Trials By Fire.
Richard Hein.
The Divine Order Saga.
Chapter 1.
Something was wrong as she approached her home. The dog plodding along at her heel stopped, a low, throaty growl just audible to her flooding the air. Leah stopped, one hand drifting to the sword strapped to her hip, her posture tensing. The dog continued its menacing growl, a sound that was deeper than seemed possible from the small labrador.
The door to her house was ajar. The fading afternoon sunlight glinted off of the glass window set into it as it swung in the autumn breeze. She frowned. It was warm enough to warrant opening to the front and back doors to generate a good air flow, but something about the situation made her anxious.
Leah slid across the grass and flattened herself against the wall next to the door, listening. She ached to peek around the corner, to make sure her uncle was all right, but he'd instilled in her an instinct to be wary first and foremost. She strained to hear anything coming from within the two story house her uncle had built when she'd been barely a teenager.
"I'll make this very simple," a low, well enunciated voice was saying. "If you tell me where the girl is, I'll make sure the bleeding stops."
Fingers clenched on the hilt of her sword until her knuckles went white. Her muscles involuntarily twitched, trying to force her into action and round the corner. Control your emotions, she thought. The voice sounded much like the tone her uncle had used in their time sparring with wooden swords. An emotional fight is a lost fight. She forced her fingers to loosen their grip.
"I told you," her uncle said. "She's in Jedhom." His voice came to her weak and strained. They'd hurt him. She had to know what she was up against. As quietly as she could, Leah turned to lean enough to let one eye peek into the house.
Her heart fluttered with fear and rage. There were six men arrayed around her uncle, who was kneeling on the hard wood floor before them. His simple woolen shirt was stained dark from blood, and one eye was bruised to the point of being squinted shut. Blood crusted under his nose and at one corner of his mouth. His breath came in slow, ragged gasps, but his face was defiant.
Six armed men. She had surprise on her side, but six? She'd never practiced against more than one. She and her uncle had always trained alone, on their farm far from prying eyes. There had been no one else she could test herself against. Her eyes flitted between them, gauging their abilities.
Three of them were armed with hefty two shot pistols, as well as long blades they carried openly in their hands. The one standing closest to her uncle was taller than the rest, small but perfectly defined muscles outlined starkly in the anemic yellow electric light that filled the house, a look that said he trained well. His hair was shaved down nearly to the scalp. He leaned forward, over her uncle, looking down with the air of someone helping a fallen child to their feet.
"Jedhom," the man mused, shaking his head with an almost friendly grin. He squatted down until he was eye to single eye with her uncle. "We asked around in Jedhom. Most of the town knows you as an eccentric, though I know who you really are. They told us of the farmer Harrol, and his niece who came to town but once a year. No. I find it hard to believe you'd send her fifteen miles to town, alone. She's here on the property, somewhere. Tell me, and you live."
Moving with slow control, Leah pulled her sword from its scabbard inch by agonizing inch. She'd been given the blade by her uncle when she'd been only nine, hardly a month after coming to live there. The weight was a comfort in her hand, as familiar as a worn-in pair of boots.
I can get one, maybe two, she thought. If I can get a good strike in on the leader, I might slow him down to get us out of here. How she'd get her wounded uncle away from the remainder of the strange assailants wasn't a concern at the moment. If she could just get to him, she was sure he'd be able to take care of the rest, wounded or not.
Harrol lifted his head, meeting the eyes of the leader. He pulled in a long, shuddering breath and spat, "The void take your soul, mercenary. You'll get nothing from me."
The man smiled, a cold, mirthless grin. "Oh, I'll get plenty from you. Your death will give me great comfort after all these long years."
He blurred to his feet and drew his blade in one smooth motion. Lunging forward, he slammed the gleaming steel into her uncle's chest. Harrol howled once in agony, slumping backward and off of the stained sword. His head lolled to one side, and he lay still after one final shuddering gasp.
Her blade was in her hand before she'd even registered she'd moved. A howl filled the room, bouncing off of the walls. It took a second to realize she was the one screaming, a wordless rage that guided her fury forward.
The first man fell, her blow catching him at the nape of the neck. It wasn't a clean hit, but the man was dead before his knees had even buckled. Leah surged to one side and struck at the next, though he'd already started to turn as her cry had rang out. The blow caught him in the ribs, and he crumpled to the ground with a wet gurgle, blade clattering the ground. Rather than charging forward she abruptly turned, heading towards the staircase. Horror filled her as she realized her uncle was beyond her help now. She had to get away.
Tears seared at her eyes. No, she thought. Survive first. Revenge second. Mourn last. Her uncle had drilled the instinct to survive in to her over the years. Survive above all else. Her heart quaked at the thought of fleeing, but the ingrained words burned brighter than the pain within her.
The man who had murdered her uncle stood at an unconcerned pace, watching Leah with cold and calculating eyes. He did nothing to stop her. A mercenary to his side, a short man with a meticulous beard and a face devoid of emotion, swiveled and snapped his pistol up. Finally the leader reacted, slapping the shorter man's hand aside. The round went off with a roar to rival her own bellowed challenge, leaving a ringing in Leah's ear. Plaster a foot to her left showered outward as the round struck the wall.
"No," she heard the leader said in his same neutral tone. "He wants her alive." She had the advantage then. They wouldn't be out to kill her, but she had no such reservations. That didn't stop them from crippling or maiming her, but it was a small thing that might tip the scales ever so slightly in her favor.
Her bedroom door slammed against the wall as she shouldered it open, rebounding and blasting a chunk of plaster from the wall. She cleared the room in a moment, grabbing a well worn pack from a peg on the wall by the window. Her End of the World bag, her uncle had called it. Always waiting, always ready with a canteen of water, a few dried meals, a single change of clothing and a handful of square silver coins. Briefly she considered trying to get to the cellar for a few tin cans of vegetables they'd stored there, but dismissed the thought. She'd made the bag less than a year after moving in, and it had hung ever since, only being disturbed to change the items within as they grew old.
For the first moment in the brief but agonizing seconds since her uncle's murder, she had a wave of clarity. He'd suspected this would happen. Somehow, he'd known. The constant need to wear a sword, the emergency pack kept safe and available at all times, even the years of training. Had he done something to invite this? No, she thought. He wasn't the type to do anything to jeopardize her life. He loved her like his own daughter. He'd prepared against this day, not summoned it.
Whatever the reasons were, she silently thanked him. The bag was slung over her shoulder just as footsteps pounded up the stairs. Leah slammed the door to her room shut and threw the heavy iron crossbar home. Another feature her uncle had created, one that might buy her a few moments. Her eyes flitted across the room, but saw nothing else she could afford to take with.
The window slid open with ease. She was halfway out, onto the small overhang over the side of the house, when she paused. She wouldn't ever be coming back here, she realized. That tugged at her heart almost as much as the murder of her uncle. He'd taken her in, when she was so young. Her mother, long since dead. Her father, an apathetic businessman somewhere out in the world, a man who hadn't wanted her. This was the only place she had ever felt safe, even with the odd precautions and unusual requests. She'd hardly been away from the gently rolling fields where the livestock was kept, or the vast orchards down by the river.
Leah steeled herself. It was just an empty building now, with her uncle gone. There was nothing her for her now, and every second could see her in enemy hands. Whatever it was they wanted, she didn't want to linger and find out. She slid down the angled roof to the edge, and then jumped down as softly as she could, absorbing the blow by squatting as she landed. It was awkward with her sword still in hand, but she couldn't bring herself to sheath it, even for a moment.
She could hear the sound of her bedroom door being hacked apart. Good. Let them waste their time on the door. By the time they got through she'd be in the forest that dotted the edge of their property, and they'd be hard pressed to track her there. She took a few sprinting steps, and then slid to a halt.
The mercenary who had slain her uncle stepped around the corner, a sardonic grin creasing his face. She felt her heart quicken, racing far above the adrenaline-fueled speed it had been pounding at. The blade he held was spattered with her uncle's blood. She gritted her teeth in anger at the sight, and she could feel the words of her uncle's training giving way to white rage. Strangely he didn't flinch away from meeting her eyes, as others did.
"Nice try, lass," he said. His tone was friendly, even openly warm, though he took a few steps away from the house to block her path. She tried to focus. It took every ounce of willpower not to lash out with her sword, to see the man hacked apart before her.
Leah held her blade in a low guard position, bending her knees slightly to lower her center of balance and be ready to spring at a moment's notice. She watched the man wearily, keeping her eyes focused on his chest. If he attacked, it would lead from there, buying her a moment's notice.
"You killed my uncle," she spat.
"Oh, aye, and I'll be paid well for that one. Not as much as for nabbing you, mind you, but enough."
Keep him talking, she thought, and then strike. She'd only get one good shot at this. Her time sparring with her uncle had been thorough, but she had no idea how this swordsman fared in a fight.
"Why are you here? Who sent you?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure who paid your bounty," he said with a dismissive shrug. "All I know is that the man looking for you paid a kingly price to my boss, and here I am to collect." He smiled again, though it was a harsh, menacing smile. "Though all the contract says is 'alive'. As long as you meet that tiny little technical requirement, I still get paid. If you give yourself over now, I won't make you beg for the death over the next few weeks, lass."
Movement behind the man caught her eye, low and to the ground, and it was her turn to smile.
"There's one thing you don't know," she said. She took a few more steps forward, closing the distance until their blades almost touched, keeping him focused forward. She prayed silently he didn't turn or hear anything.
Her dog threw himself through the air, jaws latching tight around his left arm, tugging him off balance. Her dog was small, but had momentum on his side. The man toppled sideways with a grunt of pain and frustration, and Leah took her chance. Better to get away clean than to risk an ineffective attack, even if the man was unbalanced. She had no doubt he'd still be formidable even still. With a low mutter of encouragement to her dog, she sprinted away from her house.
She hurdled the fence and crossed the pathway she'd come in by. A hundred yards ahead loomed the edge of the forest, dark and recessed shadows embracing the dying afternoon light. Behind her the sounds of her dog savaging the mercenary cut off abruptly in a high pitched yelp, and another wave of sadness rolled over her. They'd both given their lives to give her a fighting chance. She had to keep moving, though tears burned hot once again.
As Leah made the trees, she hazarded a glance back over her shoulder. Three men were sprinting after her, with the leader nowhere in sight. Without any friends near by to spend time with as a child, and without frequent trips away from the farm, the forest had been where she'd spent the majority of her youth. They were as familiar as the inside of her own room. They might track her, but it would take time and slow them down. She pushed through the bracken, cutting her way diagonally towards the river, her only chance to lose them for good.
Leah had to slower her pace as she pushed into the woods. It had been nearing twilight as she'd entered, and the sun barely penetrated the thick canopy above. Even if she'd had a light with her, she couldn't risk giving away her position. She swore. Familiarity with the woods didn't help when visibility was almost non existent. At least it would confuse them even more.
Leaning against the rough bark of a fir tree, she paused to catch her breath. Her limbs shook from fear and adrenaline. Leah tried to listen, but it was hard above the sound pounding in her ears as her heart beat a frantic tune within her.
"I know you're here," a voice called. A dry twig snapped near by, mingled with the sound of clothing sliding across the underbrush. Carefully she leaned around the trunk and scanned for pursuers. Another of the mercenaries was stalking through the fern-filled underbrush, a few dozen yards away from her, moving forward with a slow purpose. He hadn't seen her yet, thank the gods.
"I'll burn these woods down around you, if I have to," he continued, voice filled with a child-like glee. "I only need you alive. Burned, but alive." The forest suddenly light with flickering orange light as his hands were became wreathed in flames. Verdant green leaves about his feet browned and withered around him. Her eyes grew wide with shock. A sorceror. She'd never seen one before, but her uncle had spun tales about men and women with the ability to harness the raw elements.
He thrust a palm forward, and a jet of flame rushed from his hand, engulfing a tree off to her right. Fire rolled up the bark, filling the air with sounds of popping pitch. A few more quick gestures, and three other trees lit up the night. She stared in horror at the dancing flames, feeling panic once again set in. Fire. She found it suddenly hard to breathe. Memories slammed into her, the smell of burning flesh and agonized screams. She swallowed hard and tried to force them away, shutting her eyes against the sight.
"Curse you, girl" the mercenary snarled. He strode forward through the ring of burning trees, in her direction. She had to flee, but couldn't make her legs move. Her eyes stayed locked on the flames, slowly spreading through the well dried underbrush. She screamed silently at herself to move, and her legs finally responded.
Leah dashed away from the hiding spot, trying to keep trees between her and the mercenary. She heard him laugh above the crackle of spreading fires. Something hot slammed into her back, tearing a scream from her, and she smelled the acrid aroma of burned hair and charred clothing. The blow had sent her stumbling forward with her own momentum, but she regained her footing in a few scrabbling steps. The man swore loudly.
She had no idea how long she ran, sprinting blindly through the trees and underbrush, paying no heed to her footing. Eventually a sudden cramp in her left leg sent her sprawling. She collapsed to the cool forest floor atop a bed of fallen leaves, groaning. She lay there, kneading the muscle, and then collapsed back to catch her breath. Move, she commanded herself. Instead she lay there breathing.
The dull roar of the river brought her head up. It wasn't terribly deep, little more than a flooded creek at points, but the current was swift. If she could cross, it might slow them enough to give her the distance she needed to escape. With a low growl of determination, she pushed herself up, legs shaking.
A few hundred more agonizing steps brought her to the edge of the water. Leah swore. She had angled far further north than she'd thought, a long way from the crossing she'd intended to use. Spanning the swift waters was a steel trestle, patched with rust, supporting a railway across the river. It towered thirty feet above the water's surface, the banks dropping sharply away not far from where she stood. The train tracks vanished into the forest on the other side, almost invisible in the faded light. With another muttered curse, she began to limp across.
"You'll never make it, lass," the mercenary leader called as she was less than halfway across. The group of murderers crowded the end of the bridge. With her legs quivering from her run, she'd never outdistance them now. She struggled on, ignoring her pursuers.
"Give over now, and I promise this'll go easier for you."
She paused, resting one hand on the firm angle brace of the trestle, staring down at the swirling black expanse below. She could barely walk, let alone run. They'd be on her before she crossed to the far side.
"I promise that no harm will come to you," the man urged. The men beside him began stalking forward, blades shimmering in the moonlight.
Leah didn't even bother to look up. "Tell that to my uncle," she said, and stepped off the bridge. She had a heartbeat of fear as the glassy surface rushed up at her before she plunged into the icy depths. Cold slammed into her, the shock nearly causing her to cry out.
She clawed upwards, the bulk of her pack tugging her back down. The current was strong, tearing her along as she floundered. For an agonizing moment she wasn't sure which way was up, but with a gasp she broke through, sucking in a lungful of sweet air. The bridge faded into the distance as she bobbed along, too weak to fight the current.
An unknown time later, Leah hauled herself from the water, shivering and exhausted. The water had brought her temperature dangerously low, and every muscle burned as she moved. She collapsed on the sandy bank and lay for a long while. You need to keep moving, a voice in her mind urged, one that sounded suspiciously like her uncle. Wearily she pushed herself to her feet and glanced around. The area was alien to her, far away from the familiar parts that flowed near the farm. At least she was free of pursuit for the time being.
Her backpack had been scorched badly by flames. She dropped it at her feet. Leah paused for a moment, and then carefully pulled her shirt off over hear head. A hole the size of both her fists together had been seared through the back. With delicate grace she reached behind her and tested her back. The skin was unmarred, but warm. Unlike the rest of her. Again memories came unbidden, of a building burning about her. She shivered, though not from the cold.
The food and clothes in the pack were a mess, drenched through and caked with soot. The box of matches was entirely worthless. She fished out her canteen and pouch of coins, struggled into her spare though thoroughly soaked shirt, and then slung the rest back into the river. She was exhausted, both physically and mentally, but had to put more distance between her and her pursuers. Glancing to the star-dotted sky, Leah got her bearings and set off once more into the night.
Chapter 2.
Daron stood in the training courtyard, glancing at the other recruits. Most of them looked relaxed, and a few chatted while waiting for the final exam to begin. He wished he felt their confidence. The only test left to take was swordsmanship. He battered down an urge to panic, but the edges of it still clawed at his stomach.
"Relax," the girl next to him said. Daron's gaze flicked to the side. It was easy for her to say. Brynn had little to worry about, with consistently high marks for the five years of their time at the academy. "One more test, and we get to take our oaths."
"You're good with the blade," Daron muttered. His fingers danced across the hilt of his sheathed sword, silently willing the blade to make up for his lack of skill. "If I fail this, I won't be raised for another year. If then."
"You'll do fine," Brynn said, flashing him one of her characteristic smiles. Despite her outward confidence, she pulled her long obsidian braid over one shoulder and began to run her fingers along it. He found it hard to believe she was as nervous as he was. That gave him a little bit of relief. Not enough to take away the gnawing fear in his belly, but a bit.
"Master Callen suggested I wield a broom instead of a sword," he shot back. "I need a score of seven to scrape by."
"The Order needs custodians as much as anything else. Perhaps after I graduate I could get you assigned to scrub my floors."
Daron slugged her in the shoulder, perhaps a bit harder than he'd meant to. She was about reply when Master at Arms Callen strode from the hall at the end of the courtyard, with a dozen men and women in smart formation behind him. Justices. Those who would be administering the exams. Daron felt his throat tighten, suddenly dry.
Master Callen approached the recruits, one hand draped on the hilt of his Oathblade, the other carrying a leather portfolio tucked under the arm. He strode with assurance and authority, his snowy hair cropped nearly to the scalp, scars of countless battles for the Order etched upon the resolute face.
"Recruits," he barked without preamble. Everyone snapped to attention. Daron could see people leaning out the second and third stories of the buildings surrounding the practice field, eager to watch the twenty students prepare to graduate and become full members in the Order. Daron himself had watched every final exam for the five years he'd been there, anticipating the day he'd be standing in the field. He suddenly wished he was simply watching.
"Final exam," Callen continued. "You will be paired with one of the instructors behind me, and you will duel using all the training we've likely wasted on you these last few years." Callen's eyes lingered on Daron for a brief moment. Daron felt dizzy in the warm afternoon sun that swept high above them. Fall had yet to hit the Order in full. "Yield or submit, and you fail. If you are wounded beyond capacity to continue, you will be carted off to the infirmary, and you will fail."
One of the men behind the Master caught Daron's eye with a wink. Aiden. Daron tried to force a smile on his face in response, but only managed a sick grimace. He prayed he wouldn't be paired with Aiden. As good of a friend he was, it would be much more humiliating to fail at the hands of a companion. Much better to be thoroughly defeated by a stranger.
"Recruit Pryce, step forward." A lanky youth took two steps forward and bowed at the waist. "You'll take the exam first. Justice Ulic will be your partner." Pryce nodded, drawing his sword and taking a defensive stance in the middle of the courtyard. Justice Ulic strode forward, removing his brilliant azure cloak, a recognizable symbol of a Justice, tossing it to one side on the hard packed ground.
Daron and Brynn retreated with the rest of the recruits to the long and well-worn wooden benches on one side of the field to watch. His anticipation and anxiety only rose as the first blows were exchanged. He forced his eyes forward, trying to pull any last minute lessons from the fight before him. Master Callen and the remainder of the instructors pulled back to the shadows across from the benches, where the Master at Arms began jotting notes in the sheaf of papers contained in the portfolio he'd brought with a long charcoal pencil. Master Callen would then report his grading to the Lord Commander Justice, Jacob, who would make final decisions on who would be raised. Hopefully that includes me, Daron thought.
Most years, everyone graduated. In Daron's time at the academy, no one had ever been rejected outright, and only two had ever been postponed for an additional year. The last time anyone had been denied the honor of graduating had been over a quarter century before, when a pair of brothers had been thrown out in their fourth year.
Please let me make it through this afternoon, he implored to Allene silently. He doubted it made much difference now. If the goddess had been willing to grant him skill, surely she'd have done it before now.
He'd hoped to become a Justice, though there were plenty of other areas that held interest should he not get a recommendation from Jacob for that role. Daron snorted at the thought. A Justice? Might as well hope to become Lord Commander himself. It was about as likely.
Brynn elbowed him in the ribs. "Quit brooding. Pay attention. You see how Pryce keeps lunging? He's not keeping himself balanced. He should always keep his shoulders above his hips, and step forward to take the strike, not lean into it."
"I know that," Daron snapped.
"Oh, you're the Master Swordsman Daron now? This should be easy for you, and then. Completely different from Fumbling Idiot Daron I sparred with last week, who kept making the exact same mistake."
"You aren't helping."
"You don't respond very well to constructive criticism. Demeaning comments might work better."
His silence towards her was a bit sullen, but she had a point. He returned his attention to the battle at hand. Pryce held his own moderately well, despite his footwork problem, and after a glance at his pocketwatch, Master Callen called an end to the match. A few final notations were scratched onto the papers while Pryce returned to the recruits, who clapped him on the back in support. He had done fairly well, Daron had to admit.
One by one the rest of the recruits paired up with an experienced swordsman, and went through their exam. Daron tried his best to analyze each battle, gleaning any last minute information he could use to keep himself from failing, but it seemed fruitless. If he was going to pick it up, wouldn't five years of lessons have been enough time? He ground his teeth in frustration. It wasn't as if he was unwilling, or that his teachers weren't up to the task. That left a single brilliant reason why he was so miserable with a sword.
Brynn was called third to last. She gave Daron a lingering smile and strode to the center of the courtyard, pulling free her blade. She was paired with Justice Amdel, a man Daron only knew by reputation. He'd administered final justice more times than any other active Justice in the Order. That alone would generate plenty of whispers amongst the recruits, but Amdel was also nephew to the king.
Amdel inclined his head politely to Brynn as she approached, blade held in one hand almost lazily. She returned the gesture, and the normal smile that she wore faded from her face, replaced with excitement and determination. She was handy with a blade, no doubt, though she spent most of her time in the Order library pouring over tomes dating back thousands of years. Her true love, as it were.
He shook his thoughts away as the match started. Brynn didn't hesitate, immediately opening with a series of deft thrusts and slashes. Her long braid snaked out behind her as she moved, trailing a beat behind her as a narrow shadow. Most women of the Order chose to wear their hair shorter, especially those who would see combat, denying an enemy an easy grip. But never Brynn. Daron had only seen Brynn without her braid once in the years he'd known her, and she'd threaten to peel his skin from his bones for it.
At the end of the five minutes, the two opponents bowed in respect and retreated to opposite sides of the yard. She'd done exceptionally well, by Daron's estimation. Rather than the careful applause or generous pats on the back the other recruits had gotten, most just stared at her, a mix between contempt and jealousy painted on their faces.
"You did well," Daron congratulated as she retook her seat next to him.
"I barely made a few of those parries," she said, her chest still heaving from the exertion. "He slipped up, though. I could have disarmed him near the end."
Daron stared, incredulous. "You joke."