by Adam Carter
She hated herself for having bought into the man’s incredible and unfounded reputation; but she would not stop him.
“Go,” she said. “Do some good.”
So Crenshaw ran, without pause, without even seeming to consider the stupidity of what he was doing. He ran into the burning barn and disappeared.
For several moments Wren stood as uselessly as the family, although she was never one to stand by doing nothing so turned her attention to the man on the ground. His clothes were burned and his skin was black and bleeding. Wren took him to be the boy’s father and assumed he had gone into the blaze but had been turned around by its ferocity. The man was gasping, barely aware of where he was. Wren pulled the water flask from her belt and pressed it between his lips. He coughed as the warm liquid touched his throat, but it aided him some.
“You’re Captain Wren aren’t you?” the old man asked warily.
Wren was surprised to hear her name mentioned. “Yes, I am.” She rose to face the old man, leaving the child’s father where he lay. “How do you know that?”
“Everyone knows the heroes Jobek Crenshaw, Asperathes and Karina Moya, just as everyone knows of the wicked Captain Serita Wren who chases him.”
“I’m not wicked.”
“No?”
“I’m a soldier. I do my duty, and my duty is to arrest criminals. Crenshaw’s my assignment, and I’m going to bring him in. He’ll go to trial and others will decide what happens to him. I’m just a soldier; I don’t get to have opinions.”
“You can still be wicked. Would you consider yourself a good person?”
“I …” She looked towards the blaze because it was far better than looking the old man in the eye. “I am what I am. It’s not my job to judge how good a person I am.”
“We all have to judge how good we are. If you have no respect for yourself, Serita Wren, how can you expect anyone else to?”
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks of me,” she snapped. “And I’m not a celebrity.”
“In the story of Jobek Crenshaw, you’re the villain.”
She had nothing to say to that. A villain was another word for antagonist, she told herself – nothing more. Being a villain did not make her evil, just as being a hero did not make Jobek Crenshaw good.
A section of the barn collapsed, the crackling flames devouring what little support it had left. The child’s mother wept in a shriller tone and Wren’s heart jolted.
“You are how you see yourself,” the old man said. “Tell me, Serita, how do you see yourself?”
Wren could hear the words, but her attention was on the barn. Crenshaw was inside, risking his life to save a child, and she was standing in a field having a debate about her self-esteem. Her heart was racing, adrenalin fired through her body. She was having ridiculous thoughts, but was unable to beat them down. Images of three pyres rose in her mind, as did the face of the girl she had thrust herself into the flames in order to save. Back then she had only been changing her mind, helping the poor girl she had scarred for the rest of her life. This situation was different; it was not her doing so therefore none of her business.
But the duty of a soldier was to protect her citizens. Canlin always said soldiers were killers, while Wren would argue they were protectors.
Wren was little Harry’s protector.
“Get those wet towels ready,” she shouted even as she began to run. She knew what she was doing was foolish, but she did not care. She was a soldier and a child needed her.
The heat of the blaze smacked into her even before she reached the barn, but she drew her cloak about to protect her skin and ignored the flames. Leaping through the burning doorway, Wren found she could see precious little, for smoke filled the entire barn. Wooden rafters had fallen, creating fiery blockages, while stacked hay roared with orange and yellow flames all about.
Pushing herself forward, Wren squinted through the smoke, covering her mouth with her cloak, unable to see, hear or smell anything over the raging fire. Her hand brushed against a wooden support and she drew back in pain. Trapped in the burning barn, her senses having fled her, Wren panicked, for she was about to die.
“Crenshaw!” she called out. “Crenshaw, can you hear me?”
It would be just her luck if Crenshaw had found the child and fled through the back door, leaving her to die in the fire.
With no response, Wren pressed on, forcing her way through the torturous heat of the barn. She could feel the flames licking at her clothes and boiling her flesh through her metal armour, but she did not pull back. Surrender was never an option for Wren, and if she was going to die in the barn she strangely did not mind so much.
A black form took shape before her and for a moment she believed it was Sooty, but then saw it was a man crouched and attempting to raise a burning girder. Crenshaw was straining with all his might, his hand bleeding and blackened from the flames raging across the girder. Beneath the beam Wren could see a small body, lying still, hopefully unconscious. Crenshaw’s back was to Wren and he had no idea she was there, but it was obvious he would never be able to raise the girder by himself.
She stopped a moment, watching him, wondering how anyone could have thrown himself into the blaze with no thought to his own safety, how even now he was facing an impossible situation and still refused to yield.
Then the moment passed and Wren had run to his side, taking firm hold of the girder with both hands. The ravenous flames struck at her eagerly, biting into her flesh, jabbing at her fingers. Gritting her teeth, she flashed Crenshaw a smile and said, “Need a hand?”
Crenshaw grunted, his face black with dirt and grime. “Thought you usually caused fires like this, Serita.”
“Shut up and pull. On three.”
“One … two … three.”
Together they heaved and the girder moved. Pain shot through Wren’s shoulders at the effort, but it was nothing compared with the fire now leaping all over her as though it was a thousand tiny cats, clawing for purchase. As the girder rose a foot from the ground, Wren decided it was enough for her to try to get the child out. Falling to her knees, Wren placed her shoulder beneath the girder, still holding it with one hand to use herself as a brace. With one hand now free, she took hold of the child’s leg and pulled.
Harry did not react, but Wren continued to pull, grabbing him further and further up his body until she had him entirely free of the girder.
“I got him,” she said, releasing the fiery wood just as Crenshaw did. The impact of the thing striking the ground sent tremors through the barn strong enough to dislodge pieces of the roof, which fell in flaming rain.
“Is he alive?” Crenshaw asked.
“I don’t know. Hold on.” Removing her cloak, Wren lay it on the ground. Taking her canteen, she quickly emptied the entire thing over the cloak, then laid the boy gently in the centre. Wrapping him firmly in the cloak, she hefted him in her arms and found he was a lot heavier than she expected.
“I’ll take him,” Crenshaw said. “I’m stronger.”
“You’re going to need to clear us a way if it’s blocked. I got him.”
Crenshaw did not argue and together they ran for the exit. Wren had been so turned around since coming into the barn that she had no idea which way she had come, and as the flames rose about her she had a horrible feeling they were headed further into the burning death-trap.
Something groaned above and Wren looked skyward to see most of the support struts for the roof had been entirely burned away. What remained of the roof was coming down in sheets, like slowly melting ice. A clump of roofing fell at Wren’s feet, the flames tearing through it eagerly.
“Crenshaw, run!”
Clutching tightly to the boy, Wren barrelled through the flames, fallen wood, burning straw and anything else that might once have been in that barn but which was now unrecognisable. Crenshaw was ever ahead of her, hurling aside any obstacles without regard for his poor naked hand.
Fire rose before Wren, blocki
ng her view of Crenshaw, and she pulled back in fear, holding tightly to her precious load. In that moment something struck her from behind and she fell, the cloaked boy tumbling from her hands. Her body felt numb and panic seized her as she realised there was a great weight pinning her. Twisting her head, she could see several wooden beams had collapsed upon her, fire dancing atop them as it guzzled the air. As feeling returned to her body she was aware of the heat resonating through the beams, but so far the fire had not reached her body. There was so much smoke churning about the barn, her mind was so clouded she was no longer certain of anything.
Crenshaw was back by her side and he grabbed one of the girders. As he shifted it, Wren felt a sliver of wood jabbing her thigh and cried in pain as she realised the thing had pierced her leg in the fall.
“Take the boy,” she said. “Even if you got me free I’d slow you down. Take the boy and go.”
“I’m not leaving you here to burn.”
“That boy isn’t dying for me, Crenshaw. Now go.”
She could see the turmoil in the man’s eyes. They were enemies, but Crenshaw had too great a hero complex to allow his enemy to die in this fashion. If the child was not there things might have been different, but with an innocent’s life in danger there was only one decision Crenshaw could have reached.
Taking Harry in his one strong arm, Crenshaw turned and fled without another word. No gloating, no gratitude, no words of moral support. After ten years together but apart, not even a goodbye.
As always, Wren would have to rely on her own strength to get her out of her mess.
Placing her hands upon the floor, she pushed as hard as she could. The beams pinning her shifted slightly, but splinters fell flaming about her as though the fire was some kind of guard dog preventing her movement. Her leg throbbed with pain and she knew as soon as she made it back to her feet she would just fall again. Still, she was not going to lie there and die, so with an almighty heave Wren used her back to push the beams from her before scrabbling madly forward.
Rolling out from under the death-trap, Wren crashed into a wall as the beams collapsed and settled. She lay on her back for some moments, freed of the burning beams, but still trapped. The smoke was starting to get to her, her head felt dizzy and she could barely breathe. She knew if she rested any longer she would succumb to the smoke and would be dead in minutes. Looking down at her leg, she saw a bloody piece of wood protruding from her thigh. She knew enough about injuries to know she could do herself more harm by removing it, so concentrated on getting back to a standing position. Placing blistering hands onto the wall, she used it to steady herself and managed to get halfway to her feet.
Then the wall collapsed under her weight and she went tumbling into a stack of burning hay.
Screaming, Wren writhed in the hay, threw herself off and attempted to beat out the flames by rolling on the ground. By the time she had the flames extinguished she was exhausted and collapsed once more upon her back. Closing her eyes, she tried to take in a deep lungful of air, but all she could manage was a short gasp. Just a moment’s rest, she promised herself. A moment more and she would see about getting out of the barn.
“Serita, get up.”
Wren was only half aware that someone was standing over her, although she felt herself moving. Forcing sense back into her mind, she focused on the man into whose arm she was being hoisted.
“The child,” Wren coughed. “You have to get him out.”
“I did.”
“But I … You came back?”
“Sure. I’m under arrest. If I let you die, you’d never forgive me.”
Wren could not understand the logic in that, but she was on the verge of unconsciousness so hardly even noticed as he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The fire roared in anger at its meal being stolen, but as the flames licked at her they snapped uselessly due to the speed at which Crenshaw was running. The alternative was that the fire was afraid of the man and, with so much smoke in her lungs and clouding her brain, Wren had no idea which was the case.
Suddenly the smoke was gone and Wren attempted to inhale the sharp, clear air, but her chest refused to comply and she broke into a fit of hacking coughs. Crenshaw dropped her to the ground, himself collapsing by her side. Wren’s mind began to clear and she looked at him hard. His skin was peeling from the heat, his arms and torso were blistered and glistening in dirty sweat, but there was a light to his eyes which had not been there before.
Wren heard cries of happiness and saw the mother cradling the stirring form of her child.
“You saved him,” Wren said, astonished, her throat still feeling scratchy but clear enough to enable her to speak. “Crenshaw, you really are a hero.”
“I’m not a hero. I just do what I do.”
“I hope that’s not the slogan you go with.”
Even the man’s smile was exhausted. “I have nothing to live for, Serita. My wife left me, Karina left me, I’m a wanted criminal and now I’m under arrest to boot. I didn’t have anything to live for before we met, I certainly don’t have anything to live for now.”
“That’s sad.”
“But true. A man who has nothing to live for takes foolish risks, and when they pay off time and time again people start calling him a hero.”
Wren had never expected such philosophy from him, nor such frankness. “You’re a good man, Jobek Crenshaw. And, whether you like it or not, I think you’re a hero.”
“And you?”
“What about me? I screwed right up. I went in when I shouldn’t have and you ended up pulling me out.”
“But without you I wouldn’t have been able to save the child. I’d still be in there now, trying to lift that girder with one hand while the boy suffocated. You saved him just as much as I did, Serita, only you did it for different reasons.”
“Different reasons?”
“You have something to live for.”
At this she laughed. “A ten-year assignment everyone laughs at me for? Trust me, until the mission’s over I have no life either.”
“And what would have happened were you to have left me in the barn to burn to death? You don’t think that would have been the end of your mission?”
Wren was silent. “I never thought of it like that.”
“You mean you rushed in to save the child because it was the thing a soldier should do?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s what makes you a hero. During my soldiering days I always said it was my job to protect civilians. Others around me thought the job of a soldier was to kill, but I always said the purpose of a soldier was to save lives.”
Wren thought back to all her old arguments with Canlin to that effect and had nothing to say.
“It’s something to think about,” Crenshaw said, “while our wounds are tended to. I should think these people are going to prove grateful enough to do that.”
It was indeed something to think about. Wren was discovering a great many things she would need to think about before she met up with her regiment. For now though she held her tongue. She would think a little straighter once her injuries were tended to.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
No more had been spoken of the encounter with the shade. The prisoner had said precious little since then and Valok had been busy working on protective wards. That left Canlin with his full attention on his soldiers, so he began a marching tune designed to aid in the rhythm of their movement. It was an old technique which Canlin had never known any soldier to despise, for they found if a superior officer was singing along with them he could not also be shouting at them. Canlin, sometimes, had been known to manage both, but it was thankfully very rare.
Throughout the songs, Canlin stole several glances at Asperathes, although he was deep in thought and did not even appear to have noticed they were making any noise at all. All his life, people had explained things to Canlin by saying they were down to magic and he had never paid any attention to them. Magic was something ali
en to him, something he could never understand, even if he wanted to. There were others whose speciality was magic, just as he had his own specialities. The incident with the shade was the first time in his whole life when he wished he knew more than he did of sorcery.
They reached a town and Canlin could tell his soldiers wanted to spend a few hours unwinding. Ordinarily he would have had no qualms allowing them to have their way, but with Captain Wren a prisoner he would have none of them rest. Instead he split his soldiers into pairs and instructed them to speak with every innkeeper and tavern owner to find out whether Wren and Crenshaw had been this way. Canlin himself waited on the outskirts in silent anticipation. The reason he had sent the soldiers in pairs was simple: he was hoping Crenshaw might still be in the town, which meant one soldier could report back while the other kept an eye on him. Before they had left on their assignment, Canlin had not had to remind them not to dally with drink or gambling, for everyone in the regiment knew the urgency of getting their captain back.
At the very least, none of the soldiers wanted Sergeant Canlin’s command of them to become permanent.
He had retained only Mannin and Valok, deciding they would be enough to keep the prisoner contained should Asperathes seize this as an opportunity to escape. While they waited, Canlin did not speak with any of them.
All through the wait he could feel the eyes of the snake man boring into him.
“What?” Canlin finally asked. His voice was more tired than he had expected, especially since he had been going for angry.
“Nothing,” Asperathes said. “Just wondering what you think’s going to happen once you find Crenshaw.”
“Captain Wren will have him under arrest by now. The man’s in chains already.”
“Oh, of course. Silly me.”
Canlin narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“You like asking that. Such a simple question, for a simple man.”
