It was wonderfully cozy, with a fireplace crackling on the far side of the room and the body heat of what looked like the entire village pressed together in barstools and dining tables. The source of the music was a feather-hatted flautist sitting on a modest stage. A few couples were dancing, but most everyone seemed to be there for the drinks and food. Scorch only had to stand in the doorway for a moment before a young lady linked arms with him and dragged him further into the tavern.
“Hi, handsome,” she cooed. “I’m taking care of you tonight. Hungry? Thirsty?” She was a petite creature, with big doe eyes and bountiful freckles dusting her cheeks. She was fit and her skin was dark, and Scorch fancied her immediately.
He bent low to whisper in her ear. “Hungry and thirsty, yes. Among other things.”
She laughed with a keen brightness in her eyes. “Well, follow me, sir, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
The tables by the fire were full, so she led him to one near the bar, pushing him down into a chair and ignoring the whistles of a few drunken patrons.
“My name’s Flora. Tell you what. I’m going to pop into the kitchens and have them fix you up a plate of something hot. But first, I’m going to pour you a mug of ale. You look like you need it.” She kissed his cheek and smelled like freshly baked bread.
“Lovely. Then will you marry me?” he asked, tilting his head in a way he knew showcased the attractive jut of his cheekbones.
She snickered and shoved a playful hand into his shoulder before skittering off to the bar. He watched her appreciatively as she leaned over to exchange words with the barkeep, and he wasn’t the only one watching; most of the men in the room, and a few women, were well occupied by the pleasant curve of Flora’s body and the cheerfulness of her face. But there were a few patrons who seemed more interested in watching Scorch. As Flora bounced back to his table and set a frothy drink in front of him, he experienced the awkward moment of accidentally catching someone’s eye. A strange man with roughly worn skin was studying him from the bar, and when Scorch met his gaze, the man held it like a dare. Never one to back down from a challenge (and still steamed up from thoughts of ravaging Merric earlier in the day), Scorch offered the stranger a wink, smiling at him and the two other men in his company. He held their slightly unnerving eye contact until Flora shifted her weight and created a barrier with her hips.
“Drink up, handsome, and I’ll be right back with something for you to eat.” She ran a hand through his hair and twirled off for the kitchens.
Scorch grinned into his mug as he took the first few sips. The ale was cool and he felt instantly revived. When he looked back up at the three men, they were no longer staring at Scorch, but speaking to one another with their heads huddled close. A spark of curiosity flared within him one moment and was smothered the next, when the flautist came over to his table and sat across from him.
“Sorry to bother you,” said the flautist, a boy who looked no older than sixteen. “I couldn’t help but notice you when you came in.”
Pleased with himself, Scorch took another gulp of his ale. “And I noticed you,” he confessed. The boy was too young to catch his genuine interest, but he had an interesting face and a pleasant voice, and after spending the day walking alone in the woods, Scorch was craving another human’s company. “You’re gifted,” he said, nodding at the flute in the boy’s hands.
“Oh, I’m nothing special. Not like you.”
The words were said with such knowing, such sureness that Scorch froze, and for a few terrible seconds he couldn’t breathe, but then the boy spoke again, oblivious to Scorch’s momentary panic.
“I mean, I just play an instrument and tell stories, but you must be a real hero, right? You’re a guardian, aren’t you? We get some through here from time to time, but I’ve never gotten to speak with one before. You are a guardian, aren’t you?”
Scorch drank deeply from his mug until nary a drop was left. He set it down and let it clunk loudly against the tabletop. His heart was beating fast and he laughed at himself for letting the kid give him such a jolt of adrenaline. Special. “You caught me,” he answered. “I’m from the Guild.”
“From the Guild?” Flora asked, appearing out of nowhere with a bowl of stew and a plate of bread and cheese. “Is that true? You’re a guardian?” Scorch nodded and bit into a crusty piece of bread. “Oh! That’s exciting, isn’t it?” She scooped up his mug and nudged the flautist with her hip. “I’ll be right back with a refill. Felix isn’t bothering you, is he? He’s awful nosy.”
“No, Felix is divine,” Scorch laughed, enjoying the flautist’s widening eyes at a guardian’s approval. “Maybe he’ll play me a tune to keep me company in your absence.”
But when Flora returned to the bar to refill Scorch’s mug, Felix the Flautist stood up from the table. “I need to get back to work before I get in trouble,” he said, fiddling with the flute in his fingers. “But I’d love to dedicate the next song to you.” He was blushing fiercely now and not looking Scorch in the eye. “It’s really such a pleasure to meet you.”
Before Scorch could respond, Felix was half-running back to his little stage, the feather in his hat fluttering. A few patrons clapped for him, and he cleared his throat before speaking up. “Ladies and Gentlemen, t-tonight we have a special patron with us,” he began, stuttering adorably and flourishing a hand toward Scorch’s table. “It’s always an honor to host a g-guardian, and this n-next song is for you.”
When the music began, all eyes were on Scorch, including the three men at the bar, and when Flora returned with his ale, several men and women were flocking around his table. He could hardly hear Felix’s flute with all the excited chatter surrounding him. As if staking her claim that she’d found him first, Flora set Scorch’s mug down and then set herself down, right in his lap.
“You’re too handsome to be a guardian,” she declared. “Shouldn’t you have grisly scars from fighting?”
“Not if I always win the fight,” Scorch responded, and his audience laughed, charmed. He both enjoyed the attention and found it off-putting, but Flora’s weight was warm and comfortable in his lap, and he let one hand rest on her thigh while his other hand fed himself dinner and finished off his second mug of ale.
Everyone at the table wanted to know more. Always more. So Scorch kept talking. Some of it was truth and some of it was what he knew they wanted to hear. For example, he really was an excellent swordsman, but he had never taken down a brigade of bandits before. He knew how to kill a man a dozen different ways, but he’d only ever practiced on straw-stuffed dummies. But since Scorch had never heard of a few fabrications causing anyone any harm, he saw no reason to feel guilty for his half-lies. Technically, he was a guardian. No one needed to know it was only his first day being one.
At one point, Flora whispered in his ear, “Have you ever fought an elemental?”
Scorch squeezed her thigh. He could feel her breath quicken. “No,” he answered. “But I’ve met a few.” And he told what truths he could.
When the night was headed fast toward morning and the last of the patrons were filtering out of the tavern, he had a stomach full of drink and a lapful of Flora, and when she wriggled playfully against him, he nuzzled her neck and gripped her side.
“I have a room,” she said, “behind the tavern.”
Scorch quickly scanned the bar for the men who’d caught his eye before, but they were long gone. After kissing the blushing flautist on the cheek, Scorch let the lovely barmaid take the lead.
****
It started as a small flicker that warmed his heart, same as always. She touched his cheek and her fingers made his skin tingle. He watched her hand retreat and brush across the kindling.
He shivered on his bedroll. His father knelt beside him, pressed a large hand to his forehead, and he fell asleep in a summer fog.
Warmth, constant warmth.
Blood splattered his face, dripped in his eye, and it was hot. It burned his skin like the smoke burned his lungs.
But he couldn’t scream or they’d find him, they’d find him.
He cowered in a bush of thorns until their blood was cool and hard. Tears streamed more warmth down his cheek.
His flesh was splotched and feverish. He could see their bodies piled where he’d been sleeping so soundly.
****
Scorch was gasping when he woke. He sat up in bed and grasped at his throat. It took him a few moments to regain his sense of reality. It always took a few moments, after he had a dream about his parents, to remember he was safe.
The room was dark, which was good. It meant nothing was burning. And once he put his hand down and felt the weight beside him, he remembered where he was and whom he was with. His eyes were slowly adjusting, and it was touch alone that guided his palm across the slope of Flora’s hip, across her ribs, and over her curls.
Scorch wondered what time it was, but it could not have been too long since they’d collapsed into heavy sleep, because he could still feel traces of sweat dampening her skin. He half-heartedly wished to wake her. As used to nightmares as he was, they were easier to banish with the help of a physical distraction.
He trailed his fingers from her hair to trace the hollow of her neck, which had been sensitive to his attentions earlier. Her skin was slick with sweat, so he moved to adjust the blankets with thoughts that she must be too warm from all of Scorch’s body heat. But when he gently pulled down the blankets, something wasn’t right.
He couldn’t yet make out her face in the dark, but he could make out her shape, and it jostled unnaturally when the bed bounced with his movement. He touched her shoulder.
“Flora?”
His fingers felt sticky as they lifted from her skin.
“We had to stop her from screaming, see.”
Scorch’s reaction was instant. He rolled from the bed and dropped to the floor. His hand reached out for his sword, which he’d leaned against the bedside table for the night, but his hands found nothing but empty air. He strained his eyes through the dark to find the man who had spoken. As soon as he spotted a dark mass moving by the window, hands seized him from behind and yanked him to his feet. He thrashed wildly, but whoever held him held him fast, their fingers like iron.
“She was a much lighter sleeper than you,” the dark mass said, his shadow growing larger as he stepped closer. “Woke up right away.”
He was right in front of him now, and Scorch’s eyes were finally adjusted enough to make out a few details of his face. Gruff, leathery skin, a cold stare—it was the man who’d been staring at him from the bar.
“Now, I’d expect a guardian like you to possess about him certain habits. But you’re shockingly green, aren’t you? Weapon beside the bed, braggart in the tavern, not knowing the difference between being sized up for a brawl or a buggering.” The man leaned in to whisper in Scorch’s ear, and his breath was hot. “Led us straight to you.”
Scorch bucked backward. The man at his back banged hard against the wall but didn’t loosen his grip, and then a third man suddenly presented himself, stepping into Scorch’s line of sight with a sword pointed at his belly—Scorch’s sword—and he could see well enough now to see it was coated in blood.
His eyes flew desperately to Flora’s limp form on the bed as the man hissed a cruel laugh.
“She’s dead,” he said.
“No,” whispered Scorch, and now all three men were laughing, horrible laughs that made his skin crawl with fever.
He knew in the pit of his stomach she wasn’t alive, but he didn’t let himself think it until the man struck a match and lit the lantern beside her bed. There was no escaping her fate after that, because the man grabbed a fistful of Scorch’s hair and forced him to look.
There was blood everywhere, soaking the sheets and the pillows, and pooling on the floor. And in the center of it all, there she was, throat gaping, not neatly slit, but gashed messily. Her eyes were open, grey and dead and staring at the ceiling.
A violent tremor took hold of him. A heave brought him to his knees and the man holding him let him drop. Scorch’s fingernails scraped at the floorboards, and in the golden glow of the lantern, he could see his bloody hands. He looked down at his bare chest, and it was covered in blood. Flora’s blood was all over him. He vomited. An agonizing groan stole from his throat.
“Ebbins, let’s get out of here,” said the man holding Scorch’s sword.
Scorch was trembling; he couldn’t stop. He tried to close his eyes and pretend he was back at the Guild, but all he saw was a neck hacked wide.
“Grab him and let’s go,” responded the man called Ebbins.
Fingers dug into his scalp and forced him up by the hair.
“He’s naked,” said the man with the iron grip, and Ebbins spat on the floor at Scorch’s bare feet.
“Grab his clothes. Won’t get paid if he freezes to death before we get there.”
When Ebbins turned around, Scorch launched himself at his back. He could feel a chunk of his hair ripping free and nails scraping at his arms, but he kicked out desperately, landing a hit square in one man’s stomach. He got his hands wrapped around Ebbins’ throat, was choking, choking, but then he felt the tip of a sword at the back of his neck, and stilled.
Ebbins pried Scorch’s fingers from his throat and turned slowly to face him. He gestured to the man with the sword to join his side, and the man circled around, keeping the tip of the blade against the soft skin of Scorch’s throat, cutting a thin, shallow line that dribbled red.
Iron Grip returned behind him, locking onto his wrists. Scorch’s breathing was ragged, and he could feel the heat rushing beneath his skin, could feel the control seeping slowly from his grasp.
“Fuck, it’s hot in here,” Ebbins muttered, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead.
He took Scorch’s chin between his fingers and squeezed so hard, he thought he might be sick again. He was still shaking, sweat dampening his hair, and a sob was waiting in the back of his throat. All the while, Flora’s dead eyes stared sightlessly.
Ebbins brought their faces close together. “I’d slice that pretty face right off if I didn’t think it’d fetch me a higher price unmarred,” he rasped.
Scorch surged forward with a desperate cry, bashing his head against Ebbins’ nose. It crunched loudly as it broke. Heh had time to bark a laugh of triumph before he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. He hit the floor and knew nothing else.
The Circle
3
His eyelids felt glued together and opening them was difficult, but the pain of searing daylight was worse. As soon as his eyes squinted open, he shut them again, a moan leaving his lips. He was no longer shaking, but the earth around him was. No, not earth. He flexed his fingers, hands bound behind his back, and felt the coarse texture of unfinished wood. He listened, heard the rumble and squeak of wheels. His nostrils flared and, beneath the heavy scent of blood and sweat and sick, he could smell horses. After a moment, he was able to pick up on the click of hooves, as well. So he knew he was in a wagon, but he didn’t know where he was going.
Moving was useless. His feet were tied together, along with his hands, and a rope was fastened around his neck, tethered to something that resisted his pull when he tried rolling to his side. He struggled to open his eyes again, peering in a daze to his left. There was the rope leading from his neck, and at the end of the rope was Ebbins, holding on tight.
The night flashed behind Scorch’s eyelids in horrific clarity.
He was almost glad when Ebbins stood in the moving wagon and delivered a swift kick to his stomach. The pain knocked him out again, and instead of red, he saw only black.
****
The next time he came to, it wasn’t of his own volition, but at the insistence of the villainous grip on the other end of Scorch’s rope. His eyes came open when Ebbins began dragging him from the wagon by the rope lead, his throat constricting beneath the pressure. He tried to scramble to his feet, but they were bound tightly together, so
he had no choice but to let Ebbins drag him to the edge of the wagon. Thankfully, the man leapt down, and instead of pulling Scorch out by the neck, he drew out a dagger and cut the rope around his ankles. A moment later, the dagger was pressed against the corner of Scorch’s eye.
“Try to run for it and I’ll catch you. I catch you and I cut out your eyeball. Understand?”
Scorch understood and nodded weakly. If he’d been entertaining any grand plans of escape, they evaporated as soon as Ebbins hauled him from the wagon and he collapsed on numb, tingling feet. He couldn’t have run away if his life depended on it. His life did depend on it, and there he was, a trained guardian, unable to even stand on his own.
Ebbins snorted and lifted him up. Scorch sputtered helplessly as his captor tugged him along. His neck was tender from the abuse of the rope and he was too nauseous to notice his surroundings. He only knew he was outside for several painful steps, and then he was inside, some place dark that smelled like spoiled meat.
His feet were asleep, stabbing him with a thousand needles, pain shooting up his legs every time he was forced to take another step. As Ebbins pulled him along a dank tunnel and commenced to lead him down a set of winding stairs, Scorch realized his feet were no longer bare. Sometime between being abducted from Flora’s room and now, someone had done a haphazard job of dressing him. He wore his jerkin with no shirt beneath, and he had on his trousers but his belt was gone, along with Etheridge’s pouch. His satchel was gone, too. His sword was fastened to Ebbins’ hip. Rage curdled in his gut.
Ebbins shoved him ahead through a rickety door. Scorch fell forward, landing with a crack on his knees. He gritted his teeth and looked up at the room in which he’d been shoved. A sallow-faced man occupied it, and little else. Scorch could hear Ebbins breathing through his mouth while the man in front of him bowed down to get a good look, his eyes darting over Scorch’s body in rude appraisal.
The Sun Guardian Page 3
