Realms of War

Kemas yanked his sword free and sprinted onto the clear ground between the grove and the temple wall. When he'd covered half the distance, arrows started flying after him. He couldn't see them, but some came close enough that he heard them whisper past his body.

He fetched up in front of one of the sally ports. The light of the torches on the battlements shined down over him, and he realized that, even though he'd distanced himself from the trees, he was likely a better target than before. He pounded on the sturdy oak panel. 'It's me, Kemas! Let me in!'

With a crack, an arrow plunged into the door. Kemas threw himself flat and continued to shout. Other arrows clattered against the entry. Some rebounded and fell on his back and legs.

Then he caught the groan of bars sliding in their brackets. He looked around, and the postern opened just enough to admit a single person. He jumped up, scurried through, and the small gate slammed behind him.

With the arrows streaking at him, he hadn't been able to think of anything else, and felt a giddy elation at escaping them unscathed. Then, however, he observed his rescuers' glowering faces and the naked weapons in their hands.

'Surrender your sword,' Zorithar said. With his long, narrow face and broken nose, he was one of the senior Fire Drakes and notorious for the harsh discipline he imposed on the youths in training. His expression and tone were like cold iron.

Kemas gave him the weapon hilt first. 'I need to talk to Master Rathoth-De. It's important.'

'Don't worry about that,' Zorithar said. 'He'll want to talk to you, too.'

Kemas's new captors marched him to the hall where the high priest administered the temple in times of peace, and where he still sat in the place of honor at the head of the council table. But he had no martial expertise, and thus it was Rathoth-De who was actually directing the defense.

The commander of the Fire Drakes looked too old and frail for that duty, or any responsibility more taxing than drowsing by the hearth. But his pale gray eyes were clear and sharp beneath his scraggly white brows, and he carried the weight of his yellow-and-orange plate armor as if it weighed no more than wool.

He studied Kemas's face for a time, then said, 'It was a crime to run away and folly to return.'

'He ran afoul of the autharch's men,' Zorithar said. 'They were chasing him, and apparently he had nowhere else to run.'

Kemas swallowed. 'With respect, Masters, that isn't true. I mean, it is, but there's more to it. I came back to bring you this.' He proffered Bareris's letter.

Rathoth-De muttered and ran his finger under the words as he read them. His scowl deepened with every line. 'It says here that the autharch knows everything about the temple, includ shy;ing which section of the north wall has fallen into disrepair.'

Kemas took a deep breath. 'Yes, Master. He tortured me, and I told him.' He might have explained that at the end it was a charm of coercion that had actually forced him to talk, but somehow that seemed a contemptible evasion.

Zorithar sneered. 'No surprise there. You'd already proved yourself a coward. He turned his gaze on Rathoth-De. 'Maybe we can reinforce the wall.'

'Master,' Kemas said, 'if you read on, you'll see that the scout from the Griffon Legion believes that our best hope is to let the autharch execute the plan he's devised and then turn it around on him.'

Rathoth-De skimmed to the end, then grunted. 'This does suggest possibilities.' He explained Bareris's idea.

Zorithar frowned. 'We've never even heard of this Anskuld person, and we don't know that we can believe a word he says. This could be a ruse.'

'If I may speak, sir,' a warrior said. 'I have to say, I don't think so. I was watching from the wall when Kemas ran to the temple. The archers were doing their best to hit him. Which they wouldn't, if the autharch wanted him to deliver a false message.'

'I agree,' said Rathoth-De, 'and even if I weren't convinced, the autharch has the numbers to overwhelm our little garrison eventually. We need to try something both bold and clever to have any hope of defeating him.'

Zorithar shook his head. 'So that's your decision? To gamble everything on this one throw?'

'I think we must.' The old man turned his gaze on Kemas. 'The only question remaining is what to do with the lad.'

'He forsook his comrades and broke his vows to the god,' Zorithar said. 'Drown him as the rules of the order decree.'

'Even though he risked his life to return and make amends?'

'I'm not convinced that he did it out of remorse,' Zorithar said, 'or devotion, or of his own volition. But it doesn't matter anyway. The rule is the rule.'

'Masters,' Kemas said, 'I know the punishment for what I did, and I'll accept if you say I must. But let me fight for the temple first. You can use every sword.'

'Not yours,' Zorithar said. 'You'll shrink from the foe as you did before, and leave your brothers in the lurch.'

'You may be right,' said Rathoth-De, 'but surely the boy has given us some reason to think he's found his courage. Enough, I think, to warrant putting the matter to a test. Are you willing, apprentice?'

Kemas drew himself up straighter. 'Yes.'

'Then approach Kossuth's altar.'

The altar was a polished slab of red marble with inlaid golden runes. Tongues of yellow flame leaped and hissed from the bowl set in the top. Such devotional fires burned all around the temple complex, and Kemas had long since grown accustomed to their heat. But as he came closer, it seemed to beat at him, because he knew and dreaded what was to come.

'Place your hand over the flames,' said Rathoth-De.

Kemas pulled up his sleeve to make sure it wouldn't catch fire, then did as his master had commanded. For a moment, it didn't hurt, then the hot pain flowered in his palm and the undersides of his fingers. It grew keener with every heartbeat.

It occurred to Kemas that it shouldn't be this way. He was pledged to Kossuth, and his god and fire were one. But he wasn't a priest, just a glorified temple guard, unable to reach the ecstasy and empowerment presumably waiting inside the torment.

He told himself the ordeal surely wouldn't last for long, for unlike Zorithar, Rathoth-De wasn't cruel by nature. But it did last. The pain stretched on, and the old man kept silent.

By the burning chain, did Kemas smell himself? Was his hand cooking?

It was brutally hard to know that he could snatch it back whenever he chose, and no matter what else might follow, this particular agony would subside. He clenched his will and muscles to fight the urge.

Until hands gripped him and heaved him back from the flames. He peered about and saw that two of his fellow warriors had wrestled him away.

'I told you that you could stop,' said Rathoth-De, 'but you were concentrating so hard on keeping still that you didn't hear me.'

Kemas took a breath. His hand throbbed. 'Then I passed the test?'

'Yes.' Rathoth-De shifted his gaze to Zorithar. 'Wouldn't you agree?'

Zorithar grimaced and gestured in grudging acquiescence.

Steeling himself, Kemas inspected his hand. It wasn't the blackened claw he'd feared to see, but it was a patch shy;work of raw, red flesh and blisters. 'I put my offhand over the fire, so I can still use a sword. But I won't be able to manage a bow.'

'Don't be so sure,' said the high priest. 'If there's one thing a cleric of Kossuth learns to do well, it's tending burns.'

The priest chanted prayers over Kemas's hand, smeared it with pungent ointment, and wrapped it in linen bandages. The next day, though the extremity still gave its owner an occasional pang, it was well enough for him to aid in the preparations for the struggle to come.

To his relief, the other Fire Drakes accepted his presence among them without offering insults or objections. Evidently the majority believed him fit to resume his place.

He wondered if they were right. He'd fought and killed the picket, but it had taken only an instant, and desperation and his training had seen him through. He'd endured the fire, but realized now that that too had only