Page 2 of Of Steel and Scale

But why would anyone want to burn that settlement? It was little more than an out-of-the-way fishing port on the very edge of my father’s kingdom. It was also the only safe harbor between the treacherous but plentiful seas around the base of the Throat of Huskain—the nigh on impassable mountain that dominated the northeastern edge of Arleeon—and the larger market ports of Hopetown and Redding. Why would anyone want anyone to attack it?

The only people who logically might have were the Mareritt—a warrior race who lived in the vast subarctic wilderness beyond the Blue Steel Mountains, the long range that unevenly divided our shared continent. Mareritten itself was a land so harsh that for nine months of the year its people lived in expansive underground cities that drew on volcanic heat to survive their long winters.

I had no idea what the majority of the Mareritt did during their three months of summer, but their warrior elite certainly used the time to attack either Esan or Zephrine. Or, at least, they had. So far this year there’d been only minor skirmishes, and that worryingly suggested they might be building up to something big. Of course, there were some who believed they’d finally accepted that neither Esan nor Zephrine could be broken. I personally thought the sky would bleed fire and fury beforethatever happened.

Whatever the reason for the low number of assaults over recent months, that smoke couldn’t be the first indication of a renewed strategy. The only way for them to have reached Eastmead from Mareritten was by sea, and if there was one truth about the Mareritt we were absolutely certain of, it was their all-abiding fear of the ocean.

I frowned and glanced uncertainly at the sky. Night still clung on hard, despite the ever-growing fingers of light. The smell of rain rode the air, and the clouds were heavy and ominous. If I were still on this mountain when that storm hit, I’d regret it.

But I’d regret not investigating that smoke more.

This wasmyland, even if I was leaving it. I might not be Esan’s heir thanks to my sex, but Iwasa captain of the guard. I was honor-bound to investigate.

A somewhat ironic smile touched my lips. As excuses went, it wasn’t one my mother would buy, even if she was the one who’d insisted on me being trained with sword and bow from a very young age.

I swung the pack over my shoulder and continued on. I’d taken this path down to the valley many times in the past, and it had been a time-consuming and somewhat treacherous journey. Hopefully, the recent foul weather and subsequent rockslides hadn’t made it any worse.

Luck was with me on that account, but even so, by the time I reached the valley floor, I was hot, sweaty, and tired. There was a very good reason the agile capras were the only animal to roam the volcanic edges of the Black Glass Mountains—they were the only damn things that could easily traverse the mountain passes.

I grabbed the flask out of the backpack and took a long drink. It had to be close to midday now, and while Eastmead still burned, the dark stain of its smoke was almost indistinguishable against the ponderous clouds. The storm would hit well before I ever reached the fishing port.

Which meant I’d better send a message to my parents. If they wanted me back in time for the ceremony tomorrow, they had best send a boat—though in truth, I’d never been a fan of the sea, and the oncoming storm would make things even more unpleasant.

To which my mother would undoubtedly say, “Serves you right, Bryn.”

Another smile tugged at my lips. I stoppered the flask and scanned the sky again, this time looking for a familiar speck. It took me a few minutes to spot her—she soared in wide circles above the capras, no doubt dreaming of eating prey she was far too small to ever capture.

I put two fingers to my lips and whistled her in. She spiraled down, her gray feathers silvered in the few gloomy rays of sunshine. Gray hawks were native to the continent, but they were far more prevalent here in this eastern portion of Esan. We’d used them for centuries to carry messages back and forth, and while the recent development of scribe quills—which used magic to pair one quill with another, meaning what one wrote the other copied—had made the hawks less of a necessity, they were still handy in situations involving much longer distances. They also made excellent pets, especially for someone like me. While earth and air witches were relatively scarce here in Arleeon—at least when compared to the lands of our trading partners—those with personal magic such as healing and spell casting were not, and both were revered to varying extents.

But I was the other kind—a strega, which was the rather derogative term for witches gifted with abilities of the mind, even if mostdidhave an element of magic involved. It was a term that umbrellaed abilities such as the creation or manipulation of fire, the movement of objects, and mind reading. Oddly enough, when it came to the ability to mind touch, the term was only directed at those of us who could understand the thoughts of animals and control their actions. Human-to-human mind reading was considered a valuable asset.

While my mother also had the gift of animal control and, to a much smaller degree, seeress abilities, it was something of a puzzle as to how I’d inherited the ability to call forth fire. It was also an ability that had been the source of many whispers and much fear over the years, even if no one ever said anything directly to my parents or me. The latterwasunderstandable, given our station, but the volatility of the skill during the early years of puberty had definitely fueled those whispers. It was a situation not helped by the red mote in my right eye—something all fire witches possessed—bleeding during those more explosive outbursts. It was a manifestation that scared some even today, even though my control over fire and the awareness of my own limitations meant it very rarely happened.

I raised an arm, and Veri landed lightly, her claws digging into the leather gauntlet but not cutting skin. She tilted her head to look at me, her golden eyes aglow and her mind awash with excitement. She knew a message meant food. I grinned and scratched her head, but she squawked impatiently and nipped at my fingers.

With a soft chuckle, I opened the small pouch at my waist and dug out a piece of meat. She accepted it daintily and swallowed it whole, then waited patiently as I undid the small message clasp on her right leg. Once free, she flew up to a branch and watched with interest as I unrolled the small, blank piece of specially treated paper. Kneeling on one knee and using the other as a makeshift writing surface, I grabbed the stylus out of my pack and carefully scratched out my message, not only telling my father about the attack but also asking for someone to be sent to retrieve Desta, my mount. Once the message was safely tucked back into the clasp, I called Veri down and reattached it.

“Straight home now.” I handed her another piece of meat and impressed the order onto her mind. “No dillydallying above the poultry farms hoping to catch a juicy rodent.”

She squawked—an offended sound if ever I’d heard one—then lifted off. Once she’d disappeared, I unwrapped the small parcel of dried meats and fruits I’d packed for breakfast and ate them as I continued on. It took me the better part of the day to traverse the valley and clamber up the ridge that divided it from the sweeping coastline on which Eastmead was situated.

What I saw from the top was not just a fire but utter destruction.

For several minutes, I simply stared, unable to believe what I was seeing.

There were no whole buildings, no pier, and certainly no boats anchored within the sheltered cove. All that remained were the blackened, broken remnants of boundary walls, homes, and workplaces that had once stood here. I had no idea what had happened to the hundred or so families who’d lived in this forsaken place—I couldn’t see any bodies from where I was hunkered, but I couldn’t see any sign of life, either. Maybe they’d evacuated, but where to? My gaze swept the wind-torn shoreline, but there was absolutely nowhere to hide. No caves or trees or any other kind of shelter. It was possible they’d managed to launch some boats and sail to safety, of course, but several mast tops sticking out of the water had doubts rising.

What had happened here? Who’d done this?

There was no immediate indication. No sign of foreign boats or any sort of invading force. It was as if the raiders had come out of nowhere, destroyed everything and everyone in their path, and then disappeared back into their nothingness.

Magic?

It was possible. The Mareritt were certainly capable of great magic. Maybe they’d gotten over their fear of the sea, or maybe they’d found another means into Arleeon—they surely couldn’t have gone over the Blue Steel Mountains. Not only were they treacherous in the extreme, but both Esan and Zephrine had outposts dotted along their entire length. If theyhadattempted such an assault path, we would have been warned.

But if it wasn’t the Mareritt, who could it have been? Arleeon had few other enemies, although I guess that didn’t mean anything in the scheme of things. Sometimes it only took the replacement of a benevolent ruler on a neighboring continent for treaties and alliances to be torn apart.

History had certainly taught usthat.

---