Fire Heart

by Dan Avera

  Will frowned. “I don't understand. What'd they use it for?”

  “To summon demons.”

  Will stared. “Demons.”

  “Well, sure. That's what people call them now. Back then it was 'Keth's children.' That symbol that you saw there—the circle and star—would have been used to summon Keth's children.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “You know, I hear that way far down in the marshlands to the south, there are still people who believe in the old ways—and even some that worship Keth.”

  Will walked a short distance away, deep in thought. Off in the distance the sky was beginning to turn purple, and the land darkened. The windows of the town hall glowed orange as the fire continued to burn inside, and the stink of burning flesh permeated the air. Children of the Dark One, Will mused. Aloud, he said, “Tell me more about the demons.”

  “Well...what do you want to know?”

  “When I was about your age I fought for a deuk up north who thought wolves were stealing his cattle in the night.” Will turned back around to face Rik. “As it happened, there weren't any wolves for miles—they'd been wiped out by yaru.” He suppressed a shiver as memories of that waking nightmare began to surface unbidden. “I brought back one of the beasts' heads and showed the deuk. When he saw it, he had a similar reaction to yours when you saw the bodies.”

  Rik nodded. “Really the moniker 'Keth's child' or 'demon' is just a superstitious name for all the terrible things that lurk in the wild parts of the world. Yaru qualify for that, I suppose. Same with the night terrors in the southern swamplands and the dark wolves in the mountains. You even hear tales from sailors every now and again of tamyat in the seas, but those seem a little far-fetched to me.” He moved off a short way and stared into the sunset; the fiery orb had sunk almost completely below the horizon. “I hope it's just Karkashians or Eastlanders. That, I could handle.” He shook his head. “Listen, Captain, I apologize for how I reacted back there. I promise it won't happen again.”

  Will squeezed the boy's shoulder. “Get some sleep, eh?” he said. “We'll need to be rested.” Rik nodded, gave him a half-smile, and moved off toward the hut closest to the road they'd come in on. After a moment Will followed suit, stepping inside among the other men.

  He laid his weapons against the wall nearest him and loosened his sword in its sheathe, but left his armor on. Then he unclasped his cloak and rolled it into a lumpy, weathered pillow and lay down on the floor. “Sam,” he said, “you take first watch.”

  He was asleep a moment later.

  Four

  Eventually the wandering spirits came upon their brother Forod, the god of life. He stood surrounded by animals in a vast field of flowers; all of the creatures gazed on him adoringly, and he spoke to them in their language. He had disguised himself as a great oak tree, and Koutoum and Keth joined him beneath the shade provided by his leafy branches.

  “Brothers,” he greeted them, “how nice to see you. What brings you here this fine day?”

  “We were simply admiring our handiwork,” replied Koutoum.

  “Your handiwork,” Keth corrected.

  Forod twisted his trunk and leaned in close to Keth. “It could be yours as well, Young One. Will you not bestow your own gift upon our creation?”

  Keth smiled. “Of course I will! But first I must think of a fitting one.”

  “Your gifts are always fitting,” answered Forod. “Why, just the other day I saw you give humans the gift of time-keeping. Sun dials are such fascinating inventions!”

  Keth laughed. “Indeed, brother. But I want my gift to be magnificent.”

  “Whatever it is,” said Koutoum, “I am sure that it will never be forgotten.”

  ~

  Something was wrong. Will opened his eyes quickly but remained otherwise motionless, listening intently for whatever it was that had awakened him. The hut was completely devoid of light but he could still feel his way along the wall, and a moment later he hefted the reassuring weight of his sheathed longsword. He strapped it onto his back and slid his war hammer through the steel loop at his hip, wincing at the metallic click that followed. Then he stopped and listened.

  He could hear the soft snores of his men mingling with a small gust of wind that whistled through the cracks in the door, its tune punctuated intermittently by the distant crackle and pop of the fire in the town hall. What he could not hear was the man on watch. There were no footsteps, no clank of armor or weapons—no sounds of life at all. He hissed a soft whistle through his teeth, and tried once more when there was no answering note. When there was again no response his eyes narrowed and he rose slowly to his feet. Something was definitely wrong.

  There was a knothole in the door, one just large enough for him to peer out of with one eye, and he gently pressed his face against the grainy wood. He could see the burning building and the houses to either side of it, but the door was thick and beyond that his vision was obscured. With a small sigh of frustration he pulled away and knelt back down to the floor, careful to hold his hammer in place so that it would not hit anything.

  He slid his hand along the ground until he found the next sleeping man, and then gently but firmly covered the soldier's mouth. He felt muscles tense beneath his palm and heard the telltale hiss of a dagger being drawn, but he tightened his grip and leaned in close, whispering in the man's ear as quietly as possible, “Wake the others. Trouble.”

  Then he stood and crept back to the door, pressing his ear against it. He listened intently for a moment, closing his eyes and willing his ears to reach farther. There was the crackle of fire, the whistling of the breeze...but nothing else. No crickets, no owls, no sounds of life. It was the silence that had woken him, he was sure of it. A man could train himself to leave the dream world at a sound, or at the lack of one, and listening for the silence had saved his life several times. Guard should have been sitting in the shadows, he thought, so it shouldn't have been him. Everything would have been used to him by now—which means there's someone else out there.

  And then he did hear something—a strange, faint hissing noise, and then a scrape, as though something heavy had been dragged through the dirt. Will's eyes narrowed in confusion.

  “Ready,” a voice whispered to his left, so softly that he almost did not hear it, and Will took a deep, steadying breath. As it had just before he breached the gatehouse in Brightstone, time now seemed to slow around him. He heard the steady, dull beat of his heart pounding in his ears, and his muscles tightened in anticipation.

  Ready, he thought as he slid his helm down over his face, and then he exhaled and threw open the door, drawing his sword in the same motion. He did not shout a battlecry as he stormed through the entrance, nor did his men; surprise born of stealth, they knew, could be every bit as effective as a bloodcurdling scream. And so, silent as the night around him and with sword in hand, Will leaped into the clearing with murderous intent. He raised his blade and sought frantically for an opponent, only to find—

  Nothing? he thought, coming to an abrupt and confused halt. The crackling fire cast its angry glow across the village, and though the light was dim it was more than enough to see by. They must be in the shadows, Will realized, and he motioned for his men to fan out and move to where the fire did not reach. Could be hiding on the roofs with bows, he thought with frustration. Damn. Nothing I can do about it now. He would have to trust his men to be fast enough to hide if they had to.

  “Captain,” a voice hissed to his right, and he turned to see one of the men crouched down by a patch of bare earth. There was something at his feet that shone in the firelight.

  “What is it?” Will asked as he went and knelt down next to the man, but when his eyes went again to the thing on the ground his heart skipped in his chest. He knew all too well what it was.

  “Blood,” the man whispered, and then pointed a short distance away. “There, too. And see these scuff marks? Like something heavy was dragged across the ground right here. Something like a body.”
r />   “Who was on watch?” Will asked, and Sam came to stand at his side.

  “Rik,” said Sam. “He relieved me.” A stricken expression marred his face as his eyes found the blood on the ground.

  “We'll find him,” Will whispered, following the blood trail with his eyes. “Look—it goes down that way, back toward the forest. We'll need to bring torches, I think.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Sam replied, and darted back toward the hut. He emerged a moment later with an armful of cudgels wrapped on their ends with oiled cloth—mercenary torches, intended not only to light the way but to provide a bone-snapping wallop as well if the need arose. He quickly passed them out among the other sellswords. When they were ready, Will gave a quick, soft whistle and motioned for his men to regroup before heading off down the dusty road.

  The fire's light could only spread so far, and by the time they reached the village's entrance it had faded completely, leaving behind only the light from the half-moon high overhead. The silver glow was enough, however, and Will could clearly make out the tiny splashes of darkness that led inexorably toward the birch forest down the road. The trail was so easy to follow, in fact, that Will began to have the niggling suspicion that they had been meant to follow it all along. He flicked a glance at Sam, whose own eyes darted madly to and fro in search of an enemy.

  The forest, so peaceful in the daylight, seemed somehow more sinister as it loomed closer and closer. Now the shadows pooling in its depths clawed at Will's nerves, and at each scrape of a boot or rustle of armor the tension inside him grew. By the time they reached the mouth of the woods, his heart was hammering against his ribs.

  “Torches,” he hissed, cursing inwardly as the crack of flint stones sounded around him. He had been hoping they would not need them. They'll have the drop on us now, he thought, gritting his teeth angrily. Clever bastards.

  The torches sprang to life around him one by one, burning away the darkness—and giving their enemies a beacon to follow. Will huffed a sigh of annoyance and then motioned for his men to move on.

  The eyes were the first things he noticed about the forest—the eyes that caught the light from the torches and glowed eerily red for only a brief instant before vanishing back into the shadows. They were always at the edge of his vision, never staying long enough for Will to see them clearly, but they tugged at some half-buried memory on the edge of Will's mind. He was certain he had seen them somewhere before, but where? Whatever they are, he thought, images of Karkashian sand dragons and Eastland dhe'ghar flickering through his head, they can't be good. He nudged Sam with his elbow and flicked his head toward the dark of the forest. The mercenary's eyes went briefly to the trees, and then he nodded and leaned in close to Will.

  “Eastlanders,” he hissed. “This is something the sandmen would do. And dhe'ghar would explain the mangled bodies.”

  Will nodded and tightened his grip on his sword. With his other hand he drew his hammer, finding a grim satisfaction in the feel of the handle's woven leather against his palm.

  And then, just as he knew it would, the blood disappeared from the path. A sigh escaped his lips as the man at the head of the column trotted a short way down the road and then returned, shaking his head. “Into the woods,” Will whispered, beckoning all of his men close. He had to raise his voice slightly to be heard above the low crackle of flames. “We all knew this was an ambush. Stay sharp.”

  The trees seemed even more sinister as they left the path, reaching out with skeletal branches to pluck at Will's clothes, and feathery leaves to trail across his skin. His boots rustled and crunched through the fallen detritus on the forest floor, and despite his best efforts each noise seemed loud enough to wake an entire city. They had gone only a short way when one of the men gave a low, soft whistle and beckoned Will over, pointing with his torch at the ground. He had found the trail once again.

  And there was more blood, Will realized, on the trees—dark smears of it that looked as though they had, yet again, been made deliberately. Too high on the trunk, he thought, sheathing his sword and removing his helm so he could lean in closer. Unless they were carrying him on their shoulders...but that wouldn't make sense.

  Something hit his nose with a tiny plop, and he reached up to touch it. His fingers came away red and wet, and when he looked up into the low canopy another drop of blood tapped him on the forehead. The leaves were dark with it, spattered as though someone had died a particularly violent and gruesome death just below them. It was too much blood, Will realized, and the knowledge that one of his men was almost certainly dead gave his gut a sickening twist. He found the leg a moment later when another mercenary moved forward and his torchlight reflected from something white and shiny.

  It was the glistening bone at the end of the limb, torn savagely from the thigh at the knee so that little ragged strands of gristle and skin trailed from the stump. The bone itself was unbroken, which Will found unsurprising. The blood on the leaves overhead had most likely come from the spray as the leg was torn from Rik's body. Whatever had done the tearing had to be incredibly strong.

  “Bastards,” Sam choked as he turned away from the spectacle. “Void take them all, damned inbred sandrat heathens—”

  “Quiet,” Will hissed, his ears perking. He could have sworn he'd heard something, a sound too far away to have been one of his men. He turned slowly, straining his eyes against the darkness and cursing the torches for ruining his night vision. Something moved out of the corner of his eye, something dark and humanoid with a bestial shape following close behind, but when he flicked his head around the specter was gone. His heart began to beat a little faster.

  They're toying with us, he realized. What if...could these be more of the taen's men coming for revenge?

  “Revenge for all your misdeeds,” whispered a voice to his left. He did not have to look to know that it was the Eastland girl, though he found it strange that she chose not to speak in his head as she usually did.

  “Quiet,” he hissed. “Leave me be.” Several of his men gave him strange looks, but he ignored them. He could not, however, do the same to the girl.

  “You will die in there,” she said, appearing suddenly before him in a swirl of black mist. He tried to look away, but the image had burned itself into his mind's eye. “Turn back.”

  That gave him pause. What? he thought. Turn back? His eyes crept slowly back to the little girl, but she was already gone. “What?” he whispered aloud.

  “Captain,” Sam hissed to his left, “are you alright?”

  Will nodded and rose slowly to his feet. Turn back. The phantom had never tried to help him before, either. She's only a memory, he thought. Only a memory...

  He met Sam's gaze for a moment before looking away once more. “Keep...keep going,” he said. “Just...thought I saw something.” He looked back one last time just to make sure, but the phantom, naturally, had not returned. With a sigh of resignation he put his helm back on and drew his sword once more.

  The blood continued even deeper into the woods, thicker now thanks to the severed limb, and the trail was so easy to follow that the Ravens were able to quicken their pace, darting silently across the forest floor in search of their fallen comrade. They were all but running when the mist came.

  It was low, just barely touching their ankles, but it stopped Will in his tracks as surely as a stone wall. “Death and damnation,” he cursed beneath his breath, and gave a short, sharp whistle to draw his men in.

  “Thrice-damned Pradian fog,” Sam snarled. “A fine time for it to make an appearance.”

  “Stay close,” Will whispered. “If this gets any worse, we'll go back. No sense in letting our enemies get the drop on us.”

  “Er...sir...” one of the men said, and pointed over Will's shoulder.

  It was a wall. There was no other word to describe it, so dense was the fog that had formed not ten paces from them. The torchlight gave a sinister sheen to the swirling vapor, and though the darkness prevented Will from seeing
very far to either side he had no doubt that the wall stretched for at least as far as the ends of the forest.

  “It's moving,” Will sighed. “We need to hurry. Remember—stay together. If you get lost here, nobody will find you.” He sheathed his hammer and took a torch from the man nearest him, then knelt and held the flames close to the ground. Rather than shrink away from the heat, however, the curling fingers of mist seemed completely unaffected. They simply swirled and churned, oblivious, and Will frowned in frustration and waved a hand over the ground to clear away the fog. It sluggishly complied, drifting lazily away to reveal a streak of dark, shimmering red.

  “We can't track anything through fog like this,” one of the mercenaries growled. “We can't even tell what direction it's going—”

  “The trees,” another man hissed, and Will looked up in confusion. “It's almost like...they want to be found.”

  A chill settled over Will that had nothing to do with the mist. The man was right. Smeared just as before across the trunk of the closest tree was a streak of blood, ominously dark against the white bark of the birch. It seemed almost to be pointing, and Will followed its indication with his eyes. “There,” he said softly, pointing. “About ten paces away. Another mark.”

  “This is a trap, Will,” Sam growled, his hand tightening around his sword's grip with an audible creak. His eyes darted back and forth in search of a threat. “We should go back. They have soldiers and whatever Light-forsaken creatures chewed Rik to bits. We have to go back.”

  But Will barely heard him. He remained crouched where he was, motionless and silent, his eyes locked on the phantom in front of him. She said nothing this time, choosing instead to give him a blank, unreadable stare from where she stood at the very edge of the torchlight. The blood that flecked her face and stained her clothes seemed to care little about the fact that it lay in darkness, and it glowed a dark, angry red.