Free City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) by H.O. Charles

amassed quite a collection over the years. Some were utter fiction, of course. But some, he believed, had a true root in history. A red, leather-bound tome with a dull shine drew his gaze. It was perhaps a thousand years old, the pages were flaking at the edges and the whole thing was considerably foxed.
    He sat down in his armchair and gently laid the book upon his lap. The title read, “Chronicles of the warrior, Artemi,” in heavily stylised lettering. The book was a classic, which Morghiad imagined most people had read during their childhoods. A great deal of it was poetry about the red-haired swordswoman and her exploits, and the tale had made the name popular amongst parents of lookalike offspring. That pretty, young servant girl was evidence of the tradition. He pushed the image of that flaming hair girl , as he had come to call her, from his mind again. It was becoming troublesome.
    Morghiad let out a heavy breath through his nose and focused on the words that lay on an open page.
     
    “...And taking up the blade from her thrice-made enemy,
    The lady cast Blaze upon the brown-haired head,
    Blue and white and blistering as ice,
    It curled, tapered and began the air to splice,
    The fires of Achellon had never wrought such heresy,
    Yet still her foe re-stood, and staggered, called and bled,
    ‘You shall not defeat me out of jealousy!’
    Still moving, Mirel caged up the fires and said:
    ‘Come here and die today, my Artemi,
    I bring to you your destiny...’”
     
    Morghiad had never quite been able to work out where jealousy came into it. He flicked through a few more pages, principally examining the pictures. Cadra was in one of them, looking a bit smaller and flatter. Grey defensive walls still prodded the clouds in an accusatory manner with their great height. He snapped the book shut, wincing as he remembered its age. His mind went back to the red-haired girl in blue. He wondered what she would look like in full battle garb, sitting astride a warhorse. No.
    The kahr stood up and placed the text back in its gap. He tried to think very hard about other things. A practice session was scheduled for the day and he ought to get ready for it, though there was a good chance the session would be unattended. He would just have to grit his teeth together and work through it, even if he was alone in that vast place.
    He examined his clothing: fitted black trousers, soft leather black boots that went to his calves and a loose, white shirt. It would do. He buckled his sword to his waist, added a short sword to the belt and placed a dagger each in the tops of his boots. Morghiad departed the cool airs of his bedroom and stepped into the frigid airs of the broad hallway beyond. He appreciated the slow whine of the door as it swung shut behind him. It was quite intentional, and would give him some warning if an assassin came for him in the night.
    The gallery which gave access to his rooms was broad, equally as high as the Malachite Hall and simply decorated. He remembered when he had arrived here as a young boy, thinking everything had been made for a giant. It was not customary, or safe, for Cadran kahrs to grow up in the castle and so he had spent his first years secreted away on a farm in western Calidell. Morghiad often wished that he could remember his time there.
    Silar had been right in his prediction. The practice hall looked to be about a third-emptier than it normally was. Morghiad watched in contemplative silence as the lieutenants gathered roll calls from the sergeants. Silar was there, too, looking somewhat worse-for-wear. He was probably ten days into abstinence now, and clearly had begun to feel the first pains. “How many present, Silar?” Morghiad asked.
    “Six hundred and fifty-five, my lord.” Silar barely squeezed the words out.
    “Very good. Now you must leave.”
    The lieutenant grimaced with disappointment. “I am still perfectly capable of swinging a sword -”
    “You are no use to me in that