by Robin Bootle
In a daze, he watched them through the branches. One of the soldiers toppled over and rolled a little way down the slope. The other fell to his knees, searching for his killer. When his eyes found Edward, a look of acceptance descended over his face and his head dropped to his chest.
Edward went to stand up but slipped, his limbs still too weak. He had to be sure the soldier was dead. He grabbed the nearest branch for leverage, ignoring the thorns that pierced into his palms. He tugged and pulled his way free from the bush, all the while tearing the flesh on his arms. At last on his feet, he stumbled out of his hiding place several yards from the soldier.
He inched forward, shaking at the knees, his shield-bearing arm well out in front. He lunged forward with his dagger. It pierced through the tough skin under the soldier’s rib cage and once inside it sank deeper with ease, as if the soldier’s insides were as soft as fudge. The soldier didn’t so much as flinch.
Edward drew back his blade. It was stinking and the blood with which it was smeared was thick like oil. It trickled onto his hands, staining them red.
And now as the panic dissipated, the realisation of what he had done set in; this was his first blood. He doubled over, heaving, his body and mind filled with a different kind of sickness. It had been too easy. Too easy to take a life. They were real men once, the men of Ejüll. Maybe they too had families somewhere, still mourning the loss of their fathers and husbands, all victims of Dēofol’s brutality. His teeth dug into his lips, stopping himself from yet another anguished cry.
A distant howl from below made him look back down the valley. More men would surely be after him soon. He was trapped between the cold of the higher slopes and the countless murderous soldiers below.
His gaze returned to the two dead men. Flimsy fabric bags were slung over each of their backs. His jittery hands rifled through the first bag before emptying its contents into the snow. Some tools and some strange-smelling cloth. He grabbed the cloth and unravelled it. Inside, his fingers met with the rough surface of stale bread and the soft press of hard cheese. He emptied the next bag. Three bottles – one fuel, one water and another that smelt like cheap beer.
It was all pointless without one key ingredient. He grabbed the first bag again and searched the small pockets that lined the inside. His fingers entered the third and final pocket, and at last he allowed himself a brief moment of relief.
Matches.
He bundled the fuel, matches, water and food into one bag and set off, deeper into the mountains.
21
A Fire in the Mountains
Two things worried him most about the mountains as he stood near the bottom of the valley, surveying the road ahead. First, the cold. He tightened the belt around his waist to keep out the draught and pulled up his socks. Then after quite some struggle he managed to hook the handle of his shield over the staff on his back, relieving the strain on his scratched and bloodied arms, and hopefully conserving some energy for later on.
That first fear was manageable, he knew. If he took precautions, he could defeat it, or at least avoid it. But the second would be harder to evade because it wasn’t a physical enemy, but something that lay buried inside his mind. But for now, at least, his regrets could wait. For now, all that mattered was to carry on.
He needed to do something about the footprints he was leaving in the snow. He could picture a patrol of Dēofol’s men, licking their lips as they tracked the appetising foot-shaped trail that led to their dinner, to Edward.
Ahead and to the left, a track of bare rock led into a narrow gully, presumably the easiest route to the higher slopes. The first two hundred yards of the track lay exposed to the sun and the snow had melted right through. To his right, loose gravel was gathered at the bottom of a twenty-foot face that led to another ridge. He walked towards the track that led into the gully and stepped onto the bare rock. Then he retraced his steps, his feet positioned with painstaking care in his footprints. When he reached the loose gravel he hopped sideways and grabbed hold of the rock face to steady himself, trying to avoid leaving any imprint in the snow.
He’d climbed a rock face once before with James and Dad in Keswick. Well, a plastic climbing wall actually. He’d slipped on his first manoeuvre and adrenalin had rushed through his body even though he was only a foot off the ground.
Dad had run to stand behind him at the bottom of the wall. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine!’ Edward had snapped, embarrassed.
‘Get away from there!’ the instructor had blasted as he ushered Dad away. ‘Like I told you, Edward, just make sure you only remove one of your hands or feet from the wall at any one time.’
It was such a small thing, but now, after the years of anger that had followed, it filled him with remorse. One more time he had been mean to Dad.
He studied the surface above him for several minutes, trying to etch out a path in his mind. Once he felt he had an achievable route, he placed his left foot on a bare patch of rock, and then his hands on two small spurs either side of his head. He lifted himself up, his right foot reaching a foot higher than his left. He looked below. No traces of his movements in the snow. He climbed carefully, calm and focused, reminding himself not to look down, his feet and hands wedged in place before reaching for the next hold.
By the time he reached the summit, his fingers were burning cold. He shoved them under his armpits and gazed back down the valley to scan for any sign of Dēofol’s men, or of Hound. He knew Hound would still do anything to stop him from falling into Dēofol’s hands, but Hound seemed less of a threat now, at least up here in the mountains – his injury would make a trek into the mountains near-impossible. But Dēofol’s men would certainly be following him, and he wished he’d had the foresight to remove his telescope from his bag before burying it under a staff and shield. He didn’t have the energy for that now.
And so he kept on, a lonely soul hauling one foot after the other along a fifty-yard-wide ridge that scaled the northern side of the snow-filled valley. From where he was now he could see the gully below was filled with trees and snaked back and forth. He felt a sense of satisfaction; not only had he masked his tracks, but also he would make better time with his new direct route to the top.
After some way, the sun broke through below the clouds at the top of the valley. Its warmth smothered his body. He allowed himself a moment’s pause and closed his eyes, savouring the moment and letting his chattering teeth quieten. His bones began to thaw and he welcomed the pain in his fingers. But it wouldn’t be long, he knew, until he faced his first fear – the night would be upon him soon.
He took some cheese and bread from his bag and ate a lonesome dinner as he hiked. And as the sun passed below the ridge at the top of the valley, dousing the snow in the dim light of dusk, he could sense the twilight, the soft brightness of the snow under his feet, trying to draw him back to that evening up on Scafell Pike. So, as the icy gusts of the night came and froze his face, rather than find shelter, he chose instead to carry on. He didn’t want to rest. Not through some mad rush to find the general, nor for fear of letting the cold set in, but because if he stopped there would be too much time to think on the past. Too much time to dwell on the futility of it all, and to ponder on what it would be like to die alone.
* * *
Several hundred paces later, after nearly an hour, something moved in the corner of his vision. He froze; either it was prey or predator. The tree-filled gully made its final turn in his direction and came to an end just a little further up the slope where it opened up to join the ridge on which he stood. There, the gully walls were alive with shadows bouncing amidst a dull orange glow.
The cold had been creeping in for some time, already having devoured his toes and begun to gnaw at the bones in his feet. But now, his mind racing with a mixture of curiosity and concern, his legs seemed to have found a renewed energy as he snuck
towards the gully and cut down into the trees.
At first, he didn’t dare believe what he was seeing; flicking in and out of sight between the trees was the orange light of a fire. Soon, fifty yards further down the gully, the fire was in full view, dancing merrily alone and shielded on the far side by a huge boulder.
He scanned the nearby area. No one was there. Had the fire been abandoned? Why would someone light it and dash off at this time of the night? Maybe its creator was hunting for dinner.
Or hunting for you, he thought.
He ducked down, listening and searching, but he heard and saw nothing. He felt trapped. How could he go and make his own fire now, knowing that someone was close enough to spot it? So he waited, still and silent, watching.
Soon he began to shiver. His head jerked erratically as he searched back and forth for the fire’s creator. After only a few minutes of being still, he realised he could scarcely feel his feet, and the aching in his fingers was reaching into his wrists.
An icy gust brought with it a jolt of fear. He hadn’t been thinking clearly. Even if no one was here, whoever’s fire this was would be back eventually. And if they weren’t on his side…
He turned away, wondering how far he would have to go to safely light his own fire. But on his first step, he practically had to drag his leg through the snow, and it became terrifyingly clear that however far it was, he wasn’t going to make it.
He faced the fire, no longer caring if anyone was there. Even just a few minutes might be enough to thaw his bones and allow him to set off and make his own. He stumbled towards it, weary eyes scanning left and right.
He was only ten yards off, its heat already bringing him some relief, when the fire crackled loudly. Sparkling embers whirled about the air. He watched them dart this way and that. And then the strangest thing happened. They swung towards him. Like they were actually aiming for him.
‘What have you done to yourself?’ he whispered. He was so tired and so cold he was hallucinating. He continued forward, drunkenly enjoying the sight of the sparks as they flew towards him, leaving a trail of dust like a comet’s tail in their wake.
When the first spark was only two feet away, it accelerated into his forehead. He snapped a numb hand to his head to smother the area, expecting the spark to sting. But instead, the skin where it landed felt good. Tingly good.
Too dazed to really know what he was doing, he stumbled on towards the fire. More and more sparks collided with his body, each one building the euphoria inside him. With the flames just three feet away, he stopped, the heat so welcoming he wanted to jump right in and dance alongside them. He glanced once more at the surrounding forest. Still he could see no one. He looked back to the fire, and gasped: there were no logs beneath the fire, and its flames hovered several inches above the ground.
He extended his arms forwards, his fingers apart. Edge closer, he told himself, until it becomes unbearable. With each step the heat grew more intense, approaching the point at which it would transfer from pleasure into pain. But that point never came. The feeling became only more and more glorious until his whole body felt full of energy, fuelled by each and every sparkling ember that careered into his body.
He moved his fingers closer. The flames mimicked his movement and leant towards him as if craving his touch. In a flutter, they washed over his flesh then quickly retreated. He pulled back his hands and studied them. They were free from burns.
He held them out to the fire, ready to feel the pain that he knew should have hit him long ago. But still it didn’t come. Then, when he was only a few inches away, he plunged his hands right into the flames and at once they were enveloped. Then, in that instant, they stung him.
He yelped, whipping his hands from the flames and expecting to see the flesh burnt and raw. But they were barely visible, hidden beneath the flames that played about in his palms and in his fingers. He was carrying the fire as though his hands were the source. A smile stretched across his face as the familiar orange worms of light appeared from nowhere and scattered themselves throughout his body, bringing with them a wave of ecstasy. He savoured the sensation, knowing that he had learned another spell. One that would be far more deadly than the power to move objects.
Slowly the feeling began to fade. The flames in his hands died out and the fire, having served its purpose, drew down into the snow. When it was gone, the night returned to darkness.
* * *
Again beginning to shiver, he gathered a pile of broken branches and small twigs. All the wood seemed soaked through from the snow but it was the best he could do in the dark. He wanted more than anything to try his new spell but he knew only too well that it could leave him incapacitated.
He grabbed the matches and the fuel from his bag. The bottle was only a quarter full, so he dipped some of the smaller twigs inside and arranged them in a tipi-like formation. Then he carefully poured the remaining fuel over two of the smaller branches and balanced them over the kindling. He lit a match, guarding it against the wind, and held the flame to the fuel-doused twigs. It caught alight instantly, the flame leaping to the branches above and wrapping itself around the logs. He rubbed his hands together to enjoy what little heat there was. Just a few minutes, he told himself, and it would be blazing uncontrollably.
But soon the flame began to retreat from the two fuel-covered branches, pitifully clinging to the wet bark in occasional bursts of blue flame that reached around and then faded away.
‘Catch, you bastard, catch!’ He thrust one of the logs into the dying flame of the kindling below. But he knew, as barely even any smoke was being generated, that the fire would not take. All the same, he jammed the log in amongst the twigs. It was time to try his second and only other option, fast.
First, he grabbed some cheese and bread from his bag and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing quickly. A small amount of food could keep him going that much longer. Then he pulled his staff from his back, knowing he would need all the help he could get. This was a new spell and he didn’t know how much magic it would consume. A shiver rippled through his body, not just from the cold but from the thought of what might happen if he couldn’t get this new spell to work.
He needed to be confident. He thought of the two soldiers, killed easily with relatively mild nausea. Without further hesitation, he dipped his staff into the centre of the logs and pictured brilliant fire spewing forth.
A trickle of fire came out, warming his face for a passing moment. His eyes rolled into his head and the nausea rushed through his limbs. As he fell back, groaning, he saw that the logs hadn’t caught. He landed on his back in the snow, winded and gasping for breath.
Fear trickled through him like the icy hand of Death himself. Get up, quickly! The wetter he got, the worse the situation would become. He rolled onto his side, hoping from there to push himself up. Instead, his body curled into the foetal position as another wave of nausea passed through. One last deep breath, he told himself. And get up!
He fumbled his way onto his seat of logs, the sickness yet to subside. He knew he didn’t have long; his whole upper body was shuddering disturbingly, lurching several inches at a time.
He gazed longingly at the logs in front of him. Inhaling long and hard, he held his breath, trying to empty his mind of fear and level his anxiety. Then, as he exhaled, fire spluttered from his staff, exploding as it reached the logs. He smiled as he doubled over, doused in a warmth like the sun.
By the time he opened his eyes again it was gone and he gazed, dismayed and drowsy, at the thin trail of smoke that rose from isolated cinders in the logs. For the first time it set into his weary mind that he might not make it out of there alive. But he was too drained even for such a terrifying thought to spark him back to life.
His eyelids drooped closed in a moment of overwhelming fatigue. He tried to slap himself across the cheek to wake himself up but his frozen hand
delivered little more than a caress. A tear formed in his eye as he fumbled with numb fingers for the last of the food. He scoffed it down. What use would it be tomorrow if he was already dead?
Dizzy and still hunched over, he did what he could to focus on the logs that now swayed across his vision. Instead of fire, the only thing that channelled through his body was bile, catching in his throat and making him cough and splutter as the life inside of him faded like the dying embers before him. He groaned hopelessly as he rolled forward, knocking his head on the edge of one of the logs.
Above, the blurred stars seemed so peaceful, so content with what was happening to him. Maybe you were never meant to win, he thought. Maybe this was how it was meant to end, for you to die here in the place where it all went wrong. To be reminded for eternity of what you did.
As the cold resignation of his death set in, he began to drift back.
* * *
They’d been walking for hours and Mum had filled his thoughts.
It was all still so fresh. The funeral, the feeling that every eye had been on him as he sat in the front row when all he’d wanted to do was to say goodbye on his own. The reception afterwards, where everyone had been talking, some laughing as they tried to deal with their grief. He’d been able to hear them from upstairs, as he wept. Why couldn’t they all just go away?
He’d barely left his room two days later when Dad came and told him they were going to Windermere. It was the last place he wanted to go. It was a place of happy memories, already in part ruined by their last visit when they’d known Mum was ill.
He refused to pack his bag. Dad sent James in to do it for him. James had to practically drag him into the car while Edward screamed bloody murder like a spoilt child. And when they got there, he just ran to the boat and sat by himself, only showing his face to snatch food from the neatly prepared dinner table.
