Sefiros Eishi: Chased By Flame

by Michael Wolff

The second and third dogs paid no mind to their fallen brother. Instead they circled the new prey. They must have been hunters before condemned to this madness. Then there was no more time to think.

  The dogs were a dark blur across the cobblestones, needle teeth flashing. Mykel thrust the khatar deep into the first one’s throat and squeezed the weapon’s handle. The dog suddenly found himself wearing a crown of spikes as the khatar separated into three blades. Mykel then threw the dead beast into the remaining dog. It whimpered like a puppy before the deathblow shattered its skull.

  “Wil! Wil!” The boy collapsed as those his legs were as water, mind blank with the terror of having death’s fingers brush his shoulder. Mykel rattled the boy until the trance broke, and found his arms filled with a child sobbing hysterically into his tunic.

  “Hey man. That was incredible. Here. You’ve earned a cut.”

  The man touched Mykel’s shoulder. That was a mistake. Mykel’s fingers locked about the fool’s throat in an iron vice. Bulging eyes darted to and fro in a silent plea for help, in vain. The others, knowing death incarnate walked among them, scrambled back into the shadows like rats whose backs were set aflame.

  Then something crashed upon his head, and Mykel fell into the same shadows.

  IX

  Mykel felt like a scarecrow upon waking. His muscles were gone, his throat felt full of sand, and nausea threatened to dry-heave his lungs. Focusing on details slowed the nausea. By the slanted stones of the floor Mykel estimated the design to be that of 6th or the 7th Dynasty of Heron. No, the ceiling was a little too large for that. 8th Century, he decided. Midway into the century, if the maze of wooden beams was proof. A prison cell, then, one obviously patterned upon the era of the Houses of Phoenix and Centaur. The Houses commanded the most loyal—and the most brutal—reigns in their centuries of dominance. Mykel remembered vomiting after reading through the various tortures waiting for those “against the kingdom.” Somehow the librarian figured today’s guards barely appreciated the history of their workplace, if they knew it at all.

  Prince Wesley the Fourth was one of the kingdom’s more barbaric rulers. He turned the Imperial Guard into a stealth unit that worked in the market of possible traitors. Protecting the innocent was but an excuse to snatch away any threats towards the capital, and even the royal family. That was why the ceiling was no more than a middle man’s height. It allowed those captives to slip into a homemade noose and find the escape so cruelly denied them in the dark.

  The entire room reeked of decay. Somehow rats found their way to a skull’s eyes, eating away the flesh and muscle until the skeleton was as clear as alabaster. Viewing such a spectacle was another of Wesley’s little pleasures. Thus the nameless prison often smelled like a dung heap. More than one guard had succumbed to the wretched stench, yet there was no complaint raised. They did not want to touch the prince’s ire, lest they find themselves snatched away during the night.

  Mykel shuddered as the cold void pierced his bones, long creepers of ice seducing the skin. At least things couldn’t get any worse.

  A stone clicked against a boot. He looked up and groaned. I’m wrong. It’s worse.

  “Two days.” Lazarus was a tower of crimson, topped with the drilling augurs that bore holes in the souls of even the most pious men. “Two days. I leave you alone for two days, and you land in prison.” The guards chuckled... and then rushed with the keys as Lazarus’ glare froze the laughter in their throats. The librarian pushed himself to his feet... only to crumple to the floor. Lazarus had to act as a crutch to Mykel’s feeble pace. It was made all the worse by snickers and whispers among the other prisoners. I’m free, you bastards. I’m free and you’re not. A chuckle escaped him.

  Rage melted the numbness. Within a few minutes the librarian was walking under his own power, drunkenly or not. Mykel paid it no mind. It was only food for the warm hatred within.

  “It was the boy, wasn’t it?”

  Just like that, the rage was replaced with fear. Damn you, old man. He considered a lie, but Lazarus often had the vision of a prophet. “Yes.”

  “That was noble of you. And stupid. You know that, don’t you?”

  “They put him in an arena with foxhounds. They were betting on how quickly he’d die.” Mykel’s gaze drifted down to the dead arm, always beating a rhythm against his hip. The librarian knew the pity within Lazarus’ glance, and hated him for it; hated himself for wanting it. “Should I ignore every misdeed that comes my way?”

  “You choose to bar the misdeeds, not them you.” The old man sighed, a loss of words struggling in his mind. “I had to use all my favors to get you free. I think it best we go back to the manor.” Lazarus turned his gaze behind them; Mykel followed to see Caryl and Wil waiting openly. That was stupid. Any number of predators could snatch them up as though they were nothing.

  “We’ll go tomorrow night. Best do your deeds now.” The Khatari began to turn, then halted. There was an alien softness to his eyes. “I am very proud of you.” With that the old man turned and melted into the path.

  Mykel couldn’t believe his ears. Praise? From Lazarus? Scourge of the Savage Wars? The Red Slayer of Domina? Only mere men gave praise, not a legend. Perhaps there was something more to the man. Now though, Mykel faced an even greater threat. He started towards them, hoping against hope he would survive the rage lying in wait.

  Caryl wore the eyes of a dragon, silent anger smoldering. Mykel tried to tear himself away but the dark orbs held him in vices. Beside her Wil glanced all about as though the cobblestones would suddenly come alive and devour him. “Caryl, I can explain—” Thunder cracked his cheek, and the world tilted furiously. Damn. She’s stronger than she looks. And the thought immediately after: Shut up LeKym. Just shut up.

  The walk back seemed poised over a cliff. The entire way to the brothel, Caryl held herself ramrod straight, stiff and unbending and silent. The stones spoke more than she, softly clicking with their footsteps, cackling the words she should be saying. The anticipation wound iron bands about his chest. “Caryl, I...”

  She whirled about to face him, terror and hate and relief mixing together. She crumpled into his embrace, quietly sobbing into his chest. “I hate you. If you hadn’t been with Wil... I...” The rest was muted by her sobs.

  “It’s all right. Shhh. Everything’s fine now.” He embraced her fully, just letting her cry out the pain. “It’s okay, Wil is fine.”

  “No it’s not.” Tears fell from her face as she met his gaze. “I hate you.”

  If it was anyone else the librarian would take offense. “I know.”

  “I... I can’t do this anymore. I... I just can’t.”

  “Then quit!” Mykel gingerly took hold of her face, seeing the intense hurt behind those black eyes. “You deserve a better life than this. Take Wil and run. You belong somewhere else. A better place where you’ll be appreciated.”

  At first her lips parted as if to protest; instead she hugged him tightly. “Stay with us tonight? Please. I don’t want... to be alone.”

  “Please,” mimicked Wil. “Please, sir.”

  Mykel sighed. Lazarus’ patience had its limits... but looking at those tear-filled eyes, he couldn’t find it in him to deny them. “All right. But not here.” He glanced in silent acknowledgement of the brothel. “Follow me, and do not make a sound.” As one mother and son nodded.

  Mykel felt little relief, if all. He was probably going to fail, since it was a mistake to bring them home. And of course there was Lazarus with his uncanny ability of pre-cognition. In short, the endeavor was a fool’s plan. Fine. I’m a fool then.

  The dying castle offered rooms for those few who chose to board there, either from necessity or obligation. For the most part it was the latter.
Landless serfs wandered the hallways in an eternal quest of cleaning. The noble-folk considered them an odd and pitiful lot. Bound to the land they were born upon, the serfs had no choice but to watch the castle they ministered so carefully fall to pieces. One day it would fall altogether, and them with it. Pitiful, the noblemen would say. Tragic. Yet that was life, and there was nothing to be done of it.

  Mykel was glad Lazarus was gone off doing whatever he did when the ruined citadel doors saw him home. After a night such as this he did not have the stamina to deal with the old man’s lectures. Dodging past elderly servants he made his way downstairs to the basement of the castle, which serviced as Mykel’s “room.”

  He had an “official” room, designated when he first came to the capital. It was one of the rooms on the third floor, “suitable for a young lord.” Or so the decrypted serf-mistress had proclaimed. Mykel could hardly see how the room could be called “his,” in any case; he had never been in it before in his life. The warrens of a library gave him far more comfort than these rounded stone walls. If it weren’t for the chance the old man would be in the library, he would be down there right now sleeping soundly atop a cushioned bench. He tried to explain this habit years ago to the maids, and they gawked at him as if he didn’t know any better. Avoidance was a better remedy to ceaseless squabbles.

  So it was Mykel led his company to the room he never wanted, much less stepped into. Looking out the window Mykel managed a dry chuckle at his own expense. The power of old, grandmotherly women with stern eyes were not to be underestimated.

  It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a “special” room. Four walls of the toughest rock in the land, bare and stark. A sea chest took up most of the room’s corner, and the windows were mere slots to the outside world. There was a bed, but it was dressed in wool and straw, not silks nor feathers. Mykel checked the bedcovers, and then began rummaging the sea chest for a cot. Unfortunately, it was a piece of junk.

  Smooth fingers clasp his shoulder. “You don’t need to. Wil and I can sleep on the floor.”

  “Then you would be frozen stiff in the morning.” Mykel replied, not bothering to glance up. “Besides, I’m the host. It’s my job to put you first.” Within a few minutes he had the cot unfolded and standing near the edge of the room’s southern end. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to freeze. Besides, I know of another person who wants you more than me.”

  He chucked a thumb behind his shoulder to indicate Wil, who was at the moment jumping near the room’s only window, trying to reach and see what was going on in the world outside. “This room stinks. I can’t see anything.”

  “Well, let’s change that.” Again Mykel propped the child onto his shoulders. “Is that better?”

  “Yes!” Mykel could almost hear the boy’s gaze squinting in confusion. “Look! Look, mama! I can see our home from here!”

  “Oh, really?” There was a telltale shiver in her frame, so small that normal people wouldn’t have seen it. “What else do you see, honey?”

  “Well... I can see the bone-yard, and the inn, and the tanner’s vats and... the tower! The Salamander’s Tower. I can see it!”

  “Hmm?” Caryl asked, half-busy with the arranging of makeshift beds. “That’s nice, dear. How do you know the tower?”

  “Mykel took me to see the tower two yesterdays ago, mama.”

  Caryl bolted up ramrod at the sudden revelation. “He did, did he?”

  Uh-oh. Mykel gently placed the boy upon the ground, and then put on a smile that seemed at least half-genuine. “He wanted to go there, Caryl.” Damn that was pathetic. The librarian struggled to come up with a point that did not sound like child’s whining. “I was right behind him, Caryl. He wouldn’t have fallen.”

  Caryl turned, eyes literally aflame. “Mykel. May a have a word with you?”

  The next few thoughts shot through his mind so fast that they were almost one long idea: She is going to kill me. And then: Think you stupid fool! Be a puppy, LeKym: No one kills a puppy. Such as was his mind that he barely realized Caryl had stopped within the protection of a corner’s shadow. “Caryl, I—”

  “You took my child to the Salamander’s Tower?”

  Mykel found himself suddenly bereft of salvia. “Y-yes.” His voice was little more than a mouse’s squeaking. Damn it, LeKym, stand up straight! Be a man, for fuck’s sake!

  “And the Salamander’s Tower... it is one tower that the castle abandoned?”

  “Yes.” Firmer this time. That was good.

  “Since it is abandoned, I assume that the tower itself has become ruined over the thousands of years that it has not been touched.”

  “It is sturdier than you think—” Caryl’s eyes narrowed into slits. “But yes. It has not enjoyed proper care since its demise.”

  “Very well. Then I am going to ask you a question, and yours better be a really damn good answer. Why did you take my son into such a dangerous place?” The last words were smitten with venom, thickening each word as its own importance.

  Mykel opened his mouth to say something witty, intelligent. All that was shot to hell; once lips were parted a waterfall of words came gushing free. “We never do anything anymore. You know as well as I do how he spends time.” He knew all too well the edicts of the streets: talk, steal and kill. Or be killed yourself. “All I wanted to do was give him something normal in his life. I just wanted him to know a better world than we do now.” Mykel’s hands clamped on Caryl’s shoulders, drawing her closer. “I don’t have enough time,” he whispered. “A couple more years and he won’t be interested in anything we do. A few years older, he’ll grow a beard, go on and forge a destiny of his own.” Mykel sighed wearily. “I wanted to be there for him. While I still can.”

  For a moment she stared up at him, her eyes mixed with confusion and anguish. “Damn you, LeKym. Why do you always have to say the right thing at the right time?”

  The librarian felt his lips tugging slightly upward. “It’s a gift.”

  Caryl nodded, and then stepped back into the vague moonlight. “Wil, come here.”

  “All right, mama.” Hop, skip and a jump carried Wil to his mother’s arms. Mykel chuckled a bit. Like a sparrow he was, flittering from thing to thing at a moment’s notice. Caryl crouched down to explain something to him, so Mykel went and made his own accommodations. He didn’t want to be within earshot of what Caryl was saying, because it obviously concerned the new rules of his ventures with the boy. As soon as Mykel released the custom-made curtains over the windows, Wil bounced to his leg. “What are you doing?”

  “Covering the windows so that we can sleep soundly.” That was a bad habit of his. For years he could not bear anything that was not darkness: moonlight, candle-light and others. Even a crack of light below the door lent him many a sleepless night. Such a silly thing, but potent, after all these years.

  “Do we hafta go to sleep?” Wil whined. “I’m not tired.”

  “Well, I am.” Mykel didn’t mean to snap, but this day felt like three hundred. Regaining his composure, he added, “I’m sorry, Wil. But we need to get up early if we want to tour the castle.”

  “We already toured the castle.” Wil moped.

  “Not the secret passages.” The boy’s happy gaze egged him on. “There’s a million of them, twisting and turning like a snake. That’s why we have to get up early, to get a good start. Unless, of course, you don’t want to see them—”

  “No! I wanna see them!” The boy literally bounced on his stick-thin legs. “I wanna! Really!”

  Mykel pointed to the bed. “Then go to your mama. We’ve got to get up early.” He tried to hide a smile as the boy flew to his mother once again. Once they were situated in the bed, Mykel collapsed on the somewhat-st
urdy cot, ankles crossed and both hands holding one another. He looked like one gone to the funeral pier... if the cadaver was in a coffin too short, with his legs dangling off the end like fish wriggling on the hook. Lowering his hat over his eyes, Mykel said good night and instantly fell asleep.

  When he next woke they were gone.

  The librarian wasn’t surprised. One did not live as a daughter of the night without knowing a hasty escape or two. Besides, it worked for all parties concerned. Lazarus was a master tracker; he knew his citadel to the very first stone. The fact that the Khatari had not burst into the room demanding explanations was a testament to Caryl’s stealth. Good. The only slight was breaking his promise to Wil. Then again, Mykel did not want to endure yet another one of the old man’s lectures. What right has he over me? He is not my father. Still, better safe than sorry. Best if I—

  The attack came out of nowhere. A thousand needles brushed his cheeks and fingers. Above it all was a tirade of shrill curses, but in Sulioge-speak. Wait a minute. I know that voice. The good hand sought and grasped a wooden beam. A simple jerk pulled the instrument—a broom, part of his mind noted—free to clatter against the floor.

  Even weaponless the attacker stood poised to leap at him with fingernails clawed. What’s her name? Myrtle? Maria? Michelle? No... Fear twitched the librarian’s eyes. He did not want to be struck with such a barrage a second time. “Myna!”

  The word replaced the wrath with confusion, just as the threads of sunlight changed the harpy into a woman. The soot-slick apron named her maid; the eyes held a mother’s fire to defend her children. A maid, Mykel realized. With all the authority she mustered, she could have been a warrior.

  “Lord LeKym! Are you all right?” Before the librarian could reply her fingers were at his eyes and nose and mouth, each one carefully checked for disease. Mykel uncomfortably remembered snatches of childhood, of countless aunts with their too-wide smiles, pinching cheeks and surveying height. The rage began to blossom.