“It must be recent.” Jerrol reached out to put another log on the fire, shielding Birlerion, whose eyes were glittering with anger. “I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing it before.”
“Then you have been told lies, my son,” the Father said, thrusting his chest out, “for this was the true story of the Sentinals.”
Jennery grasped Jerrol’s sleeve as he was about to probe further and shook his head. Jerrol leaned back and took refuge in his mug; he was right. He was drawing attention to himself. Men peered towards him.
Fortunately, their attention was diverted. “You don’t see nobody from them towers up past Velmouth anymore,” reminisced the man with the muscular arms, pausing to sip his ale. “Used to have a thriving trade back in my granddaddy’s day, all sorts of knickknacks and trinkets the ladies delighted in, he used to say. Them Watchers used to travel off to distant lands and return with saddlebags full of stuff you never saw before. And stories, what stories he used to tell, many a night my grandda used to roll in with a story to tell us kids.” He paused again to take a sip of his ale and glance around the room. Men leaned closer, anticipating the start of another tale.
“Go on, Ben,” one of the men prodded. “Don’t stop there, there ’ent no knickknacks around here no more. You’re trying to gull us, you are.”
Ben smacked his lips and grinned. “I remember the day he gave m’grandma a moon catcher.”
Jerrol stilled as the man burbled on; Jennery flicked him a glance before leaning forward like the other men to listen. Birlerion stared at the table, his knuckles white with the strength of his grip on his mug.
The pot boy went back to work and began to collect the empty mugs. As he reached for the mug in front of Jennery, Jerrol caught his eye by holding a copper coin between his fingers. “Boy, who’s the moon catcher man and where does he live?”
“Him? That’s the smith. He lives next to the hostelry.” The boy reached for the coin before scampering off.
Jennery leaned forward. “What’s the matter?”
“Can you follow that spiky-haired fellow showing an interest, and see if you can find out who he is and where he goes? Birlerion and I need to talk to the smith. He talks a little too freely about things that should not be mentioned. Meet us back here,” Jerrol said, draining his mug.
Chapter 9
Black Hen, Greenswatch
At last, the barkeep called time, and his customers started to straggle out into the damp night. Many eyed the glimpse of the moon peeping through the clouds surrounded by a glowing haze, maybe thinking about catching moonbeams for themselves.
Jerrol grasped the smith’s sleeve. “Friend,” he said. “Let me walk with you. I want to check on my horse, which is in your stable.” The smith squinted at him and lurched as the fresh air took its toll. He was grateful for the strong arm keeping him straight. Birlerion followed behind, watching the street.
“A word of warning,” Jerrol said. “Old magic should be guarded, not bandied about in public alehouses. Do not underestimate its power to influence people.”
“Old magic?” scoffed the smith. “None around here, there’s nothing but stories no matter what the Father says.”
“Guardians protect and in turn are protected,” Jerrol intoned. “Keep the line. Watch for the Lady.”
The smith froze mid-step and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Jerrol stopped beside the smith in the middle of the street, aware of Birlerion slinking through the shadows, his presence reassuring. “The Guardian will need protecting, as will the moon catcher. They are few. Too few,” he said. “You shouldn’t have spoken of it tonight. Men will covet it and expect you to lead them to it. Don’t lead them to the Guardian.” He placed his hand on the smith’s chest. “The time is coming, you must hold your promise and guard the line.”
The smith swallowed. “What line? There is no line.”
“Jerrol? Come quickly. I smell smoke, lots of smoke!”
Jerrol stiffened, as Zin’talia’s fearful voice reached him. An icy shiver flashed down his spine. “You fool,” he whispered, “we are too late,” and he took off, sprinting down the high street towards the hostelry situated at the junction at the bottom, Birlerion on his heels.
The smith staggered along behind him, straightening up as he smelled the wood smoke drifting in the cool night air. “No,” he wailed as he rounded the corner and saw the flames licking up the side of the wooden boards that clad the hostelry. The squeals of agitated horses in the barn blended with the clanging of the emergency bell. People tumbled out of the nearest buildings, dressed in whatever clothes they could grab, as fire threatened all nearby buildings, being built from wood.
The people began forming a bucket line, from the well to the burning building, rushing to splash water on the hissing flames. Jerrol loomed up in front of the smith. “Sylvie, your mother, which room?”
“W-what?” The smith stared at him. “How do you know my mother?”
“Your family, man,” Jerrol shook him, “whereabouts would your family be?” He flung his hand towards the burning building.
The colour drained even further from the man’s face. He started towards the steps as two small girls came tumbling down into his outstretched arms. “Gilly,” he shouted, over the roar of the flames, “where’s your mother?” He hustled them away from the building.
“She went to help Grandma,” the young girl cried, holding onto her father’s arms as her body shuddered in terror.
His arms full of children, the smith looked at Jerrol. “Help them,” he pleaded, “they’ll be upstairs at the back. Her room looks over the courtyard towards the trees.” He turned the children, leading them away from the heat of the scorching flames.
Jerrol paused long enough to divert a bucket of water to dump over his head, shuddering at the shock of the cold water, before running up the steps. He flinched as a roaring tendril of flame reached towards him. He gritted his teeth, tossed his dampened cloak over his head, and darted around the fire and into the house.
The smith handed his children off to one of the women hovering in horror. As he turned, he grabbed Birlerion’s arm and pointed him towards the barn. “Quick,” he yelled, “the horses!” Then he ran into the burning building after Jerrol.
The front door led into a communal living space. The hangings had all gone up in flames, and fiery tendrils ran greedily across the beams. Jerrol’s cloak blocked most of the heat as he dashed through the parlour and headed for the stairs. The heat was intense, but the smoke was worse. It was thicker downstairs. It thinned as he reached the top of the stairs and stumbled across a woman collapsed on the floor.
He turned her over and searched for a pulse; she was still breathing. He levered her over his shoulder and, hand balanced against the wall, descended the stairs as fast as he could; he snatched his hand back as the heat scorched his palm. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he ran into the smith. He passed the unconscious woman to him. “Take her,” he gasped and turned and dashed back up the stairs.
The smith ran for the front door, bursting through a swirl of smoke and flames. Frantic hands reached for the smith and helped him lay his wife on the ground. They poured buckets of water over his head as he gasped for breath. He shook the water out of his eyes and turned back to the house. “No, you fool, it’s too late.” A man restrained him as they all looked towards the flames blocking the front door.
Without pausing, Jerrol bounded back up the stairs. Keeping his face muffled and his hands off the wall, he halted on the landing and kicked in the first door he came to. The room was smoke-filled but empty. He moved on to the next room, similarly filling with thick black smoke. Coughing, he tried to filter the air through the damp material of his cloak. A low groan caught his attention and he wafted the smoke away from his face. “Sylvie,” he croaked and, clearing his raw throat, tried again. “Sylvie!”
He found her huddled in the corner under a sheet. She had m
anaged to tip her water jug over her. The dampened material steamed, but she had been overwhelmed by the ever-thickening smoke. Jerrol ducked under the sheet and felt her neck. She lived. But not for long, he thought, desperately trying to see a way out.
The Guardian jerked under his hands. “Don’t let them fail,” she pleaded. Her grip on his arm was unexpectedly strong. “Gilly knows what to do, she just needs time.” Her eyes streamed from the smoke, and she slumped in his arms. Jerrol scooped her up and staggered towards the door; she was much heavier than she looked.
Hot embers drifted in the hallway. Red tendrils of burning flame licked up the walls, scorching him. His shirt sleeves shrivelled; the flames blistered his skin, and he stumbled back into the bedroom towards the bed, hissing in pain. He laid Sylvie down and leaned out the window. Behind him, the flames extended up the wooden door frame. He turned back and slammed the door shut. Yanking down the curtains, he beat uselessly at the fire before stuffing the material along the bottom to block the smoke.
Returning to the window, he peered out. A pulley jutted out from above the hayloft in the adjacent barn. He leaned out, teetering over the windowsill; it was out of his reach.
The Guardian coughed behind him. “Stick.”
Jerrol turned. She was pointing at a hooked stick propped up in the corner. He grabbed it and leant out the window, reaching for the rope. The hook caught and he pulled it towards him. Down below, Birlerion was leading the hysterical horses out of the barn.
“Birlerion,” he bawled, “hayloft.” He frantically pointed as he tossed the stick aside. Bless the man, he understood immediately and disappeared into the barn. Jerrol looped the rope around the Guardian’s chest and dragged her over to the windowsill. He flinched back as flaming red embers caressed his cheek. He levered Sylvie out the window as fast as he could, and the rope took the strain as Birlerion gathered the slack.
Jerrol paused as Sylvie’s hand cupped his face; her hand was silky soft and cool against his scorched skin. He leaned into it. “The Lady bless you, lad,” she said in a husky whisper. She was staring right through him, her eyes glassy. “Aye, m’Lady, I’ll give him what I can,” she said as she focused on his face. She kissed him on the lips as the light faded from her eyes, and she was jerked out of his grasp as Birlerion worked the pulley.
Jerrol flinched back as her will zinged through his blood. His heart raced as a fresh green wash flowed through his body, meeting scorched skin on the outside, making his body a living battlefield. His heart stuttered as he tried to assimilate the opposing forces, and he dropped to his knees. Steam rose from his tattered clothes. His skin gleamed with sweat: the only sign of his body’s internal struggle.
Leaning against the window frame, he gasped for breath as black smoke billowed around him. The rope swung in front of him, and he cast about for the stick and then realised the fire had consumed it. The room was alight. The fire roared like a furnace behind him, the heat intensifying on his back as the room was engulfed in flames. He looked up at the pulsing moon watching overhead, as distant rumbles heralded the start of the building’s collapse.
Jerrol climbed out of the window and balanced as Birlerion took the slack, staring up at him in horror. He launched himself at the rope, swaying precariously away and then back towards the burning building; the flames leapt and caught the rope as he spun away. His palms stung as they slipped, but he tightened his grip and hung on grimly.
Above him, the flames ate their way through the rope as Birlerion frantically lowered him to the ground. His legs collapsed as he touched the ground and he lay trembling face down on the cold cobblestones, gasping for breath and choking out smoke, wheezing like an old man. He rolled over and let Birlerion unravel the rope. He stared up at the moon until his smoke-ridden eyes watered and his sight blurred.
Suddenly, Birlerion wrenched him upright, and frantic hands stripped off his steaming cloak and started on his clothes. A bucket was upended over his head as he gasped for breath. Birlerion wrapped him in a damp sheet, cool against his naked skin; hands patted him down as if putting out flames.
“Ascendants’ balls,” Birlerion cursed, making Jerrol smile, “you’re smouldering, you fool. You’ll go up next.”
“As the Lady wills.” Jerrol coughed, trying to clear his throat. His voice sounded like a whetstone rasping across rusty steel.
“That’s as maybe,” Birlerion snapped, “but you don’t have to help her.”
Jerrol sat back down on the cobblestones; his legs were trembling again. Reaction, he supposed. His body cooled as the internal greenness dampened all heat and soothed his scorched skin.
“You risked your life for nothing,” Birlerion continued, his voice strained. “She was dead when we untied her.”
“Ah no.” Jerrol bowed his head in grief. “Never for nothing.” He gripped Birlerion’s arm. He knew he had given him a fright. “Not now,” he said clearly and lay back down on the cobbles, closing his sore eyes, shuddering intermittently. He steamed in the short silence.
Birlerion stood. “He can’t stay there,” he said, exasperation in his voice. “Bring his fool horse back here, and I’ll take him back to the inn and get his burns treated.”
The smith hovered next to Jerrol, hesitantly reaching for his shoulder. “Thank’ee for trying.”
Jerrol opened his eyes. The grimy face of the smith wavered in front of him. “Later,” he rasped. “We’ll speak later.”
The smith stared at him before nodding. He returned to his wife’s embrace. They held each other as they walked back towards the street.
The sound of horse’s hooves clopped into the yard as Zin’talia arrived, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling at the still-burning ruin. Jerrol opened his eyes, gritty with smoke and ash, as her fear reached him. Birlerion helped him stand, and he leant against her shoulder for support. Waves of concern rolled off her. He shuddered as his body tried to assimilate the Guardian’s parting gift, and Birlerion’s grip tightened as the tremors shook him.
“Ready?” Birlerion murmured in his ear, as he prepared to shove him into the saddle. Jerrol sagged forward against Zin’talia’s neck, clutching her mane; he was thankful for Birlerion’s firm grip on his leg, keeping him balanced, else he was sure he would have slithered straight off the other side.
Chapter 10
The Grove, Greenswatch
Birlerion eyed him as he began to lead him back to the inn. “You’re still smoking, you know,” he said, as he led the horse up the street.
“Yeah.” Jerrol’s voice came from the vicinity of Zin’talia’s neck. He was flopped over as if he hadn’t the energy to sit upright. “Wait,” he croaked, “turn back. We need to go to the trees. The s-sentinals.”
“Later, we’ve got to get you cooled down.”
“N-now,” insisted Jerrol, preparing to swing his leg over.
A grumbling rumble interrupted them, echoing up the street, as the rest of the hostelry collapsed to the ground. Ashy motes sparkled in the moonlight until they settled, sifting to the ground, the gleams fading away by sunup.
“Jerrol, you can’t even stand, stay on the horse, man!” Birlerion gripped him to keep him still.
“Now,” Jerrol repeated.
Releasing a long-suffering sigh, Birlerion reversed his direction, leading them towards the towering sentinals. All Captains were the same, stubborn through and through.
The sentinals greeted them like an array of flag poles waving their deep green leafy flags. Their leaves rustled, even though there was little wind – a blessing for the other houses in the village which could have been engulfed by the fire.
Birlerion paused under the first overarching sentinal. Lifting his face, he listened to the murmurs in the leaves. The echoes of the collapsing hostelry were somewhat muffled in the still air. “What now?” he asked, watching Jerrol as he continued to shudder in his damp wrapper of grimy sheets, which still steamed.
Birlerion’s face pinched as he took in Jerrol’s glazed eyes, huge in h
is flushed face. This was not merely the effect of getting scorched in a fire. His mouth grew taut as Jerrol tried to dismount. He caught him before he fell: a tattered figured covered in ash and sweat.
Jerrol staggered towards the nearest tree, trembling hands blindly questing before him. He embraced the tree, his arms spreading wide as he stilled and closed his eyes. In the soft green light, Jerrol seemed to relax into the tree, fading from sight until a stray shaft of silvery moonlight pierced the shadows and caressed his body, silhouetting him in the gloom.
“Ahhh.” Jerrol breathed a sigh of relief. Birlerion watched as he inhaled an uninterrupted breath of air that shimmered down his limbs and straightened his cringing spine. Birlerion knew the Sentinal soothed the crazy castanet of shudders, and Jerrol’s shoulders dropped as the tension caused by the battle raging in his body died away. He sagged against the tree and breathed.
All was still, not a sound in the grove.
The Lady approached silently out of the gloom, her exquisite face illuminated by a subtle glow. She reached out and cupped Jerrol’s face. “The journey is just beginning,” she said. “It has been long arriving, but the first step has been taken. The forgotten are waiting, and the Guardianship must be protected.” Her face was serene. “My Captain. With protectors like you, we will succeed. Do not be afraid to ask. We are all in this together.” She dipped her head and kissed him lightly on the lips.
He inhaled sharply as she breathed into his mouth. “You are mine,” she said with a small smile, and she turned to Birlerion and caressed his face. “Birlerion, you serve your Captain well. I thank you.”
Birlerion swayed as her regard embraced him. “My Lady,” he choked, his throat tight as he watched her with some desperation; she looked just the same. Some of his distress eased as Leyandrii’s touch spread through his body, wrapping him in her love.
She tutted, her fingers tracing his jaw. “Always blaming yourself, after all these years! You’d think you’d learn.”
Sentinals Awaken: Book One of the Sentinals Series Page 7
