Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  “Jordan!” Sasha snapped. Growling to herself she took his ears and yanked sharply. The bartender came awake with a puppy’s whelping. “Oh, stop it Jordan. I wasn’t even trying.”

  Jordan grunted, rubbing his ears while trying not to look hurt. “What do you want, Sasha?”

  “A pair of rooms. For free.”

  Jordan’s scowl furrowed his face. “Now why would I be doing that?”

  Sasha smiled as though talking with a child. “I wouldn’t take that tone with me, cousin. Especially to the one –” At this she raised her voice. “– who cleared up those boils –”

  “All right, all right. Just shut your teeth.” The barkeep’s beady eyes saw beyond the herbalist to the patrons behind her; thankfully, no one heard. “Two men and one girl. Yeah, I got two rooms. It’ll be a gold mark for each of them –” he blanched as Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, all right! For free. But this makes us even.”

  “If you say so.” Grasping Shayna’s arm, she continued. “Shayna, you’re going straight to bed.”

  “What? But I feel –”

  “Fine, yes I know. I’m just here to make sure it stays that way. Lord Lazarus. LeKym.” The herbalist turned and marched up the stairs to the room, practically dragging Shayna behind her.

  “It’s a good thing our mothers are sisters.” Jordan grumbled. “I’ll lose all my custom I’ve had this night.” Mykel heard it with half an ear; he was more interested gazing upon the common room. Something itched at him, something that was out of place, like a lost part of a puzzle. Then a cotton-clad serving wench crossed his path, and it hit him like a hammer. The stories always had a dancer, or two, or three, or a whole pack of them, rescued from lives of nude slavery by the hero’s derring-do. So ingrained were the stories that Mykel found himself ingrained as well. It didn’t seem right that there were no girls flaunting their charms. And that was a stupid thought.

  “I heard...no shuddap...shuddap I am not drunk! Whatta you know...lissen...that guy over there...the storyteller...he looks a lot –” A belch blasted from the idiot’s lips, and just like that the room’s attention centered on the idiot. Not punched or drunk. Hanging the damnable fool had a particularly nice ring to it. By his gizzard. With hot irons and pinchers.

  “Looks like...that fatcat up north. The one with wolves, yeah him.” At the point of climbing the stairs Lazarus froze. “Poor bastard. Fancy palace...gone to ash. Stop laughing! I’m drunk not...” Words trailed away as Lazarus suddenly filled his vision. “Hey. Did you know you look alotta like that fatcat up north?”

  Lazarus’s voice dripped contempt. “Wyndei Darteria. Who told you it was burned down?”

  “Huh? Whatta izzit to you, pa? Ya needs a drink. Always calms me down –” The drunk yelped as suddenly Lazarus’ hands were on the other’s lapels and lifting till the drunk’s legs fluttered like a marionette.

  “Where. Did. You. Hear. This?”

  “Fa-farmers, man. They keep on saying the manor is burning. Lazarus’ manor this, Lazarus’ manor that.” Blinking, the drunk’s face curved to a grin. “Say, did ya know that you look alotta like this fancy noble?” His butt thudded to the floor as Lazarus released him. The Khatari’s eyes were closed, but the telltale whispers of flame told Lazarus was manipulating manna. After a moment his eyes opened, cold as ice. Three steps, each one punctuated by a creek of wood. Three steps and Lazarus took the librarian’s arm in an iron vice. Three steps and the shadows from the braziers closed about them like a cloak.

  Lazarus’s face was at the librarian’s ear, his words a whisper, soft like summer silk. “Do you see now, boy? Do you see how dangerous you are? My home, my servants are gone. Because of you.” Without another word, the old Khatari slipped away to the stairs for some sleep.

  “He’s right,” he said to Shayna. He never meant to burden her with hi problems, but his feet took her to her room nevertheless.

  “He’s wrong.” Shayna cradled his chin till they locked gazes, doe-like brown to the dark of boiled leather. “He’s just in shock. He didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, he did. And he’s right. It is my fault.” Mykel walked to the stairway, saw Lazarus’ back at the top stair. Silently he turned and vanished into a doorway that led to a cellar. Lazarus was right. He was always right. I’m a walking, talking curse. Instinctively he fled deep into the bowels of the basement, the one place that offered any kind of comfort. When his mind tired of chasing wayward thoughts, when at last the mill of blame and guilt ceased its machinations, it was not a dream that descended upon the librarian.

  It was a nightmare.

  XXXVII

  “Don’t worry. I took care of everything.”

  My—kelll!

  Mykel looked up – or was he looking down? There was no way to tell – and saw Sutyr, floating as he. He struggled to speak, but his words were flat, dry things.

  Myyyyykellll!

  “They will never know it was you. It will be...our little secret.”

  Mykel!

  “Mykel! Mykel! Where are you?”

  The librarian grunted, rose on his elbows and cursed when his head connected with a block of wood. Wood? True, the cellar stood upon a wooden framework. The foundations were the sole bastion of the material, and that was a good ten feet off the ground. What hit me? And dark! Why was it so dark?

  “Mykel!”

  It took him a few tries to work the moisture into his dry throat. “Here! I’m here!”

  Rustle, like the movement of frenzied ants, took the wood piece by piece, allowing beams of sunlight to stab into the shadow. At last when the final piece was shoved away, Mykel found himself encircled by worried faces. Smudge marks dotted Shayna’s face, and even bigger on Lazarus’. Panicked questions all around, and Mykel fended them off with a laconic word or three. When finally both were satisfied that, yes, I’m all right and yes, I don’t need any help, they moved aside to let the librarian ascend the cellar stairs and out into the open. It was bad enough that his mother treated him like a child. To have even the slightest mimicry of that from others was – what the hell?

  Mykel narrowed his eyes, watching the scars of the blackened land, watching the spots where fire still fluttered, trying to ignore the filth done upon the land even as he bent to examine it. Withered creepers and crumpled piles of ash were all that left of the houses. There were a few gray shapes scattered across the din, gray ending in jagged, broken black, steaming with little whispers of smoke. Bones, Mykel realized. Bones too small for adults.

  A sob pierced his reverie. Shayna had found Sasha’s mutilated corpse. Mykel wanted to go to her, but he had not the words to ease her guilt. Instead he started to Lazarus’ side, but even that would not break the history flowing through his mind.

  Ore Tin, year 2201. The thought whispered like a mocking caress, a damning caress. Over three hundred dead. Eighty percent were children and women. Reports say it was attacked by the Coicro. They staked those whom they believed Ravenkin, those traitors in evil’s employ. The rotting stench of the dead punched the thought home, and his lips twitched in distaste. No one was brave enough to pull the corpses from the stakes yet. This was a pivotal battle of what would later be called the Three-Day War.

  A growl rose from deep in his throat, causing Lazarus to grunt. I could have stopped this. The thought echoed in his mind amidst the din of voices battling in his brain, the screams of women and children being gutted like sheep. I could have stopped this. The voices echoed and pealed, over and over and over. His hands wanted to rip his ears off to make it stop. Nausea quivered him like a struck gong. I could have stopped this. If I only remembered.

  But the words came again. Sutyr’s words. I’ll take care of it. Take care of what? His gaze slid
down to his hands and suddenly he could not breathe. The dead arm. Our little secret. They’ll never know it was you. No, that’s just a dream! A stupid dream! It’s not my fault! Denial failed to kill the doubt that lingered after the thought. It’s not!

  He came to the dumping ground, filled with little crisp bodies. Most were arranged in a chaotic mass, arms and legs tangled into one another. Most still had their eyes open; their damning eyes chasing with the questions that had no answers. Why? Why did this have to happen? They’ll never know you did it. “I didn’t do this!” he screamed. Heads twisted to mark the reply, then turned back to their work. This was a day where even the bravest soul could crack.

  I could have stopped this. Looking over the razed town, the women and children plunged down on stakes and crosses, their faces twisted in grimaces of horror and pain; he knew it and cursed himself. I could have stopped this.

  Night came swiftly. Lazarus was at his side, watching with him as the men shoveled corpses in pits, dropped torches into already-large bonfires. “Come with me.” The old man led Mykel to his tent, occupied by a cot and a three-legged stool. Lazarus reached behind the cot to bring up a bottle of wine. Two glasses came from – somewhere – and were filled. Smooth fire went down the librarian’s throat. Lazarus sipped his, more intent on watching the wine swirling in his glass than drinking it.

  The next words were terrible, burning like hot lead. “I did this, didn’t I?”

  Silence, thick with tension. “With Sutyr’s help.”

  “The bracer –”

  “Is not enough. When you slept, Sutyr wrested the shiisaa’s power. It went out of control.” Lazarus glanced sideways, and for once his drilling eyes held a note of pity. “You look like hell.”

  “I could have stopped this.”

  “Don’t go there, Mykel. Yes, perhaps you could have stopped this. Or by doing something you may have caused a catalyst to an even greater calamity. That is the trouble with prophecy. The action you seek to change may set into motion the very decisions you take to prevent the problem in the first place. I’ve seen it happen far too many times. That path lies madness.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “No,” said Lazarus, suddenly somber. “No, it is definitely not easy.” He clapped Mykel’s shoulder; as closest to warmth the old man was capable of. “Go get some sleep. You need it.”

  He tried to sleep. But he couldn’t. Whatever promise sleep held for him, he could not find it. What if it happens again? What if the bracer frays another inch? What if the Fire goes out of control again? He tried to dismiss it from his mind; tried rolling to a better position, but the instinct would not abate. And Sutyr’s voice, above all the silent questions. I’ll take care of it. Mykel had no doubt the bastard salvaged the town for his own amusement. Stopping the town from being fully consumed was an example of the ease he touched the world.

  Twisting to find a comfortable position resulted in a soft jab to the ribs. Something was in there besides him. Grunting, Mykel floundered until he seized the obstruction and brought it out to the moonlight. A scroll, a pitifully small thing, fitting perfectly in his hand. Mykel stifled a growl. Sitting at the scroll’s exact center was a small red wax seal. The dark obscured it some but there was enough to recognize the curves and grooves of the seal. A wolf’s head, jaws open to howl at the moon. Lazarus’ sigil.

  This time he didn’t stop the growl. Really? Of all the times? Mykel propped himself up by the elbows and peered into the dark where Lazarus stood vigil. He gave it up after a moment, but the frustration remained. Probably planted it here on purpose. Expects me to just go tearing at the thing like an idiot. An image of the Khatari, stone-faced and silent, rose from the gloom of his thoughts, his stare enough to pierce the heart.

  Mykel put the thing back where he found it, rolled on his back and shut his eyes. Not going to play, old man. He brought it back out, examined it, turned it this way and that. The smell of the wax was strong. Lazarus could have sealed this thing moments before. He didn’t care when, though. The old man thought him a fool, which he wasn’t. Besides, Lazarus had any number of eldritch tricks to keep the scroll fresh. He could have writ the scroll years before to bring it into play now. Not that he cared.

  With a grimace, he put it into his cloak. For safe-keeping. Holding onto it didn’t exactly mean falling into the trap. In fact, the old man would regret his blunder. Now that Mykel was onto him, that made him more resilient against whatever truths the Khatari etched into the damn thing. If it were truths. It could be falsehood. Or half-truths, which were even worse. Leading him by the nose, forever shy on catching the lure. That was, if Mykel cared about whatever was inside. But since he was forewarned anyway...

  His fingers clawed the seal and were snatched away. Cold fire leapt to respond his touch, dissipating when the threat was over. Mykel tested it at all angles, and when the fire didn’t flare, the wax took on the solitude of a steel lock. He could scratch at the seal all night and still get seared fingers for his troubles. Damn Lazarus. He pocketed the damn thing as he rose. The old man had the answers, but this time it was Mykel who was delivering the lecture. Playing games after a night as raw as this. To shame.

  His boots slowed when he reached the tiny graveyard assembled hours before, mind lost in agony. Almost without thought he summoned Ifirit, and Mykel lost himself within the moonshine on the ruby. He was a man. No, more of a two-armed man. He was normal, now. So how could he fail in such a simple dilemma?

  Mykel paused. There was something...rippling...along the upturned dirt of the graves. Perhaps you should take the gauntlet off. For some reason, the idea roused the coalbeds to full flame. It would take more than a chance of contact with useless thoughts to sway him. Besides, there was no harm in keeping it on. In fact, there was no reason at all why he should not keep it on all the time. His dead arm was the better for it; it made him normal.

  The dirt shifted again, and this time it was not the librarian’s imagination. Cautiously he edged to the ripple. Seconds later the dirt exploded, and the blurring-black needle-fingers from the detonation slashed at the space where Mykel’s neck had been a breath before. “Versi!” he called.

  Even as the word left him Ifirit was embedded into the demon’s neck. Tearing away jetted a stream of purple blood that burned the ground it touched. Three more leapt from their dank womb, only to see Ifirit descending, cleaving their skulls in twain. Five more jumped aground to replace the three. This was Sutyr’s offer. This was how he “takes care of things.”

  Distinctly Mykel recognized Lazarus amidst the melee, and aside him Shayna. The distraction was costly; a claw snaked forward and scored along his chest. A quick jump back made the wound a thin red line rather than the fatal strike the Versi intended. Mykel returned with a backstroke that loosed the demon’s head from its hulk-like, misshapen shoulders. Still he stepped back. Lazarus and his charges took a step back.

  Back.

  Back.

  Back.

  Now the river stopped their flight, churning waters roiling as if in pain. Mykel knew they were doomed if the tide was not turned. Come on, damn it. Thoughts flashed by him, a dozen plans filling his head and then flying away like gossamer on the wind. Every single one ended with Ifirit. Come on, damn it. Do something.

  A strange feeling rose in the librarian’s body. His flesh was tingling as though set on fire, then his temper flared, breaking past fear, breaking past doubt. A savage hunger came over him, and clarity sharper than crystal snapped into place. Vision thinned to a slit of red. There was only him. The entire world, reduced to him, and the scores of demons lining up to take him. Ifirit rose and fell till the golden steel was thick in crimson, then fell even more. Every motion was precise, every slash, surgical. The demons leapt only to impale themselves on Ifirit’s
knife-fingers. Soon there was a ring about the librarian, a ring made by the blood of slain Versi. And still that was not enough.

  A sharp cry snapped the trance. Mykel twisted and saw the cry’s source: Shayna, fluttering upon the churning river. She must have been pushed back by the demon horde, and now was dragged ever downward into its current. “Shayna!” With no thought of his own well-being the librarian launched himself into the river.

  The water swallowed him. Mykel fought his way back to air, seeking the Companion. There. That mess of chocolate hair slipping downward. Mykel dived, fighting the current, fighting to go even deeper. Just when it felt his lungs would burst he spotted her. Grabbing her round the waist the librarian kicked violently for the surface.

  The current still had them in its grip. Mykel looked for something, anything to cling to. A flash of slender, dust-coated green went by him, and the librarian grabbed it. It was a thin weed, a lone tuft, miraculously enough. Mykel dragged first Shayna, then himself, to solid ground. Coughing, shivering, Mykel set to see how Shayna was faring.

  She was deathly still. She held no wound save for the claw-marks on her legs that had felled her into the mighty river’s grasp. She simply had too much water, was all. Mykel breathed into her, shoved fists into her gut until she sat upright and coughed water. Mykel sat back on his knees, rasping even harder. He didn’t recognize the piece of land under them, and for the moment he did not care. They had survived.

  “You came after me.” Shayna said.

  “You would have done the same.”

  Silent for a moment, Shayna lunged forward and kissed the librarian full on the mouth. It was quick but deep, and the way she pouted made his fingers itch to take her instead of pushing her away. “What was that for?”