Fires of Memory
By Scott Washburn
Fires of Memory
Cover by Jonathan Creswell-Jones
This edition published in 2018
Zmok Books is an imprint of
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Copyright © Vincent W. Rospond
ISBN 978-1-945430-61-9
Bibliographical References and Index
1. Fantasy. 2. Sword & Sorcery. 3. Adventure
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Fires of Memory
Prologue
“I think there is something ahead,” said Thelena. “Is that what you seek, father?”
Atark, her father, shaded his eyes and peered past the ears of his trotting pony, but after a moment lowered his hand. “My old eyes aren’t so sharp anymore, daughter. What do you see and where?”
“Just to the right of the direction we ride. It looks like a small mound or hillock.” He looked again. The plain, covered with rippling waves of grass, was not nearly so flat here close to the mountains as it was farther west, but the irregular bump seemed very obvious to her. She glanced at her father. There was some gray in his dun hair and beard, and lines on his sun-baked face, but he certainly wasn’t old!
“Ah, I think I see it now. The wanderer wasn’t too clear about what he had seen, but this might be it—although I wasn’t really expecting a structure…” He trailed off into silence.
“Is there treasure there, father?” Ardan asked excitedly. Thelena looked over her shoulder at where her younger brother bounced on his pony next to their mother. “Gold and jewels and fine armor?”
“Perhaps. We shall see.”
“Your father does not seek gold or jewelry,” said mother. “He hopes for other treasure. But have no fear: the practical ones in this family will not turn up our noses should any gold be found!”
“Yes, your mother is always the practical one, Ardan. Listen to her wisdom instead of the foolish ranting of your crazy father.” He smiled as he said it, and mother smiled back at him. But Ardan was properly scandalized.
“You are not crazy! You are the best shaman in all the clans! And that is what I tell the other boys when they…when they…” The lad stuttered to a halt, but no one had to ask what the other boys said: Fake. Trickster. Charlatan. Thelena had heard the taunts and seen Ardan coming home to their tent with face and fists bloodied from trying to silence them.
The sad part was that Ardan was probably correct: their father was one of the best shamans to be found among the clans of the Kaifeng, modest though his powers were. He could start a campfire using spoken words like another man might use flint and steel. He could cure some of the lesser diseases that afflicted men and beasts and, on occasion, he could predict the weather with amazing accuracy. Thelena looked closely at her father’s face. He took pride in being able to serve his clan, but she knew that he longed to discover the secrets of the great shamans of legend. Privately, she thought those tales of mighty spells and wonders were more whimsy than fact, but her father took them seriously and was always eager for anything remaining from the Old Days.
Which was why they were here.
The tales said that, over three hundred summers ago, a great battle had been fought here between the Kaifeng and the armies of the Easterners. That the battle had been fought—and lost—there was no doubt: every loremaster in every clan knew those stories and told them to the people. Thelena’s own eyes were confirming it as she rode: rusted weapons and bits of armor were scattered all around. But the tales of wizards, sorcerers, and shamans hurling balls of fire and cracking the earth open to swallow men and horses seemed less likely to her.
Still, terrible things had happened here: she could feel it. Father had told her that as she reached adulthood the Talent might manifest itself in her, just as it had in him. She was barely sixteen summers now, but in the past few months, she had started feeling things she had never felt before. Things like she was feeling now.
“I… I don’t like this place, father. There is a…wrongness here.”
Her father looked at her with interest, his eyebrows rising. “You feel it, do you? Yes, you are right. Great pain and suffering soaked into the land. It will still cry out to those who can hear.”
“I wish I could not.” It almost seemed like she could hear faint voices, like people screaming from leagues away over the plains. No words that she could understand, just pain and fear. They had nearly reached the mound now, and the closer they drew, the stronger was her feeling of unease.
“Is it a tomb, father?” Ardan asked eagerly. “Some old king’s tomb, filled with heaps of gold and swords of power? Like in the old legends?”
“Do not let your imagination run away with you, boy,” said her father. “This has been here a long time. Like as not, it has been stripped of anything valuable.” But even as he said the words, Thelena doubted them. As they walked their ponies around the mound, they saw no obvious signs of digging or disturbance. It was a grass-covered lump perhaps thirty feet across and ten feet high. On the far side there was an archway of sorts and steps leading down to a vertical stone slab. The archway and the slab were covered with graven runes, nearly worn away by wind and the infrequent rainfalls. Her father dismounted and looked closely at them.
“So, husband, was it worth all the ride?” mother asked. “We’ll never make it back to the main camp before dark. Luckily, I insisted on bringing blankets and the little tent, as well as food and water. You would have ridden off in your small clothes had I not stopped you.”
Father smiled and nodded. “True, my wife. I had not thought it would be quite so far. But we will not camp here tonight. Not so close to…to this. I shall indulge my curiosity until two hours before sunset, and then we shall move away. I know I can trust you to tell me how the sun stands.”
“I shall indeed. But are you not hungry? The hour for the noon meal is long past.”
“Prepare your meal, woman. I shall explore for a bit and then eat.”
“Can I help you, father?” Ardan asked.
Father hesitated; Thelena could see that he did not need an eager boy looking over his shoulder just now.
“Son, I need some time to think.” Her brother’s face fell. “But I promise you will see whatever there might be to see. In the meanwhile, perhaps you can find some treasure on your own. I saw a lance point sticking from the ground not far away. Surely there must be more.”
Ardan’s enthusiasm quickly returned. “I shall find a treasure, father! Maybe even before you do!”
“I do not doubt it. But keep a watch, too. There could be…wolves or jackals.”
“Wolves? In these desolate pa
rts?” mother scoffed. “I doubt it.”
Father’s eyes drifted to the line of blue haze on the eastern horizon. Thelena looked in that direction, too. The borders of Berssia lay among those hills, and the king of that land had fortresses to guard them. Berssian patrols would come far onto the plains at times. The clans of the Kaifeng were not openly at war with Berssia or the other Eastern Kingdoms which lay beyond, but that did not stop the lesser raids and skirmishing. Yes, there could be wolves. And the land was not so flat here as it was farther west; enemies could not be spotted as far off. “Just keep a watch,” he said and turned back to the mound.
Thelena dismounted and helped her mother unload the ponies and make the meal. She was tempted to ask her father’s help with starting the fire, but he was already engrossed with the mound. She resorted to flint and steel, instead, and soon had a small blaze going. Ardan was grubbing in the ground for rusted bits of weapons and armor.
“I was talking with Jalla the other day,” said mother as she began preparing the food. “Her son, Utar, has his eye on you, Thelena. What do you think of him?”
“I’ve seen him watching me,” admitted Thelena. “He is handsome enough, I suppose. But he seems a bit dull-witted. He talks too loudly and laughs at his own jokes.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that, too. But he is young and trying to attract attention. He will mature as he grows older.”
“I doubt he will grow much wiser. I would prefer a smart man over a handsome one. But perhaps I shall be lucky and get one who is both—like you did.”
Her mother smiled and cast a fond glance to where father was standing. “Not everyone can be as lucky as I have been. Certainly you should choose the right man, but do not wait too long or you may end up a second wife and not a first. That is not something I would recommend, even though it often works out well enough.”
“I don’t know that I’d want to share my husband with another, no matter if I was first or second,” said Thelena.
“Yes, well, as the first, you would have far more say on whether or not there will be a second.”
“Is that why father never took a second wife?” She looked at her mother and was rewarded by seeing the flicker of a smile.
“I thought I heard the call of a partridge a moment ago, girl. Why don’t you take a bow and see if you can provide some fresh meat for your father’s meal?”
Thelena’s smile was far more than a flicker as she got up from the fire. Her parents were very close and had made a fine home for their children. Thelena hoped that she might do as well someday. She went over to one of the ponies and got out and strung the small hunting bow as she had been told. She paused, listened, and heard the call that her mother had mentioned. Yes, it did sound like a partridge. It was coming from the tall grass off to her left. Silently, she slowly moved in that direction.
She wasn’t a great hunter or archer, but she heard the call again, and it was quite close now. If she could catch the bird on its nest, she would have a good chance to make a kill—and perhaps find eggs as well. Thankful she was wearing riding trousers rather than a camp dress, she crouched down so that the grass was over her head and carefully moved forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. One step… two steps…
She saw a dark shape, silhouetted against the westering sun, through the grass just ahead of her and instantly realized that it was too large to be a partridge. Far too large. She turned to dash away, but a second shape rose up from her right. A huge man was only a few paces off. She screamed and tried to run, but a strong grip seized her arm. The bow flew out of her grasp, and an instant later, impossibly powerful arms wrapped around her, lifting her off her feet.
She screamed again and struggled wildly, but she could not break loose. She could see her mother springing up from the fire, Ardan dropping some bit of armor he’d found, and her father rushing up the steps from the mound. But there were other men appearing out of the grass. By their long, oily hair and braided beards, she recognized them as Varags, mercenary horsemen who served the King of Berssia. Terror coursed through her. She’d never seen one close up, but she’d heard the stories about them. There were at least a dozen of them, and they all had drawn swords and were closing in on her family.
Her father was shouting something in the Varag tongue, and for a moment, they all paused; but then a man grabbed her mother by the arm and young Ardan began throwing rocks at him. A stone dealt him a painful blow in the face. He snarled something, flung mother aside, and drew one of the short gunpowder weapons that the Easterners used. Before anyone could do anything, he fired it at Ardan.
There was a small puff of smoke at one end of the weapon and a much larger one at the other, along with a loud crack like thunder. The back of Ardan’s head blossomed out like a red flower, and the boy tumbled backward to the ground and did not move.
Thelena screamed again. Mother was screaming, too, but she drew her knife and lunged at one of the Varags. The man easily evaded her blow and the counterstroke with his sword took off her head.
Thelena was sobbing hysterically now, half-blinded with tears, as she thrashed in the Varag’s grip. She tried to reach her own knife, but her arms were pinned. Suddenly she stiffened. Her father was reaching for the power. She could feel it like the sun against her skin. She could see him, his face twisted in rage, and she could sense the power swirling around him.
But then a Varag came up behind him and thrust a dagger into his side.
The sensation of power vanished as quickly as it had come, the cold iron of the dagger snuffing it out like a bucket of water on a campfire. Her father slumped to the ground.
She screamed once more. She was still screaming as they tied her to a horse and galloped off.
* * * * *
Jarren Carabello picked a few bits of lint off his black-and-white student’s robe and tried to make out his reflection in the tiny, cracked mirror that hung from the equally cracked plaster wall of his cramped apartment. Not good. He had forgotten to ask his landlady to clean and press the robe, and it was badly wrinkled from being piled under other laundry and some heavy books for several months since the last time he had reason to wear it. Nothing could be done about that now. He took his hat, which was a nearly shapeless bag of black felt, and fit it on his head. Except for the wilted white feather and tiny brass cockade, it looked like a huge mushroom that had been in the sun too long. He gathered up his papers into a leather portfolio and went out of his room, pausing to lock the door behind him. There was little of interest to any thief in his room, but after being ransacked once and nearly losing his precious cello, Jarren had invested some of his scanty funds in a good lock and had not regretted it.
He trudged down the four flights of narrow wooden steps. As he passed his landlady’s flat, she stuck her head out the door. “Your rent is due in just five days, Master Jarren,” she said tartly, the expression on her face all too much like that of his mother when he’d failed to finish some chore. It was a daily ritual, and he reflected that with her there, he hardly even needed a calendar. He assured her she would get it and then stepped out onto the streets of Sirenza.
The heat and the stench hit him simultaneously. His dismal financial condition had forced him to take an apartment down by the docks. This time of year was the worst to be living there; the winds from the south brought the heat, but somehow never managed to carry away the stink. All the sewers emptied into the bay, where the effluvia simply stayed. It would not be until the fall when the east winds blew the heat and the stink out to sea, that it would become bearable. He hurried toward the upper parts of the city. The heat would not be much less, but at least he would escape the smell.
He walked along the brick and cobblestone streets as quickly as the crowds would allow. Rather than follow the slow back and forth switchbacks of the main boulevards, he took one of the many sets of stairs that led upward. He was soon above the tops of the masts of the many ships that lined the quays and piers of the great harbor—away from the wor
st of the smell—and he slowed his pace. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back under the robe and his shirt.
Jarren entered the Great Plaza and paused in the shade of one of the colonnaded buildings that surrounded it. He looked across at the Tower of Domitian and the fine new clock that had recently been installed; it was only a little after one o’clock. He had nearly an hour before he was to meet with his mentor, Hano Beredane. In his nervousness, he had left himself far more time than he really needed. He could just find a bench in the shade and wait, he supposed. Many fine ladies were moving through the plaza, and it would certainly be pleasant to watch them. Frustrating, too, of course. No lady, fine or otherwise, would waste a glance on a poor university student.
I have time to visit old Porfino. Maybe he’s gotten in something new. The thought led to action, and Jarren walked across the plaza and into one of the side streets. A hundred paces brought him to a smaller alley and then to Porfino’s shop. He walked through the open door, and it took a moment to adjust his eyes to the dimness after the bright sunshine outdoors. When he could see again, he noted that there was no sign of Porfino. This time of day he was probably taking a nap in the back room. Jarren did not bother to call for him, but instead wandered around the tiny, cluttered shop. It was filled with all manner of strange and exotic items. Nearly all were damaged or broken or simply worn to some degree. Porcelain and statues, paintings and candelabras, stuffed animals and knickknacks of all descriptions. And toys. Lots of toys.
Jarren had seen them all before and insisted that Porfino tell him everything he knew about each of the more interesting ones. He frowned. If there was anything new, he did not see it immediately. He was going to need Porfino’s help. Well, one way to rouse him… He went over to a small toy monkey, missing one arm, and picked it up. Instantly it cried out, “Stop! Thief! Help!” Jarren set it down and looked to the curtained doorway that led to the back room. Only three heartbeats later an old man came barging through with a club in his hand, looking about with wild eyes. He stopped and frowned when he saw Jarren.
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