by Jed Herne
Wisp crawled backwards, and when the bank’s slope hid him from the enemy, he stood and reloaded his crossbow. He lay down, wincing at his aching knees, and crawled to his original position next to Fleetfoot. The boy also had a crossbow. But judging by his shaking hands, Wisp doubted he’d be much help.
Two of Clubhead’s men broke ranks and sprinted up the riverbank, heading towards Wisp. Both held swords. They hadn’t realised they were surrounded. Poor fools. Still, it was him or them, so Wisp aimed his crossbow. He’d kill the man on the left with an arrow, then when the other one closed in, he’d spray fire.
Next to Wisp, Fleetfoot yelped. Wisp froze. Had he been shot?
“Spider!” said Fleetfoot.
He scrambled up and shook his hand. Wisp cursed. The two men sprinting up the slope would see him. Wisp stood and grabbed Fleetfoot.
“Get down, lad, and shut up or they’ll-”
Pain ripped through Wisp’s guts. He collapsed, dragging the boy down with him. More arrows split the air. Wisp reached for the crossbow he’d dropped and fresh agony exploded through his chest. He groaned. Spit bubbled from his mouth.
“Wisp!” Fleetfoot’s pale face swam in the dim firelight. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.”
With trembling hands, he probed his chest. An arrow stuck out of his stomach. Stickiness coated his shirt and when he pulled his hand away and held it up to the flickering light, blood stained his fingers.
Pain spasmed through him. He groaned and darkness swallowed him.
5: WISP
Wisp’s heartbeat hammered in his ears and he growled and opened his eyes.
A woman towered above him, holding fire in her hand. The flames cast shadows across her sharp face and her dark eyes reflected the spluttering light. Wisp drew his knife. He tried to stand but his legs were numb.
“It’s me,” said Marogan. “I got the ones running towards you. What happened?”
“Shot.” Pain ran through his bones. “The others?”
Black Eye stepped from the shadows. “Clubhead’s crew are down to four. They fled.”
“Then get after ‘em,” said Wisp. “Don’t just stand-”
He coughed blood and spittle over Fleetfoot, who crouched beside him.
Marogan gaped. “Wisp, are you-”
“Get the bastard.” The pressure built in his lungs and he fought to stop another cough. “Go.”
Footsteps crunched through twigs.
Breeze emerged from the trees. “I came as fast as I could, is he alright?”
“I’m fine!” said Wisp. “Kill the rest of ‘em.”
Marogan shook her head. “Too dark, and they’ve split up. Besides, not like they’ll attack us again. They’ve got no idea how many people we have, and we killed their Pyromancers.”
“Clubhead still alive?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Then they’ll attack again.”
Wisp grabbed Fleetfoot’s shoulder to pull himself up, but the boy jerked back. Horror stretched across his pale face. He stood and staggered backwards, away from the crew.
“I can’t do this.” Fleetfoot’s voice was shrill. “I’ve got to leave.”
“Coward,” said Marogan.
“You signed a contract,” said Black Eye in the even voice of someone who couldn’t care less.
“Screw the contract!” Fleetfoot edged away. “This is insane! I don’t want to die.”
Marogan scowled, Black Eye watched with a blank face, and Breeze stretched a hand towards the boy, like she wanted to pull him back, but none of Wisp’s crew seemed ready to stop Fleetfoot. Looked like he got the dirty work yet again.
“Don’t go anywhere, you little fucker.” Wisp used his elbows to prop himself up. “I know who you really are. Ain’t that right, Maurald Antonius Hargrieve?”
Marogan’s eyes widened. “Hargrieve – Baron Hargrieve?”
Fleetfoot paled but he stopped walking away. “Wisp, what?”
His voice was a scared croak.
“The one and only, Marogan.” Wisp’s guts were burning, but he had to get this out. “If this little bastard’s a farmboy runaway, then I’m the Princess of Kesselonia. Slavers didn’t kidnap you. You didn’t escape ‘em. You’re the first son of Baron fucking Hargrieve, and you ran away ‘cause you couldn’t stomach getting your hand burnt and becoming a Pyromancer. Now you think bringing him the Skull means he’ll forgive you.”
Fleetfoot’s eyes darted to the side. “Th-that’s not true.”
Wisp snorted. “Ain’t it? Our employer’s your Father, boy. That’s why you joined us, eh? Nice way to give him a surprise gift. Joke’s on you, though, ‘cause he asked me to recruit you. Funny enough, he also wants you to get the Skull, and he said he’ll forgive everything if you find it. Big softie, if you ask me. But who am I to begrudge a father who wants to forgive his son?”
Fleetfoot trembled. “So if I help you, and we get the Skull for him-”
“He’ll forgive you for being a piss-weak coward and take you back into the fold.” Wisp coughed. “Sounds like a damn good deal. But if you die, or you leave, your father ain’t forgiving you, and my crew only gets half pay.”
The flames brightened in Marogan’s hand, illuminating her bared teeth. “Why didn’t you say that sooner, old man?”
Fleetfoot looked down. Tears dripped from his eyes, glinting in the firelight. He took a deep breath, wiped his face, and straightened up.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Wisp nodded. “Damn right.”
Nausea swelled through Wisp and he strained to hold back tears. The pain was tearing him apart. He moaned.
Marogan crouched over him. She summoned fire into her hand and heated a knife over the flames. An odd look came over her face. Tenderness? No, probably just a trick of the light.
“Black Eye,” said Marogan. “Get the Reriac Oil.”
The big man opened his rucksack.
Wisp shook his head. “Don’t waste it.”
He shuddered.
Marogan’s eyes widened. “No – Wisp –”
“Ain’t no helping me. You’re crew leader, now.”
Wisp looked up at the sky. The firelight had dimmed enough to see the stars. He sighed. Lying on the hill outside the house where he’d meant to retire … those stars had been twice as bright … and so close you could almost touch ‘em.
He frowned. “Guess I’ll never live in that cottage after all.”
The damn cottage was a run-down shack, and needed plenty of his old carpentry skills. He’d been looking forward to mending it. And maybe fixing all the other relationships he’d broken along the way. His wife … his daughter … So many things to fix. Wisp always thought he’d have time.
Marogan extended her hand and Wisp reached for it and everything faded.
Part II: Black Eye
6: BLACK EYE
Wisp’s hand flopped onto the ashen ground before Marogan could hold it.
She bowed her head. Black Eye did the same. He’d known Wisp for years, and as far as criminals went, he was an honest one. It was a shame to see him die. But that was how life was, and Black Eye never let it affect his mood.
He stepped beside Marogan. Her eyes shone in the light of the fire she held. Her other hand twitched. For a second, Black Eye thought she was about to link her fingers with his, but she just took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Back to the ashes,” she said.
Black Eye stared at Wisp. The old man’s eyes were wide and unseeing, and spit dribbled from his open mouth. People liked to say the dead looked peaceful, but Black Eye never saw peace in death.
“Aye,” he said.
Back to the ashes, Wisp. Not a place you wanted to be, but a place we all seem to go.
Marogan closed her eyes. “Breeze, get his things.”
Breeze gulped. “What?”
“Get his things!” yelled Marogan. “We aren’t leaving them for Clubhead.”
&
nbsp; Breeze flinched. With a look of distaste, she searched Wisp’s pockets and took anything valuable, loading it into Black Eye’s pack. He watched her tuck Wisp’s two-headed coin into his bag. His sons would love the tricks Black Eye could do with that.
And where did you get that blood-stained coin? his wife would ask.
Hmm. He’d need a decent cover story.
It fell in the shop-keeper’s lunch! he’d say.
He frowned. Maybe it was cold to be grateful for having Wisp’s things, Wisp being dead and all that.
Keep your thoughts for the living, Wisp had said. The dead ain’t got any use for ‘em.
Black Eye disagreed, of course, but the point was Wisp didn’t care how he was treated in death. So what if Black Eye wasn’t the right level of morbid? Wisp didn’t give a damn.
That philosophy had merits, even if it was flawed. They lived in a world where minds could linger long after death. Not that Wisp would get that treatment. Most families fed their deceased Pyromancers to their Ancestral Flames, and the Pyromancers’ minds lived inside the Flame, communicating with anyone who Bonded to the fire.
That wouldn’t happen to Wisp. Despite Baron Hargrieve allowing Wisp to Bond with his Ancestral Flame, the Baron didn’t let people outside his family join the Communal Mind in the Flame.
Wisp was gone and so was his mind.
“And his cloak, Breeze.” Marogan’s voice was firmer. “We might need it.”
Breeze winced, but she pulled Wisp out of his cloak, leaving his naked body sprawled on the ground. Marogan neatened up his arms and legs. Then she sprayed fire. Flames covered his corpse and the air filled with the stench of burning flesh. For a second, it almost smelled like sizzling beef.
Makes you wonder what’s really in those marketplace kebabs.
Then the scent became coppery and metallic. Still, it didn’t bother Black Eye. No smell ever did.
Marogan stood there, staring at the man who’d been like a father to her. Black Eye sighed. He’d been a father to all of them, or at least the closest one you could get on the streets.
Marogan looked up. “Fleetfoot.”
The boy gulped. “Yes?”
“You did this. I heard you screaming from the other side of the river.”
Fleetfoot looked away. “I’m sorry. There was a spider-”
Marogan lunged and pinned Fleetfoot to a tree. He shrieked. Breeze’s hand strayed towards an arrow.
Black Eye drew his mace. “Marogan, the payment.”
“Oh, I know.” Fleetfoot tried to wriggle free but Marogan held him down. “Only half pay if he dies.”
Marogan raised her finger. It glowed red and heat emanated from her hand, hot enough for Black Eye to feel it.
“Don’t worry.” Marogan leered at Fleetfoot. “I won’t kill him.”
She pressed her red-hot finger against the boy’s forehead. Flesh sizzled and he screamed and Breeze gaped at Black Eye, who sheathed his mace.
“He’ll die!” said Breeze.
“No.” Black Eye pulled jerky from his pocket, popped it in his mouth, and chewed. “Marogan never breaks her word.”
Marogan released Fleetfoot. He dropped to the ground, sobbing, and curled into a ball.
She kicked him. “Get up, you coward.”
Trembling, Fleetfoot stood on shaky legs. Marogan’s burning finger had branded his forehead with a bright red mark – not a mark you could easily hide.
Marogan leaned towards Fleetfoot, who flinched. “Remember what you’ve done, boy. And hope I don’t settle for half pay.”
Tears streaked down Fleetfoot’s cheeks. He nodded.
Marogan huffed, then stormed away. “Come on, crew. We’ve got a skull to find.”
7: BLACK EYE
They walked through the darkened Ashwoods. Breeze grumbled about tiredness, but Marogan just reminded her that Clubhead’s crew were still in the woods. That shut her up.
As they walked, Black Eye thought about maths.
The Gutting had unleashed the Randalls’ Ancestral Flame into the Ashwoods. Most people thought it destroyed everything belonging to the Randalls, but Baron Hargrieve had realised something might be left.
The Randalls’ Skull.
When you extinguished an Ancestral Flame, all that remained were the skulls of dead Pyromancers who’d been cremated in the flames: no matter how hot the fire, their skulls always survived. If you took the skull from the first Pyromancer given to the flames, and put it in your own Ancestral Flame, you’d get all the power of the Randall’s fire.
This was where the maths got interesting. Considering their Flame held hundreds of Pyromancers, that power would be substantial indeed. Of course, it was still a rumour. Even so, Black Eye understood why the Baron wanted to see if it was true.
After an age, Marogan decided none of Clubhead’s crew had followed them. They collapsed in a hollowed-out patch of ground. Black Eye rolled his shoulders and stretched. He knew it made him look like a fool, but if it was a choice between looking stupid or waking up sorer than a beaten dog, he’d take the former. He was in his thirties, now, and that meant he had to care for his body.
Especially considering what it goes through.
Black Eye glanced at the moon. Five hours until sunrise. Not much time to sleep, but he’d learnt long ago to be grateful for any shut-eye he got.
They couldn’t risk a fire, so it was cold rations again. Wasn’t too bad, because Black Eye actually liked jerky and crackers, even though his wife hated them. What he disliked, though, was the cold silence. Whenever they’d stopped for meals, Wisp kept the crew talking, laughing, and bonding. Now that he was gone, Black Eye realised the old man was critical to maintaining morale.
Black Eye surveyed the crew. Marogan glared at her food and stabbed her jerky to make it softer.
You don’t have to fight it. It’s already dead.
Breeze fiddled with the fletching on her arrows. Fleetfoot gazed into the dark night, eyes wide with terror. None of them looked like they’d start a conversation.
“So,” he said. “How’d you all get your names?”
The others frowned. Black Eye wondered if they were more surprised by the question, or by him speaking. He’d probably said less than a hundred words since entering the woods.
“Wisp gave it to me,” said Breeze. “He said if a window was open enough for a breeze to pass through, then so could I. Guess the name stuck.”
She nudged Fleetfoot. “What about you?”
Her voice was tender, and Fleetfoot glanced at her with hope in his eyes. He swallowed and glanced away, blushing. Poor kid. He was so used to being shouted at that a soft voice felt like velvet.
“Wisp also made mine.” His blush deepened. “Because the first mission we did, I panicked, and ran, and he said he’d never seen anyone hightale it as fast as me. Especially since we were only robbing an old grandmother’s bakery.”
Breeze laughed and slapped him on the back. Fleetfoot made a depreciating smile.
“What about you, Black Eye?” Fleetfoot asked.
This was good. The boy was opening up and regaining the confidence Wisp’s death had torn away.
“Don’t know who made mine,” said Black Eye. “All I know is people started calling me Black Eye in taverns, and that’s how Wisp started introducing me. Must’ve been because of the fights – I used to box. For wagers, and such. Wisp said they called me Black Eye because if you fought me, you’d be lucky if that was all you got.”
Fleetfoot gave a small laugh. Then he realised no one else had laughed and he cut it off with a strangled cough. Marogan smirked. It was the first sign she’d heard their conversation.
“Marogan?” asked Black Eye.
She scowled. Black Eye didn’t press the point. Dumb idea to argue with someone who could cook you with a thought.
He considered what he’d said. That might’ve been the longest speech he’d given in years. Apart from talking with his family. At home, he was plenty talkative, but wh
en he was working for crews, he shut up and let his size make everyone assume he was as stupid as he was strong.
“What about Wisp?” asked Fleetfoot in a small voice. “How’d he get his name?”
Black Eye glanced at Marogan, because she’d known Wisp better than he had. Silence stretched between them.
“They called him Wisp,” said Marogan, “Because when he was young, he was a Sneaker. Walls, locked doors, chimneys – nothing stopped him. But his real skill wasn’t creeping. His real skill was killing. And back in his younger days, his favourite way to kill was to sneak up behind people, in the dead of night, use his Pyromancy to heat his palm, then clamp it over their mouth, and hold them. Done right, it fused their mouth shut, and their nose. They couldn’t breathe. Or cry for help. He’d hold them ‘till they died and after he left, wisps of smoke rose from their corpse.”
Fleetfoot gulped. The poor boy looked like he was going to puke.
Marogan gazed into the fire. “Wisp wasn’t a hero, boy. No one is.”
Black Eye thought about telling Fleetfoot he’d need a stronger stomach for murder if he wanted to survive on the streets, but then he remembered Fleetfoot wasn’t a real urchin. If this went well, the boy would return to his comfortable life as a Baron’s son.
Black Eye frowned. How could he have thrown that away, all because he worried about Bonding to an Ancestral Flame? Black Eye would burn both his legs for that chance. Belonging to a Barony would give him more than enough money for anything his wife or son ever wanted. Although if they pulled off this mission, his family would still do rather nicely.
Fleetfoot took a deep breath. “What were you going to say before, Marogan? Before, when we were walking. You said none of the Randalls’ Pyromancers survived the Gutting, but then you said something about stories.”
His voice shook, but it was the first time he’d spoken to Marogan since she’d branded him. Small steps.
Marogan fixed Fleetfoot with a withering gaze. “Really want to know?”
Fleetfoot looked away. “Yes.”
“I was in a tavern, three years ago, just after the Gutting. Hadn’t been close enough to witness it firsthand, but the stories spread. Like fire. Heh. And as I was sitting in the tavern, this young kid – looked as rookie as you – stood up and started this story. The kid had burns all down his side. Plenty drunk, too. And he said he’d heard a story from someone who’d seen the Gutting and survived: a noble son betrothed to a Randall girl. On the day of the Gutting, this boy went to the Castle to find smoke billowing from behind the walls. He knocked at the gate. It was unlocked.
