Chased By Flame

by Michael Wolff

  Something stopped him. Not the sudden urge to be verbally flayed seven ways, no. Certainly it wasn’t the sharp lack of aged book smell and soft lantern light that seemed safer to him than a steel-built fortress. It was the footsteps. Tiny footsteps, dogging his own. Twisting about he saw a small urchin in dirty rags. The urchin did not run into shadows upon discovery but instead merely stared, as if waiting for something. Big round irises dark as chocolate stared from within soot-streaked, sunken eyes. His gaunt face, worn away by fangs of hunger, rested upon a frame better suited for an undersized rooster. His limbs would have made better sticks. He’s thinner than I am. And he got thinner every time they crossed paths.

  “Momma’s still working?”

  “Momma’s still working.”

  The thin urchin stumbled over to his leg and glanced up at him with big brown eyes. “Carry?” Big, cursed, knowing brown eyes.

  Oh, why not? Lazarus could only get angrier. “Yes.” Kneeling Mykel raised the boy and propped him upon the shoulder. He was light enough that the burden gave him a flash of being a two-armed man, and the disgust warred with the warmth in his gut. If a strong gust came along the boy would fly away like a wayward feather. “Where do you want to go, Wil?”

  Caryl’s son smiled in a grin that stretched the dirt skintight to his face. “I wanna go see the castle!”

  “We saw that last time.”

  “I wanna see it again!” The boy bounced angrily. Mykel gripped his legs tight in fear he might float away. “I wanna see it again! From the tower!”

  “All right, all right. Calm down. We’ll go.”

  “As long as last time?”

  Sure. If I want to hand my head to Caryl on a platter. She had been red from head to foot when the search party—one of many; this was just the one she headed! —finally found them. “Short, Wil.”

  “Ohhh.”

  “You want to face your mother?”

  The boy shook his head vigorously.

  “All right then. Let’s go.”

  Instead of going forward they went back into the bazaar, snaking through the twin storms of sound and stench, blacksmith shops and tanning vatyards bleeding into a miasma of belly-sick skunks. Mykel gagged again, and paused to lift his collar over his mouth. Wil glanced at him in confusion. “This doesn’t bother you? The smell?”

  “Nope.” He paused a moment before asking, “What smell?”

  Mykel just shook his head and picked up the pace. Wyatt’s Hammer, Whetstone Forge, Vulcan’s Keep. His eyes trailed after six more smithies before he found the one he wanted. Arms of the Arms. Mykel shook his head. Who thinks up these names? He stole behind the shop and bit back a groan. What was supposed to be a snaking path hidden by grass and stone thick enough to be its own forest was a boneyard. The pen almost looked like it was made from bone, and the horses penned within looked better suited below ground than above. Thin, slow, their bones more prominent than the pale flesh, they dragged themselves across the pen to gnaw on mounds of dirt, the grass already snatched for food, the soil too weak to provide more. It was pathetic, really.

  “What’s this?” Wil, now lowered to his own small feet, scuffed over to his side.

  “Wil, no...” He trailed off suddenly. He was about to say that this was no sight for little eyes, but what was the point? He’s probably seen worse here. Beyond the pen lay the familiar strip of weeds and tousled dirt. He sighed. It’s still there.

  A thin balding man, presumably the keeper of the boneyard, came out of a rotting outhouse as they passed; his flat eyes scanned them but he himself did nothing to approach them. Things must really be bad. Those who could afford a horse would most certainly go somewhere else to purchase it. If a man did not jump at the chance to hawk wares to the few people that did come, even by chance—Mykel sighed and continued.

  The path twisted its way around the ancient castle to a shamble of half-broken towers topped with spiky crowns. There were no guards about, so he whispered, “Do you remember what I told you about the castle?”

  Wil nodded; it looked like his head bobbed clear off. “Um... a long time ago this castle was the home of the Sala—the Saladin—”

  “Salamander.”

  “Salamander.”

  “Good. What else?” Sharp-edged stones began creeping into the path; they dodged around them as they talked. “Why was the ruler called the Salamander?”

  “Um... because he was a lizard?”

  “No.” Mykel held his hand to guide him about the ever-increasing mounds of rubble. “The ancient Weirwynd had a different hierarchal order than we have today. Back then they worshipped animals highly. Not surprising considering the practice of familiars during that period.” A series of rather large stones, jutting from the earth, strewn across the path. Mykel alternated between pausing and lecturing. “Thus they based social status on a chain of animals based on their elemental magicks. Salamander was the lowest official in terms of rank.” Finally, they cleared the last rock. “Do you understand?”

  Wil nodded. He also looked as if he were on the verge of bursting into laughter.

  Mykel sighed silently. “They liked animals a lot, so they named their rulers after them.”

  Wil clamped his lips shut but still giggles escaped. Then he caught sight of the tower behind them and raced past. “Come on! We’re there! Come on! Don’t be a snail!”

  “Wil! Wil, wait!” The urchin ignored it and raced on, lighter than a feather. Mykel, fearing he was going to float away at any moment, gave chase. “Be careful of the rocks!” The damned kid was scrambling over them like a spider, for gods’ sakes! It was unnatural to be that damned fast. “Wil, wait!”

  “Hurry up!” the urchin called, his voice mischief on the wind. “We’re almost there!”

  The great granite tower, forgotten by the castle denizens, stood like a wounded lion against the night, wearing a crown of cracked spires and robes of snaking moss. A piece of history that no one wanted remembered.

  Wil stared at the tower in awe, his thin wire of a neck bent back almost double trying to see its top. Mykel chuckled silently. No matter how many times they came to this place together his awe was as deep and bright as it was the first time he’d seen it. A thousand years, and the only ones who remember it are an urchin and a castle librarian.

  Well, only one, rather, the urchin cared not for the history of this place. It was almost a thousand years since the Salamander reigned, and in a castle far grander. This was the forgotten wing of the Kal Jada’s castle. Once there had been four such wings, but a war between Weirwynd orders had brought about their fall. Since the Salamander was of low ranking the castle was passed over by the shifting powers in favor of other, grander castles. Eventually, historians forgot it altogether. All except for me.

  A sudden tug at his leg brought him back to reality. “Can we go inside now?” Wil whined.

  “Okay, okay.” Mykel led the boy within. The tower, once known as Hell’s Finger, wound upward in a cracked stairwell than had more cobwebs than lanterns, but the cracks in the walls provided enough sunlight to compensate. Mykel could feel Wil’s eagerness in his bones, the way his little hands tugged at him. The librarian knew better, and wasn’t going to risk aged steps by chance pressure. Tapping each step with his toe twice before advancing, he winced when the aged stone cracked and clattered down. The wince doubled at the top when, counting them all up, he realized there were five missing steps from the stairwell. It’s getting too dangerous to climb up here. Mykel glanced at the beaming, wide-eyed face and mourned the fact. This is the only way we spend time.

  The tower used to be a watchtower in its grandeur, and by the devil’s own luck some part of that top floor was spared the destruction that
rent that remainder of the tower, ending in a jagged half-moon disc of stone bricks. As usual Wil rushed from his side to take a seat at the disc’s end, his legs dangling over the side as twigs would in a firm breeze. “Come on!”

  Mykel smiled and took a seat alongside the urchin. Below them stretched a dark blanket of hay houses pinpricked with spotted flames, and before them spread a sky layered in purple and pink and dying red, the clouds flashing brightly as the sun descended beyond each of them. Wil’s eyes darted eagerly at each wonder, straining to see everything at once, giggling at his guesses of which ant-like person seen from above really was from down below. Mykel smiled at his childlike wonder. If I take him here a hundred times more he’ll laugh the same. I wonder when that dies. When do children get tired of the things that parents enjoy?

  He looked at Wil, really looked at him. There was much of Caryl in him, transmuted into a boy’s features; the black hair gone lank over his brow, the brown eyes with just a hint of feline amber-jade, the high cheekbones. Yes. There was much of Caryl in him. Entirely too much; it was almost impossible to tell who the father. The brown eyes could be mine... as could from any brown-eyed man in the county. He could ask Caryl, he supposed, but he dismissed the prospect almost at once. That secret she kept closer than the coffers she earned.

  It does not matter, he reminded himself. There’s nothing I can give if it were true. The bastard of a bastard would draw less worth than a scullery maid; a librarian’s bastard even less so. Not that he completely rejected the idea. She won’t do it. Marriage was needed to claim heirs, and Caryl was not going to marry someone solely to alleviate one man’s guilt. Certainly she had her own guilt to consider.

  Frustrated Mykel shook his head. What do I know of raising a child, anyway? It took patience, hardship and caring; the three things Mykel could ill afford. All he could do was dole out gold. The shame burned as would a blacksmith’s furnace. “Come on Wil. Time to go.”

  “Ahhh. Can’t we stay just a little longer?”

  “No. Your mother will be worried sick.”

  “If she’s not working,” the boy grumbled, and Mykel spun him around forcefully.

  “What do you mean?”

  Wil snorted, and suddenly all the child in him was gone, replaced by bitter hardness. “You know what she does. She’s doing it all the time. She cares more about that than me.”

  “You should know better than that.” Mykel’s voice dropped to a low fervor, almost to a growl. “I know it’s difficult to understand, but your mother loves you very much. It’s because of you that she works so hard.”

  “I know that,” he said pertinently. Dejected the urchin’s shoulders slumped sharply “Come on. It’s getting late.”

  “Wil...”

  “Come on!” Twisting about the boy regained his former fervor, bouncing from step to step, quick as a jackrabbit in heat. “Come on, snail! Bet I can beat you!” Laughing he disappeared from sight, with Mykel grumbling all the way down. Finally, when the librarian did touch ground he was panting and sweat-slick, and Wil was all but falling from the boulder he sat upon in his laughter. “I told you! Snail! I told you I could win!”

  “You always win.” Mykel said with more than a hint of a grumble.

  “That’s because you’re slow.” Bouncing off the rock Wil flexed his legs. “You’re not fast like me.” He made to sprint off again and found himself hanging a little way off his feet. “Hey!” He writhed about till he could see Mykel holding him afloat by the collar.

  “Slower is safer.” Mykel said with more determination than he felt. “We are walking.”

  “You sound like Momma,” he pouted.

  “She’s a wise woman.” Mykel rattled the urchin before saying, “Will you walk?” He waited for the reluctant nod before releasing the urchin’s collar. “Good. Let’s get going.” Even then he kept a grip upon the urchin’s shoulder. He wasn’t that stupid. Wil apparently wasn’t either. The vigor twitched his bones but he didn’t stray from the librarian’s side once during the short walk back. Mykel sighed once they were in eyesight of the brothel. No Solvicar, no beggars, no nothing. At least one thing is going right tonight.

  “Hey.” Wil tugged at his sleeve and pointed. “What’s going on over there?”

  Mykel glanced up and slowed. Suddenly a thousand people crammed in the courtyard where there had been none moments ago. What in the... The people stood in twin lines parallel to one another, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Shifting eyes danced among the whispers of gossip as each one, peasant and highborn, waited impatiently for the proof of their tales.

  They’re waiting for someone. A nobleman finally returning from a hunt, perhaps. Or a favored merchant known to charm the townsfolk with tales of the world’s matters. It could be anything, really.

  Well, there isn’t any use in complaining at the moment. Pulling Wil along, Mykel made his way to the side of the crowd near the jail, where the men in stocks lay in bedraggled wait.

  “I wanna go home.”

  “So do I, Wil. So do I.” The crowd wasn’t getting any thinner, though. “We’ve just got to wait a little bit longer, okay?” The murmurs quieted as the rapid clip-clop of many hooves rang from the horizon. “Look, it’s a parade.”

  They came from the mist, piece by piece. First the drummers. Broad, hooded robes dappled their faces with light shadows, so there was not a whit of difference between them. Only in the cloaks, patterned after fire in shape and shade, did they find identity. Some robes had fire bright as the sun. Others had the thin halo of orange lining the seams, and still others had the gray of ash and smoke. Murmurs wandered about this strange symmetry, and the person gallant enough to prepare such an odd welcome. Mykel knew with the certainty of cold, dead history. The Weirwynd announced themselves by the sigil of their powers. He remembered the aged tome pages as if they were before him. It was a part of their social culture, the hierarchies of politics and tradition, stretching three thousand years.

  Normally Mykel would have scoffed at the cluster tightening about him, at them and of himself. Many nobles desired to “prove” their lineage extended back to ancient times. Most of them did this by flanking every ounce of free space with banners wreathed in elemental art. It was rather funny. They sought status upon a tradition they only half-knew. Cats with a ball of yarn, they were. Stupid cats, too.

  Mykel sighed. “All right, Wil. It’s over. Let’s get you home.” Nothing from the lad, only a lifted weight at his shoulders. “Wil...” Mykel glanced downward, hoping that nothing was wrong, everything was as it should be...

  Nothing. Wil had vanished, swallowed by the rivers of people. Mykel spit out a dozen curses that made the people about him trace warning signs as they passed. Mykel did not notice them; he was too angry and afraid. He didn’t know which was which; the two seemed to bleed together in a cascade of emotion. “Wil? Wil!” The fear seized his throat, forcing limbs and body to shake as if possessed. “Wil! Wil, where are you?!”

  It was only a minute. One minute, dammit! A thousand nauseating scenarios piled over each other like fire igniting upon oil. Mykel forced them all aside with one massive rejection. Focus! He can’t have gotten far. “Wil!”

  But the boy was not to be seen. Mykel went racing through the crowd, bobbing and weaving about, saying a quick series of apologies left in his wake. He went to the smithy, to the tanner’s vats and even the bone-yard, scouring for Wil but finding a hundred children in his place. “Wil! Damn you! Where are you?” The ocean of people did not even shimmer with difference at the plea. Only a minute! A minute! “Wil! Where are you?”

  It was the roaring laughter that stopped him. Not three feet away were a wall of men, frantic, screaming men; many waving fists full of coin. There was nothing that distinguished the gambling hol
e from any other street-bet; still Mykel found himself tugged to the forefront. Each step forward robbed Mykel of warmth. By the time he reached the head of the crowd, his veins were frozen.

  Everything slowed to a snail’s pace, with every detail clear and crystalline, with an eternity to admire every single angle. The men, making the borders of a makeshift arena. Fists not choking their gold animated the arena walls with pushing and prodding. The foxhounds, slavering jaws white with foam; their eyes bloodshot and frames tipping between lean and starvation. And one little boy, dirty and confused and frightened, screaming his lungs out.

  A gleam of silver caught Mykel’s eyes; he stared as though the coin held the secrets of existence itself. They were betting on how long the boy would last against one—no, three—foxhounds. They were betting how long it would take for the hounds to rip him apart piece by piece. Some were betting on the boy’s survival, though those few swayed with the haze of drink.

  Rage propelled the librarian into the arena. A sliver of reason put him between Wil and the ravenous hounds. From far away a cloud of flies were buzzing; after a moment Mykel realized it was the gamblers, their thunder muted as though from a great distance. They existed only as a threat to Wil’s well-being. In his rage Mykel knew he had to protect Wil from the men as well as the hounds, making a difficult task almost impossible.

  The dogs attacked their new prey. The one on the left hurdled forward. Rage and starvation made the hound strong but predictable. One swipe from Mykel’s khatar severed snout from bone. The librarian took a moment’s pleasure in watching the beast whimper its way to the crowd’s edge and finally slump to the ground, dead.

  The second and third dogs paid no mind to their fallen brother. Instead they circled the new prey. They must have been hunters before condemned to this madness. Then there was no more time to think.