Dream of a Vast Blue Cavern

Chapter 1: Whispers of War: Dynat

King Dynat Sikur Antah, Defender of Chraun, Prince of Flames, Keeper of the Lava River, True Ruler of all Sholaen, Chosen of the Fire Spirit, sat on his throne, basking in heat and glory.

The hard stone seat dug into his bones, but Dynat scarcely felt the pain. His lava mesh pulsed just beneath his skin like a second set of veins, holding his T'Jas close. His hands rested on the rough, dark basalt of the arms. The mighty throne that held him was suspended above the rocky cavern floor by a jumbled mass of stalas, dangled from the high ceiling by thin columns of stalam. When he closed his eyes, Dynat could feel the heat seeping toward him from the great Lava River, hear the roar as it traversed the back of the vast cavern. Above the constant white noise of the river, the Fire Spirit whispered to him, its face, as always, consumed by flames, hovering in Dynat's mind, looking through his eyes.

Attaaack . . . The voice whispered. It whispered other things, as well. Instructions, threats, praise; the voice was a constant burble, difficult to pull meaning from. But in this moment, one word stood out above all. Attaaaack . . .

Dynat opened his eyes and saw the river's dim red glow cast onto the two Flames standing before him. General Medoc, a tall man with a few white streaks in his dark hair, stood straight and stiff, speaking. He was old for a Flame; life in Chraun was short but, for Noble Flames, sweet. His lava mesh ran in neat hexagonal patterns. His small mustache was trim. Every scale of his steel armor was in place. If Dynat's Kinyara, standing beside him in her chaotic, feathery lava mesh, reached out and pushed against his arm with one of her long nails, he imagined Medoc might topple over.

Kinyara Bolv was the opposite of Medoc in every way. Her features were plain, almost masculine, and she tried to distract attention from them by wearing a scalecloth skirt of gold that showed off her long legs, complemented by a bright bustier of firedrop gemcloth, the tiny gems bound so tightly between woven gold threads that no skin showed between warp and weft, though plenty of skin showed around the garment. The outfit was finished with gold plated spike heels with gold laces running all the way to her knees. Though another man might have preferred a greater beauty, Dynat did not care. She was a Lady of surprising talents, both personal and governmental. As a Kinyara should be. Cousin and lover to Dynat, she kept the political wheels of Chraun greased in his favor.

" . . . might bankrupt the Royal treasury. We stand to lose at least one third of our Flame Warriors—three thousand good men, dead. The Semija losses will be much greater, possibly as many as forty thousand." Medoc always had a logical argument with numbers and facts ready. It made Dynat's head hurt even more than the Fire Spirit's commands.

Bolv spoke up in her throaty voice. "But by your own figures in your last report, General, we stand to capture more than half of Iskalon's untrained Semija. That's twenty thousand more than what we'll lose, for a net gain."

"I do not consider sixty thousand untrained Semija a gain over forty thousand well-trained ones. Feeding and housing sixty thousand useless bodies is not my idea of gains. Even so, my main concern is losing a third of my Flames. Recruiting to fill the gaps will take time, and bribes to the Nobles to encourage their sons to enlist will be costly, Majesty."

"So you advise that we do not attack?"

"A raid might be in order, perhaps an extensive raid. I suggest that the gains from annihilating the Icers do not merit the costs."

As the quiet roar of the river retook the cavern during the pause in conversation, the Fire Spirit's guttural command to attack softened into a hissing noise, which finally coalesced into a word. Princessssss . . .

The day Dynat had taken the throne from his slain father, twelve years past, the Fire Spirit had ordered him to capture the princesses of Iskalon. Dynat had commanded raids on the frozen tunnels, tried sending Semija disguised as escapees, even sent Flame envoys under a false banner of peace. None had come close to a princess. The royal Icers were too well guarded. His patience, and more importantly, the Fire Spirit's, was at an end. Iskalon must be razed, leaving the princesses nowhere to hide.