Breaking the Flame

by Christopher Patterson

  “Then, where is home for you?” Danitus asked.

  “Waterton, fer sure,” Yager replied. “But, that’s not really home. Home is where my wife is, where my boy is. Home is in the woods, in the world, where the laws of nature rule.”

  “And nature isn’t cruel?” Del Alzon asked.

  “Oh, sure she is,” Yager replied. “A cruel, harsh, brutal bitch at times. But she’s always fair, nature is. No greedy politician bending the rules fer this or that.”

  Del Alzon thought about that for a moment.

  “I guess you’re right. Although, I rather enjoy the comforts of a town.”

  “We should be getting close,” Danitus said. “I think I see the bridge’s flag up there.”

  “I’ll be happy to be back in my bed,” Del Alzon said. “I hope Quintus was able to get those poor children—those poor people—back to Waterton safely.”

  “Do you hear that?” Yager said. He nudged his horse, his animal trotting ahead of Del Alzon and Danitus, and leaned forward in his saddle.

  “I don’t hear anything, woodsman,” Danitus replied.

  “Hush,” Yager hissed. “I can’t hear over yer jabbering.”

  “You asked us a question,” Danitus snapped back, “and I’m simply—”

  “I said shut yer mouth,” Yager retorted.

  Just as Danitus was about to say something again, just as he was about to curse Yager for his wood-brained ignorance, Del Alzon heard something as well. The merchant put a hand on Danitus’ shoulder.

  “I hear it,” he said.

  “Aye,” Yager agreed.

  “Screaming,” Del Alzon said.

  “Aye,” Yager agreed again.

  “Let’s go,” Del Alzon called, jabbing his heels into the ribs of his horse.

  They galloped, and the flag that flew above the Blue River Bridge came into view. Black smoke billowed over the town, and Del Alzon heard the cracking of timber, heard more screaming, more yelling. He heard iron strike iron. He heard someone’s curdling cry as iron cleaved flesh. He saw a body, lying a dozen paces in front of the bridge. It was a lumberyard worker, a middle-aged man, his chest opened by a gashing wound. Then, Del saw two more, men he didn’t recognize. They looked dirty, like vagabonds or …

  “Brigands!” Danitus yelled.

  “Forest thieves!” Maktus added.

  Del Alzon saw half a dozen more bodies, lying in front of and on the bridge. He looked up to see the flag—a simple white flag with a blue river painted in the middle—fluttering in a light breeze, its edges tattered.

  “The militia,” Danitus said as he pulled up next to Del Alzon.

  “Four of them, yes,” Del replied.

  A shrill scream cut through the air and caught Del’s attention. He heard fire. He heard more screaming. The clang of metal. The grunting of dying. Then he heard a horn … a Samanian horn.

  “Those damn slavers,” Del said before kicking his horse and galloping across the bridge. “They’re back for revenge. I know it. That Samanian prick.”

  Del Alzon drew his war sword. Dust and black smoke blocked his way, blinded him from anything that might await him on the other side, but he rode forward anyway. The smoke and dust whipped around him, swirled about his horse as it galloped on and revealed a town in flames, in complete chaos as men fought and as women and children ran for their lives.

  Del Alzon passed by The Wicked Beard. A chair, its legs smoldering, flew through the single window that sat in the front of the tavern. A scream followed that chair as the door was flung open, Bill tumbling backwards onto the inn’s front porch and down its three steps. Del saw that the man’s bald head was bloodied, and he lay there, unmoving, barely breathing. Another man, long sword in one hand and Bill’s daughter in the other, followed Bill out the door.

  Del Alzon pulled on his horse’s reins, bringing the animal next to the porch, and, as he rode by, brought his blade down upon the thief’s head. Bone cracked, blood spouted up, and the man went to his knees, releasing the girl, who promptly ran to her father and cradled his head in her arms.

  “Get him inside!” Del commanded, “and stay in there. Do not come out until I come back and get you.”

  Danitus rode past Del Alzon, Maktus and Gregory close behind. He looked to Del over his shoulder.

  “Get the women and children inside!” Del yelled.

  Del Alzon heard the blow of that all too familiar horn, but before he could see from where the sound came, two more men rushed to him. Del Alzon dug his heels into the horse’s ribs, but before he charged his assailants, an arrow struck each one of his attackers in their chest. Del Alzon looked to see Yager’s wife—a tall, slender, but well-muscled woman who always wore a hooded cloak—nodding to him with a wink. She turned, Yager now at her side, and loosed three more arrows with blazing speed. All three arrows found a home—a man’s neck, a chest, and a belly. And then Yager loosed his arrows. One after another, Yager and his wife fired arrows at the enemy. Four, five, six, ten, a dozen attackers fell, dead, even as Waterton’s militia retreated to the market square, led by Danitus.

  Del Alzon heard the horn again.

  “That cursed horn,” Del hissed, more to himself. He looked about, ignoring the fighting for a moment. Then, he saw him. In the shadows of The Red Lady. It was a man holding a horn that Del Alzon recognized, but he didn’t recognize the man. He was stout with blond hair and a bushy blond beard. He blew the horn again, and then he shouted. His voice was that of a westerner, harsh and simple. He was disguised somehow, but there was only one person that could be.

  “Kehl.” Del Alzon gritted his teeth and ground so hard his jaws hurt. “Kehl!”

  The man didn’t respond, perhaps didn’t hear him. He looked nothing like Kehl, but there was something about him, the way he moved, the way he watched the brigands attack the people of Waterton, the way he hid in the shadows, said he was. Regardless, he was the leader of this attack. He blew his horn again, directing the fray of slavers as they attacked and killed the citizens of Waterton.

  “They’re here for more slaves,” Del Alzon said to himself. “Replenish lost reserves.”

  But then he saw one of the brigands cut down a man, someone he could have easily captured, dragged away to sell in some sea port. Del shook his head.

  “No. They are here for revenge,” he muttered and then wheeled his horse around. “To the square!” Del Alzon yelled, and Yager and his wife followed him.

  Del Alzon grimaced as they rode to the square, the dead bodies littering the road were mostly citizens of Waterton trying to flee the grips of the slavers. When they reached the square, Del Alzon saw the dwarvish blacksmith that called Waterton home swing a mallet hard, crushing one man’s face. Four or five militia members, all clad in black leather and carrying a mishmash of weapons, staved off several more brigands.

  “How many are there?” Del Alzon asked.

  “Enough,” Yager’s wife said, and she again loosed arrows with the precision of an expert marksman.

  “I didn’t know your wife was so handy with a bow,” Del Alzon said.

  “Aye,” Yager replied, “where do you think I learned?”

  She leapt onto the fountain—part of it broken—that centered the square with a nimbleness that Del Alzon had never seen. Underneath her, as she rained arrows down on at least a dozen of Kehl’s men, the dwarvish blacksmith continued to swing his hammer, crushing knees, shoulders, and skulls. Yager stood next to the dwarf, firing arrows as well. All the while Danitus and Maktus and Gregory cut more men down.

  “Get into your homes!” Del Alzon yelled to the chaos of women and children and men who could not—or would not—fight. “Get to your shops! Stay there!”

  Del Alzon dismounted. He gripped his sword with both hands. The thieves, the slavers came, and he cut them down. Arrows continued to rain. A dwarf’s hammer crushed bone. And the onslaught began to retreat.

  “You fat piece of shit!” the stout, blond-haired, bushy bearded man shouted.

>   Del Alzon turned to face him.

  “I will feed you to swine,” the attacker said as he lunged at Del, swinging a curved sword with blinding speed.

  The steel caught Del on the hand, and then the arm, and then the chest. That was definitely Kehl. He moved like a Samanian, even if his voice and body lied. Some trickery. Some magic.

  “The next one will be across your fat, disgusting belly,” the blond man hissed.

  Del Alzon didn’t say anything. He didn’t reply. He didn’t have the energy to. If this man was Kehl, somehow disguised, he wasn’t worth a response.

  He’s right, you know, Del Alzon thought. He’s going to kill you. You’re one, sorry excuse for a soldier. At least you’ll go out having done something worthy. At least you’ll die a man and not some slobbering, fat fruit merchant.

  The man came hard, and Del knew this would be the death blow to end his sad life. Just, maybe, he could kill this Samanian dog at the same time. Maybe he could at least take Kehl with him.

  But then an arrow struck the attacker in the shoulder. He cried loudly, clutching at the arrow and breaking the shaft, just before it entered his flesh. At the same time, the tip of Del’s sword grazed his cheek, and in the blink of an eye, the ruse wore away, and Kehl stood in front of Del Alzon, blood pouring down his cheek.

  “You bitch!” Kehl hissed, glaring at Yager’s wife. Then he turned his eyes to Del. “You fat bastard.”

  Del turned to see Yager’s wife standing next to him, shoulder to shoulder. The hood of her cloak had fallen back. He had never seen her without her hood. Now he knew why. Her ears. She always covered her ears. They were long and slender, pointed at the top.

  “She-elf scum!” Kehl hissed as he backed away and then turned to run. “Figures that you fatherless whores would let a she-elf fight your battles.”

  Kehl ran, and those of his men that still lived—and there were only a few of them—followed.

  “Should we go after them?” Yager’s wife asked.

  Del Alzon didn’t answer her. He just stared. Her eyes met his. They were blue—crystal blue, the color that sky might have been on the first day it ever existed.

  “Del Alzon,” she said. She put a hand to Del’s face.

  Her touch. It was so soft. Goose pimples ran along his skin as she touched him.

  “Del Alzon, should we give chase?”

  Del Alzon heard her. He heard her words, but they sounded a distant echo, some far off sound that barely touched his ears.

  “Del.” Yager’s voice cut through the distant echo, and Del Alzon realized the woodsman was shaking his shoulder.

  “What?” Del Alzon asked.

  “Do we give chase?” Yager’s wife asked.

  “Chase to who?” Del Alzon asked.

  “The brigands,” Yager replied. “The slavers who are fleeing. Should we follow them?”

  Del Alzon shook his head.

  “No. Let them go.”

  “Let them go?” one woman said as she walked through the charred remains of her home’s front door and into the market square. “After what they did, and you want to just let them go?”

  Del Alzon could see tears welling up in her eyes. He could see her face turn a bright red. He saw her hands clenched at her sides and her arms shake.

  “We need to take care of ours,” Del Alzon replied, softening his voice. “We need to tend to our wounded. We need to bury our dead and comfort their families. We need to assess the damage done to our town and figure out what it will take to rebuild.”

  “We need revenge!” the woman screamed. Del Alzon put his hands up, moved to rest a hand on her shoulder, but she backed away. “Don’t touch me! You speak of our town. You speak of our dead and our injured. Since when did you care about Waterton and its people?”

  A young man ran from the woman’s home. He ran to his mother, put his arms around her and, even though she struggled, began dragging her back to the home.

  “I apologize,” the young man said. “My mother—she is distraught. My father died just last year. My younger brother, well, he was one of those that left in the gypsy caravan, captured by the slavers, and, even though he returned—by your good graces—he isn’t the same.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Del Alzon said. “Please, don’t be sorry. And, mother, as for when was this town ever my own … today, Waterton is my town. Today, Waterton is my home. Today, Waterton’s citizens are my brothers and sisters.”

  The woman stopped struggling with her son and, instead, buried her face into his chest and wept.

  Del Alzon noticed a crowd gathering around him, around the fountain. The blacksmith dwarf stood there, with him, as did Yager and his wife … the elf.

  “It’s an elf,” Del heard one person murmur.

  “We are cursed,” said another.

  “It can’t be,” one woman said. “They are a myth.”

  “That is why we have been attacked,” said yet another.

  “See for yourself,” someone replied. “Bringing with her dark magic.”

  “What do we do?” asked yet another person.

  And then Del Alzon heard all the answers he knew he would hear, all the answers he dreaded he would hear.

  “Imprison her.”

  “Banish her.”

  “Kill her!”

  “You would ask the person who saved your lives to leave?” Del Alzon said to the gathering crowd. “You would try—quite unsuccessfully, I think—to kill the reason more of you are not dead, more of your homes are not burnt to the ground?”

  “But she is an elf?” one person called.

  “And you are an idiot,” Del Alzon replied.

  Some laughed. Some growled. Then, Del Alzon heard more commotion ripple through the crowd.

  “Make way for Simon!” called a hard voice. “Make way for the mayor!”

  The gathered people parted as a short, pudgy man walked into the square, preceded by four militia members and followed by another four volunteer soldiers. The militia entered the square and surrounded Del Alzon, Yager, the woodman’s wife, and the dwarf.

  “Mayor,” Del Alzon said flatly and gave the dignitary a short bow.

  “The fat fruit merchant from the east,” the mayor said in a nasally voice, “although, perhaps, not quite as fat.”

  “And what gives you cause to grace us with your presence?” Del Alzon asked.

  “You left without my permission,” Simon the Mayor said.

  “I didn’t know I needed your permission,” Del replied.

  “With able-bodied men,” the mayor added.

  “I didn’t know they needed your permission,” Del said.

  “Who would have helped in the fight against these brigands,” the mayor said. “You are under arrest, Del Alzon.”

  The militiamen following the mayor stepped towards Del Alzon.

  “And where were you during the fight, Mayor?” Del Alzon asked. “Where were your men, those who guard your mayoral house so diligently?”

  “It is not your place to ask where I was,” Mayor Simon said.

  “Were you barricaded in your manor?” Del Alzon asked. “Were you away and safe with your guards, hiding under a table while your people were dying?”

  “And what of it?” Simon asked. “What happens to Waterton if I die?”

  “We get a new mayor,” someone from the crowd of people shouted.

  “I think we need a new mayor,” another cried.

  Del Alzon began to smile. The mayor’s militiamen stopped advancing on him.

  “Del Alzon should be mayor,” someone else yelled.

  Del’s smile faded. He shook his head.

  “No,” he mumbled, but as the crowd began to agree, as the crowd began to shout his name, he raised his voice. “No!”

  “Why not?” Yager’s wife asked.

  “Because, I don’t want to be mayor,” Del Alzon replied.

  “Good,” Simon replied, “because you’re not going to be. You won’t ever be, especially after I have you
tried for civil unrest and cast you out with naught but the clothes on your back. Men, take this fat piece of shit to the jail. And then, burn this woodsman and his she-elf’s home down and throw them out of our town.”

  But the militiamen that accompanied the mayor didn’t move.

  Del Alzon looked at Yager.

  “I don’t want to be mayor of Waterton,” he said.

  “I think that is what make you most qualified,” Yager replied.

  “Aye,” Danitus agreed. “How many shitty leaders have you followed? Leaders who lead purely because of money or birthright?”

  “Too many,” Del Alzon replied.

  “Then let us have a leader we want,” Maktus said. “Someone we wish to follow. Someone who has earned our trust.”

  “Too many men have died under my command,” Del Alzon said. “I don’t expect you to …”

  “Then you’ve learned from your bloody mistakes,” Gregory said.

  “Stop fighting the inevitable, Del,” Yager said. “Fer sure, you’re gonna be our new mayor.”

  Del nodded. He laughed quietly to himself, eyes closed and head shaking. Who would have thought?

  “Take Simon to the jail,” Del said.

  The eight militiamen that had accompanied Simon looked to one another, only for a moment. One of them, a larger man Del Alzon knew as Cody, nodded, and the others surrounded Simon. Two of them grabbed his arms and, even though he struggled, they easily began to drag him away.

  “You can’t do this!” Simon yelled. “Damn it! You can’t do this to me!”

  “Kill him!” the people of Waterton began to shout. “Burn him!”

  Del Alzon looked at Simon’s face. It had turned bleach white. He looked as if he was going to vomit.

  “No,” Del Alzon said. “He will get a fair trial, but we will learn what he has done to rob this town for his own good.”

  Del Alzon turned to the men that had traveled with him.

  “Gregory,” Del Alzon said, “will you go with the militiamen? Go with Cody and make sure Simon is placed in jail without incident please.”

  Gregory looked at him for a moment and then smiled and bowed. “Surely.”