The Burning Land

Book 1: The Talmont Trilogy

by David Hair

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

Brandon Sanderson meets Joe Abercrombie in this astounding novel of good, evil and magic

The Falcons are knights of the Vestal Order, pledged to use their powers to protect the Empire of Talmont from the cruel Vyr and the carnage they have unleashed upon the world.

When the Falcons take a Vyr alive, they go against the protocols of the Vestal Order and interrogate him. They are horrified to learn, if the Vyr speaks truly, that the Empire's worst enemy may not be the Vyr . . . but the Vestal Order itself.

Led by the charismatic Romara Challys, the Falcons go rogue, their quest for the truth taking them through burning forests, lost ruins and the uncanny traces of a dying race, desperate to find answers . . . before it's too late.

But the Vestal Order has no plans to let Challys and her knights succeed in their mission. With the greatest knight in history and an army of fanatics at their heels, the Falcons must evade capture and discover the truth as soon as possible. Because time is running out . . . for everyone.
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A page-turning adventure filled with excitement and intriguing characters. For those loving an epic fantasy with plenty of sword-fights, gun-play, bare-fisted combat and battles between sorcerers, this book's for you - Amazing Stories on Map's Edge

Hair is adept at building characters as well as worlds, and his attention to his female players is welcome in a genre that too often excludes them - Kirkus Reviews

There's a lot of cool stuff, ancient civilisations, magic, a heist, personal loss, love, and humour. I enjoyed this so much - Alalhambra Book Reviews on Map's Edge

A fast-paced, entertaining read, set within a world that I want to explore more of - Beneath A Thousand Skies on Map's Edge

Release date: October 12, 2023

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Talmont: A History

 

 

 

The caliph asked me today why history matters. It was no idle question. The past is gone, he argued, and only the present and the future matter. Why devote time and energy on documenting things that no longer matter?

What he was really asking me, his history tutor, was, ‘What are you for?’

Make no mistake, my entire future was at stake.

I began by reminding him that every decision is rooted in our own experiences, not just as a person, but as a collective. We know our enemies by their treacheries and warmongering. We trust our friends due to their known fidelity. While the past does not predict future actions, it is a guide, a consideration in every new decision. As individuals, we learn from life. So too does a body of people learn.

The caliph’s question was driven by new demands from the Hierophant, our overlord, that appear to favour his homeland, Talmont, over the rest of the Triple Empire. ‘Is this offer as treacherous as it seems?’ our young ruler wished to know.

‘Only in the era of the Sanctor Wardens could Talmont be trusted,’ I replied.

‘Who were the Sanctor Wardens?’ the caliph asked.

I reminded my lord of this ancient group of sorcerer-­knights from barbarous Hytal, who came to the aid of the King of Talmont at the height of the siege of Petraxus, in the tenth century. The famous Charge of the Wardens broke the invading armies of Kharagh, saving the city and ultimately the north. By the eleventh century they had become the power behind Talmont, known for their integrity and fidelity.

However, during the rise of the first Hierophant and Triple Emperor, Jovan Lux, it is said that they fell into evil, and were superseded by the Order of the Vestments of Elysia Divina – the ‘Vestal knights’. Rumours of conflict between the rival sorcerer-­knights persist, but the Vestal knights claim the Wardens, recognising their own decline, disbanded voluntarily.

And this is where history is needed, for the old tales of the Sanctor Wardens speak of honour and justice, their nobility and virtue, though more recent Talmoni historians have labelled them degenerate and corrupt. Yet those recent histories also claim the Vestal knights to be the pinnacle of chivalry, while we their enemies know them as the iron fist of Talmont.

Which is true? Only by piecing together the fragments of evidence remaining, can we learn. But those pieces are constantly changing, some proving untrustworthy even as new clues are unearthed, until it feels as if trying to understand our past is as impossible as mapping clouds, or waves in the sea.

‘Then truth is merely what we believe,’ the caliph commented.

‘Certainly the most powerful tale is not always the true one, but the one that is believed,’ I responded. ‘However, false stories are like the flesh of a rotting corpse. In the end, only the bones of truth will remain.’

 

Preface to Talmont – a History

by Inchalus Sekum

Scribe to the Caliph of Mutaza, 1467

Prologue

The Hierophant

One Faith, Many Peoples

Before the coming of Jovan Lux, our world was racked by war. But Jovan’s Edict brought all of Coros to the Light, uniting the three warring empires of Talmont, Zynoch and Abutha. The newly created Triple Empire is a union of the elites that transcends race, creed and colour, in which peace and prosperity reign: a true golden age. And now the throne of Jovan passes to a new heir, Eindil III. Long may he reign.

Patriarch Vyne, at the coronation of Eindil III, 1454

 

Jovan replaced race wars with class wars, elevating the elites through the oppression of the common people. By uniting Abuthan gold, Zynochian produce and Talmoni sorcery, he bonded a ruthless elite that transcends national boundaries. His court does indeed throng with people of all races – unified by one goal: self-­enrichment, at the cost of the exploited masses.

Nilis Evandriel, renegade scholar, 1469

Petraxus, Talmont

Summer 1472

Eindil Pandramion III, the Hierophant, God-­Emperor of Talmont, Triple-­Emperor of Coros, sat on the Throne of Pearl, wondering whether he was strong enough for the time he’d been born into. Today, the Sunburst Crown was a crushing weight, bowing his head and bending his back. All the lives in his care, all the wealth and history, were chains dragging him under the flood of dire news.

Coros is burning . . . our world is dying.

Fires were spreading in huge swathes from the northwest, sending smoke and ash across the hinterland. Even here in mighty Petraxus, heart of the empire, it tainted every breath. All over Hytal, crops were failing, while desperate refugees fleeing the growing dustbowls to the south were choking the roads and descending upon overwhelmed, frightened cities like swarms of ravenous insects. And among them the corrupted vyr moved unseen, sparking rebellion and lighting ever more fires.

That this long-­prophesised ending should come during Eindil’s reign haunted him day and night, despite knowing this was all the will of his divine ancestor, Akka Himself. My burden is to do what must now be done and preserve all that is good in Coros.

With that in mind, he steeled himself to face the latest news from the western isles, where this current crisis had begun. ‘Send in the courser,’ he told the stentor, Robias.

At the herald’s signal, a muffled hammer struck the gong to his right. The booming note reverberated through the many-­pillared hall, lined with the polished bronze statues of his forebears. At the far end, giant doors opened a crack. The bar of pallid light which penetrated was briefly broken by a silhouette, which vanished as the doors closed again. For a full minute, Eindil tracked the courser’s progress only by the clip of her boots on the marble as she made her way in darkness, past eyes and blades she never saw, until she emerged into light at the base of the dais, just ten paces away. She knelt and pressed her forehead to the floor.

Robias signalled and a guard ghosted from the shadows, lifted her chin and placed a blade to her throat. ‘You are in the presence of the divine,’ Robias said. ‘Swear that no word of falsehood shall pass your lips.’

‘I . . . I so swear,’ the courser replied, her clear, youthful voice tremulous, her coppery desert skin gleaming with sweat. She was a Zynochian, an embodiment of Eindil’s empire, which covered all of the known world, from Hytal in the frigid north to equatorial Zynochia and the jungles of Abutha, a rainbow realm in which the old dividing lines of race and religion had been erased by loyalty to his throne and Akka the Father.

But those precious gains will be lost if I can’t win through this crisis.

The guardsman carved the ritual line across the courser’s throat, just breaking the skin. For all her youth, her throat was covered in such scars, most old and white, a few still scabbed. When he withdrew, the courser sat back on her heels, head bowed and hands clasped. Her face was wind-­chaffed, her ebony hair matted and her green uniform damp with perspiration, but she looked composed, a veteran of such ordeals.

Around her, cloaked and masked courtiers emerged from the shadows, moving about her like dancers. This was the Night Court, where counsellors spoke with the protection of anonymity, to encourage frankness and the airing of hard truths.

‘Great One, my tidings are two days old,’ she said. ‘I come from Avas, via sail and steed.’

Avas was the third in a chain of isles at the western tip of Hytal, one thousand five hundred kylos away. Fyna, the first, was already abandoned; its neighbour Mir was also under attack.

‘Why did you take so long to reach us?’ Stentor Robias asked. ‘It is surely for this reason the empire maintains the portali gates? You could have been here in mere hours . . .’

‘The gate on Avas Isle was lost, the day before I left,’ the courser explained. ‘I had to sail to the mainland and use one in Port Gaudien.’

The loss of a portali was grim news. ‘Speak on,’ Eindil said.

‘Avas burns, Great One. The vyr have lit fresh fires that are sweeping across the island. All the shards on Avas have been destroyed and the populace has fled to Long Bay, on the east coast of the island. Governor Durand begs leave to evacuate them all.’

‘What say the Vestal knights stationed there?’ Eindil asked, struggling to sound regal in the face of such dire tidings. ‘Surely they fight on?’

‘The Vestal knights do, with all their strength,’ the courser replied, ‘but the vyr strike where the knights are not. Their corruption is everywhere.’

‘Who leads the knights on Avas?’

‘Siera Romara Challys, of the Falcon Century. They’re the last of the Order still protecting the island. Two other centuries were redeployed to Mir a week ago, to ensure we hold at least one island of the group.’

Eindil frowned. ‘Challys? Remind me?’ The name sounded a little familiar.

‘She is a veteran of ten years, from a noble house in Miravia, Great One,’ a masked female courtier advised. ‘Daughter of the Lord of Desantium. She is regarded as sound.’

‘But women are unsuited to command,’ a male courtier in a goat mask countered. For all the Vestal knights were the vanguard for equality, such views persisted.

Eindil raised a hand for silence. ‘I should not have to remind anyone that our beloved Vazi Virago, our Exemplar, is a woman,’ he said firmly. He leaned forward, looking at the courser. ‘Tell me more of this Romara Challys.’

‘She is a credit to her Order, an experienced fighter from a noble Miravian House,’ she responded. ‘When I parted from her, she was holding the retreat to Long Bay, having repelled several vyr raids while protecting the refugees.’

‘But why are they not driving forth the foe?’ Goat-­mask sniffed. ‘Timid retreats win nothing!’

Eindil had grown impatient with the man’s whining. They all knew the shape-­changing vyr had been causing havoc for generations now. ‘Driving forth the foe’ was impossible when you couldn’t find the evil degenerates hiding among the innocents.

‘Where is my Exemplar?’ he asked, unable to turn his mind from the woman regarded as the greatest knight of the Age. ‘Where is Vazi Virago? Does she travel to save the island?’

‘The Exemplar is in Neparia,’ the stentor reminded him. ‘She will return soon.’

I knew that, Eindil chastised himself, but her absence from court gnawed at him. ‘Does this Romara Challys concur with Governor Durand’s request to abandon the Isle?’

The courser bowed her head. ‘She concurs. Avas is lost, but the people can still be saved.’

Eindil considered, then nodded to Robias, permitting him to make the sign of mercy to the guards waiting behind the courser. They’d heard no lie in her words, so she’d be permitted to leave the Night Court alive.

‘The Pearl Throne thanks you, Courser,’ Robias said. ‘You will be taken to the probationary cells until your words are proven.’

The courser would be pampered, but there would be bars on her windows and doors until her story was corroborated; only then would she be freed. Lies were the most dangerous of all evils and must always be nipped in the bud.

She kissed the first step of the dais, where Jovan Lux’s footprint was preserved in the stone, rose gracefully and backed into the hands of the waiting house-­servants, who led her away.

The silence was punctuated by the whispers of his masked courtiers as they waited for Eindil to allow them to speak aloud.

‘Withdraw,’ Eindil told Robias. ‘I would seek the unrecorded advice of my counsellors.’

Once the herald had taken the scribes and gone, the Night Courtiers closed in. There were a few dozen tonight, masked and glittering darkly.

Eindil cleared his throat, then addressed the faceless gathering. ‘I commanded that none should give ground before the fires,’ he reminded them. ‘Am I to renege upon my stated will?’

The masked courtiers murmured, then a Zynochian woman spoke. ‘Let the people see your compassion. Akka is a just god. Elysia is Mercy personified. Allow the evacuation.’

‘But they have failed to defend their own lands. They have failed us.’

‘It was a task beyond them,’ said a man with a deep Abuthan voice. ‘This ending is fated.’

Eindil hated to think that his reign was predestined to fail. ‘Regardless, Akka expects us all to do what is right, and I have declared that there will be no retreat.’

‘Which we, the Night Court, counselled against,’ another woman said coolly.

‘But the Day Court said—’

‘The Day Court are venal, self-­serving weaklings,’ a lion-­masked male growled.

‘They are the voice of commerce, the makers of the shoes we walk in,’ Eindil stated.

‘But we are the voices of true knowledge,’ a woman replied. ‘Hearken to those others, consider their requests, but do not accede to their demands without consulting us. They may be the shoes we walk in, but our eyes are on the horizon, not upon our feet.’

The Day Court administered the day-­to-­day running of the empire, but the Night Court, who concerned themselves with strategic ­matters, carried the greater weight.

‘Your point is made and understood,’ Eindil told her. ‘But I am not deaf to other voices.’

‘Crowns are heavy, Great One,’ another masked adviser said soothingly. ‘But we can guide you through these treacherous days and into the light which lies beyond. The Day Court is the voice of common men, but you are one of us, in the end.’

Faced with that truth, the decision was made. ‘Then I will order the evacuation. But what of Governor Durand and Romara Challys, who have been unable to discharge my will?’

More murmuring and hissings, and then another hooded woman spoke, a Bedumassan, by her accent. ‘Either they have failed you, betrayed you or been given a task beyond them. That is the factual situation. But emotionally, your people expect to see blame apportioned. Choose a scapegoat and conduct a trial. Be seen to be just, and strong.’

‘Which one? Governor Durand?’

‘The Vestal knight,’ the lion-­masked counsellor replied. ‘She’s a veteran, nearing the end of her usefulness. She’s expendable.’

Eindil decided they were right: governors tended to have powerful connections, so punishing Durand would be divisive and potentially risky. But a veteran of the Vestals could be sacrificed.

‘Thank you for your guidance,’ he said. ‘Hold a trial. Let justice be served upon her.’

‘Thank you for hearkening, Great One,’ the masked courtiers replied, then with a swishing of robes, they dispersed into the darkness, leaving Eindil sitting alone in a pool of light in the vast hall. A moment later, the Watcher’s Bell tolled on the mainland, the twenty-­two chimes telling him that it was two hours until midnight and he must return to the Sacred Palace, where that night’s chosen wife awaited. After that, there’d be the ritual cleansing and, finally, rest, before facing the next day’s battles.

He gestured, and Stentor Robias reappeared from the shadows. ‘Stentor, I return to the palace,’ Eindil told him. ‘Oh, and lower the banner of Avas on Imperium Square.’

I have lost part of my realm . . . this Romara Challys must pay for that.

1

A Wall of Fire

The Blessed of Akka

It is known that Akka the Father, and Elysia his Handmaiden, dispense fortune to those they favour. Thus may you know the righteous: by their riches and largesse. The wealthy and powerful are the blessed of Akka, and to serve them is to serve the Father.

Lancel, Thirteenth Guardian, 1312

Long Bay, Avas Isle

Summer 1472

The sky was a dull, throbbing red, smoke clogged the nostrils, heat basted skin and the wind howled with demon voices, clawing at the eight thousand remaining refugees huddled on the beach of Long Bay. They sang hymns imploring divine rescue, but it was the wooden ships standing off the coast which would save them, and Romara Challys’s soldiers who protected them.

We should have been long gone by now, Romara thought grimly.

A courser had arrived finally, a full week after the first one left, giving permission to depart, but it had taken another week for the evacuation fleet to arrive and even then, there were too few ships moving far too slowly for the refugees of Avas trapped between the fires and the waves.

Somehow, no one blamed the man responsible for the delays: His Serene Majesty Eindil Pandramion III, Hierophant of Talmont. It was everyone else’s fault.

But we’ll catch the blame, Romara worried. Her Vestal century had been the last to evacuate; those left till the end always got the worst of these situations.

Her morose thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a grey-­robed Akkanite pater, Vostius, a tonsured priest with a serious mien. He had to look up to Romara, who stood almost six foot – but he had a lordly presence that added invisible inches and left her feeling the shorter.

‘Greetings, Siera Romara,’ Vostius boomed. ‘This is a blessed day.’

‘It will be, if we all get off in one piece,’ Romara agreed.

He surveyed the windswept beach and the smoke-­wreathed marshland inland. ‘Is there any sign of the vyr?’ the pater asked anxiously.

‘Nothing so far. My magia, Elindhu, will sense them if they come, but they must know we’re leaving. There’s no rational reason for them to launch an assault.’ She pulled a rueful face. ‘Not that they’re famed for their rationality.’

‘True enough,’ Vostius sighed. ‘Are your knights at full strength?’

‘With the shards destroyed, our glyma is depleted,’ Romara admitted, patting the elobyne orb on the pommel of her sword. Without the shards the Church had planted every twenty kylos or so, the only way to refill the orbs and renew their weapons was an orison; the communal ritual would draw energy from the congregation itself. ‘But we’ll manage,’ she assured him.

‘I will call an orison,’ Vostius declared. ‘The people will show their devotion.’

It was a generous offer, but orisons took quite a toll on the participants. ‘They’ve already lost all they have, and they’re exhausted,’ Romara protested. ‘To also give prayer is too much – some may not survive.’

‘They have more to give. Let them show you their love of Akka.’

He sounded disturbingly fanatical. Romara scanned the nearest people, seeing exhaustion, defeat and loss. They’ve got nothing else to give, she thought. They’ll need what little strength they have left for the journey to safety.

But Vostius didn’t answer to her, and a priest’s reputation rested on the efficacy and frequency of his orisons. He was probably trying to make a name for himself – and to ensure no one could blame him for this débâcle.

‘Very well, I’ll gather my knights,’ she conceded.

While Vostius prepared, Romara called in her pentacle, the elobyne-­bearing men and women who led her century: loyal and idealistic Jadyn Kaen, her seneschal; Ghaneen Suul, a headstrong, macho Zynochi; world-­weary Obanji Vost, the Abuthan veteran, and the birdlike mage, Elindhu Morspeth. They’d been here on Avas for nine months now, and given their considerable all.

It hasn’t been enough.

As the Falcon pentacle assembled, Vostius went to his wrought-­bronze Orison Bell hanging inside a tripod of oak and hammered on it. Heads turned as the doleful noise sounded down the beach, tired faces lifting at the familiar sacred sound. ‘Kalefa, kalefa ap orison!’ – we are called, we are called to prayer – he shouted, and the cry was quickly echoed by his acolytes.

Romara was humbled to see hope kindled on the exhausted faces, and sure enough, in minutes hundreds of refugees had gathered and were watching reverently as Vostius’ acolytes laid on the ground the sacred Weave, a web of elobyne crystals woven in a geometric pattern into silk.

The islanders, villagers and farmers alike had been ripped from their homes by the vyr onslaught; they’d carried their last possessions on their backs for days, only to be stranded here for almost two weeks. Romara marvelled that they had anything left to give. But they willingly grasped the strands of the Weave with white-­knuckled desperation. Children knelt with them, wide-­eyed and fervent, and those who couldn’t reach the ropes clasped the shoulders of those in front so all could share their devotion.

Romara led her pentacle through the gathering, the refugees reverently brushing her white tabard with their fingers as she passed. She knelt in the middle, pulled forth her wavy-­bladed Order flamberge and planted the tip in the sand, the softly glowing elobyne pommel eliciting cries of awe and adoration. Jadyn Kaen presented his blade next, his homely face as ever humble. She met his eyes, a fleeting glance of mutual devotion forged through ten years of shared service and friendship.

Our time will come, Farm Boy, she thought wistfully, although she couldn’t imagine life outside the Order. But they were both approaching thirty, so that day would soon arrive. We’ll take the land and pension package, retire and finally be free to love.

Ghaneen Suul was next to kneel, brandishing his sword ostentatiously, while the black-­skinned Abuthan, Obanji Vost, was characteristically restrained. Their small, waddling mage, Elindhu Morspeth, lifted her crystal-­tipped staff to the heavens, her long-­nosed face peering from beneath a tower of grey braids.

My brothers and sisters, Romara reflected proudly. They fought with all their strength for Avas and they don’t deserve the blame for this – but no doubt it’ll be heaped upon us.

She shook the thought off: it was unworthy, in this moment of sanctity. Instead she focused on the ritual, gripping her weapon just under the cross-­piece.

‘Behold this blade,’ she recited. ‘It is a flamberge – the flame-­blade of Talmont – forged from Miravian steel by the master-­smiths of Hyastar and entrusted to me by the Hierophant himself. Through the grace of Akka, I am a Knight of the Vestments of Elysia Divina, a servant of all. Ar-­byan.’

‘Ar-­byan!’ her comrades responded. By God’s Will.

She raised the pommel towards Heaven, letting the crystal orb catch the sunlight. ‘Behold the Orb, pure elobyne from Nexus, the sacred isle, gifted to humanity by Jovan Lux. Through its holy power, I am more than a woman: I am a Knight of the Vestments of Elysia Divina, a servant of all. Ar-­byan.’

‘Ar-­byan!’

‘I renew my pledge to wield this gift for Akka, for Elysia, for Talmont. May I serve faithfully, and do honour to those who have gone before me. I am a Knight of the Vestments of Elysia Divina, a servant of all. Ar-­byan.’

‘Ar-­byan!’ the congregated refugees shouted. From the expressions on their exhausted, grief-­stricken faces, they were pinning all their hopes and prayers on her pentacle – on her. It was a burden, but one she was proud to bear.

When she stood, Jadyn, Ghaneen, Obanji and Elindhu rose with her and together, they lifted their weapons to heaven, shouting, ‘Lux Eternal!’

‘Elysia be wit’ ye, Vestals,’ a fisherman cried hoarsely. ‘Bless ye!’

His call was echoed on all sides.

‘Akka be with us all,’ Vostius shouted, sweeping his stern gaze over the sweaty, soot-­streaked islanders. ‘Orison eli volso.’ The orison has begun. ‘Let us pray!’

The veneration began. Even Romara, who’d participated in this ritual so many times, felt her skin prickle in anticipation and wonder, because this ritual was unique to the Vestal Order.

In past creeds, prayers were just wishes, sent into the sky in superstitious hope, the way pagans still prayed today. But for worshippers of Akka and Elysia, the King and Queen of Heaven, the orison made prayer real and tangible, binding them to the thrones of Heaven, and to their protectors.

Vostius led the chanting, exhorting the faithful to give their hearts as he invoked Akka, calling His divine gaze to this place. Their ragged voices grew stronger as the familiar words took root. Then came the emotion, initiated by the younger women, so often the most passionate of any congregation. Girlish faces became flushed and fervent as an ecstatic anguish overtook them, their bodies beginning to shake as they raised their faces to heaven and shrieked in rapture, ‘AKKA! HEAR US! ELYSIA, I LOVE YOU! SAVE US!’

As the congregation roared, the air inside the circle throbbed. United by their faith, rich and poor, elders and children, and especially the youth, with all their fire and desire, competed in fervour, storming heaven, eyes skywards and hands clasped to the Weave.

This is Talmont, Romara thought, where the love of Akka gives us the power to prevail.

The crystals in the Weave began to glow, a pale light that began at the edges, illuminating the ropes that extended into the massed refugees, then flowing inwards, gaining intensity. The children all squealed in wonder, while the adults, exhausted from the effort, roared in triumph.

The light became a blaze that flowed from crystal to crystal, converging on the centre, where Romara and her pentacle waited, holding ready their flamberges. It coalesced suddenly – and a bolt of pure energy flowed into their elobyne crystals. Feeling the jolt like a physical blow, they all bowed their heads in thanks, while the congregation roared in victory, an enraptured call that encompassed exultation, relief and utter exhaustion.

Girls and boys alike were fainting, and even adults were swaying, dazed, as the wave of tiredness that inevitably followed a successful orison swept over the crowd. The orison gave, but it also took, especially from the weak and sickly. Some even chose to die that way, giving the last of themselves to Akka – after all, it guaranteed a place in Paradise.

The weapons of Romara’s pentacle tingled with new energy. Such a small orison could do only so much, but everyone had been lifted by it: prayers had been heard and the bonds of community renewed. Vostius made the final blessing sign, his work done, his reputation cemented.

Now I must play my part, Romara thought, as she faced the crowd, her long scarlet locks catching the wind as she held her flamberge aloft, hilt high. ‘In the name of Akka and Elysia, I thank you all,’ she shouted hoarsely, kindling light in the crystal to show that the prayers had been effective. ‘The glyma is with us. Ar-­byan, Ar-­byan.’

Ghaneen Suul, ever the dramatist, flourished his own sword dramatically, crying, ‘I pledge to keep you safe. Ar-­byan!’ He was their youngest and considered himself their best blade.

The refugees cheered him rapturously.

Obanji, who actually was their best blade, shared a laconic glance with Elindhu, while Romara smiled wryly at Ghaneen’s antics.

‘Falcons, go forth!’ she ordered, and they began extricating themselves – which was not so easy when people wanted to kiss the hems of their tabards and otherwise venerate them as avatars of the gods – but eventually they managed to break away. They strode down the beach to rejoin the Falcon century stationed at the southern end.

The lonely, desolate stretch of shingle and sand known as Long Bay faced the mainland to the east, a desolate stony strip between the brackish swamp and the hungry waves, now choked with fearful refugees. Smoke clogged the air, reducing visibility to a few hundred paces. Black-­and-­white quartered tabards marked out Romara’s Falcon century of Vestal guards, holding a perimeter along the fire-­ditches. They all turned anxiously as Romara and her pentacle approached: they’d be the last to be evacuated, and only then if there was room on the ships for them. So Romara couldn’t answer their questioning looks. Like them, she could only hope they’d get off this cursed island today.

‘Four hours, the governor estimates,’ she called aloud, lighting up her pommel-­orb to show that she and her pentacle had energy left. ‘Do your duty, Falcons.’

‘Falcons Eternal!’ they roared back. But most threw resentful glances along the shore at the ranks of blue-­clad imperial soldiers already lining up to embark.

Over the next few hours, as each boat rowed in and collected another load of evacuees – and the governor’s men – to load into the ships at anchor beyond the breakers, those still waiting became increasingly desperate, until the governor’s soldiers formed a cordon to keep control, lest the boats be swamped.

We mightn’t get off today after all, Romara worried. She doubted the vyr would attack now, but if they were stranded overnight, an assault was far more likely.

‘I miss the days when all I had to think about was keeping my blade sharp and my tabard clean,’ she muttered. ‘I’m sick of having to worry about everyone else.’

‘No, you aren’t,’ Jadyn grinned. ‘You love bossing us around.’ The others chuckled wryly.

‘Well, that’s true,’ she admitted. ‘Come on, you lot, let’s get up to the headland and see what’s to be seen.’

She led her pentacle up a windswept bluff that offered views north over Long Bay, westwards along the southern coast, a rugged wall of broken stone, and into the interior, where the burned-­out marshland lying between the hills and valleys told a tale of destruction and defeat.

The four knights sat, breaking out water bottles and whet-­stones, and set to sharpening the rippled edges of their swords as they discussed their situation. But Elindhu planted her staff and gazed about, her eyes gleaming glyma-?