Fires of the Dead

by Jed Herne

  “What is it?”

  He felt the obstruction. Even after minutes of walking, his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness.

  “Rubble.” Fear jolted through him. “The tunnel’s collapsed!”

  Breeze squeezed past him. “Let me check.”

  Fleetfoot hyperventilated. They were in a dead end, and Xaphess would find them, and she’d-

  “There’s a gap up the top,” said Breeze. “We can crawl through.”

  The tension in his chest eased, but only a little. “What if there’s nothing on the other side? What if it’s too tight?”

  “We’ll be fine, Fleet. Follow me.”

  She slithered along stone, and then he heard her crawling. Fleetfoot’s mouth turned dry. The tunnel must’ve weakened for it to collapse. What if it collapsed again, right when Breeze was slithering through? How many tons of stone and dirt sat above their heads, waiting to crush them?

  A muffed crash sounded from ahead.

  Fleetfoot’s heart hammered. “Breeze?”

  “I’m through.” Her voice was faint. “Ten paces of crawling, then the tunnel’s back to normal.”

  “Can I fit?”

  “You’re smaller than me. You’ll do it easily.”

  “Alright.” Fleetfoot paused. “Do you have any tips?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Techniques? To make it easier?”

  “Yeah, you climb in the hole, and you crawl.”

  So much for that delaying tactic. Fleetfoot clenched his teeth. He could navigate from one end of Baspary to the other without a compass. He could name every constellation in the sky. He could crawl for a few seconds. It’d be easy.

  “Any time before sunset, Fleet.”

  “Alright, alright!”

  He clambered up the pile of rubble. His head cracked into the roof and dizziness ran through him. After fumbling ahead, he found the hole.

  “It’s tiny!”

  “You’ll fit.”

  He took a deep breath, sucking in his chest, and plunged inside.

  For some reason, he’d imagined it was smooth. An idiotic notion, because no one had carved it. Rough stones scraped his skin and poked into his body, and he winced when a rock cut his hand. He kept crawling.

  His back pressed against stones, and when he drew his leg forward, his knee bumped into the ground. His breathing grew shallow. He was stuck. Trapped under dirt and stone and it would collapse and grind him into paste-

  “Stay calm, Fleet. Listen to me.”

  He swallowed. “Okay.”

  His voice was small, and afraid.

  “It’s quite tight,” she said. “You have to wriggle. Put your arms ahead, flatten your legs, and drag yourself forward.”

  He tried and it worked. Not fast, but he was moving.

  “Nice and slow,” she said. “No need to rush. Inch by inch, that’s all that matters.”

  He was moving, but the tunnel was tightening, and it pressed into his back and his stomach and his breathing grew faster.

  “Fleet.”

  He closed his eyes, not that he could see anyway, and let her voice fill his mind.

  “Last night,” she said, “when we were walking, we were speaking about those maps. Tell me more, Fleet.”

  “The Alardices? Oh, yeah. Best cartography I’ve ever seen. There were some back home. So much detail, and how he draws the mountains … it makes you feel like you’re there.” He kept crawling, but as long as he was talking about the maps the tunnel didn’t seem so tight. “It’s why I wanted to be a mapmaker. There’s some in the Grand Museum, in Kroliss. I’ll show you sometime.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I mean, that’s if we ever – if we ever –”

  “You’ll show me when we get out of this.” Breeze’s voice was firm. “Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  His hands felt empty air. Fleetfoot was so shocked he lost his balance and fell forward, but before he could crash Breeze caught him.

  She helped him stand. “See? You did it.”

  He wanted to kiss her, but knowing his luck, and given the darkness, he’d end up planting his lips on the slimy stone wall. That’d be awkward. Not that his earlier embarrassments seemed to bother her.

  She took his hand. “Nice work, Fleet.”

  They strode along the tunnel. With her hand holding his, Fleetfoot felt almost peaceful. It was easy to imagine them strolling next to the Exbourg, watching the water lapping at the riverbanks and letting themselves draw closer as the night progressed …

  Fleetfoot chuckled. People said he had an overactive imagination, but pretending a damp tunnel was Kroliss’ most romantic promenade took things to a new level.

  Coldness seeped into him. Father hated his imagination. Baron Hargrieve had no time for stories, or plays, or games. No. Hargrieves were gruff and stiff-lipped and when they came of age they plunged their hands into the Ancestral Flame and pledged their service like real men.

  He’ll forgive me. I just have to find the Skull.

  An unpleasant jolt ran through him when he remembered what Marogan said. She hadn’t found it. How would Fleetfoot and Breeze do better? They weren’t Pyromancers.

  A stone sunk into Fleetfoot’s guts. This was his chance to make Father forgive him, to reunite with his siblings, and Mother, but now that chance was gone.

  No! There must be some way to find it.

  He turned to ask Breeze if Wisp gave any backup plans. Her sharp cheekbones looked exquisite in the dim light.

  Wait. Light?

  The tunnel was growing brighter, but darkness stretched before them. Fleetfoot turned to look back.

  At the far end of the tunnel, beyond the hole they’d crawled through, was a faint light.

  A flame.

  “Fleet, you’re crushing my hand.”

  “B-back there.” He gulped. “It’s her.”

  Breeze turned. Despite the dimness he could see her eyes.

  “Shit,” whispered Breeze. “Keep walking, but quiet. She might not have heard us.”

  Fleetfoot nodded. Sweat streaked down his spine. His trousers stuck against his shins and he wanted to pry them loose, but what if it made a noise?

  They crept along the corridor. Fleetfoot winced. What if he stepped in a puddle? What if he skidded on a slimy stone and crashed on his backside?

  Footsteps echoed in the distance. They grew closer. Fleetfoot bit his lip, because if he opened his mouth, he’d scream. He remembered Marogan, shrieking as the flames enveloped her –

  “Hmm.”

  Fleetfoot froze. So did Breeze. His hands trembled and he clenched them into fists, but then his whole arm was shaking.

  “You rats small enough to get through?” said Xaphess.

  Her voice was close. Too close. Breeze lent towards Fleetfoot and her warm breath washed over his ear.

  “She’s talking to herself,” whispered Breeze. “Must’ve reached the blockage. Keep going.”

  Fleetfoot forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, and then another, and another. Was it his imagination, or was there something up ahead? The darkness looked different. A door? If they could get through, they’d be safe. Xaphess was too big to crawl through the hole behind them.

  “What do you think, Randalls?” said Xaphess. “Oh, that’s right. You’re not in my head anymore – no more orders for me. Bet you hate that. Although you should be used to death, just took you a few damn lifetimes to accept it.”

  What was she talking about? Fleetfoot’s hands trembled and if it wasn’t for Breeze beside him he would’ve huddled into a sobbing mess. Getting chased by a Pyromancer was already a death sentence. Getting chased by a crazy one just made things worse.

  Almost there, almost there –

  Fleetfoot’s toe clipped a stone and he tripped, slamming into the floor with a loud slap. Fear surged through him.

  Oh no, oh no –

  Xaphess chuckled. “So the rats did crawl through.”

&
nbsp; 14: FLEETFOOT

  Breeze yanked Fleetfoot up and they sprinted towards the door and the tunnel grew brighter and redder and Fleetfoot glanced back and flames roared through the hole in the rubble and rushed towards them-

  Fleetfoot slammed into the door. He reached for the handle but Breeze was already jiggling it, but the door was locked and the fire was growing closer. The air grew heavy with the stench of burning mould. Fleetfoot’s skin grew hot. Breeze slid her knife into the door’s seam and sliced down and the rusted bolt snapped and the door swung open and they fell into a corridor. They rolled to the side and fire washed through and struck the wall on the passage’s other side and they scrambled away and the fire flickered towards them, but weakly, because there was nothing for it to set alight.

  They crawled away from the flames. Fleetfoot’s heart pounded. Lucky they’d emerged into a T-junction, or the fire would’ve followed them around the corner. If Breeze hadn’t cleaved through the bolt, they’d be ash-marks against the door.

  Together, they staggered around the corridor. Fleetfoot glanced at his hands. They shook, along with his entire body. A metallic taste filled his mouth and when he spat blood he realised he’d bitten his tongue. He hadn’t even felt it. Ha!

  He turned to tell Breeze about the news, then realised she was limping.

  Fleetfoot gulped. “Are you okay? Did it get you?”

  “Fine, just rolled my ankle.”

  Relief flooded through Fleetfoot. A rolled ankle was painful, but it wasn’t a mortal wound.

  “Where are we?” Breeze asked.

  “I think we’re in the keep.” They’d walked far enough around the corner for darkness to return. “No windows, so we must be underground. Either sub-level one, or two…”

  They kept creeping through the dark corridor, bumping into walls and each other. Fleetfoot wanted to go faster. By now, Xaphess would’ve climbed back to the surface. She could reach them at any moment.

  But Breeze hissed with each step, and as much as Fleetfoot tried to ignore it, he realised she wouldn’t be running any time soon.

  “Any more tunnels like that?” she asked. “Leading into the forest?”

  “I’d bet so, but they weren’t on the maps. The spies mustn’t have found them.”

  “Where would you hide a secret escape tunnel?”

  “They’d only be for the most powerful family members … in the Baron’s quarters?”

  “Which are?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Breeze sighed. “Perfect.”

  They rounded the corner and light appeared ahead, streaming in from underneath a door. Iron bands stretched across the heavy oak, and there was no handle on this side, but the wood was ashen and crumbly and with a few solid kicks they splintered it off the hinges.

  Fleetfoot and Breeze emerged onto the walkway overlooking the Hearth. Light streamed through the gigantic hole in the roof. Ash swirled through the air, and Marogan’s fire flickered on the soot-stained floor.

  Fleetfoot pointed up at the hole. “Could you climb out there?”

  Breeze glanced at him and chewed her lip. “Maybe.”

  Fleetfoot nodded. At least she could escape if things grew dire. If Xaphess found them, Fleetfoot could hold her off and Breeze could flee. Once she climbed through the hole, she could climb across the keep’s roof, leap to the outer walls, scramble down them and hobble into the forest. At least she’d be alright. Even if Fleetfoot would boil alive, and even if his flesh would bubble and drip from his skin-

  He shuddered. “Breeze?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do we do?”

  His voice was feeble within the immense chamber. This place dwarfed him, and if Xaphess could destroy this, what chance did they have?

  Breeze pointed. “Try the doors. They might lead into the forest.”

  Fleetfoot nodded. So far, he’d used two of the room’s entrances: they didn’t lead anywhere they wanted to go, so he tried the third door. It led into a short corridor, blocked by fallen rubble.

  The fourth door revealed another collapsed hallway. Fleetfoot swallowed. They were running out of options.

  The fifth door led into a small chamber with a ladder leading upwards. Breeze touched the ladder and the rusted bars broke. She tried another rung and the whole ladder snapped off the wall. Cursing, Breeze propped it back against the stone, then chimney-climbed the shaft, ignoring the broken ladder. She vanished into the darkness. Fleetfoot squeezed his eyes shut. Would her ankle be up to the climb? What if she fell? Should he stand underneath the shaft, to catch her if she slipped, or would that hurt her more?

  Breeze fell from darkness and Fleetfoot shrieked, but she landed without so much as a grunt. She raised an eyebrow.

  Fleetfoot clutched his chest. “Don’t do that! I thought you’d fallen.”

  “I don’t fall.” She strode back outside. “Damn thing was blocked.”

  “With?”

  Breeze shuddered. “Bones.”

  How many people had died here? How many people had Xaphess killed? He wrapped his arms around himself to stop the coldness running through him.

  Breeze squeezed his shoulder. “One more door, Fleet.”

  “Yeah.” He swallowed and tried to pull himself back together. “You’re right.”

  The sixth door led into a staircase that sloped downwards.

  Hope flickered inside Fleetfoot. “We’re on a hill – if a tunnel leads into the forest, it has to head down first!”

  They ran down the stairs. The floor was slippery, and a fall could break their necks, but Fleetfoot didn’t care. This was freedom. It had to be!

  His boot plunged into water. He fell and stretched out his arms and his head crashed through water and icy coldness pierced his sides –

  Strong hands dug under his armpits. Breeze hauled him up and his head broke the surface. He gasped. She sat him on the steps and Fleetfoot brushed sodden hair out of his eyes.

  “Th-thanks,” he said.

  “We could try diving,” said Breeze in a reluctant voice. “Might be air on the other side.”

  Fleetfoot shook his head. “We haven’t gone far enough down – we’re still inside the hill. The stairs have a long way left before it flattens out – otherwise we would’ve seen an exit on the hillside.”

  “Great, because I can’t swim.”

  “Then what’s this nonsense with ‘we’?”

  “That way I also get credit.”

  Fleetfoot laughed. Together, they climbed back up the stairs, towards the light. Water dripped from his heavy cloak. When they reached the fire Marogan made, he stretched out his hands and basked in the feeble heat.

  “What now?” asked Breeze.

  Fleetfoot gazed at the fire. Searching the exits had distracted him, but it didn’t matter how much he tried to ignore it. Xaphess was coming.

  “I don’t know.”

  His voice sounded small. He sighed. Why’d he always have to feel so small?

  “I guess … seal the entrance?” said Breeze.

  Fleetfoot nodded.

  Great. Something even I can do.

  They scavenged wooden boards, found loose nails, climbed up to the walkway, and used Breeze’s knife to hammer the planks to the main door. Fleetfoot winced. He doubted their fortifications could resist a sneeze. Xaphess was a different story. At least they only had to secure one entrance: the other five doors led to blocked passages.

  The realisation hit him. They hadn’t just stopped Xaphess from entering – they’d stopped themselves from escaping. Fleetfoot rubbed his sweaty forehead. What now?

  Xaphess was stalking through the Castle. She could be here in minutes. There was no way to escape. By now, she’d probably set fire to the outer walls, enclosing them within a barrier of flame.

  Fleetfoot looked at Breeze. Her face was pale and he realised that for all her skills and all her grit she was just a little older than him. If only they had Wisp. He’d gotten them through countless scapes and would�
�ve gotten them through this as well.

  What would Wisp do?

  Form a plan, then cap it with a rousing speech … prepare for a fight, maybe make a –

  “Fire!” said Fleetfoot.

  Breeze tilted her head to the side. “What?”

  “Breeze, I know how we’re going to survive.”

  15: FLEETFOOT

  Fleetfoot looked at the roof, then at the floor. It was a long fall.

  “Breeze, are you sure?”

  She stretched her arms. “It’s either this or through the door we blocked.”

  She was right. Still, Fleetfoot clenched the rail. Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested this plan.

  “It’ll work, Fleet.”

  He swallowed. “If you don’t come back-”

  “I will.” She smiled. “See you soon.”

  She climbed the stone wall. Within seconds she reached the ceiling, seemingly untroubled by her rolled ankle. Fleetfoot tightened his grip on the rail. If she fell, he’d never forgive himself. Not that he’d have much time to mourn before Xaphess incinerated him.

  The ceiling was a latticework of steel beams that supported stone and timber and the whole Castle above. Breeze grabbed a beam. Fleetfoot flinched. He didn’t want to watch but he was terrified to close his eyes.

  Breeze swung out from the wall. Fleetfoot yelped. She was going to fall, plummet past him, hit the ground, and splatter.

  Except she stayed hanging from the beam.

  She swung forwards, flowing across the ceiling with uncanny grace. Her tall, lithe frame let her grip handholds that seemed ridiculously far apart. Fleetfoot gaped. How could she dangle from those beams? He’d seen her climb trees and buildings, but this was something otherworldly. He relaxed. She was lighter than air. Breeze would never fall.

  Within seconds she reached the hole in the roof. A fluid twist flicked her legs up and over the hole’s lip and she dragged herself onto the floor above. If Fleetfoot remembered the plans correctly, she’d be in one of the servant’s corridors. From there, she’d climb through the layers of exposed hallways until she reached the keep’s roof.

  Fleetfoot shook himself out of his reverie and climbed to the floor. Thank goodness he had a ladder.