake. The vendors are besieged by demanding customers and either don’t understand my awkward Annubian or else are filtering out any communication that fails to include a purchase request. Unfortunately they are selling heavy firkins of what smells like strong alcohol and this is not the sort of product I want to be lugging through the streets right now. I move on and take the first turning that offers itself.

Another big mistake. This filthy alleyway is deserted. My best hope is that it will prove to be a shortcut to a part of the city where I can get the directions I need.

It might have worked if I hadn’t assumed that covering up my weapons would be enough to keep me inconspicuous. A bulky shadow emerges from a dark doorway and clumps one heavy hand on my shoulder while the other grabs a handful of my hair. I can understand enough Annubian to translate his comment as words to the effect of, Very pretty. Fetch a good price in the Rapathian slave-market.

Slavers.

This really is bad luck because now there are three more of them emerging from the doorway, all holding heavy clubs and eyeing me up and down with greedy looks. Logic says they won’t want to kill the merchandise but I suspect that what they have planned for me is infinitely worse.

The only weapon I can easily get my hand on inside this bundled-up cloak is the small throwing knife on my wrist bracer. Even using that is going to make my presence a deal more conspicuous than I was planning for this journey through town. The last thing I need is the city guard on my tail looking for a murderer loose on their streets.

Not that these thugs would be much of a loss, assuming the Khalim maintains some respect for law and order in his country. I scan the alley for anything that might give me an advantage. Nothing much, except an abandoned liquor firkin a few feet behind the only woman in this gang. And of course, the fact that they assume I am just a terrified peasant girl with unusual chestnut hair for this part of the world.

I inch my hand closer to the knife, slowly enough not to arouse suspicion, while trying to look appropriately terrified. My fingers close around it.

Then I move.

I twist round, lightning-fast to ensure the stab in the eye is deadly accurate on the grunt holding my hair. He screams and lets go as his hand flies to his damaged eye and he drops to his knees, suggesting that I probably damaged some brain as well. This is my chance to dance out of range before the other three gather their wits enough to make a counter-attack.

I turn to face them, trying to weigh the relative merits of removing witnesses to my first kill and saving future peasant girls from a life of miserable slavery, versus trying to simply run away before I trigger a murder hunt.

That decision is taken out of my hands as the woman recovers from the shock faster than the other two, produces a savage-looking blade from behind her back, and attacks. She has speed but little skill and goes down with my knife across her throat. I turn to face the nearest slaver and feel a rush of elation as he takes a wary step back. Maybe they will just run for their lives and leave me alone.

Still no luck. I catch the word for ‘fighting-pits’ passed between the two survivors. I have heard a few details about them, enough to know that they are a popular form of entertainment in Rapathia, where huge fortunes are made and lost with wagers on which fighter will survive.

Seems my value has just increased tenfold.

That moment of distraction is all it takes. I hadn’t noticed the other slaver moving in behind me until a heavy blow across my back sends me sprawling in the dirt. A savage stab of pain shoots through my head as it hits the abandoned earthenware firkin.

I roll over and look up as the two of them move in on me, those lumpen clubs raised menacingly above their heads instead of guarding their faces. At last they have made a useful mistake. I grab the firkin and throw it, landing an accurate blow to the nose of one attacker. A fraction later I hit the other one in the throat with a thrown knife. They crumple in a heap on top of each other.

I glance around. No-one. I may be able to cover my tracks here if I hurry. I retrieve my knife, push the firkin handle into my victim’s fist, and break the neck of the thug with the broken nose. Then it’s just a case of dragging the woman’s body over here and bloodying the filthy blade in her hand. Now the scene looks more like the aftermath of a drunken fight than an attack by an outsider. I go over to the first slaver I knifed, only to discover that he has already bled out, lying on his face in the dirt.

Another shred of luck if you can call it that. His cloak is mostly free of blood, unlike my own. I switch, only to discover that the stink of slavers’ clothes is far worse than those of peasants. This time I pull the hood over my conspicuous hair before retracing my steps, hoping to make a more successful attempt at locating Shan’domir.

I discover that the merchant’s wagon has not progressed very far, having become blocked by a band of street performers. If the shouts and swearing from up ahead are anything to go by, their entertainments are not appreciated by the merchant and his two servants. Relieved, I scuttle back into the tail-dust of the wagon as it slowly moves off again. Maybe I should wait until the merchant stops and ask him for directions before the unfamiliar streets of Khotann throw any more surprises at me. For the next few blocks I’m glad of the slow pace of the wagon and the anonymity of being a lowly wagon-servant, now that the vicious blow across my back is making its presence felt.

The large painted sign hanging from the façade of the next building depicts a hawk swooping down on a scorpion and informs me to my surprise that my luck has finally changed and the merchant has brought me directly to the right place. Then the logic behind this is revealed when the wagon turns off the street and trundles underneath a tall arch at the side of the building.

A passageway leads to a wide courtyard at the rear, packed with wagons and carts of all sizes and with water troughs for the mules and camels. Hostlers are scurrying back and forth with bundles of hay and bags of grain.

Of course. If this is the main establishment that caters for the needs of passing merchants, it is the obvious place for a spy like Shan’domir to frequent in his quest to pick up useful news and gossip.

I hurry through the back door of the inn before the merchant notices someone in a smelly, scruffy cloak tailing him for no good reason.

3

INSIDE, THE HUGE ROOM is even more crowded than the yard. I elbow my way cautiously through the jostling throng of customers and servants trying to connect with food and drink. Alcoholic drink mostly, if