Children of Fire

by Drew Karpyshyn

  Even so, he couldn’t help but cast a quick glance over at the giant savage. His arms were as big around as Keegan’s thigh. The lingering images of his erotic dream were swept away by a vivid picture of the barbarian catching Keegan and his lover in the act, then ripping Keegan’s limbs from his torso in a jealous rage.

  Even the haze of the witchroot wasn’t enough to make him risk the wrath of the living mountain leaning against the bar, and he quickly pushed all thoughts of the Island girl from his mind as he raised his hand to call the waitress over.

  Chapter 37

  Scythe wiggled and twisted and turned until she finally managed to slip her small form through the tiny window of the second-story room. She stood in the darkness for a minute, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom and trying to catch her breath. Scaling the wall had been easy, but the tight squeeze through the window had been a struggle.

  But there was no need to rush. The merchants were in the tavern downstairs enjoying their supper, giving her plenty of time to search their stuff for anything worth stealing. And if they should unexpectedly try to return to their rooms Norr would create a compelling diversion. It was a tactic the two of them had used many times in towns other than Praeton, and it hadn’t failed them yet.

  It was just like old times—except for the disappointment in Norr’s eyes when she had quickly whispered to him what she planned to do. Had they been alone he might have tried to talk her out of it, but in the crowded confines of the Singing Dragon’s tavern he could only give her the disapproving stare. Then at last, he had nodded.

  The older of the two men had already been down in the tavern when she spoke to Norr. She could sense him staring at her and Norr, but she quickly dismissed it as idle curiosity—Islanders and Easterners were unfamiliar sights this deep into the Southlands. When she heard the young man coming down the stairs to join his companion, she had quickly slipped out the door, then made her way around to the back of the inn.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness of her surroundings, so she began a methodical and thorough search of the first room. It was hardly worth the effort. They had left their saddlebags with the horses, and what had been brought up wasn’t worth stealing. She turned her attention to all the usual spots people tried to hide their wealth—under the mattress, stuffed beneath the pillow, tucked away above the doorjamb—but her search turned up nothing save dust and a few dead insects.

  When she saw the men it was obvious they weren’t carrying much in the way of actual goods, but the extra pack horses had given her some hope that they were wealthier than they appeared. She’d guessed they were traveling merchants looking to purchase inventory they could bring back home and sell at a profit. If that were true, they’d be carrying substantial portable wealth in order to purchase enough stock to make their journey worthwhile. So where were the gems, jewelry, and gold coins she had expected to find?

  She bit her lip in frustration then smiled when a sudden hope hit her. There were two men; maybe they had stored all their valuables in the second room. With some difficulty she wriggled out through the tiny window and back onto the second-story ledge, then shuffled her way along to the next room’s window.

  Here, she thought to herself, she’d find something more interesting.

  Norr was only half listening to Gil’s out-of-tune singing. He had to keep an eye on the two strangers, to make sure they didn’t head up to their rooms until Scythe was done. He dreaded to imagine what might happen if they caught her going through their things.

  He wasn’t worried about Scythe; she could look after herself with the razor-sharp knives she always kept hidden somewhere on her person. But if she overreacted—an all-too-common occurrence with his hot-blooded love—one of the merchants might end up lying in a pool of blood on the floor. And that would be it for their life in Praeton.

  Norr now wished he hadn’t agreed to her plan. But Scythe needed this; the simple life in Praeton was unbearable to her. She hadn’t said anything, but Norr could see it in her eyes. She endured Praeton for him and him alone. The least he could do was allow her a chance to play the cat burglar from time to time.

  And it wasn’t like these men were friends or people who knew them. These travelers weren’t like the rare folk of Praeton who welcomed Norr into their fold despite his foreign ways and appearance. These were strangers, the kind of people who hated and despised him because of his Eastern heritage. Or so the barbarian kept telling himself over and over.

  He kept one eye on the table; the other’s focus was split between Gil and the door he kept praying Scythe would stroll in through. He hoped the men wouldn’t get up to leave before she came back. He hoped they wouldn’t force him into a confrontation. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. But of course it did.

  Not twenty minutes after they had sat down to eat the strangers were done. Leaving a few coins on the table to pay for their meal, they rose from their chairs and began to cross the room. Fortunately, their path would bring them right past the main bar where Norr and his companions were gathered.

  The big barbarian turned his back to the strangers and raised his half-full flagon in one massive hand. He picked up the reflection of the advancing pair in the polished ornamental shield that hung on the wall behind the bar and waited until they were right beside him.

  He spun suddenly, an overexaggerated turn with the arm holding his drink extended far out in front of him while loudly asking, “Where’s Scythe?” to make it appear as if he was turning to scan the crowd for his lover. His arm slammed into the chest of the younger of the two men, and Norr made certain the entire contents of his ale poured down the front of his shirt.

  The man gave a cry of surprise as the cold, foamy liquid drenched his clothes and the skin beneath. His shout drew every eye in the tavern, which was suddenly and shockingly silent.

  Herrick good-naturedly bellowed, “Damn clumsy barbarians!” and the patrons laughed, dispelling the tense silence.

  Norr silently cursed his friend. It was hard for him to start a bar brawl at the best of times—for some reason people were reluctant to take a swing at a man a foot taller and several hundred pounds heavier than they were. And if the good-natured Herrick was going to defuse the situation, provoking these merchants would be all but impossible.

  But there were other ways to keep them from reaching the top of the stairs.

  “I’m so sorry,” Norr exclaimed, reaching out to paw at the dripping clothes of the young man in a futile attempt to mop up the stain.

  The young man didn’t react, he just stared at Norr with wide, slightly terrified eyes. It was obvious he wasn’t about to start anything.

  Fortunately his companion reached out and slapped the meaty paw away.

  “Don’t touch him,” the older man said quietly. The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

  His eyes weren’t angry, but there was something definitely dangerous in them. This one wasn’t about to back down from anyone.

  “I’m such an oaf,” Norr apologized, letting a sheepish grin spread across his face. He turned his attention to the older man now, placing a beefy hand on his head and tousling his hair: a seemingly friendly gesture that was at once humiliating and often enraging.

  “Let me buy you both a drink to make it up to you.”

  “Just leave us alone,” the older man insisted, snapping his head away and trying to shove past the barbarian blocking his path.

  The merchant could have taken a full run directly into Norr’s mountain of flesh and not budged him an inch, but at the slight shove Norr stumbled back and pinwheeled his arms as if to keep his balance.

  “Hey!” Gil exclaimed, quickly jumping to Norr’s defense. “It was just an accident! He said he was sorry!”

  He might have said more, but the man turned his cold gaze on him, instantly killing any further words in the would-be bard’s throat.

  “Look,” Herrick said, playing peacemaker once more, “nobody wants any trouble. If you don’t want to accept our apolog
y, you’re free to go.”

  Norr would have none of that. He reached out a huge paw and dropped it—hard—onto the younger man’s shoulder.

  “No hard feelings, buddy!” he loudly declared, even as the merchant’s knees crumpled beneath the enormous weight of the barbarian’s mitt and he gasped in pain.

  As he had hoped, the older man jumped in to intervene, moving much more quickly than Norr expected. Even more quickly than he would have thought possible. He seized Norr’s wrist with both hands, twisting it back and away from his younger companion’s shoulder. And then the brawl the barbarian had been looking for finally began.

  The man lashed out with a kick to Norr’s calf, knocking the big man off balance. Without breaking his grip on Norr’s wrist, he turned his body, stepped in close, and tossed him over his hip. The move yanked the barbarian from his feet, flipping his body high in the air to land with a crashing thud on his back, the force of his impact cracking the wooden floorboards beneath him.

  Norr stared up at the ceiling with stars in his eyes, gasping for breath and trying desperately not to laugh. He had seen Scythe use a similar move on her opponents, but she had assured him he need never worry about it. “Even with leverage, size makes a difference,” she had explained, “You’re too big to flip.” He’d have to tell her how wrong she was.

  The sound of screams and crashing furniture jarred him back to the present, and he managed to half sit up so he could see what was happening. Herrick was lying dazed on his back amid the splintered remains of one of the tavern tables, likely the victim of the same move used against Norr. Gil was crumpled on the floor clutching at his groin, his face an ugly shade of purple. Standing in the middle of the carnage in a fighting crouch was the older man. The other had retreated off to the side, hiding himself in a corner while he let his companion—probably his paid bodyguard—deal with the angry crowd.

  The barbarian struggled to his hands and knees as Petr, one of the men Norr had worked with in the smithy, rushed the stranger. A flurry of fists and elbows staggered the burly laborer and a jumping back round kick to the chin finished him off. Petr’s eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped to the ground.

  The barbarian opened his mouth to warn his friends not to interfere. He knew he himself was in no danger—he was too big and too experienced to get seriously hurt in a fistfight, even against a foe as obviously skilled as this. But before the words left his mouth the man took a quick shuffle step back and delivered a sharp kick to Norr’s windpipe, somehow aware the big man had managed to get to his knees even though he was facing in the complete opposite direction.

  Norr fell forward, choking and gasping for air as his hands reflexively clutched at his throat. His unprotected nose slammed against the hard floor beams; he heard the crunch of cartilage as it broke. He tried to scream a warning to the others but only managed a faint rasping caw, further muffled by the gurgling blood gushing from his nose.

  Still lying facedown on the floor, he wretched and coughed, hacking out a shower of thick crimson fluid—but he was rewarded by a rush of welcome air into his lungs. He began to pant heavily, drawing in oxygen until he had the strength to push himself up to his knees once more.

  He blinked and wiped away the blinding tears welling up from the blow to his nose. Including Herrick, Petr, and Gil, half a dozen townsmen were incapacitated on the barroom floor. But there were a dozen more encircling their common foe, just gathering up the courage to rush their opponent in unison. A few of them would fall beneath a storm of savage punches and kicks, but the rest would inevitably drag him down beneath the sheer mass of their numbers.

  It was impossible for one unarmed man to overcome such overwhelming odds, no matter how skilled. Norr forced himself to stand. When the rush of humanity came he wanted to be in on it, to use his massive bulk to bowl the man over and pin him helplessly to the ground. And to shield him from the angry blows of the villagers once he was down. Norr had provoked this fight; he didn’t want to see his opponent get seriously beaten.

  The younger man was still standing in the corner; from the corner of his eye Norr saw his lips moving rapidly and his hands weaving strange patterns in the air.

  There was a shout from one of the townsmen and the charge began. Norr took a single step forward just as a fist-sized ball of blue light launched itself from the younger man’s hand, hurtling toward the fray. And then the room exploded.

  Scythe chewed her lip, uncertain what to make of the leather pouch she had found tucked beneath the pillow in the second room. She’d felt a brief satisfaction when she discovered it, but it turned to dismay when she poured the contents out into her hand. No gold, no gems, no expensive jewelry—only a small vial of brownish liquid and a few dozen strange trinkets carved from what appeared to be bone and crystal.

  She had seen such objects before; you could buy them on every corner in Callastan. Men and women proclaiming themselves magicians or witches hawked such charms, promising love, luck, fortune, and good health to any who bought them. Scythe was smart enough to recognize a scam when she heard one. If the charms really delivered on their promise, they would cost a lot more than a single piece of silver.

  But maybe these were different? Maybe the merchants were heading toward the Free Cities and beyond. Maybe they planned to take one of the trade routes into the North Forest, to deal with the Danaan. It was said the Danaan people had strange and ancient magic, real magic from a time before the Cataclysm. Was it possible these seemingly worthless trinkets actually had magical properties?

  And if they did, did she really want to steal them? Scythe was an expert in the cons and swindles of magicians, but she knew almost nothing about true wizards. How much was this stash worth? And if she did take something, where would she even sell it?

  There were other concerns, as well. Were these relics safe to take? What kind of power did they possess, and what effects would it have on her if she took them? What if there were some strange protective magic guarding them against theft? She hated to walk away empty-handed, but she wanted to be sure the payoff was worth the risk.

  Her deliberations were cut short by a thunderclap from the tavern downstairs. The blast rocked the room, bowing the floor beneath her feet upward. The concussive shock slammed Scythe against the wall and she collapsed on the bed, stunned.

  As she lay there, momentarily dazed, the truth hit her with nearly as much force as the blast that had knocked her off her feet. The men weren’t merchants—they were wizards! And she had set Norr against them!

  She jammed the leather pouch and its contents into her belt and scrambled to her feet. She unlocked the door to the hall and raced down the stairs into the tavern. Instinctively she had drawn the throwing dagger she always kept in her boot. She wasn’t about to trifle with wizards; if she saw the opportunity to kill them she would. She only hoped it wasn’t too late.

  The scene that greeted her was one of mass destruction. Every table in the place was overturned, most of them broken. The chairs were splintered and cracked and jumbled in heaps against the walls, blown out from the center of the room by the force of the explosion. Forks, knives, and cracked mugs were scattered everywhere. The ceiling beams were twisted and bent and cracked, though it looked as if there was no immediate danger of the roof collapsing.

  The two strangers were nowhere to be found. The men and women of Praeton were slowly picking their way through the wreckage, just now recovering from the effects of the Chaos unleashed in their midst. Cuts and bruises and huge welts were common in the crowd. Several people limped noticeably, others cradled injured arms as they shuffled through the mess.

  Norr was crouched on the floor near the center of the carnage beside a motionless body, along with several other men of the village. Scythe dropped her throwing dagger at the foot of the stairs and rushed over, her stomach lurching as she noticed the grim shock etched on the faces of the battered townsfolk.

  Gil lay on the ground, his sweat-covered face a mask of agony and his
breath coming in short, quick gasps. The sharp white of bone jutted out from the thigh of his left leg; Scythe could see his right was shattered in at least two places below the knee. His ashen pallor and glazed eyes made it obvious his injuries had sent him into shock.

  Despite this, nobody was doing anything. They simply huddled around him, their faces a mix of bewildered disbelief and paralyzed horror. Norr held his hand, as if trying to send him strength and comfort through the connection. Scythe knew he needed more than that.

  “Find me several pieces of wood, straight and about two or three feet long,” she ordered. When nobody moved she snapped, “Herrick, go! Hurry, if we want to save his legs.”

  Herrick leapt up and began to scour the wreckage for boards to make a splint. The rest of them also sprang into action, yanked from their numbness by Scythe’s take-charge attitude.

  There was no healer in Praeton; the town was too small to warrant one. Taking Gil to a witch was out of the question—he wouldn’t survive the trip, and Scythe doubted the townsfolk would let another Chaos user within their borders anytime soon. That left it up to her.

  Methodis had taught her the basics of field surgery during her years on the Dolphin, though among the sailors amputation was the quickest and most common cure. But with Gil there were other options. If she could set and splint the bones he might even one day walk again, though he’d probably have to use a cane for the rest of his life.

  She wasn’t able to look across the wounded man at Norr, for fear of the accusation she would see in his eyes.

  “You’ll have to help me,” she said to her lover, not taking her eyes from Gil. “It’s going to hurt, he’s going to fight and scream. But you have to hold him still, no matter what. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  There was no emotion in his voice, nothing to give her a clue as to how he felt toward her one way or the other.

  Herrick returned with the boards. She gave them a quick examination to make sure they would work. Satisfied, she slipped her largest knife out from its hiding place beneath her belt. Herrick’s eyes got wide in surprise, but Scythe didn’t even bother coming up with a lie to explain the blade’s presence.