Smoke and Rain

SMOKE

AND

RAIN

BOOK ONE IN THE REFORGED QUARTET

Φ

V.S. Holmes

AMPHIBIAN PRESS

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

SMOKE AND RAIN

Copyright © 2015 by Sara HV Carignan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

Amphibian Press
www.amphibianpressbooks.com

www.vs-holmes.com

Cover by Ben R. Donahue

www.bendonahueart.com

ISBN :
978-0-9961330-1-2
First Edition

THE LAYERS OF A SINGLE LIFE

The 17th day of Lumord, 1251

The City-State of Vielrona

ARMAN'S SKIN PRICKLED WHEN he stared at the women across the room. He edged between the lines of cots, trying to focus on the injured. The three dozen refugees brought in four days ago had dwindled to a score, despite his mother's help. He straightened a few blankets and refilled a water pitcher before looking up again. Six figures were clustered around the open window. They seemed unaffected by the cold breeze. The tallest glanced over, meeting his eyes. Heat chased ice up his spine. It was unpleasant, but a deeper part of him enjoyed it, like the burn of alcohol down his throat.

He shook the sensation away and forced himself to approach the women. He used the term "women" loosely. Laen were never simply women. In his twenty-three years he had never seen even one of the gods' creators from afar. Now half a dozen of them stood in his mother's inn. Arman hastily combed a hand through his blond curls and bowed awkwardly. “Excuse me, Lady Liane.”

Her silver eyes slid over him in absent acknowledgment, “Liane is fine.”

“My mother said you were welcome to stay as long as you need. Vielrona was once a guard-city for your people, and we will act as such.”
It doesn't matter if centuries have passed and we have nothing to protect you with.
He pushed the negative thought away, hoping the Laen could not read minds.

Liane scanned the injured filling the room. “We cannot stay.” The Laen were worshiped, once. Centuries ago, however, the very gods they had created overthrew them. Those gods, and their human armies, hunted the few Laen left alive. Liane’s hard eyes turned back to the youngest Laen, bundled in a cloak. “We thank you, but no place is safe anymore.”

Arman followed her gaze to the youngest woman. She looked no more than thirteen, though he supposed she could have been decades older. Her companions were concerned, perhaps distantly angry, but only she showed fear.

It could be her youth.
Arman noticed the armor glinting under her cloak. She was the only one thus protected. He stepped back instinctively, paling under his tan. Her presence, even rumor of it, would bring armies down upon his city. “There is a road,” he gestured, “from the western wall.” His hand shook. “It is narrow and rocky, but few use it. It would be safer.” He spoke to Liane, but his eyes had not moved from the younger Laen. The others seemed to ignore the conversation. He felt Liane's eyes narrow on him. Arman held his palms up, as if surrendering “I won't tell a soul, I swear.”

Liane stared at him a moment longer, then gathered their few belongings. “We have four guards some days, even weeks, behind us. If they come through, you may tell them our path.”

“How will I know them?”

Liane looked back, exasperated. A lesser woman may have rolled her eyes. Her hand snaked out and rested on Arman's brow. Cold spread from her hard fingers before he could pull away. With it came an image. Perhaps it was her memory. Arman jerked away and stumbled back a few steps, his jaw clenched.

Liane nodded once to him before sweeping past him and out of the room. The others filed after her. When the last had disappeared, Arman fell to his knees and emptied his stomach into a washbasin.

Φ

The dim common room of the Ruby Cockerel was deserted. Most patrons sought other alehouses since the Cockerel's rooms had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. Arman was glad for the quiet. He downed a mug of cheap tar-whiskey and poured another before sliding onto a barstool. His yellow-green eyes were dark.

A week ago he had joined a scouting troop to investigate an ominous cloud of smoke over the southern hills. They had expected the remains of a summer fire or a small raid. Instead they found a massacre. Their ally-city, Cehn, had been razed. The attack had been swift and thorough – less than fifty had lived. Among the survivors in the governor's manor, however, were the six Laen. Arman had no doubt they were the targets of the attack.

He took a slow sip, allowing the sting of the alcohol to clear his head. When the gods overthrew their creators, the world had fractured. Some said it was the aftermath of killing the most powerful creatures. Others said it was the Laen's last defense.

The girl who had just left was not any Laen. She was what both sides of the war had been seeking.

The oak door of the common room banged open and heavy boots sloshed across the floor. “Fates, this rain is horrid. Picked up out of nowhere.”

“Hey, Wes.”

A large-boned young man slumped into the seat next to Arman. His tan was several shades darker than Arman's, and heavily weathered by the heat of a smithy. He jerked his blocky head at the ceiling, “They still here?”

Arman shook his head. “Left a few minutes ago.”

Wes suppressed a shudder. “Probably them that made the rain. Hide their trail and all.”

Arman rolled his eyes and stood to pour Wes a mug of ale. “You know they can't play with weather. It was strange having them in the house, though.”

Wes accepted his mug with a nod of thanks. “The idea gives me the winders.”

“I am all for them winning the war, but that feeling when they look at you – like jumping into the Halen in winter.”

Wes eyed his friend. “I never had that. Granted I didn't live with them. If we're not careful you'll be chasing after them.”

Arman snorted and finished off his tar-whiskey.

“So why are we drinking tonight?”

“You're drinking because you tracked slush all over my mother's floor and you know she won't yell at you if you're tossed.”

Wes glanced guiltily at the floor. They had known each other for almost as long as either had been alive, and Kepra Wardyn was as much Wes' mother as she was Arman's. The smith fished a towel from under the bar and began to boot-slide it across the wet floor.

Arman's mouth twitched at the sight. “You are better than a lady's maid, Wes. You ought to do away with the smithy and take up a job here.”

Wes growled, “And what would you do at the forge without me? You have no head for business. You'd be lost.” He shuffled carefully back towards the bar to gather the worst of the mess. “Why are you drinking?”

Arman glared at the cloudy dregs of his drink, as if they had caused his confusion. Wes did not strictly count, as he was closer to family, but Arman had promised not to tell anyone. “It's nothing important. Seeing all those people upstairs brings the war home. Most will never wake up. It is strange to think it was so close to us.”

“They won't come here, Arman.” Wes' muddy eyes were earnest, “We have nothing they want.” He took several deep swallows of his ale. “Fates, your mood is enough to make a man drink.”

Arman fixed Wes with a pointed stare, “
They
were here, Wes. The same ones that brought the Miriken into Cehn. It isn't stupid to be worried.”

Wes shrugged and drained the rest of his mug. “Suit yourself. I should get home, I need to start working on that piece for Reskle tomorrow.” He buckled his cloak again. “Will you be by tomorrow?”

Arman nodded, “I have to finish the jewel-work on that hilt.”

“You're seeing Veredy tomorrow night though, eh?” Wes waggled his eyebrows suggestively from the doorway.

Arman's laugh scratched in his irritated throat, “Hopefully. There's still a lot to help Ma with, though. Out with you, you're letting the rain in.” He winced as Wes' exit rattled the glass in the windows. He found a clean towel and went over his friend's slush trail, his gaze distant. He had not lied by saying the massacre had brought the war home. Violence was not a stranger to him, but battle caused a different violence than the city streets. The war had been reawakened by a rumor. Arman had barely been walking when the news first arrived. The bloodshed against the Laen started again. This time, the gods were looking for a woman called the Dhoah’ Laen. She would be more powerful than all her foremothers and some said she could mend the world. The reality of such a creature was dubious at best, even in cities that supported the Laen. After twenty years and thousands of deaths, it was hard to hope.

Arman scrubbed his face with a groan. “The Miriken are looking for
her
, Wes.” His voice was low. He needed to tell someone, even if it was just the empty common room. “The Miriken are looking for the Dhoah' Laen, and she was in my mother's house.”