Fires of Memory

by Washburn, Scott;

  Then, through the white cloud of powder smoke, Matt saw the first Kaifeng. A large man on a small horse, wielding a sword. He leaped his horse over the barricade and cut down a trooper who was standing there dumbfounded. Another Kaifeng followed. And another and another.

  Matt snatched his pistol out of his belt and cocked it. It was only then that he realized that it had already gone off. Smoke drifted out of the muzzle and the pan. It hadn’t been cocked, but it must have gone off somehow when he fell. He reached back to his cartridge pouch—and snatched his hand away again. Something had burned him. He looked back and understood what had hit him and knocked him down.

  His cartridge pouch had exploded. It was small and only contained ten rounds. That, and the heavy leather back had saved him from more serious injury. He looked around and slowly began to understand. There were men all around him, some on the ground, others standing, but each and every one had a blackened patch on their coat where their cartridge box had been.

  They had all exploded.

  And all the guns had fired themselves off.

  The fireflies. Somehow those fireflies had…

  “Sir! Sir!” someone was shouting in his ear. He turned and saw Sergeant Chenik. He was hatless and wild-eyed, but he had a saber in his hand. “We gotta get out of here, sir!”

  Matt looked around in confusion. The line had completely collapsed. There were mounted Kaifeng everywhere and they were killing at will. The troopers and Varags, suddenly stripped of their firepower, were too stunned to fight back with bayonet and sword.

  They were being butchered.

  “We can’t just run!” screamed Matt. The fear and panic was rising in him, but he knew his duty, too.

  “It’s all gone to hell, sir,” said Chenik dragging him back. “We can’t do no good except to get killed with the rest!”

  “But we can’t…!”

  “Someone’s gotta warn the fort, sir!” screamed Chenik, half dragging him. That seemed to get through Matt’s befuddled brain. Warn the fort. This fight was lost, but the people in the fort needed to know what had happened here! Chenik pulled on him again and he turned to follow. He screamed at those men near him to retreat.

  Retreat? Hell, to run like rabbits.

  There were still loose horses bolting all over the place and a few writhing on the ground. The one which had been carrying the spare ammunition was horribly burned. Matt dodged around them all and ran back to where the cliff began. It wasn’t quite a cliff, but it was steep and difficult going. A good thing right now: not even a Kaifeng could get a horse up it. He scrambled and hauled himself up the rocks, following Chenik. He looked back and was shocked to see only two other men following them. Farther down there was a swirling mass of horsemen where the line had been.

  Where the squadron had been.

  Where his comrades had been.

  He almost stopped. Almost turned back. But Chenik shouted at him again and he kept going. Up and up. A hundred feet. Two hundred feet. An arrow bounced off a rock near him. Then another one. They had finally been spotted. Matt climbed faster. More arrows fell and then there was a cry. He looked back to see one of the other troopers tumbling and sliding down with an arrow in him. “Come on!” shouted Chenik.

  Matt forced himself to keep moving. Up and up, and after a while the arrows stopped. He looked back and saw that they were far above the Kaifeng now. A few were still shouting and shaking fists at them, but far more were whooping and celebrating.

  Chenik had stopped just up ahead. Matt wearily climbed up next to him and sat down. The other trooper just stopped where he was. All three looked back at the scene of the disaster.

  “What…what happened?” gasped Matt between breaths.

  “Dunno, sir. Never saw anything like it. The damn willow-wisps came at us and then everything blew up like a Gar Wolfe’s Day celebration.”

  “Are you hurt? All the cartridge boxes went up.”

  “A little singed on my back, sir. Nothing bad.”

  “What are we going to do?” said the trooper, Matt now saw that it was Private Regari. A solid man, but now near panic. Well, he was pretty damn near panic himself. “They killed everyone! What are we going to do?”

  “Stay alive,” said Chenik.

  Matt nodded. “Stay alive…” his eyes drifted eastward.

  “…and warn the fort.”

  Chapter Three

  The Kaifeng were in motion. After four long years of learning and striving and planning, Atark, shaman of the Gettai-Tatau Clan, had finally put the Kaifeng in motion. Or at least a tiny part of them. Seven tribes and two score of clans, six scores of scores of warriors were on the move. It was only a fragment, a sliver, of the race who called themselves the People of the Kaif. Their total numbers were uncounted. Once as numerous as the stars in the sky or the blades of grass on the plains, the People had been reduced, after the Great Battle, to a few bands of fugitives. But now they had grown strong again. The memory of the Dark Years, when nine women out of ten were left widows, was fading into legend. The fears of those times had faded, too. The tribes were beginning to quarrel with each other again as grazing land became scarce. Rather than fight each other, many chose to move, and they moved in the only direction possible: east.

  The Dark Years may have become legend, but all remembered the enemies who had brought them about: the Easterners, the people beyond the mountains. Powerful warriors, clad in iron and with wizards of great power. They had fought the Kaifeng to a standstill on these very lands. No, not just to a standstill. No matter what pride might want to say, the fact was that the Easterners had routed the Kaifeng, driven them like sheep back into the endless reaches of the Kaif. Then they had built mighty fortresses to keep them at bay.

  The People remembered.

  They remembered the loss, they remembered the shame, they remembered the humiliation. And they remembered the hurts heaped upon them since then. The Berssian raids out onto the plains, onto the lands of the Kaifeng. The burnt tents and the slaughtered and stolen women. The dead flocks and herds. The dead children. They remembered.

  Atark remembered, too.

  The pain of his own loss had driven him. Driven him to learn what the Ghost had to teach him. Driven him to master those skills. Driven him to convince his own clan to risk the wrath of the Berssians. Driven him to convince others, too. It had taken four years to make all ready. But he had succeeded.

  At least so far.

  The men in the column were laughing and singing, holding plunder over their heads and shouting. No one had won such a victory in a generation. Two hundred new horses had been added to the herds. A dozen dazed captives were whipped along by the younger boys. The men laughed and sang.

  “Look at the fools,” muttered Atark. “Two hundred enemy dead and they act like the King of Berssia’s head was stuck atop our standard.”

  “Let them celebrate,” said Zarruk. “They have earned it.”

  “Earned? It was a hard ride, yes. The Whitecoats moved faster and longer than I would ever have expected, but it was an easy fight. Not a single man killed and only a dozen slight wounds.”

  “Thanks to you and your magic, my friend. I bow to you and your power. You were right. Forgive my doubts.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. I had doubts myself until the deed was actually done. And this is still but a trifle. The real tests are yet to come.”

  “Then you are determined to go on with this?”

  “Is there any choice? You know what promises were made to gather so many clans together: loot, women, victory. So far the loot has been a handful of horses and some trinkets. No women, and a ‘victory’ that our sires would sneer at. The men expect much more and it is up to you and me to give it to them.”

  “You are the one who can give us victory, Atark.”

  “Not alone. I can but strip the enemy of their cowards’ weapons. I am no warrior, no general. Someone must command the men in battle. That is you, Zarruk.”

  The noyen
of the tribe looked uneasy. “You expect much. Perhaps more than I have to give. Not my heart, you understand, but my skills. Only twice have we ever gathered the whole Gettai tribe together, and that was but a score of scores. Already there are six times as many warriors gathered. Not all the other noyens will follow my lead.”

  Atark nodded. “Holding the tribes to the task will not be easy. But you must be the warlord, Zarruk. I have insisted the trophies go to you. The others will follow your banner.” Both men looked to where a warrior was carrying the modest standard of Zarruk of the Gettai. Two other men flanked him carrying the small pennants they had taken from the Whitecoats. The warriors had brought them back to give to Atark, but he had commanded them to be given to the noyen. “The others will follow you,” said Atark again. “I will insist upon it.”

  “Be wary, my friend,” said Zarruk. “While most stand in awe of you and your powers, others are jealous of you. Watch your back.”

  Atark nodded and frowned. What Zarruk said was true. Others, especially the other shamans, had given him trouble. They feared his new powers. Instead of rejoicing in what those powers could do to their enemies, they feared for their own paltry status within the tribes. Shamans who had used their puny powers to dominate their noyens for years were suddenly shown to be mere charlatans compared to Atark. A few, all too few, had come to him hoping to learn. They could see what he offered the Kaifeng. The rest schemed and plotted behind his back.

  Of course, that was before this latest fight. Up until now, he had only been able to demonstrate his powers in limited ways. There had been many who doubted he could do what he promised. The initial massacre of the small Varag party had silenced a few of the doubters and given even the skeptics hope. Now, there were few skeptics left. They had all seen what he could do. At a stroke, he had disarmed the enemy and left them stunned and ripe for slaughter. If he could do it once, he could do it again. Couldn’t he?

  Zarruk rode forward to look at the campsite that had been selected for tonight, and Atark slumped in his saddle as soon as he was alone. He’d never felt this weary. Not even when he was dying by the mound had he felt so drained. No pain, fortunately, just a fatigue that reached to his bones. The long ride to catch the Whitecoats was a part of it, but only a small part. It was the casting of the spell that had nearly done him in. He had pulled in the Power as the Ghost had taught him, focused it, formed it, shaped it, and sent it against the enemy. And when it left him, it took a great deal of his own strength with it. He had nearly swooned right there on the hill.

  Could he do it again? And not as he had just done, but a much greater spell? They were riding against the Berssian fort now. Many more men and those huge guns, those cannons. Gunpowder in enormous amounts. How was he to destroy it all?

  As he pondered, the tribes filed into the camp site. Some of the women and many of the older children had followed the warriors, and now they were helping set up the tents and to tend the animals. The rest were still back with the herds. He halted his horse and sat, too tired to even dismount. The sun had disappeared long since, and the sky was filled with stars. Except to the east. There, the mountains blocked off part of the sky. The mountains made him uneasy. The plains were open; nothing marred the horizons. Here, they were closed in. Secrets could be hidden beyond every turn. And the enemy fort was ahead...

  “There you are, Uncle!” A voice came out of the dark and startled him. He looked down and saw Dari, a boy of ten summers. After Shelena was killed, one of his female cousins had taken Atark in. Dari was her oldest boy. “Your tent is set up and the meal is ready, Uncle. Won’t you come and eat?”

  “Yes, I will come.” His muscles had stiffened while he sat, and he groaned as he swung down out of the saddle. The boy led him to his tent, babbling away about the battle all the while. Atark looked at him sadly. Ardan would have been just about his age now.

  Dari took the horse to tend it and Atark ducked through the tent flap. The tent was nearly empty, but his meal was waiting there and a tiny oil lamp provided light. He slumped down onto the rug which made the floor of the tent and after a while began to eat. The food brought back some of his strength, but he needed sleep. He finished the food, rolled himself in a blanket, and lay down.

  Sleep would not come. As much as he wanted to drown his weariness in the oblivion of sleep, it would not come. It was not the songs and laughs of the men that kept him awake, nor the cries of a prisoner they were evidently sporting with; it was his fear for the morrow. Tomorrow they would ride against the fort, and the men would expect him to work his miracle again. He was not sure if he could do it.

  After tossing and turning for a long time, Atark sat up. The lamp had gone out and it was completely dark in the tent. By touch, he explored his few belongings until he found what he sought: a wooden box. He pulled it out from under a pile of blankets and set it before him. He fumbled the latch open, then lifted the lid, and reached inside. Carefully wrapped in cloth was a human skull. Atark closed the box, unwrapped the skull, and set it on the lid.

  Swallowing nervously, he slowly passed his hands over the old piece of bone and whispered the words he had been taught. He could feel the Power flowing through him. He could feel something else, too. Slowly, a faint light began to glow, or so it seemed, since it illuminated nothing but the skull. Bit by bit, the light grew and took shape until the Ghost’s face was floating there, directly in front of him.

  They stared at each other for quite a while. Atark was not sure exactly what he was staring at. He had been puzzling over it for four years. The ghost of the shaman Ransurr had kept him in the mound for over a month, feeding him when needed, and teaching him every waking hour. Day by day, the ghost had faded as the spell binding him to the living world unraveled. Atark was not sure which of them was more frantic that they would not have the time they needed.

  They did have the time — barely. Ransurr had taught him the absolutely necessary things, how to grasp the Great Power and how to control it, but by then, the Ghost was nearly spent. Then he had taught Atark one more spell, a spell that allowed him to renew the binding of the Ghost’s spirit and thus keep him in this world. So he had bound Ransurr to his own skull, and there he remained. As far as Atark could tell, the Ghost’s powers had faded entirely. It could no longer cast the spells it had taught, and only Atark could summon it as he had now. It could talk to Atark and listen, but that was all.

  “You have won a victory,” whispered the Ghost at last. “I can see it in your face, feel the exaltation in your heart. Tell me, tell me of our victory.”

  Atark told him, recounting each detail. As he did so, the thrill of it returned to him. “All but three fell to us,” he concluded. The face of the Ghost seemed to swell in power.

  “Good. It is good. Worry not about those that escaped. They will serve to spread the fear of us. Where are we now? What do you plan next?”

  “We are at the mouth of the pass. A half-day’s ride from the fort that guards it. Tomorrow we will ride against it and take it—I hope.”

  “They will fall before us just as these others did. Do not fear their large war machines. Their own power will be their undoing.”

  “I do not fear the enemy’s strength,” said Atark. “I fear my own weakness. The spell I cast today was harder than anything I have attempted so far. It near to overwhelmed me. What if I cannot do what is needed tomorrow?”

  The floating head seemed to nod. “Yes it is hard and you are yet a novice. The Great Magic demands much strength, though the spell you use is simple compared to some. But there are ways to find the strength. Places you can draw the strength from.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “You shall.” The Ghost appeared to smile.

  “How many captives did you take today?”

  * * * * *

  Kareen knew there was something wrong even before the bugler sounded the Officer’s Call. She was just coming through the south gate with Thelena, up from visiting the market in the town, when
a rider came galloping through the west gate, shouting something in the Varag tongue. He was immediately surrounded by other men, and then they rushed off toward the headquarters building. Soon after, the bugle rang out summoning the officers.

  “What can be happening?” wondered Thelena.

  “I don’t know,” answered Kareen, “but I’m worried about Matt.”

  “I am sure he will be fine.”

  “I don’t know. Something important must be going on. What could it be except that the patrol ran into trouble?” The other woman had no answer to that. But since no answers to their questions were forthcoming, after a while they went back to their home. It seemed rather empty with Matt away for so long. She missed her brother — although she never would have admitted it. Phell was not there, either, of course. He had been summoned with all the other officers.

  “Will Phell be coming to dinner?” asked Thelena, as if reading her mind.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Have you two quarreled, Kareen? He was not here yesterday, either.”

  “He’s been busy,” said Kareen curtly. Thelena just smiled and nodded, which made Kareen even angrier. They had quarreled. The other evening, Phell had gotten especially... bold, and when Kareen had protested and forced him to stop, he had gotten angry. Men! In only a few more weeks he would have her heart and soul and body forever. She had promised Matt, and she wasn’t going to break it now! The thought of her brother brought back her anxiety. Where was he? What was going on? She was still trying to decide how many places to set for dinner when the bugles blew again. Immediately afterward, she heard the infantry drummers begin to play. It was the General Assembly for the entire garrison. The only time that was ever played was for the Sunday Parade or...

  “What’s happening?” she exclaimed. She went to the door and looked out. Soldiers were running here and there all over the parade ground. The infantry were scrambling out of the barracks and falling into ranks near the drummers. The troopers of the regiment were taking somewhat longer to get their horses saddled and ready. The gunners were up on the walls doing things with their cannons. Kareen looked about in alarm, trying to spot someone who could tell her what was going on. She sighed in relief when she saw Phell trotting toward her.