Scepter of Fire

by Victoria Gilbert

  Overhead, the vultures circle, frustrated.

  There is nothing left here, not even for them.

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Ashes to Ashes

  ERIK CONVINCES US TO camp for the night in the woods outside the neighboring village. “I can’t imagine they would welcome a group of strangers, especially at night, with the way things are. We’re better off staying out of sight and sending in one or two of us in the morning.”

  After a rather heated argument over who will take watch, and when—made more contentious when Erik again suggests only the men need to do so—we finally settle in next to a fire.

  “It won’t attract the enemy?” Anders gazes at the rising smoke with concern.

  “I doubt it. Every report places them on the other side of the village, and our troops stand between us and them.”

  Anders massages his injured leg. “It did not stop them from leveling a town.”

  “That was some special weapon, though.” Kai absently strokes Luki’s back. He and Thyra sit as close as possible, given that the wolf has wiggled his body in between them.

  Thyra rests her hand on Luki’s head. “The mirror.”

  “Perhaps.” Kai leans back and stares at the stars, just visible through a break in the trees. “Do you think Rask has already handed it over to the emperor? If so, it is protected by his elite guard as well as the regular troops.”

  I snap a twig between my fingers. “No, he has not.”

  “You sound certain.” Erik kicks a fallen branch into the fire before settling next to me on the blanket I’ve spread over the hard ground.

  I sit forward, hugging my knees to my chest. “I just do not believe ... I don’t think he would do that.”

  “Because you know him so well?” Erik glances down at me, his face unreadable in the flickering light from the fire.

  “No. Still, it seems out of character, even for the little we do know. I doubt he would ever give up something so valuable so easily.”

  “He said he supports the emperor,” Anders points out.

  “I know. But even that does not ring true. Why would a sorcerer hand over an object of such power to someone else?”

  Erik shoots me a quizzical look as he stretches out his legs. “Sephia said you had some mysterious connection to Rask.”

  He remembers that? I pull the blanket up to my chin. “It was all part of his plan—manipulating me to get to Gerda. Since he now has the mirror, I’m sure he’s forgotten I exist.”

  Varna, what a liar you are. Why not tell these friends about your promise? Surely they, like Sephia, will understand.

  I know why. It’s because they, unlike Sephia, will do everything in their power to prevent me from fulfilling it. I can’t sacrifice that final option—not if it turns out to be the only way to protect them.

  “I’m going to sleep.” I sink down and roll until I am pressed up against Gerda.

  She leans over to whisper in my ear. “I might take a walk.”

  I snort. “Walk? All right, but please avoid dragging Anders too far afield. He can’t run back if something happens.”

  Gerda slaps my arm, but the thump is buffered by the blanket I’ve pulled around me.

  After some time drifting in and out of awareness, I sense someone leaning over me.

  “I told you, I want to sleep.”

  “Wake up, Varna.”

  I roll over. Erik looms over me, his arms holding him up, inches above my body. I mutter one of those words he claims I use too often.

  “Shhhh ...” Erik drops back on his heels. “Do not wake the others.”

  I fight my way free of the blanket and sit up.

  “What is it?”

  “I was keeping watch and saw something I think we need to check out.”

  I look around. I don’t know if Gerda and Anders actually took a walk, but it must have been a quick stroll, because they’re now snuggled next to one another on his blanket, fast asleep. Kai is stretched out on another blanket, his arms around Thyra, with Luki pressed up against his back.

  As I lace my boots, Luki lifts his head and examines me with interest. Erik makes a low whistling sound, and Luki leaps up and pads over to us.

  “Watch over them.”

  Luki sits on his haunches, his golden eyes gleaming. I could swear he understands this command.

  “Come on,” Erik says. “At the very least, he will alert them to any danger.”

  He won’t allow anyone to harm Thyra, that’s certain. Which should wake the others in time. I stand and pull on my cloak. “Where are we going?”

  “To the village. I saw lights moving on the road, right outside the gates.”

  “Wait.” I lean over and grab my rucksack. “My healing supplies,” I say, when Erik raises his eyebrows.

  Erik shrugs. “All right, but keep up with me. I need someone at my back. I don’t want to put you in the middle of anything, but I need you to keep a lookout.”

  “I’m thinking of the fire at the Opera House. The supplies would have been useful.”

  Erik does not respond. He moves so quickly, I must run to keep up with him.

  We reach the edge of the woods and pause behind the tree line. The open ground rolls away in a gentle hill that leads to the road.

  There’s no activity outside the village gates, but soldiers march farther up the road. A few carry torches—enough to provide some light, but not enough to draw attention. I press my fingers into Erik’s wrist and realize, by the pull on his hand, he holds his pistol.

  “Ours?” I remove my hand. He might need to use the gun.

  He shakes his head. “No. See the coach in the middle? It looks familiar.”

  I squint at the dark mass of figures as they veer onto a path that winds up a hill as barren as a plowed field. A larger form rolls in their midst. It is Rask’s coach.

  Will he sense my presence? I slide behind the trunk of one of the larger trees.

  Erik shuffles his boots in the piles of old leaves. “What are you doing? I need you to watch my back.”

  “You are not going after them.”

  “I must. I need to see what they are up to.”

  I peek around the tree. Directly before us, the town is a jumble of buildings, huddled and quiet as some sleeping animal. Like half-open eyes, a few windows flicker with the light of lanterns or candles. The brightest building is probably the tavern. I imagine lingering drinkers clutching tankards, avoiding some trouble at home.

  “The village.” I tug at Erik’s coat. “Forget following those soldiers. We must warn the village first.”

  His face is bone-pale in the dim light. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “I want to go after Rask too,” I say, although this is not exactly true. “But the two of us—even the six of us if we wake the others—cannot possibly stop those soldiers. We can warn the village.”

  Erik nods. “We’ll wait until the troops round the hill. Then I’ll go and warn the townsfolk while you keep watch here.”

  I hoist my rucksack higher on my shoulder. “I am coming with you.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Erik stares into my eyes. I don’t know what he sees there, but he sighs and leans in to kiss me on the forehead. “So stubborn, you Lund girls. I pity Anders, I really do.”

  I pat his shoulder. “That is a lie. Now, we should go. They have moved behind the hill.”

  Erik runs toward the village with me at his heels. We approach the wooden gates just as the enemy’s troops reach the top of the nearby hill. High on the rocky promontory, they appear like a gathering of birds. It’s as if Rask’s great winged creature has spawned an army of raptors.

  I hike up my skirts, thankful I still wear my riding breeches, and climb the low fence enclosing the town. Erik pockets his gun, steps up, and vaults over the top, landing on the other side in time to help me down.

  “Look.” He points toward the high hill. “That’s Rask, I think.”

>   I do not need to look, as I feel the pull of the sorcerer’s will from here, but I allow my gaze to follow Erik’s outstretched arm.

  Sten Rask stands at the edge of a cliff. Beside him is another man, wearing a uniform decorated with so many jewels and medals his body sparkles in the torchlight. On Rask’s other side stands a slighter figure, wrapped in a dark cloak. A boy, perhaps. Maybe it is that same hooded figure I saw at the Opera House. A servant, staying close to his master.

  Rask raises one arm above his head. Moonlight touches the object he holds, illuminating its crystal crown until it burns like a falling star.

  The scepter.

  “Get down!” Erik grabs my arm and throws me to the ground, curving his body over mine. My rucksack is under me, clutched to my chest, and my thoughts focus on that—on foolish, trivial things. Did the bottles break? Not sure they were packed well enough. And the ointments, in their little ceramic jars, are they smashed? Do not let them be smashed.

  Because to think on what is happening is too terrible.

  The warmth of Erik’s body is nothing compared to the heat exploding around us. Even though my eyes are closed, the flash of light is so bright I see red behind my eyelids.

  There’s a roar like an onrushing wave, or the wind before a storm. Erik tightens his grip, holding me so close I feel as if our bodies could merge.

  Skin to skin. Bone to bone. Ashes to ashes.

  Erik slides off and pulls me to my feet. “Run!”

  I drop one of his hands and throw the strap of my rucksack over my shoulder. Around us flames feed on the air and leap from roof to roof. They eat through the thatch like devouring birds.

  Erik pulls me toward the gates, now shoved open, as a mass of people make for the road. Some are pale as ghosts, a film of ash covering their bodies. One man, his hair aflame, dashes past us, and Erik trips him. When the man falls to the ground Erik kicks him.

  “What?” I scream, then realize Erik’s rolling the man in the dirt, extinguishing the fire in his hair.

  He must be in pain. Such great pain. I drop Erik’s hand and fall to my knees beside the injured man.

  “Move!” Erik circles behind me and grabs for my arm. I swat him aside.

  “Varna!” Erik yells, but I concentrate on the man in front of me. I roll him closer to the wall, away from the flying feet of those escaping the fire. Erik’s forced to keep moving to avoid being trampled.

  My patient groans, his fingers flailing at his burnt scalp. I push his hands down to his sides. “Hush, stay still. I have something that will help.” I dig into my rucksack for an ointment for burns.

  The wails and screams of the injured and terrified float around me. I focus on gently rubbing ointment into the scalp of the man lying before me. He whimpers and clutches his knees, drawing his body into a ball.

  After a moment, he falls silent. I press my fingers to his neck to ensure blood still throbs there. He grabs my wrist and pulls me down, inches from his reddened face.

  “Thank you.” His voice cracks like shattered glass. “Bless you.”

  “You need to get out of here.” I stroke his shoulder. “Can you rise to your feet?”

  He grimaces as he holds out one arm. I grab it and stand, pulling him up with me.

  He shakes like a leaf about to fall, but thanks me again before staggering away to join the others fleeing the burning village. I catch no sign of Erik. Hopefully he escaped, forced along by the inexorable movement of the mob.

  I cannot leave. I know that now. I have a job to do, a mission of my own. It must be why I felt compelled to carry my rucksack. Why I am here at all.

  The flames are dying down more quickly than they should, but I understand. The first blast was so hot, so devastating, there is little left to burn, and, like the Opera House, this was no natural fire.

  Everything is gone, leaving a wasteland of gray powder, collapsed walls, and half-charred timbers. The odor of burnt flesh—animal and human—sickens the air.

  I hoist my rucksack higher on my shoulder. Suffering people are lost in this wreckage. I can provide healing, or if no healing, comfort.

  No fear, no hesitation. Only the call of the injured and dying.

  Everyone else runs away, as they should. Anyone with sense will flee this hell.

  But I am a healer. I must walk in.

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Dust to Dust

  I DON’T NEED TO GO far to find people who require aid. There are so many, I fear my meagre supply of medicines and ointments will be used up before I can help half of them.

  I focus on one patient at a time. I can’t think of the total number, just as I cannot allow my mind to dwell on their injuries—the bones shattered by fallen timbers, the eyes scratched by cinders, the gashes from glass blown from windows, the burns ... Oh, my God, the burns.

  No, Varna. It is not about your horror or repulsion. It’s not about the nausea rolling up your throat, or the smoke burning your eyes and clogging your nose. It is not about the sharp bits of debris that tear at your clothes and etch your arms with scratches. It’s about the people who live here, who are buried in the rubble, who slump like discarded bags of grain against the walls of what used to be their homes.

  It is not about you. Only what you can do.

  I do whatever I can. Sometimes that’s providing a potion for pain, or splinting a limb, or cleaning and bandaging a wound. Sometimes it is simply holding the hand of someone so close to death their breath is the merest wisp of air.

  When I find a covered well, I cry tears of joy. I unseal jugs I dug from the rubble of the tavern and pour the contents out of most of them so I can refill them with water, saving a few jugs of liquor to clean wounds or dim the pain of the wounded.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been here. Time is suspended like the embers still dancing through the air. Smoke turns day to night—it could be noon, or twilight. It does not matter. This is not a normal day, marked by clocks or the sun. This is an endless day in hell, searching for the damned, offering them aid.

  Many cannot be helped. They are already gone—killed in the first blast of flame. I step over bodies, closing my mind to any thought of who they were. Soon they will be mourned. For now, I must think only of the living.

  Sounds dim and voices fade away. I curse, knowing I can’t work fast enough to help them all. After more time passes, the only noise is the crash of falling timbers and clatter of collapsing stone. Then I hear it—one more voice. Hoarse as a crow, but insistent. Fighting to survive.

  It comes from a building whose walls still stand, although the roof has given away. Crawling over half-burnt timbers and wooden chairs that disintegrate at my touch, I batt at charred paper swirling around my head like moths. So much paper— this must have been a library. It does not matter. I can’t stop to examine anything. I must follow the anguished cries of someone trapped in this wreck of a room.

  My boot catches in a pile of fallen beams. I tug, yanking my foot free. No matter. I will come back for the boot later.

  Heat sears the sole of my foot as I step onto a metal grate that holds the memory of flames. Pain shoots up my leg, but I move forward. The cries grow louder. I am close.

  I stumble over a broken ceiling beam, now lying on the floor.

  Lying across the legs of a woman.

  I kneel beside her and take her hand. My heart’s squeezed as if someone has grabbed it in their fist. I cannot move that beam. I can’t free her.

  The woman’s face is covered in ash, lending her the appearance of a wraith. Shining through the ghostly mask, her light brown eyes burn with pain.

  She manages a weak smile. “Are you my angel?”

  “No, but I’m here to help you, any way I can.”

  A blistered burn encircles her neck, and I realize her necklace must have melted into her flesh. I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “I prayed for an angel.” Her voice is as ghostly as her face. “For an angel to come and carry me to heaven.”

  “Well, I’
m no angel, and I’m not here to escort you to the afterlife. I am here to save you.” I dig through my rucksack for burn ointment and the last bottle of Sten Rask’s mysterious potion.

  The woman halts my rummaging by laying her hand over mine.

  “Do not waste your time, or your supplies. There’s no use, you see.” She pulls my hand closer and presses it into the folds of material rumpled about her waist. “Everything is broken. Everything inside is broken.”

  Warmth seeps through my splayed fingers as blood oozes all around my hand. I pull it back to my side, my eyes still focused on the liquid pooling in the folds of material. Where her lower ribs should be there’s only a strange indentation, filled with a mangle of fabric, blood, and bone.

  “It really is an angel I need now,” the woman says. “Unless you are a sorcerer, or have such powers, you cannot help me, try as you might.”

  I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.

  “If you will sit with me ... ”

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes.”

  I slide next to her, careful not the jostle her shattered body, and pull a piece of bandage and my water flask from my rucksack. Finding the special potion bottle, I give her drops of the liquid, alternating with sips of water. When she ceases trembling, I dampen the bandage and wipe the ash from her face.

  “Feels good.” She drops her head upon my shoulder.

  We sit like that for some time. I tell her stories—funny tales I remember from childhood, then Gerda’s story of a sojourn in the snow, complete with sorcerers, an enchanted mirror, and a talking reindeer.

  The woman mutters something.

  I lean in close to hear her.

  “A tear. She saved the Snow Queen with a tear?”

  “Yes,” I say, wishing my own tears held such power. But all they do is blur my vision.

  Which is why I don’t see him at first, standing at the door to this roofless room.

  Erik steps forward with great deliberation. “Come out now, Varna.”