Fires of the Dead

by Jed Herne

  He searched the cavernous chamber, wading through the thick ash, until he found enough charcoal. Then he cleared a patch of ash. The stone floor was so blackened he struggled to see it, but it gave him a solid base and that was all he needed.

  He chewed his lips. It had been years since he’d read this, and like most things he knew, he’d never actually done it. Still, how hard could it be?

  Well, no one but the High Priest has done it for three hundred years. And if anyone else has enough brains to do it … well, they won’t keep those brains for long.

  He swallowed. When he’d realised he was reading an illegal book, he’d panicked. Then again, he shouldn’t have been surprised to discover the grimoire was blasphemous – he’d got one of his Father’s spies to find it after reading several manuscripts that referenced the book.

  He’d burned the grimoire, and spent the next few weeks terrified that the High Priest would order Fleetfoot’s hanging. Luckily, no one noticed. He supposed that was the benefit of being known as a pathetic coward, not worthy of his Father’s name. How would someone like that have enough guts to commit treason?

  Now, however … reading the book was punishable by death, but what he was about to do gave the Council licence to slaughter your entire family. Not that anyone apart from the High Priest had successfully done the ritual in hundreds of years.

  Still, he’d come this far and if this went well there’d be no one to tell. Breeze would never betray him.

  He used charcoal to draw a large circle. Frowning, he drew symbols inside the shape. Fleetfoot lost himself in the process. The scratching of charcoal against stone reminded him of those happy afternoons huddled in Father’s warm study, sketching maps on parchment. Some maps described places he’d read about, but most sprung straight from his mind. Rugged coastlines, jagged mountain ranges, sprawling forests … each world he created felt so real.

  He finished the sigil. Fleetfoot smiled. Down in his bones, he knew he’d drawn it correctly. He’d always had a strong memory for images.

  Although if the book lied, the sigil would be as powerless as him.

  He placed firewood inside the circle. Then, using the flame Marogan created, he ignited a fire on top of the sigil. He tensed. Would the flames turn green? Would there be a voice?

  Nothing.

  He shrugged. The book had been vague, so Fleetfoot wasn’t sure what should happen anyway.

  Now he just had to wait.

  ~ ~ ~

  A rope sailed through the hole in the roof and crashed onto the ground. Fleetfoot jumped. He looked up as Breeze shot through the hole, slid down the rope, and landed. She yanked the cord. The rope slackened and the other end crashed into the floor with a puff of ash.

  Fleetfoot sprinted towards her. It felt like she’d been gone forever. He wanted to hug her, but before he reached Breeze she bent over, rubbed her rope-burned hands, and gasped. By the time she straightened up he felt too awkward to touch her.

  Breeze handed him a sack. The hessian was moist and Fleetfoot’s stomach heaved.

  Don’t think about it, don’t think about it-

  He dropped the sack and puked vomit and bile onto the floor. Groaning, he wiped his mouth.

  “You do it,” he said.

  Breeze glanced at the fire. “It’s ready?”

  He nodded.

  “Good.” She grabbed the sack and dropped it into the flames. “Because when I climbed back up the wall, Xaphess saw me. She’s probably coming here now.”

  Fleetfoot’s stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left inside.

  He pointed at the flaming hessian sack. “Did she see it?”

  “Doubt it, because if she’d seen me earlier, I’d be dead.”

  She gestured at her legs. Burn marks charred her boots and her trousers were singed. The stench of burnt fabric hung in the air, although when the sack caught fire that was replaced by the smell of melting flesh and burning hair. Fleetfoot closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look, but as the smell grew his curiosity overpowered him. Besides, he had to know if it worked, so he opened his eyes.

  Wreathed by a halo of flames, Marogan’s head glared at him. The sack had burned away.

  His stomach lurched. Even beyond death her scowl made him feel small. He blocked his nose, but it didn’t stop the horrible odour of burning hair.

  Fleetfoot had a simple plan. In theory, at least. With the charcoal symbols and Marogan’s decapitated head, they’d created an Ancestral Flame. Granted, it was powered by one Pyromancer, not hundreds, and it was the size of a campfire, not a cavern. Still, no one had made an Ancestral Flame without the High Priest’s permission in three centuries. That achievement made Fleetfoot smile. Even if they died, he’d done something special. That was some consolation, wasn’t it?

  Not really.

  Besides, celebration was premature, because this was only phase one. The next part would be harder.

  Breeze squeezed his hand. “At least she’s coming to us. We had to get Xaphess here, anyway.”

  “Always looking on the bright side.”

  Breeze smiled and then they were both laughing, even though the joke wasn’t funny and they were going to die. It distracted Fleetfoot for a few moments, though. And that made it worthwhile.

  Breeze coiled the rope over her shoulder. Together they climbed the ladder to the walkway. Xaphess would enter through the main door and they would be ready for her to come.

  Breeze tied the rope around the railing. It dropped to the ground, next to the Ancestral Flame they’d created.

  Fleetfoot stared at the door. The planks hammered across the wood seemed weaker than twigs. His hands shook. He hadn’t thought this through. Getting what they needed from Xaphess meant they had to touch her. How could they get that close to a Pyromancer?

  “What are you going to do?” asked Breeze. “When we get out of this?”

  Fleetfoot hadn’t thought that far ahead. Why would he need to when there was no way they’d escape?

  “You go first,” he said.

  “A bath. Ash makes great camouflage, but it’s itchy.”

  “I’ve heard it’s great for the skin, not that yours needs improvement.”

  Breeze cocked her head to the side. Heat flushed Fleetfoot’s face. He opened his mouth, ready to mumble an apology, but then Breeze smiled and that made him smile, too.

  Breeze liked him. Even after knowing he was a Baron’s cowardly son, even after he’d gotten Wisp killed, even after months of him scurrying around like a pathetic street rat.

  He pointed at the hole in the ceiling. “It’s not too late. You can go.”

  “My arms are sore. I couldn’t climb up there if I wanted to.”

  It was a lie. He’d seen her climb for hours on missions. But even though it was a lie, it brought him joy. She liked him enough to see this through together, all the way to the end.

  She rubbed his back. “It’ll work, Fleet.”

  He swallowed. Why couldn’t he share her confidence?

  They waited. Breeze kept her eye pressed to the door’s keyhole, waiting for Xaphess to approach.

  Something crashed into the ground behind them.

  Fleetfoot turned.

  A swaying rope hung from the hole in the roof. Fleetfoot’s heart skipped a beat and then Xaphess came slithering down and swung towards the walkway, landing a dozen yards away from Fleetfoot and Breeze.

  Xaphess smiled. She raised her palm, ready to incinerate them.

  Fleetfoot shoved Breeze off the walkway. She yelped and grabbed the rope they’d tied earlier and before she could stop herself she slid towards the floor.

  She cursed. “No, Fleet!”

  Xaphess unleashed a stream of fire. Fleetfoot rolled off the walkway. He grabbed the rope, but instead of dropping to the floor he used his momentum to swing under the walkway. With shaking hands, he nestled in the steel under-structure. He gulped. Nothing beneath him but the cold hard floor, eight stories below.

  Xaphess strode to
wards him. Her footsteps rattled the walkway. Fleetfoot winced. This seemed smart before, but now he wasn’t so sure. He was supporting himself by hooking his legs around steel trusses, and the large beams to either side meant Xaphess had to be right above before she could lean over and burn him. Which, judging by her approaching footsteps, was her plan.

  “Use the rope, Fleet!” said Breeze.

  He glanced down. Big mistake, because the height made his heart hammer faster, but it was worth it to see Breeze standing on the floor.

  Xaphess was seconds away.

  Fleetfoot’s guts clenched. “I love you, Breeze.”

  Breeze sagged. “I love you too, idiot.”

  “Touching,” said Xaphess.

  He flinched. The Pyromancer was above him. Her shadow fell through the gaps in the walkway.

  Oh gods I don’t want to die –

  “Wait!” His voice was high-pitched. “Why are you doing this? Just let us go!”

  Xaphess snarled. “These woods are my birthright, boy, and anything inside them belongs to me, including you. The Randalls didn’t understand. The others didn’t understand. And neither do you.”

  The walkway creaked. Xaphess leaned over the side and her hand appeared next to Fleetfoot’s head and he lunged with his dagger and slashed. He chopped through her finger. Xaphess hissed. She recoiled, and blood gleamed on Fleetfoot’s blade and he threw the knife. It fell through the air, along with her severed finger – a line of metal, a lump of skin, flashing in the light. With a dull thud, the blood-stained knife and Xaphess’ finger landed in the fire: right beside Marogan’s fleshless skull. Embers blew into the air.

  Xaphess reached under the walkway with her other hand. Fleetfoot closed his eyes. The plan hadn’t worked and now she’d make his death twice as painful.

  He’d brushed with death many times over the last half-year. When he looked back on the missions, the scrapes, and the fights, he realised that despite almost dying on a weekly basis, he’d felt more alive in the last six months than he’d ever felt in his Father’s Castle.

  As he hung there, underneath the walkway, he didn’t feel fear. No. He greeted death with peace, and that was made a lot easier by Breeze saying she loved him.

  A strangled yelp sounded from above. He opened his eyes. Xaphess’ hand was inches away, but she hadn’t shot flame. Why?

  With a wretched groan, Xaphess collapsed on the walkway and the whole structure clanged.

  Fleetfoot gasped. “Breeze!”

  “I know!”

  His arms ached, but he had enough strength to climb back onto the walkway. Xaphess sprawled on the floor.

  She sobbed. “S-stop it.”

  Fleetfoot gaped. His scheme had worked.

  For a Pyromancer to Bond with an Ancestral Flame, they had to drip their blood into the fire, and use the flame to burn part of themselves.

  But it didn’t have to be voluntary.

  When you linked yourself to Ancestral Flames, it wasn’t like joining any ordinary fire. The Ancestral Flame had a mind: a Communal Mind composed of all the dead Pyromancers who’d been cremated in the flames. When you Bonded to an Ancestral Flame, part of the Flame Bonded to you. Normally, the Communal Mind contained hundreds of consciousnesses. This made it hard for them to agree and slow to decide.

  When you only had one mind in the flame, however, it was easy for them to focus. Easy for them to invade the mind of whoever linked themselves to the Flame – especially if the Ancestral Flame contained someone who hated losing. Someone like Marogan.

  Xaphess’ eyes were wide and spit dribbled down her chin. “P-please – she’s – she’s – argh!”

  Sympathy panged through Fleetfoot. Marogan had been nasty enough on the outside. What would it be like to have her mind rip into yours?

  Fleetfoot pressed his lips together. He hated it, but it was them or Xaphess.

  He raised his knife, ready to release her from her misery. She aimed her hand at him, but whatever Marogan was doing, it meant she couldn’t focus enough to draw a flame.

  “Wait!” croaked Xaphess. “The Skull – the Randall’s Skull – I know where it is!”

  Fleetfoot paused. That Skull had meant everything to the crew. To Wisp, it meant enough money to see him leave the streets for good.

  “I did this,” Xaphess said. “I was a Randall. I convinced the Mind to give me all their power, to make Randalls strong, do what others couldn’t. But I was lying, and they didn’t know. They didn’t know! Even though they were in my head! Just like – argh! N-no. Not that – no!”

  Xaphess screamed. Fleetfoot swallowed. The Skull meant more than money. Finding it meant his Father would forgive him, and Fleetfoot could leave Kroliss’ cut-throat alleys and piss-stained taverns forever. He’d have done something his brothers could never eclipse.

  “Y-yes.” A hungry look came over Xaphess’ face. “I can give it to you.”

  “Fleet, don’t listen to her!” said Breeze.

  Fleetfoot swallowed. One choice to gain his Father’s forgiveness. One choice to clear the ledger. One choice to regain the life he’d lost.

  Then he thought of Breeze. What would she do? She couldn’t come back to his old life. Sure, his father would permit it. Despite his loathing of commoners, he’d make any concessions if Fleetfoot came bearing the Skull.

  But what about Breeze? He couldn’t imagine her wearing his sisters’ frilly dresses, or adopting the nauseatingly polite façade his family used when talking to guests. She was a creature of freedom. To steal that was unfair. Not that he could take it, because she’d never allow it.

  Xaphess must’ve seen something change in his eyes, because she raised her trembling hands. “N-no! Please, I’ll give you the Skull, just make it stop!”

  The Skull would get his old life back.

  But his new life was better.

  Gritting his teeth, Fleetfoot brought down the knife.

  16: FLEETFOOT

  The Castle burned.

  Fleetfoot and Breeze reached the bottom of the hill. They looked back at the hulking mass of stone above them. By the time they’d emerged from the keep, the fires were fading, and after shovelling sand on the flames to douse them, they’d walked out the front gate. Smoke rose from the battlements, but now the smog was thinning to reveal the sky.

  Fleetfoot felt guilty about leaving Marogan’s Flame inside the Hearth. Despite everything she’d done to him, making her endure two deaths seemed cruel. Unfortunately, a Pyromancer’s mind could only reside in one Ancestral Flame, and once that fire extinguished, so did they. There was no way to transfer Marogan out of the Castle. Even Pyromancers couldn’t cheat death forever.

  “Sure you don’t want to look for the Skull?” asked Breeze.

  “Do you want to?”

  “Couldn’t care less.”

  “Me too.”

  Breeze turned away from the Castle and Fleetfoot did the same.

  “What now?” asked Breeze. “I don’t want to go back to Kroliss. Especially since … well.”

  Bitterness tinged her words. Fleetfoot sighed. Wisp, Black Eye, Marogan – they’d been the closest thing to family he had. But that was the good thing about living. Plenty of time to start things afresh.

  “I have a few ideas,” said Fleetfoot. “I figure I’ve spent enough time looking at maps. About time I did some exploring and see how accurate those maps are. Want to come along?”

  Breeze smiled. “I’d love to.”

  Warmth flowed through Fleetfoot. He wouldn’t be the same after this, but as he looked into Breeze’s eyes, Fleetfoot realised that was a good thing.

  Together, they strode into the woods. Neither of them looked back.

  THE END.

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  Want to know how Marogan got her name? Want to see her first missions with Wisp? Learn that - and so much more - in the free prequel to Fires of the Dead:

  ASCENDANT FLAMES

  A Pyromancer Story by Jed Herne

 
; The price of power is blood.

  Desperate for respect, a young magician joins a criminal gang and becomes drunk on her newfound power. But when she must decide between everything she wants and everything she used to be, will she let the past die, or will she reject her new life?

  To claim your free story, go to: jedherne.com/fires

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  Acknowledgements:

  So many people helped this novella be its best self. Thank you all!

  For my beta readers: Xavier Hazard, Caitlin Shaw, Raine Bianchini, Hope2benew, Willows89, Callimoore, Valtteri, Rhindra, and Messyman.

  For giving me the right mindset: David Castelanelli, Alisha McMullen, Mitch Bruce, Gabriel Bergmoser, Rebekah Craggs, Rob Di Giovanni, and Raine Bianchini.

  Books should be judged by the cover (or we’d just email each other PDFs). Thanks to everyone who helped make this one great: Alessandro Di Bucci, Alisha McMullen, Amy de Groot, Blake D’Souza, Daniel Brown, Ethan Kurtz, Jake Gower, Jared Schmitzer, Joel Bendotti, Joshua de Sousa, Jules Chilcott, Linda Herne, Lauren Fleming, Keith Herne, Marci Low, Olisa Anwasi, Phoebe Dingli, Raine Bianchini, Rebekah Craggs, Reece Gherardi, Rohan Musgrave, Rohan Singh, Sam Bray, and Tina Lau.

  For your ever-present support: my parents and all

  my wonderful family.

  And to you, the reader! Thanks for reaching the end (or skipping to the acknowledgements for some weird reason). Stories don’t exist in a vacuum. Readers form just as much of the story as the author does. The way you interpreted this – the colours you added, characters you imagined, places you saw – is as unique as you. That’s special. So thank you for participating, for applying your imagination and experiences to my art. Together, I think we did something quite enjoyable, don’t you?