Fires of the Dead

by Jed Herne

  “Thing is, that gate was never open. A dozen guards and three Pyromancers always protected it, but when the boy walked through, the only sign of them was armour lying on the cobblestones. Then a smell hit him. Burned flesh. The guards hadn’t moved. Fire had melted them into puddles of flesh and bone and all that remained was their armour – snails sucked out of their shells. Right about now, the boy got worried, but his betrothed was in the Castle. No choice but to continue.

  “And so he walked into the courtyard. Smoke clogged the air. Hay bales and carts and doors were aflame and the heat made his eyes water. He wrapped his scarf around his mouth to hold off the smoke. Then he climbed to the top of the walls, knowing he could use a shortcut to reach his betrothed’s room. Bodies littered the walkways, their flesh horribly burned, and smoke rose from their charred corpses. Scorch marks blackened the Castle’s ancient stones. Panic clutched the boy’s heart, but he had to know if his lover was safe. He ran along the walls, took the walkway connecting them to the keep. Inside, air roasted his lungs. Smoke clogged the air and he couldn’t see more than a few paces, but he dropped to the floor and crawled, holding his breath. He reached his lover’s room.

  “Her bed was ashes, and her corpse was cooked to a crisp, trapped under a fallen beam. Hollowness filled the boy. Despite the destruction, he’d prayed she would still be alive. A foolish idea. Sobbing, he dragged his lover out of the keep and back to the walkway atop the walls.

  “A cackle split the air. The boy froze. He turned around. By now, flames had engulfed the keep. The mighty fortress had stood for centuries, but now it was tinder for a bonfire. Anyone inside the keep would be dead. Except-”

  Something snapped. Fleetfoot yelped and scrambled up. Breeze grabbed an arrow.

  Marogan revealed the twig she’d broken behind her back and laughed. “Piss yourself as well, boy? Oh, your face…”

  Black Eye was glad Marogan had been focussing on Fleetfoot, because he’d almost jumped when she’d snapped the stick. Only a lifetime of training had kept him still.

  Fleetfoot sat, turning red. His cheeks looked hot enough to fry an egg. Poor kid. Shouldn’t have trusted Marogan.

  “What happened next?” asked Fleetfoot in a firm voice.

  Marogan leered. “Sure you won’t pee your pants if I keep going?”

  Fleetfoot held Marogan’s gaze for a few seconds until it grew too much and he looked away. “Yes.”

  Marogan chuckled. “So, the keep was aflame. No one could still be inside. No one alive, that is. But as he stood on the battlements and gazed into the inferno, holding his dead lover, the boy saw something. A shadow, in a doorway. Hairs rose on the boy’s neck. Then, the shadow moved.

  “The boy scrambled for the stairs, desperate to escape the Castle and enter the woods. But before he could reach the stairs, a person stepped from the keep and onto the walkway leading to the battlements. A woman, cloaked in fire.

  “Right about now, if this boy had your guts, Fleetfoot, he’d be dripping with his own piss, and maybe also some shit-”

  “Hey!”

  “-but this lad was made from sterner stuff. And so, trembling, holding his lover’s corpse beside him, he asked the woman what happened.”

  Marogan took a drawn-out sip from her canteen, smacking her lips. Black Eye smiled. For a woman who enjoyed turning people into ash, if she ever wanted a change she’d have quite the career in theatre.

  Roll up, roll up, and see the incredible flaming puppetry of Marogan the Maleficent!

  “So,” said Marogan. “The woman engulfed in flames turned to the boy and her gaze burned into his soul. And he asked again, in a croaky voice, what happened. And she said, ‘Xaphess.’ And he asked, in a voice that was fading along with his courage, who Xaphess was. And the woman smiled, and fire billowed from her mouth, and she said, ‘me.’

  “Xaphess raised her arm and flames erupted from her scarred hands. The inferno roared towards the boy and he pulled his lover’s body in front of himself to block the fire, but the flames rolled around her corpse and blistered his arms. He stumbled back.

  “He tripped and toppled over the walls, falling to the ground, and it was only landing on his lover’s body that saved him. But as he landed, her rib bone erupted from her chest and punched into his guts. He stumbled up, bruised, bleeding, terrified. And he looked up and saw Xaphess standing atop the wall, looking down at him, and laughing.

  “He sprinted for the forest. Flames roared from above, burnt his skin, set the trees alight, and as he stumbled between the trunks, Xaphess called after him, ‘Tell the world I am the fire, boy – tell them it all belongs to me.’

  “The boy ran through the woods for a day and a night. Flames consumed the forest, crumbling trees and engulfing animals and pursing him with ravenous intensity. And while he ran Xaphess’ laugh echoed through the trees. By the time the boy reached the border river, and collapsed into it, his body was more scar than flesh, and smoke clogged his lungs. But, somehow, he survived.”

  Marogan summoned a tiny flame into her palm. She held it up to illuminate Fleetfoot’s pale, clammy face. Then, with a grin that looked more like a snarl, Marogan closed her hand and snuffed the fire. Smoke rose between her fingers. Fleetfoot gulped.

  Well if he can’t sleep tonight, at least I won’t have to be on watch.

  Breeze patted Fleetfoot’s arm. “It’s alright, Fleet. It’s just a story.”

  “Oh, I thought that, too,” Marogan’s leer widened. “And then the kid in the tavern who’d spun the tale, well … he rolled down his sleeves and showed his scarred arms, and pulled up his shirt and showed the mark on his chest, where his lover’s rib punctured his skin. He was drunk by this time, of course. We had to buy beers every few minutes to keep him going. Still … makes you wonder. What happened in these woods?”

  Black Eye made a blessing to ward off evil. Even if it was just a story, he wasn’t taking any chances. Marogan rolled her eyes. Black Eye didn’t care. Say what you liked about his faith, but it had kept him safe all these years: through the wars; through the prisons; through the street fights that left him bloodied and toothless and begging for his mother. He’d survived them all and that was a miracle.

  Fleetfoot trembled. His eyes flicked from side to side and he wrapped his arms around himself.

  “Sweet dreams, boy.” Marogan smirked. “Breeze, you’re on first watch.”

  Black Eye stood. “Going for a leak.”

  Marogan scowled. “Don’t need to tell us your every thought, you dolt.”

  Black Eye gave her the dumb smile he’d perfected: the one that said he was a big man with a small brain. “I don’t.”

  He ambled into the woods, chuckling at her puzzled expression, but only on the inside. His face was blank, as always. Blocking one nose, he blew, and a lump of snot and ash splattered onto the ground.

  He pulled down his trousers. Once he’d relieved himself, he pulled them back up, tightened his belt, and stretched, raising his gaze to the stars.

  The moon was a pale sliver in the sky, like it was afraid of looking into the Ashwoods. Black Eye understood that. He didn’t want to be here, but the places he didn’t want to be were the places that gave his family the most money.

  He lowered his gaze.

  And a woman’s face stared at him from the shadows.

  Black Eye frowned. “Marogan?”

  The woman emerged from behind a tree and stalked towards him. A chill wind prickled his skin with goose bumps. This wasn’t Marogan.

  He grabbed his mace and opened his mouth to yell, to warn the others, but the woman tackled him and clamped her rough hand over his mouth. They grappled. Her elbows cracked into his head and he dropped his mace and his knees smashed into her chest. They rolled down a hill. Leaves and twigs and rocks dug into his back and Black Eye got on top, but they were still moving and he tried to stop but then he was twisting to the side and he smashed into a tree.

  The impact drove the wind from his lungs. He gasped. The
woman stumbled up and got behind him and locked her arm around his throat. A chokehold. Black Eye struggled, but she was too strong and he was reeling from the blow to his side. Bile crawled up his throat. He growled. Suzy, Bean – he couldn’t let them down, couldn’t let this woman steal him from his family. He shot an elbow back into her side and she grunted and he twisted out of her grip and sucked in a lungful of precious air and spun and kicked her chest and she stumbled back and he drew a knife-

  And fire engulfed him.

  Heat crackled his skin and boiled his blood and pain wracked his body. He screamed and flames swarmed into his mouth.

  Black Eye collapsed. Darkness frayed the edges of his vision, and now he was in a deep tunnel, falling, falling, falling…

  “Not Marogan,” said the woman. “Xaphess.”

  Part III: Marogan

  8: MAROGAN

  Marogan sprinted through the forest towards the scream. Fleetfoot and Breeze ran behind her. Marogan skidded down a hill, raised her flaming palm, and saw Black Eye’s corpse.

  Smoke rose from his flesh and he stunk of burnt hair. She kicked his side, but he stayed still.

  Fleetfoot slipped down the hill and crashed into a tree stump. He stood, groaning. Idiot. A privileged, soft, useless liability who’d get them all killed. She’d have snapped his neck a long time ago if it wasn’t for the promise of extra payment.

  Breeze ran light-footed down the hill, an arrow notched to her bowstring. Good girl. At least someone had a decent head on their shoulders.

  Fleetfoot gaped at Black Eye’s burned corpse. His face went pale.

  He puked.

  Marogan curled her lip. The soft idiot didn’t have what it took to survive in the wild.

  Fleetfoot wiped dribble from his weak little chin. “Was this a Pyromancer?”

  Marogan scowled. “No, idiot. A plant did this.”

  “But we killed Clubhead’s Pyromancers!” said Breeze.

  Marogan raised an eyebrow. A simple question, or stepping in to protect the boy? Marogan hoped it was the former, because Breeze had no business liking a kid who would’ve lost a fight to a butterfly.

  “We did,” said Marogan. “Which means this was someone else.”

  She raised her flaming hand, throwing light deeper into the surrounding woods. Truth be told, she was surprised no one had attacked. If the roles were reversed, Marogan would’ve struck when they were all crouching over Black Eye’s body.

  Course, Marogan had been ready. She always was.

  No weakness.

  So, no ambush. Most likely, there’d been one Pyromancer and Black Eye had hurt them enough to make them hobble away, needing to recover.

  Or she might be wrong and twenty Pyros could be ready to turn them into cinders.

  “Feel his chest, kid,” Marogan said.

  Fleetfoot paled. Honestly, if the stupid boy turned any whiter, he’d get sunburn from the moon.

  Fleetfoot gulped. “But … he’s dead.”

  “Which means it’s the only time he’ll let you touch his chest.”

  “But-”

  Marogan seized his shirt and yanked the boy towards her so that his boots lifted off the ground. “This is death. No one gives a shit if you think it’s ugly, so stop being a coward.”

  Tears streamed down Fleetfoot’s face. “Please. I don’t want to touch him.”

  Marogan growled. “You lost my sympathy when you got Wisp killed.”

  Fleetfoot sagged. Marogan released him and the boy crumpled to the ground. He wiped his eyes, crawled over to Black Eye, and touched his chest.

  “Ow!”

  “Still hot?” asked Marogan.

  Fleetfoot nodded.

  Marogan shoved him aside and touched Black Eye. Still warm, alright. Couldn’t have been burned more than a few minutes ago. Then why were there no fires licking at his flesh, or smouldering around him?

  The killer must’ve Bonded themselves to the fire raging around Black Eye, then drained the flame’s energy to extinguish it and try and hide the murder. Unlikely, since Marogan heard Black Eye’s scream all the way back at camp. If only he’d shouted sooner. Then she might’ve had time to save him.

  “Can’t you do the thing Wisp did?” asked Breeze. “Where you see a line leading to other Pyromancers?”

  Marogan shook her head. “Only one in twenty Pyromancers get the Sight. Wisp got it. I didn’t. Besides, it only shows connections between Pyromancers and Source Flames that are alight.” Marogan gestured at Black Eye. “And this fire’s dead.”

  She stood. With Black Eye gone this mission would be harder. Marogan hoped nothing heavy needed lifting.

  “Back to the ashes, Black Eye,” she said. “Alright. Get our stuff, then we’re moving. No sleep. We’re reaching the Castle tonight.”

  9: MAROGAN

  When they returned to camp, their rucksacks were strewn across the ground. Supplies littered the floor. Marogan tensed. Was this where the ambush would happen?

  She checked her connections. As they’d marched over the day, they’d started small fires, hiding them as best as they could. Wisp and Marogan had Bonded themselves to the flames. A standard operating method. Without Source Flames close to them, their only resource was Baron Hargrieve’s Ancestral Flame, but that was back in Kroliss, which meant their connection was weak. Being away from the Flame had positives, though. It was a welcome change to dampen the psychic link with the hundreds of dead Pyromancers whose minds occupied the Ancestral Flame.

  Wisp and Marogan had lit nine Source Flames while marching. Now, Marogan only had links to six. Had she drained them when they’d attacked Clubhead, or was someone else to blame?

  Marogan frowned. She was still Bonded to the Source Flame Breeze found hidden in a hollowed tree. After seeing Clubhead, she’d assumed it belonged to his Pyromancers, but his Pyromancers were dead and the Flame still survived. Cinder and Verve might not have used it, but that was damn unlikely. Which meant it must belong to the Pyromancer who’d killed Black Eye.

  “Fleetfoot, grab the stuff,” said Marogan. “Breeze and I will watch.”

  The boy nodded, avoiding her eyes, and scrambled to pack their scattered possessions. Most of their food was stolen. All their spare weapons had been left.

  “I know you said we killed Clubhead’s Pyromancers,” said Breeze. “But do you think … could Wisp have missed them? Maybe Clubhead had three, not two.”

  Marogan shook her head. “Clubhead’s crew wouldn’t need our food. No. Whoever did this … I’d wager they’re a lone wolf. Maybe an actual wolf – they didn’t care about weapons. But I haven’t seen any creature big enough to do this. Although they could’ve been stalking us. How about that, Fleetfoot? How’d you like a bear to eat you, eh?”

  Fleetfoot trembled, but he looked too scared to respond. He knew his place. Good boy.

  ~ ~ ~

  They marched through the dark forest. Marogan had extinguished the flame in her hand, because it would only be a target, and so they relied on the faint moonlight.

  Breeze flitted between shadows with the grace of a ghost. How she did it, Marogan didn’t know. Not that there was need for caution when you were as powerful as Marogan.

  Stumbling beside her, Fleetfoot winced with every broken twig. Marogan smirked. Ironic, given his name.

  Something moved in the darkness and Marogan hurled a fireball. Light flared through the forest, blinding her. Fleetfoot yelped. Breeze nocked her bow.

  The light faded to reveal a broken trunk the size of a person. Marogan scowled. Her eyes had been playing tricks.

  She elbowed Fleetfoot. “Pissed yourself yet?”

  “N-no.”

  “Humph. We’ll work on it.”

  They kept walking.

  Darkness didn’t scare Marogan. Nothing did.

  But she was cautious. Wisp, then Black Eye … money was great, but she had to survive – not that another Pyromancer in the woods made her worried.

  No weakness.

  There
’d been a reason the killer waited for Black Eye to leave Marogan’s side. Fear. Must’ve realised fighting Marogan was a recipe for being turned to ash.

  She licked her lips. When she returned to the Baron, she wouldn’t have to be second in command. Wisp had made her leader. Marogan grinned. Now that she was in charge, her reputation would only grow fiercer. She’d rule Kroliss’ underworld by the time she was thirty.

  As colours crawled back into the sky, Fleetfoot yawned. She slapped him.

  “Quiet,” she said. “You’re already noisy enough.”

  After that, whenever he opened his mouth to yawn his eyes widened and he pressed his lips shut and glanced at Marogan. Every time he did this, her smirk grew.

  The sun climbed above the horizon. Marogan smiled. It had been a long night of fighting and dying and walking and she was glad to see the morning. Not that she feared the night. She was why people feared the night.

  “Breeze.” Marogan pointed to a tall, leafless tree. “Give us a report.”

  While walking, they’d diverted from the river, but made sure to keep within a hundred yards. Had to check it was clear of Clubhead’s crew before returning.

  Breeze scampered up the tree. She was up for a long time. Marogan frowned.

  “Fleet,” Breeze said. “Can you please throw me the telescope?”

  “Sure thing, Bree!”

  Fleetfoot hurled the telescope to her. Marogan scowled. They’d already had bloody nicknames, and now these idiots were shortening them further.

  “What is it, Breeze?” Marogan asked.