Fires of the Dead

by Jed Herne

“There’s a fire!” she said.

  He stiffened. “Weapons out, crew.”

  Breeze led ‘em to a hollow tree. “In here.”

  Wisp and Marogan crawled inside the trunk. A smouldering fire sat inside. Smoke rose through the hollow inside and twirled into the air, fading against the grey sky. Judging by the wood and the ash, this fire must’ve only been lit a few hours ago.

  He activated his Sight. A shimmering orange thread sprung from the fire, pointing north.

  Coldness settled into his guts and he scowled. “We ain’t alone. Another Pyro’s in these woods.”

  3: WISP

  Fleetfoot paled.

  Marogan bared her teeth. “Too bad for them.”

  Wisp stroked his beard. The thread was turning clockwise, but the movement was slight, so the Pyromancer was miles away.

  Wisp and Marogan pricked their fingers and dripped blood into the flames. If they found the other Pyro, they could drain this fire and cut their enemy’s fuel.

  Funny, assuming they’ll be an enemy.

  Made sense. Most people he met tried to kill him – better to keep expectations low. You had to take things as they were.

  He crawled out of the hollowed tree and stood, wincing at his sore knees. Without a clear view of the fire, the orange thread vanished. He sighed. If only he had stronger Sight. Wisp had to see a Pyromancer or a Source Flame to spot the threads, but some people could notice ‘em from miles away.

  “Whoever it is, they’re north, but not close,” he said.

  They kept walking. Wisp scratched his forearms. Didn’t feel right, this place. The sooner they reached the Castle and found the Skull, the better. Damn it. Why couldn’t the Baron have given him a simple last mission, like robbery, or kidnapping?

  “This is it,” said Fleetfoot. “The Flegethon River.”

  Wisp gaped. Been decades since he’d come this far, but back then the Flegethon was a raging mess of water, so deep that when you peered inside there was only darkness.

  Now, the river was dry. A lifeless husk that scarred the ground.

  Black Eye shuddered and muttered a prayer. Wisp sighed. He wished he shared Black Eye’s faith. Be damn nice for a prayer to comfort him after seeing this.

  Fleetfoot and Breeze frowned. Made sense. Too young to have seen the river back when it was alive, so the horror was lost on ‘em.

  Marogan crouched and dug her gloved fingers into the soil. It was crumbly and dry.

  “How’d you reckon it happened?” She licked her lips. “Boiled away in the Gutting?”

  “Must’ve,” Wisp said. “But for this to happen … their Ancestral Flame would’ve been huge.”

  “Thirteen generations,” said Black Eye.

  “Eh?”

  “That’s how long the Randalls fed it.”

  Wisp frowned. Maybe Black Eye wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Wisp chewed his fingernails. Plenty of tales circulated about the Gutting, but standing beside this corpse of a river … well, it changed things.

  Back when this place was the Midacord Forest, it belonged to the Randalls – one of the realm’s strongest families. Three years ago, they called their Pyromancers to their main stronghold, here in these woods. Plenty of stories speculated why. None gave real answers, but they all had the same ending. Something happened, and the Randalls’ Ancestral Flame escaped their Hearth, engulfed the Castle, and turned the forest to cinders. From then on, people called this place the Ashwoods.

  The image of hands burned into trunks flashed before Wisp.

  He shook his head, trying to forget it. “How long ‘till the Castle, Fleetfoot?”

  “Um … at this speed, we’ll reach it the day after tomorrow?”

  “Good man. Keep moving, crew.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Shadows grew as the sun crawled below the horizon. Marogan and Wisp summoned flames to light the way. Tree trunks spread darkness across the ashen ground. Wisp’s neck tingled. Normally he liked the night. Night was for campfires, for eating, for bonding with his crew. Night was for stargazing and dreaming and thinking about his cottage.

  Here in the Ashwoods, night made him edgy. They’d seen no animals during the day, but that only made him worry they were being stalked.

  And of course, there were the stories Marogan had whispered to Fleetfoot all day. Poor kid. The woman’s sadistic streak was wider than the High Priest’s arse. Even though her stories about the Gutting were ridiculous, by sunset Fleetfoot was a quivering mess.

  “Knock it off, Marogan,” said Wisp when she described, with delight, how the fire had melted soldiers into puddles of flesh and steel.

  “What’s the matter, old man?” Marogan bared her teeth. “Scared?”

  “I ain’t. But Fleetfoot is and I don’t want our camp stinking of bedwetting.”

  Fleetfoot flushed. Marogan laughed.

  “Alright, I’ll save the one about Xaphess for when we’re back in Kroliss,” Marogan said. “That’d really loosen your bladder. And Fleetfoot – sleep next to Wisp, not me.”

  Smirking, Marogan paced ahead of the group.

  Wisp waited until she was far enough away, then lent closer to Fleetfoot. “Sorry about that. Pretending you’re on her side’s the best way to win.”

  “That’s alright,” said Fleetfoot with a shaking voice.

  Black Eye patted the boy’s back. “Cheer up. Haven’t seen monsters yet.”

  Fleetfoot swallowed and eyed the shadows growing between the trees. “Monsters come out at night.”

  Wisp glanced at Black Eye, wondering how the big man would escape that.

  Black Eye shrugged. “True.”

  Wisp chuckled. For a man of few words, Black Eye made ‘em count.

  Footsteps crunched nearby. Wisp tensed and raised his sword and Fleetfoot yelped, but it was only Breeze emerging from the shadows.

  “There’s ten people up ahead,” she said. “About a mile away. They look like another thieving crew.”

  Wisp and Marogan extinguished the fires in their palms. He blinked to restore his night vision. After a few moments, he saw a faint light glowing in the distance and a trail of rising smoke.

  “What are we up against, Breeze?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t get close, but I recognised Snoutnose.”

  Wisp frowned. “Describe the rest of ‘em.”

  Breeze did, and as she talked a horrible realisation settled into Wisp’s guts.

  “Clubhead’s crew,” he said.

  Marogan snarled.

  Fleetfoot gulped. “Who’s he?”

  “Thief. Got his name ‘cause he enjoys breaking noses with his head. Works for Baron Earnstain. Breeze, were they also following the river, heading for the Castle?”

  Breeze nodded.

  “Damn.” Wisp rubbed his stubble. “Must’ve heard about our mission. We could loop around ‘em, but I doubt we’d get to the Castle first. Looks like we’ve got to set an ambush. Breeze, describe what you saw.”

  “They’re camping in the riverbed. Two sentries on top of the bank and the rest of them are eating and getting ready to sleep. They had a big campfire. Based on what I heard, a few Pyromancers are Bonded to it.”

  Wisp nodded. “If it’s Clubhead, he’ll have at least two Pyros with him: Cinder and Verve. Young, but skilful.”

  Marogan scratched her chin. “Verve … he got thrown out of the Three Crows.”

  Wisp nodded. “For complaining about a bet. Took his money in the end, though, and the others got fireballs to the face. What else, Breeze?”

  She told ‘em everything she’d seen. Wisp smiled. He’d recruited the girl a year ago, after she’d almost pickpocketed him at the markets. Would’ve succeeded if Wisp’s daughter hadn’t turned at the wrong moment. It took a deft touch to lift his purse without him feeling it, so after his crew beat her up and dumped her in the river, he’d hauled her out and offered her a job.

  Baron Hargrieve used dozens of thieves, and as his go-to crook, Wisp had the pick of ‘em all. For th
e last year, however, whenever he’d needed a Sneaker his choice was easy: Breeze. Quiet killings, accurate scouting, eavesdropping – the girl had it all. She reminded Wisp of his younger days, when climbing a five-story wall was easier than tying his bootlaces. Now, one flight of stairs made his knees twang.

  Even better, the girl loved learning. For the last year, Wisp had taught her the art of stealthy moving. She’d improved so much he kept a mirror on his desk to counter her annoying habit of sneaking inside his study, sitting, and not making a sound – not even when Wisp sung tavern songs under his breath. That was an embarrassing day.

  While she gave her report, plans formed in his head, twisting and warping and growing and adapting. Another part of his mind broke away from the scheming and thought about how much he enjoyed this. Maybe it was too early to retire.

  Breeze moved on to describing Clubhead’s crew. Wisp recognised most of the names, apart from three new members.

  As she talked, Fleetfoot lent forward, a half-smile forming. Seemed like he’d be happy if Breeze talked forever. Wisp frowned. Probably not an issue, but he’d watch it all the same.

  Breeze finished.

  “Alright,” said Wisp. “Here’s the plan.”

  He told ‘em his ambush scheme.

  Marogan frowned. “What if Breeze misses those shots? The Cuckoo Manoeuvre would be better.”

  Wisp frowned. He hadn’t thought of that.

  “Too risky,” he said. “They might have other Source Flames.”

  “Why not check, then decide?”

  Wisp huffed. Back when he’d first recruited her, Marogan never dared question him. That had changed in these last few years. Sure, she had the skill, but that didn’t give her the right to be cocky. Wisp had made it past fifty for a reason.

  Black Eye, Fleetfoot, and Breeze glanced between Wisp and Marogan. Wisp opened his mouth to reject her plan. Then he paused.

  Maybe she hadn’t become rude. Maybe he’d become grumpy. Decades ago, he’d never plan without consulting his crew. Now, though … when was the last time he’d gotten a second opinion?

  Damn. He’d always hated how old Redhands never let Wisp ask questions. Now he’d turned into the bastard.

  “You’re right, Marogan,” Wisp said. “Anyone else got suggestions?”

  Marogan’s lips twitched. Might’ve even smiled, although it could’ve been a trick of the light. He’d made the right move. After all, his crew would become hers when he retired, so probably right to give her more responsibility.

  Black Eye suggested a few close-quarters strategies, having fought Clubhead’s gang before. Breeze gave the rest of ‘em good positions to start their attack. Once he’d listened to ‘em all, and agreed with their best ideas, he turned to Fleetfoot.

  “Anything to add, son?”

  Everyone looked at the boy. The attention made him redden and he looked at the ground and shook his head.

  “Alright,” said Wisp. “Let’s move out.”

  4: WISP

  They crept through the woods, heading towards Clubhead’s crew.

  As they walked, Wisp strode beside Fleetfoot. “How you feeling, son?”

  “I…”

  “Say the truth. I ain’t gonna tease.”

  Fleetfoot gulped. “I’m scared.”

  Anyone with half a brain could see that, but Wisp wanted to reward the boy’s honesty, so he nodded.

  “And I’m cold,” said Fleetfoot. “And I need to pee, and I wish I’d never come here.”

  Wisp rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder as they walked. Poor kid was shivering with fear.

  “How long you worked for the Baron, Fleetfoot?”

  “Six months.”

  “And why?”

  “I … sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Ain’t trying to trap you, boy. Anything you say stays between us, alright?”

  “Okay.” Fleetfoot took a deep breath. “Used to work on my Father’s farm. Then a bunch of slavers raided, killed my parents, took me captive. I escaped. Came to Kroliss. Baron Hargrieve took me in, said he’d give me food and shelter if I worked for him.”

  Wisp nodded. The boy sounded confident, considering that everything he’d said was a lie. Maybe he had the right stuff to survive as a crook. But Wisp wouldn’t have that on his conscience.

  “Want some advice, son?”

  Fleetfoot nodded.

  “If this fails,” said Wisp. “And you somehow survive – live up to your name and hike it.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Run. If we don’t succeed, the Baron won’t be happy, and besides, you’ve got a chance to leave this life before it eats you whole. No one wins at this. Just a matter of not losing for as long as possible. It’s too late for people like Marogan and Black Eye. They’re in this deep, got to see it through. But you – you’re young. You’re a bloody good navigator, and your talent’s wasted on the streets. So you get a chance to leave, you take it. Only if we fail the mission, though, because we do everything we can to succeed. But if we don’t … you understand?”

  “I … I can’t leave.”

  Wisp sighed. No. The poor sod couldn’t, not while he let his past control him.

  They were approaching Clubhead’s crew, so Wisp gave Fleetfoot another pat on the back and raised his finger to his lips. The boy nodded.

  Wisp’s guts twisted at the lies he’d said. But they were worth it if they stopped the boy seeking reunion with his Father. Wisp knew enough about fathers to know they never forgave.

  The boy wasn’t built for this life. Not like Wisp. The scheming, the manoeuvring, heck, even when things went crazy and it was you against another in a contest of whoever had the sharpest teeth. It made him feel alive the way nothing else did. He’d miss it when he retired. Although – he rubbed his aching knees – maybe not that much.

  He stepped around a tree and dropped into a crawl, slithering to the river’s edge and peering down into the dry riverbed below. The riverbank was sixty paces wide, and it sloped down like a valley.

  Clubhead’s crew sat in the lowest point, gathered around a campfire. Two orange threads led from the fire to Cinder and Verve, who sat closest to the flames. Wisp narrowed his eyes. Neither of the Pyromancers had threads leading anywhere else, which meant they were Bonded to only the Source Flame. Excellent. The Cuckoo Manoeuvre was in play.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated. Energy surged through him as he touched a Source Flame he’d Bonded himself to, and drained the fire’s energy. Soon as he’d finished, tiredness swept through him. There was nothing like the high a fire gave a Pyro. And nothing like the low that followed.

  While they’d marched during the day, Wisp and Marogan had created and Bonded themselves to nine Source Flames. Wisp had just extinguished one. Marogan would’ve felt it, and that signal meant they’d use their first plan.

  On the other side of the dry river, a bowstring twanged. An arrow shot from the shadows. It hit Clubhead’s campfire. Glass broke.

  A new orange thread appeared, linking Wisp’s chest to the campfire. As planned, the vial of his and Marogan’s blood had shattered, Bonding ‘em to the flames.

  Clubhead’s crew yelped. They scrambled to grab their weapons. Another arrow took a woman in the throat as she pulled out her axe. She collapsed, gurgling on her own blood.

  Nine to go.

  “They’re on top of the bank!” said Clubhead. “Get the bastards!”

  Most of his crew were busy diving behind rocks, but a few raised crossbows. Bolts hissed through the night air. Breeze downed another man with an arrow to the chest before the barrage got too heated. Wisp didn’t see her crawl away from the river’s edge, but he sensed it. Right now, she’d be slithering along the bank, soon to re-emerge at another spot and keep shooting. And when she did, they’d start phase two.

  A shadow emerged from the trees on Wisp’s side of the river – Black Eye, making the most of Breeze’s distraction. The big man crept down the slope and hid behind a rock. On
e of Clubhead’s crew raced towards the same boulder for cover, spraying a bow shot in Breeze’s direction. Wisp aimed his crossbow at the man. Didn’t need it, though, because soon as he reached the rock Black Eye clamped his meaty hands around him and pulled him down. He didn’t get up.

  Three dead. Seven left.

  Another arrow leapt from the darkness, but it missed Verve. Wisp scowled. He’d been hoping Breeze could kill the Pyros at the start. They were the biggest threats.

  Verve splayed out his palm, pointing at Breeze’s direction. The orange thread joining Verve to the campfire pulsed with energy. Flame streamed from his hand and twigs ignited as the fire crawled up the slope towards Breeze.

  Wisp strained. With a rush of adrenaline, he drew the campfire’s energy into himself, cutting Verve’s stream and extinguishing the fire. Darkness blanketed the woods. The only light came from the remnants of Verve’s flames, which crackled on the ashen slope.

  “They’ve got Pyromancers!” said Verve.

  His voice was high pitched. Wisp grinned. Back in the city, the boy acted tough, but he didn’t sound so brave now.

  Verve pricked his finger and dropped his blood into the tiny fires flickering on the twigs. An orange thread shot from him to the small fires. Wisp cursed. The whole plan had been to stop their Pyromancer powers.

  Another one of Breeze’s arrows slashed through the air, but everything was too dark and it thudded into the dirt, missing her target. Wisp frowned. Marogan would need to brighten things if they wanted to keep shooting. Before she could, however, Verve drew all the fire’s energy into himself and set his hand ablaze, ready to hurl fire up the slope.

  Wisp raised his crossbow. Thanks for lighting yourself up.

  He fired. Verve collapsed, and the fire leapt from his hand to the ground, where it raced across fallen twigs, illuminating the rest of Clubhead’s crew.

  Wisp’s shot meant it was time to move for the kill. Marogan’s fire rolled down the far slope, engulfing a woman running up the bank. She screamed. Didn’t last long before the fire crawled down her lungs and reduced her voice to a croak. Smoke blew towards Wisp, smelling of melted flesh.