Trail of Pyres

by L. James Rice

  Rinold grinned as he dismounted, then slipped out of his mail. “Fresh out of pecans.”

  Solineus followed suit, handing his reins to Edlmir as Puxele leaned to give Rinold a kiss from her saddle. “You boys be good, don’t go falling off the bridge or somethin’.”

  She spurred down the hill and was across the bridge before Solineus had his heavy gear tucked in saddlebags, but the Twins remained strapped to his back. He held the Kingdomer hand auger, giving its handle an experimental spin, the steel bit spinning. “Sure as hells hope these things work.”

  Rinold slung a roll of rope over either shoulder. “They will, it’s more a matter of whether our arms fall off before we’re done. Them damned Kingdomers looked like they could work one of these all day without a sweat. ”

  “We didn’t come so far to get our asses beaten by some damned tool.” They took their first strides toward the bridge as Edlmir led the horses west.

  Rinold said, “Me? I’m all for just setting those boxes at the base of three pillars and lighting the cussin’ things.”

  “The Kingdomer gave us these augers for a reason. We did that and it don’t come down, two men died for nothin’. And an army rides east.”

  “Pisses me off to say so, but, aye.”

  They sauntered to the bridge, meandering in at an angle to get a better view of the construction. Nine pillared arches over what he suspected were waters plenty deep enough to drown him. “How many you think we need to drop to stop the Tek?”

  Rinold’s eye twitched, and he spat. “One gap’ll slow ‘em down, there ain’t trees enough to the north to get much done quick. But folks get clever when needs be, can’t put much past ‘em. I’d feel better with two or three. That’d take somethin’ to get across.”

  “Those are some godsdamned thick pillars.” Solineus pointed. “Weak point is the center of the arches, the godfist. We put a stick to each edge and one in the middle, the three center-most arches. We climb down best we can, put two sticks in one pillar, three in another. If those arches drop with the pillars, the span’ll be too broad to pass without some big timber.”

  “Aye, but if we waste sticks on the pillars? And the arches don’t do what we want?”

  “Reckon we have to kill ourselves an army.” He grinned. “Trust the stonebreakers, best I can say.”

  “We could test a few in a section.”

  “It’s a notion, but how many horizons away might Tek outriders hear the thunder? Hells, the firelings might test ‘em out for us, or blow what we have left.”

  “Don’t remind me.” The Squirrel sucked his teeth, restless eyes dancing back and forth along the length of the bridge. “Damned to be me… Supposin’ we may as well quit wastin’ time.”

  Gusts blew strong from the southeast once they reached the bridge and lost the windbreak of the hill, but were warm enough to make Solineus smile when he considered how damned cold it was on Kaludor by this time of year. They strode to the center of the bridge and gazed to the river. The waters were so clear there was no guessing their depths, and they could count fish passing up and down stream.

  Rinold said, “Damned shame, having to clutter up the waters.”

  Solineus picked a stone and leaned hard on his auger, giving it a spin. Steel bounced and shimmied before grinding into a spot, and a layer of dust grew where the edge went to work. It wasn’t long before his jacket came off, and his forearm and shoulder ached. His eyes shifted to the sun as it traveled west. “Havin’ as much fun as I am?”

  Rinold grunted, switching hands on the auger’s grip. “At least. It’s workin’ the stone just fine, but it’s a big man’s work.”

  Switching arms to work the auger, keeping the spin constant, and leaning hard into the work paid dividends, as the auger carved to its length. He’d lost all sense of time, except knowing every flicker came closer to dark, and it felt too slow.

  He fell back on his ass with a fatigued laugh. “One.”

  Rinold groaned. “Three quarters here.” The man paused. “What’d that Kingdomer say about Latcu tipped?” The Squirrel stared at him with an arched brow. “How wide are your blades?”

  It took a flicker for the Squirrel’s words to sink in. He drew a blade from its sheath, a quiet whisper floating ear to ear in his consciousness, and he slipped the tip into the auger’s hole. A fine fit. “Son of a bitch. Let me see that hole of yours.”

  Rinold removed his auger. “With joy.”

  The blade slipped into the hole, and he leaned on the pommel, twisting the grip with his wrists. An ear-splitting grind, with a screeching ring from the blade’s vibration, penetrated his ears. And he could feel the blade sink into the stone.

  “Start another hole. Maybe a finger deep to get me going.”

  “Gimme your other sword, we can get this done right quick.”

  The Twin’s tip squealed in the stone, and the voice in his head rumbled, more discordant than normal. “You don’t wanna do that.”

  Rinold squinted before putting his auger to stone. “What the hells you mean by that? I heard rumor what happened with that Duke’s twin.”

  “For lack of a better word, they’re alive. Touching them is… uncomfortable at first. The woodkin wouldn’t so much as lay a finger to one.”

  “Horseshit.”

  “No. They speak to me, whispers most times, but in battle they can overwhelm your mind. And I get the feeling they like me, not so sure what they’d do to someone else.” Solineus withdrew the sword, raising the tip; not a chip nor scratch, and only a few speckles of dust clung to its flat. Those blew away with a breath’s blow. “Latchu, I think I love you. Know godsdamned for sure my shoulders do.”

  Rinold moved down the bridge to stand above another godfist and started a hole. “You know I gotta touch one.”

  “Another time, Squirrel. Another time.” He leaned on the Twin and twisted. The motion was awkward as the hells, but he wagered it’d cut their time in half or more.

  Rinold finished his dimples before Solineus reached the fifth hole. “Whatya think? Want me to scale down and get them started?”

  “I reckon so.” He glanced to Puxele atop the distant hill. “Your woman’s still sittin’ quiet.”

  The Squirrel nodded and tossed a line of knotted rope over the edge, tied it off. “Don’t miss me.” He shimmied over the bridge’s three-foot side and disappeared.

  The whispers between his ears intensified as he leaned on the Twin, grinding stone, and he stopped. For a flicker he felt as though he should understand the words, and they repeated: Saedemu movarute Gers’voresh-kumjotuki. Saedemu movarute Gers’voresh-kumjotuki. The sounds the Twins made always felt two steps away from a language, gibberish, a child’s mumbling. This was different, with clear, concise, repeated patterns.

  He shook his head and twisted the grip. “Helluva time for you to try to tell me something.”

  The blade drilled its holes without further argument, and with a single breath he blew it clean before slipping it back in its sheath. He leaned over the stone rail where Rinold’s rope hung and damned near bumped heads with the man climbing back up.

  Solineus offered his hand, helped him over the edge.

  “Your turn. How’re you at climbing? Let me guess, you don’t remember.” Rinold slapped him on the back with a grin.

  “I’d prefer a ladder.” He climbed over the edge and dangled, twisting his legs around rope until his feet caught a knot.

  “Remember if you swim?”

  “Floated for a couple days, that count?”

  “Supposin’ so.”

  Solineus eased down the rope a single knot at a time, and when he no longer had stone as a brace he swung and spun in the wind. “Son of a—”

  “Hold tight, but relax.”

  He dangled by one hand, swinging and reaching for a pillar, when he heard the rattle of hooves followed by Puxele’s voice. “Riders! A good dozen of ‘em comin’ our way.”

  Rinold peeked over the edge. “Get the hells back up her
e.”

  Solineus raised a hand to climb, then leaned into the rope to swing, and caught hold of the pillar enough so a toe caught the ledge. He hugged tight. “Take the rope! Get out of here.”

  “Aye!” The rope flicked up and over the bridge and flickers later hooves disappeared south.

  He glanced to his heels; the ledge was a good hand wider than his feet were long, but it sure the hells wasn’t enough to make him relax. He shuffled and turned his back to the wall, and he breathed easier. Small piles of powdered stone led his eye to the Squirrel’s divots, and he drew his sword. He twisted slow to quiet the blade’s work, the Twin in a reverse-grip.

  The whisper went silent when with the blade sunk a foot into the stone: a first when in his hand. He stopped, leaning on the sword for better balance as it wedged in the pillar.

  Hooves and voices. Laughter. He’d picked up a few words of Hidreng, but whatever version of Tek these people spoke was more akin to a different language than dialect. The horsemen reached the middle and moved on, and he dared a smile. But three or four voices came from right above him. A flicker later a stream of water hit the river; some son of a bitch was pissing his way, no doubt about it.

  He shuffled deeper beneath the bridge and hoped the bastard’s friends didn’t shove him in the river. Chuckles followed by garbled words, and another man relieved himself before the clatter of hooves disappeared, returning him to silence. The Twin’s whisper returned, and he smiled at the sword. “All clear, you say?”

  He pulled the sword from the hole and found the next divot, and this time he worked faster. If those were outriders of the Tek cavalry, there was no telling how close behind the main force followed.

  He finished three holes, and swung to the neighboring pillar, but hadn’t begun to bore before Rinold’s voice interrupted.

  “Did you stay dry down there?”

  “I assume they were Tek?”

  “And no merchants, I guarantee. We’re gonna have company before nightfall, I’d wager.”

  “You and Edlmir, you get the sticks and twine and bring them here. No time to waste. Stuff those holes and run the twine, then lower me down a box.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Damned sure! Two holes to go. And if I’m still down here when them Tek come, you light the sons of bitches, you got me? I’ll swim if I have to.”

  “You just hurry, Puxele’ll be all kinds of pissed if we blow you up.”

  Solineus put his back to the wall and twisted the sword. The whisper rumbled, nervous. No, that was his own nerves. The voice was deeper than usual, but emotional? What the hells did an unbreakable sword have to fret over?

  His arms ached from the awkward work by the time the hole was deep enough to hold a stick, and Edlmir shouted from above. “Ready for the sticks?”

  “One more hole.”

  “Right. We’ll be packin’ em, you yell when you want a box lowered.”

  Solineus leaned against the pillar, sparing time for several deep breaths as he rubbed his arms and shoulders. “One godsdamned more hole.”

  He withdrew the Twin, shuffled, and set tip to divot.

  Rinold said, “Sticks’re in, Edlmir’s running the line now.” Flickers later, from the corner of his eye, a box appeared.

  “Son of a bitch! You trying to kill me?”

  “No offense friend, but we aren’t going to stand around waiting to see what comes first, firelings or Tek.”

  Solineus chuckled even as he wanted to scream with a muscle cramping his arm. He rubbed his bicep. “Can’t say I should blame you, but I do.” He twisted the blade with a grunt, and there was no reply, only an unnerving silence until:

  “More outriders, the main force is close. See you soon, my friend.”

  “Soon as you can, you light that twine. Take this bastard down, you hear me?”

  “You get the hells out of there alive, you hear me?”

  His heart pounded as shoved his back into the wall, the last of his strength fading as he twisted the blade around and around. The Twin went silent, only half the depth into the pillar he wanted.

  “Hells with it. To the hells.” He snagged the dangling rope, untied the box, and set the twine on the ledge before fumbling with the lid. Tentative fingers dipped into sawdust packing and he pulled a stick free, inches from his face.

  He gave it a kiss and stuffed it into the first hole, then shuffled to the next. He grabbed the twine and plugged the ends of the sticks with the cord.

  He stared at the river and the broad swing across. “Ah hells.” Would the twine burn wet? It wasn’t a risk to take. He walked twine in a loop around the pillar, severed it with the Twin, and pulled out a firestick. He dipped it in the noxious jelly and held his breath as it wooshed on meeting air. Two deep breaths before lighting the twine and grabbing the rope for a swing. Grasping with one arm he shoved off, straight into an awkward spin, and his hand slipped a knot, his toes dragging water.

  He heaved his weight and caught the ledge with just enough momentum to find his footing and fall into the pillar. Trembling fingers stuffed a stonebreaker into a hole, and he glanced to the faint trail of smoke snaking around the next pillar. Got time, got time.

  Hooves and voices from above. He lodged twine into the stick and shuffled fast to the next hole, damned near fumbling a breaker into the river… or bouncing it off the ledge to blow himself to the Road of Living Stars, but instead trapped it against his leg. His fingers tingled as he stuck it in the hole.

  One more.

  Shouts from above and horses stopped. They spotted the godsdamned rope. Soon as his fingers clutched the last stonebreaker he dropped the box into the river, and with all the caution his nerves could muster, eased it into the hole.

  Twine. Firestick. Jar. A reek worthy of the hells and the rush of a tiny flame.

  A shout from above drew his eye, and he locked eyes with a helmeted Tek leaning over the bridge’s edge.

  He touched flame to twine and threw the fire into the river. The Tek pointed at him.

  And disappeared in a deafening detonation that shook the pillar Solineus leaned against; a second and a third followed. Rock rained from above. He ducked and ran, and on his first step a stonebreaker blew on the other pillar. Flakes of stone pelted his face, and he raised his arm in defense as a thunder so loud it could only be several stonebreakers at once resounded from above. By his third step the other pillar was on it way down; he dove for the rock rippled river, and could feel the concussion and heat as he hit the waters.

  A fist from nowhere caught him in the face, and he grappled with a flailing Tek. The man wasn’t trying to kill him, he was trying to stay alive.

  So was Solineus. He swung an arm around the man’s neck and wrapped his legs, dragging the soldier’s face beneath the waves. Rocks and pebbles splattered around them as they spun in the water, and his eyes went wide spotting a stone big as a man’s chest hurled their way by the stonebreakers. He twisted the Tek, and the stone hit them both, but the Tek’s chest took the brunt of the blow as the granite drove them deep into the current. The man’s fight ended and Solineus let the dead float away while kicking and swinging his arms to drive him back to air.

  He spit water and gasped, trying to swim, but the surging current took him in, and gave him a spin. He could see a wide gap in the bridge through smoke and dust, less two pillars, and he smiled before the waters spun and dunked him for another drink.

  He flailed and kicked back to air, but a whirlpool drug him under. His lungs sucked water and excruciating pain came. He coughed, but there was only more river in his mouth. He fought, he kicked. He surrendered to his own ending.

  Then came the voice: Death is not for you, my love.

  64

  A Scattered Peace

  Twist the rope, a noose full of hope,

  hang, sang, rang, and bang,

  the string strummed strong.

  Sing, king, ring, and ding,

  pull my string and I dance,

 
pluck my string to play my chord,

  rip my cord to see my fall,

  twist my cord, a noose for my lord.

  –Tomes of the Touched

  Pikarn ground his teeth on jerked pork and stared out to sea. At long last the Tek armada raised sail and moved west. He turned from the Parapet Straits to look over New Fost. What once was a city of tents was transitioning into a town with the look of permanence. Three buildings cut from stone and shingled with slate housed the offices of the commanders, a barracks large enough for sixty warriors, and a kitchen and dining hall.

  “Well, boy, looks like we can get to work fer real, without fearin’ we get burned out.”

  Rikis chuckled. “When did you become the optimist?”

  “Watch yer tongue, boy.”

  Captain Swolis clapped his hands. “Twelve Hells a singin’! The Soaring Gull will sail again.”

  Pikarn glanced at him. “Yer just plum too excited Gull Droppings.”

  “Does everyone need one of your damned nicknames?”

  “No sir! Only if they’ve earned it and I like ‘em… or dislike ‘em.”

  Swolis grimaced “Which is it then?”

  “Get that hunk of driftwood back in the water and I’ll like you plenty.”

  Horns blew from the south to announce an arrival and they turned in unison; a caravan of wagons rolled over the hill and it didn’t take long to figure the cargo: Lumber.

  A smile split his beard. “About godsdamned time them woodkin got us our wood.”

  They strolled south, passing rows of men training in arms. Pride swelled Pikarn’s chest as he watched men who couldn’t hit a ship broadside a month ago nail bullseyes, and further down, others launched arching arrows two-hundred strides into a circle twenty paces across.

  Whenever he watched the archers, he missed Rinold and Puxele; the two were the closest thing he had to kin after Lovar and Kotin Choerkin strode the Starry Road. But they all had their callings, and his was to retake Kaludor or die trying.