The Fireborn Road

Prologue

PROLOGUE

NGANDA ROCK - THE END OF THE ACCORD

The year is 1107ac, five years since the Summer of Fire swept across the continent leaving in its wake bedraggled survivors clinging desperately to the shreds of civilisation. For many, General Salamander has become a fading memory, just one of many evils that have clawed through the civilised world in living memory, which can be put to rest and left behind them. Not so for the people of Tartaria.

For the Clans, the searing wounds that Salamander left on their country are still raw and real. Every day, they face new challenges left by his decimation of the clans. For five years, they have lived under the Vahe-rahu1. With their borders shut against the outside world, they clutch together in an uneasy truce. Time has passed peaceably enough, and as the accord reaches its end some strength has been regained. It will take generations before all the damage is undone, but a good start has been made.

The Clans Council meets at Nganda Rock on Dragon Lands, for the Vektig-Indaba2 to discuss the nation's future. Some Clans have fared better than others. The Dragon, who never fell to the might of Salamander, are strong and wealthy; others are not so. Not much is agreed upon, except that the borders should reopen. Any longer cloistered together and the tension might be too much.

Old enemies die hard, and among Tartars broken trust can never completely heal. Stonesnake, the first Clan to go over willingly to Salamander, are still suffering greatly from the suspicion of others. Lean and hungry, they are easily spotted amongst the gathered Tartars as much by their gaunt faces and sunken eyes as their elaborate snake tattoos. Some clans that had been all but wiped out by the c*****e have banded together in uneasy unions and even after this time are still uncomfortable with each other’s ways.

Everyone with a voice has come to the gathering that will decide the future, every Clan is represented. Every Clan except one. No one knows for certain if any of Clan Salamander survived the massive blast that killed their General, his Shaman sister Flame-hair and thousands of their enthralled clan warriors, realising fire drakes into the air and forming a blast site nearly half a mile across. If any have survived, they have had the wit to go to ground and stay there, living apart from everyone else.

Until now, at least.

Blood. She recognised blood as it filled her mouth. Then came pain; that was familiar too. Her face was pulsing with darts of searing pain, wet and warm – presumably covered in blood. She reached out an arm and tried to haul herself to sitting. Agony. She vomited, mostly the blood from her throat, and collapsed back down. Pain became blackness.

When she opened her eyes again it was dark and cold, the chill settling with the dull aches and sharp, stabbing pains all over her body. The skin on her face was dry and tight, crusted with blood and vomit. She could feel her pulse thudding through her whole body, as it struggled to decide which hot spot to rush towards next. Through bleary, stinging eyes she could see the canopy of trees above her and the only noise was the background hum of forest creatures. The dampness of her clothing told her that the first dew had already settled. Slowly, barely an inch at a time, she dragged herself to a sitting position taking stock as she did. She remembered a face screaming at her with hatred, the voice high-pitched and terrified. Hot spittle flecked her as she shrank back in terror. She did not recognise the face, although its owner had clearly recognised her. It was yelling two words that made no sense, over and over. One was 'Harh-nuh' – which she remembered meant traitor in clan-tongue – the other was 'Marta', which she thought was probably a name. The yelling hadn't lasted very long, it had given way pretty swiftly to punching, kicking, stamping and then darkness. How she had got to this patch of forest she had no idea, judging by the quiet she was nowhere near Nganda Rock and the gathering anymore.