Fires of the Dead

by Jed Herne

  The girl kept peering through the telescope. “One minute…”

  Marogan growled. “No minute. What is it?”

  “I need to confirm. I can’t report until I’m certain, that’s what Wisp…”

  Breeze trailed away.

  An uncomfortable heat spread through Marogan. What the fuck was this feeling? She scowled and kicked a nearby branch and it broke with a clean snap.

  Marogan stabbed her finger at Fleetfoot. “It won’t work out.”

  Fleetfoot raised his hands and stumbled back. “P-pardon?”

  Marogan pointed up at Breeze. “She’s too good for you.”

  Fleetfoot blushed. “I don’t know what in the world you’re talking about.”

  Marogan rolled her eyes. Could the boy be any posher?

  Breeze slithered down the tree. “It’s bad. I could see smoke rising from a mile and a half east. The fire was on a hill and Clubhead’s crew were around it – the alive ones, at least – and another five people. Reinforcements.”

  “No,” said Marogan. “More sacrifices. Let’s go.”

  She strode east. Wisp’s killers would pay for what they’d done.

  “W-wait!”

  Marogan turned. Fleetfoot had spoken.

  “Kid, what did I say about opening your mouth hole without me asking?”

  Fleetfoot blushed deeper, but kept eye contact. “There’s nine of them and three of us.”

  “No, there’s nine of them and one of me.”

  “Even so.” Fleetfoot gulped and Marogan wondered where he’d found this nerve. “We’re only two miles from the Castle. I know you’re strong, but you’ll be stronger if you’re on top of its walls.”

  Marogan opened her mouth to argue, then paused. “How long to the Castle?”

  “Forty minutes’ walk,” said Fleetfoot. “Twenty at a run.”

  “What about Clubhead’s crew?”

  “They’ve got harder terrain – lots of hills and valleys. At least an hour and a half?”

  Marogan nodded. Made sense. Reach the Castle, set traps, defend from the high ground. Not that she needed high ground, but it’d help, and Wisp would approve.

  “I do love a good siege,” she said. “To the Castle, then.”

  10: MAROGAN

  The Randalls’ Castle was a dark, hulking mass, perched atop a craggy hilltop and waiting to strike. Marogan wasn’t easily impressed, but as they emerged into the clearing at the hill’s base, she nodded. The Randalls knew their stuff.

  To assault the fortress, you’d need to run up a hundred feet of slippery hillside, and that was before even reaching the massive walls. Marogan smiled. Defending this would be fun.

  They climbed the hill. As they approached the walls, Marogan frowned. Up close, soot stained the stone, and half the walls had crumbled. Cracks split the mortar. Vines twisted through the gaps. A massive slab of broken wood and iron lay before the entrance. Marogan kicked the wood. It was ashen, and as her boot hit it the wood disintegrated.

  Maybe this wasn’t as defensible as she’d thought.

  They entered the courtyard. Fallen stones littered the ground, vines snaked up walls, and rusted armour lay slumped on uneven cobblestones.

  “How did this happen?” asked Breeze.

  Marogan shrugged. “No one knows. Not really. I mean, I’ve heard stories, but if Fleetfoot does any more pant-wetting his trousers will turn yellow.”

  Fleetfoot bit his lip, but the rest of his face stayed impassive. Hmph. The kid’s skin was thickening. Marogan had to improve her insults.

  If she had been the curious type, she’d want the truth about the Castle, too. The Randalls had been one of the realm’s strongest families. Four years ago, this Castle was impenetrable, so why had it become a ruin?

  Marogan shrugged. She didn’t care as long as she could find the Skull and kill Clubhead’s gang.

  “Breeze, survey the walls,” she said. “Find weak spots. Fleetfoot, help me block the entrance.”

  While Breeze scampered up to the battlements, Marogan and Fleetfoot stacked broken stones into the empty gate. Wasn’t much defence, but it was better than letting Clubhead’s crew run into the courtyard.

  Breeze scrambled down. “The walls look weak, and they’ll be easy to climb. But there’s no gaps big enough to crawl through unless you’re a rat.”

  “Clubhead is a rat,” said Marogan. “Luckily, he’s a fat one. Fleetfoot, let’s find this Skull. Breeze, back on the walls and let us know when Clubhead’s ten minutes away.”

  Marogan pulled a candle from her pack, lit it, then dropped her blood into the flame to Bond herself to the fire.

  She gave it to Breeze. “Snuff it when they’re close.”

  Marogan strode towards the inner walls. The Castle’s bulk was behind them, sheltered in the keep. She clambered over rubble. As she marched into the dark corridor, she wondered if the kid had the guts to follow. Marogan could already predict his pathetic excuses.

  Fleetfoot scrambled over the ruins. He slid down the broken stones and stumbled through the keep’s gaping doorway. Hmm. No excuses so far. Wouldn’t be long before that changed.

  They walked through narrow corridors, with their only light coming from Marogan’s flaming hand. Water dripped from the ceiling. A drop splattered onto her head. Stupid water.

  They reached an intersection.

  Marogan glanced at the boy. “Which way to the Hearth?”

  Fleetfoot pointed. At least the kid was good for something. Funny, his ability to navigate everything except real life, although Marogan supposed that stuffing maps into your brain pushed out all the common sense.

  She followed his directions until they strode through a door and reached a large square room. Narrow slits lined the walls and murder-holes punctured the ceiling. Archers and Pyromancers could hide behind them and unleash hell, with no easy way for attackers to retaliate. Marogan grinned. Defenders here were more likely to drown in their enemies’ blood than die from a sword.

  Fleetfoot pointed at a heavy door. “The Hearth … it should be after that.”

  Marogan tested the handle. It was unlocked. And cold. She grabbed Fleetfoot by the scruff of his shirt, swung open the door, and hurled him inside. He yelped. She slammed the door shut.

  She waited for screams, for a fire’s roar, for whistling arrows. Nothing.

  Fleetfoot hammered on the door. “Marogan! Please-”

  She opened the door, knocking Fleetfoot back. She stepped over him and emerged onto a rusted metal walkway overlooking a cavernous chamber – the Hearth. Tiny vents and five other doors punctured the walls, but all of them were shut.

  Fleetfoot saw her looking at the doors.

  “There’s secret tunnels,” he said. “On the maps – they go between walls, under the courtyard, through the floors–”

  “Shut up.”

  He gulped and looked at the ground.

  Marogan curled her burned hands around the cold metal handrail. She didn’t get awed, but this gigantic room was eight stories high from her walkway to the ground, and equally wide. It was close to impressing her.

  Soot blackened the towering walls. Even though there was no fire, the stench of smoke clogged the air and made her eyes water. She inhaled. The smoky air filled her lungs and she grinned. Powerful flames had filled this room with fire strong enough to stamp its scent into the stones.

  Baron Hargrieve was right. Everyone assumed the Gutting destroyed the Randalls’ Hearth, burying their Ancestral Flame. Somehow, the Baron realised it was still standing. Its treasure was ripe for plucking.

  On the floor below lay a circle of dark granite. It held the ashen remnants of a gigantic bonfire. Marogan licked her lips. So this was where the Randall’s Ancestral Flame had lived. Even its corpse was bigger than she’d imagined. If only she could’ve seen it alight, seen it fill the room with heat and smoke and a crackling roar. Imagine Bonding to it. Imagine drawing from a fire so large …

  Warm ecstasy shuddered through her
and she closed her eyes to savour the moment. She’d be unstoppable. Whatever she wanted would be hers. Anyone who resisted would become ashes with a thought.

  Soon…

  She climbed a ladder to the floor. Rust and soot coated the rungs, and the metal creaked and wobbled as she climbed. Fleetfoot scrambled after her, but she hardly noticed. He was a rat following a lion.

  Marogan stepped off the ladder and her leg sunk knee-deep into ash. She ran her hands through the powder. It turned her skin so grey you couldn’t even see her burned hands. She smiled.

  They waded through the ash. It thickened as they approached the granite circle. They wound their way around stacks of firewood and Fleetfoot tripped over coal hidden in the ash.

  Light washed over them. She looked up to see a gigantic hole piercing the ceiling, exposing the room to the pale grey sky. She frowned. Was that how the fire died? A cluster of bombs and a lucky rainstorm?

  No. Even the strongest rains couldn’t quell an Ancestral Flame that had burned for hundreds of years, a fire protected by a dynasty and nourished with coal and corpses.

  She reached the granite circle. It was twice her height, and she could’ve scaled it, but she might as well do this the easy way. Marogan made Fleetfoot crouch. Then she stepped on his back and leapt. Her fingers curled around the top of the granite and she climbed onto the wall.

  Skulls filled the granite circle – hundreds of them, all grinning at her. Glee ran through Marogan. She lowered herself onto the skulls, and with tentative steps she waded through the pit. Marogan stroked the bones. Wisp would’ve been quicker, but she had enough skill to detect the Skull they sought: the one belonging to the first Pyromancer burnt in the Ancestral Flame. Even a rookie Pyromancer would notice a skull that powerful.

  And she was no rookie.

  “Where is it?”

  Marogan glanced over her shoulder to see Fleetfoot standing on the granite wall and watching with a worried expression. She’d forgotten he was here, not that it made any difference.

  She kept crawling through the skulls. Touching so many dead Pyromancers felt intoxicating, perhaps because their fate was denied to her. When she died, so would her mind. She wouldn’t be thrown into an Ancestral Flame and her essence wouldn’t merge with a Communal Mind.

  No. She’d lost that honour when her pathetic father pledged her to Baron Hargrieve, enslaving her forever. Didn’t bother her. She’d still become the strongest Pyromancer in history, even if she was indentured to the Hargrieves.

  She’d be strong, the way her father never could.

  Something fizzled in the back of her mind. She froze. Breeze had snuffed the candle. Clubhead was near.

  She cursed and rummaged faster, touching each skull for an instant before throwing it away. No time for revelling in the power around her.

  Minutes ticked by. Up on the wall, Fleetfoot shifted from foot to foot and glanced at his pocket watch, wincing.

  “If you need to piss, don’t hold it,” Marogan said.

  “No! It’s just…”

  He raised the watch with trembling hands. Marogan scowled. Damn it. She scrambled through the skulls. After a minute, she stopped and panted.

  “How long have I been searching for?” she asked.

  “Twenty minutes,” said Fleetfoot.

  Marogan’s guts clenched. There were hundreds of skulls, but she should’ve felt something by now.

  “It’s not here,” she said.

  11: MAROGAN

  Fleetfoot’s eyes widened. “What?”

  Marogan climbed out of the granite circle and sprinted back to the ladder. “The damn Skull’s not there!”

  She paused to spray fire onto a pile of wood. The timber burst into flame and she pricked the scab on her finger to drop blood into the fire.

  Marogan clambered up the ladder. Fleetfoot scrambled up behind her.

  “How do you-”

  “I just know! Damn it.”

  No Skull meant no money. She shook her head. No, it had to be here, just hidden somewhere else. After they’d killed Clubhead’s crew they could keep looking. She’d find it. She had to.

  They raced out of the keep and climbed to join Breeze atop the outer walls. Clubhead stood at the base of the hill, several hundred feet away. His crew were spreading around the hill. Clever move. Circle the Castle, then charge at the walls. Marogan, Fleetfoot, and Breeze had the high ground, but with nine attackers they couldn’t be everywhere.

  “A few have longbows, most have crossbows,” said Breeze. “Plenty of swords and axes too. And all of them have knives.”

  Marogan nodded. “Crew, you know the plan.”

  They spread out around the walls. The Castle’s perimeter stretched for several hundred feet. No way to defend it all. They had to position themselves well and hope for the best.

  Three men struggled up the hill towards Marogan. She cracked her knuckles. Not finding that damn Skull was bloody annoying, but the prospect of a fight calmed her nerves.

  The men were a hundred yards away. Marogan stood taller, showing herself above the battlements, then ducked before they shot. Bowstrings twanged. She ran, bent double, along the wall. When she was fifty feet from her original position, she poked her crossbow through a crenel and fired. The bolt punched into a man’s leather armour. He collapsed and tried to crawl away, smearing blood on the ground, but Marogan reloaded and shot again and her arrow pierced his neck and pinned him to the ground. He stopped moving.

  The others saw her and fired. She ducked and an arrow soared over the wall, cutting through where her head was a second ago. She peeked over the battlements, but another bowshot forced her down.

  No matter. She’d seen their plan – a bowman would spray covering shots while the other climbed the wall thirty paces to her right. She crawled along the walkway. Ahead, a hand appeared over the top of the stone and she stretched out her palm and sent fire billowing towards him. Flames burned the climber’s hand. He yelped and let go and fell to the ground with a crunch.

  Marogan leaned over the wall. She sprayed fire at the bowman and he shrieked and rolled on the ground, trying to douse the flame. Might’ve worked if the ground was wet. But this was the Ashwoods, and the ground was dryer than bone.

  The fire consumed him.

  Beside the flaming corpse, the fallen climber lay in a sprawled heap, sobbing and cradling his burned hand. Bones protruded from his broken legs. Marogan wished she could let him suffer, but there was no sense risking anything, so she killed him with another burst of flame.

  Shouts echoed from other parts of the wall. Marogan sprinted towards the tower that marked the Castle’s corner. She burst inside, kicked through another door, and emerged on a new section of the wall.

  Breeze crouched on the walkway. She fired an arrow at a woman standing at the far end, but her shield blocked the shot. Protected by the woman, a man climbed up the wall and sprayed fire towards Breeze.

  Marogan hurled a pouch of her blood at the flames. The fire swallowed the pouch. Energy surged through her and before the fire could reach Breeze, Marogan drained its heat, vanishing the flames.

  Behind the shield-bearer, the Pyromancer gaped. He still looked confused when Breeze’s arrow smashed into his forehead, shattering his skull and sending chunks of brain flying over the walls.

  Metal flashed through the air. A throwing knife lodged into Marogan’s arm and pain flared through her and she grunted and raised her other hand to spew fire at the shield-bearer. The flames flickered out before reaching the woman. Marogan grit her teeth. Not enough energy – she’d lost too many Source Flames.

  Wincing, she lit Breeze’s arrow. The girl’s shot lodged the flaming arrow into the woman’s shield, making her yelp. She tilted her shield to look at the burning arrow and Breeze’s next shot slipped under her guard and punched through her chest. The woman collapsed. Blood oozed from her torso and dripped over the walkway’s edge, landing in the courtyard below.

  Marogan doubled over, gasping. Sh
e checked her Bonds and – with relief – felt connections to four Source Flames. That was enough to see this through. Her earlier spray must’ve failed because she was unfocussed, not because she’d used up her Flames.

  “How many did you kill?” Marogan asked.

  Breeze wiped sweat off her brow. “Including these two, three.”

  “Same.”

  Marogan moved her arm and fresh aches made her wince, because the knife lodged in her skin wasn’t getting any softer.

  Breeze’s eyes widened. “Are you alright?”

  “Course.” Marogan offered Breeze her arm. “Pull out the knife.”

  “Out of your arm?”

  “No, from my arse!”

  Gulping, Breeze gripped Marogan’s bicep with her right hand. Her skin was warm. With her other hand she gripped the knife’s handle and pulled.

  Pain shredded Marogan’s nerves. She bit her lip and growled and turned so Breeze wouldn’t see her cry.

  Breeze rested her hand on Marogan’s shoulder. “Are you okay? I’ve got bandages.”

  There was a tenderness to the girl’s touch. How long had it been since someone touched Marogan without trying to hurt her?

  She smacked Breeze’s hand away. “I’m fine. Three left.”

  A scream echoed through the courtyard. Marogan smirked. She’d recognise that sound anywhere. Sure enough, when she looked down, Fleetfoot was sprinting across the cobblestones. Clubhead and two men chased the boy.

  “Bet you five pennies he dies in five seconds,” said Marogan.

  “We’ve got to help him!”

  Fleetfoot skidded behind a pile of rubble. One of Clubhead’s men unleashed fire that rolled towards the rubble, but Fleetfoot pressed up against the stone and the fire flowed around him. Clubhead and the other man spread out to the sides. Marogan smirked. If they knew who they were dealing with, they wouldn’t be this cautious.

  Breeze raised her bow.

  Marogan grabbed her hand, stopping her from drawing. “Wait until they’re closer. They haven’t seen us yet.”

  Breeze swallowed. “Are you sure?”

  Marogan shrugged.