by Mirren Hogan
He was vaguely aware of the look of fear on her face and her hasty steps back toward the staircase. An almost imperceptible voice in the back of his head told him to stop, but he could no more stop than he could hold back the tide.
He raised his hands, palm upward, and magic shot out of his skin like a ball of crimson flame. It hit Hafta squarely in her face. She had no time to scream before her features melted, incinerated by the force of the magic. Her arms flailed reflexively as her body arced back, the momentum carrying her several feet before slamming to the floor.
She lay on the carpet, her hair and clothes engulfed in flame. In a matter of seconds, it spread to the carpet beneath her. It went up and burned so quickly the whole upper floor of the inn would be in flames in a matter of minutes.
For several heartbeats, Darai stood and stared at the inferno. Maybe he should stay here and die, but the instinct to survive kicked in.
He headed for the stairs and ran, shouting, “Fire!” as he went. He’d killed Hafta, whose only crimes had been being right and having been kind enough to let him travel with her. He wouldn’t let anyone else die.
The inn was swiftly in an uproar as residents and guests hurried to flee the flames.
No one gave Darai a second glance as he reached the bottom of the staircase. He stopped to look back, but the heat of the flames pushed him toward the front doorway. Smoke was now thicker than the dust on the road. A few breaths and he was coughing. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. He recognised the man who had bumped into him earlier as he let himself be dragged out.
“Thank you,” he said to the man, but he was already hurrying off and didn’t look back to acknowledge him this time. Perhaps that was best. He didn’t need anyone remembering they’d seen him fleeing the inn from the source of the fire.
It was only then that he realised he wasn’t going to stay and admit what he’d done. He was terrified, he was a murderer and he was going to be a coward, but he was going to run.
He left the cart and the horse behind, a fraction of the recompense for having destroyed part of the inn. He wouldn’t even trust himself with a beast, or another person. He’d find a place he could live truly alone and live out his days there.
***
He was still walking, and exhausted when the sun rose. He had to blink twice to be sure he was seeing a cloud of dust on the northern horizon. A glance back over his shoulder showed another to the south. Of course on a busy road, travellers would be out early. Only then did he realise he hadn’t seen any all night. It made sense that no one would have gone past Joluwei if they were needed to help put out the fire at the inn.
For a moment he stared at the road up ahead, his sleep-deprived mind addled for a moment. With a start he remembered what he’d done, and that people might be looking for him. At least, he knew he had to avoid seeing anyone face to face, especially someone from the guild. That thought made him all but jump from the road and hurry into the trees.
This time he didn’t mind the dust. It showered onto him with every branch he touched and coated him with layers which obscured his clothing and skin. He could duck down behind a bush and be hidden from view. At least he hoped so.
He understood how well the dust could camouflage when he almost fell over a fallen log. The branches around it were so laden they obscured his view. He managed to keep his balance, but lowered himself to the ground and lay wearily, eyes open a crack, looking toward the road.
He heard the first of the wagons roll past minutes later, voices talking in what he assumed was Chaqian. He couldn’t understand a word, but there was a lilt which reminded him of the inn keeper.
He saw the legs of at least four horses and several people walking alongside. A big trader wagon perhaps. The walkers would probably be guards, likely armed and well-trained. For a moment he thought about standing up and giving himself in. He could admit what he’d done, they’d execute him, and everyone would be safer.
Again, his desire to survive overrode the thought and he lay still, trying not to breathe in case it sent up dust. He didn’t think they’d be looking for him until they got farther south, but he didn’t want to give them anything they might remember later which would lead to his discovery. He couldn’t predict what would happen if he felt threatened. Adina had been right; he had no control at all. If only he’d listened to her, Hafta would still be alive. Gods, had anyone else died in the blaze? His body already burned with guilt.
As the wagon passed and rolled on, he buried his face in dry leaves and prayed to any god or goddess who would listen to guide him. He got no reply. If there were gods, they’d turned their faces away from him. He’d been alone before, but he’d never felt it as acutely as this.
Several minutes of silence fell before he heard the next wagon approaching. It coincided with the inevitable need to sneeze. Darai did the only thing he could think of, he rose quickly and headed deeper into the trees. The farther away from the road he went, the more distant the wagons and voices became, and the dust began to thin.
He hardly noticed it at first, but then the leaves became greener and he even saw a few flowers, albeit small, dried-out looking ones. The sneeze which threatened burst out of him, followed by an explosion of colourful birds which rose from the trees, startled at the noise. He smirked. Even nature fled from him. It was a shame really, because he was hungry, and those birds looked large and tasty. If he dared to use magic, he could cook one before it hit the ground. However, he’d probably burn all the trees and any idea of hiding his presence would be gone. He’d have to hunt and build a fire.
Instinctively, he started looking around for something he could make into a spear. If nothing else, it’d take his mind off Hafta and the sorcerers for a while.
He finally found a suitable stick about an hour’s walk from the road, but even now he didn’t dare to do more than pick it up and carry it with him. He’d covered his tracks as he walked. So long as nothing was able to sniff his scent, he should be able to avoid being followed, but he didn’t want to be seen or heard. He’d walk until the sun was in the middle of the sky and then stop to rest. In the meantime, he pulled some goja berries and hazunuts from bushes he passed. It wouldn’t be enough to sustain him, but it would have to do for now. He’d need water and meat, and lots of both in the long run. He’d also need shelter, especially from the sun.
As it rose, he began to sweat. He stuck close to the shade of the trees, but the air was moist and sticky, drawing precious water from his skin which he couldn’t afford to lose. He knew he’d die of thirst before he died of hunger.
He spied the birds again and decided to follow them in the hope they’d lead him to water. He knew that birds never strayed too far from it. He almost lost them several times and just stopped himself from falling into a ravine, but eventually he heard it, the sound of water running. He stepped out of the trees and into the creek before he saw it. The sudden sensation of cold on his skin made him gasp aloud in pleased surprise.
He knelt down in the flow and lowered his face to gulp. His wavering reflection looked tired, dirty, and strained. As his face touched the water he knew he could fix only one of those things now. He drank and then lay in the creek until the water washed his body clean.
CHAPTER 34
Darai awoke just as the sun was setting. At some point during the day, he must have dragged himself out of the creek and under the trees. His clothes had dried in the heat and now stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He groaned and shifted before pulling at a stick that dug into his back. He tossed it aside and winced at the crash it made as it landed. He must have thrown it harder than he’d thought.
No one came to investigate. All he heard was some kind of small animal running from him. Cursing, he sat up and looked around. He might have been able to catch whatever it was if he’d thought before he’d acted. It was long gone now, but there had to be something else around. If he was going to eat, he only had an hour or two of daylight left to catch something. The l
arge stick he’d kept to use as a spear was lying where he’d left it beside the creek. It only took a couple of minutes to find a suitable stone, but he berated himself for not taking a knife when he’d left the guild.
He lay the stone on a large, flat rock and found another, smaller one. Using this, he struck the side of the stone to break off a section. He did this several times until the stone was shaped like a spear point. Beside the creek he found some rope-weed. It was a little green, but it would do. He tugged it out by the roots and wound it around the stick to bind the spear tip in place.
He might not have used those muscles in a long time, but he’d done this so many times it was almost second nature. Compared with using magic, this felt right; clean somehow. Until now, he hadn’t thought of magic as being dirty. The moment he’d felt its touch on his skin, even before he knew he could use it, it had sullied him. He’d changed in ways he hadn’t wanted to recognise or acknowledge. It had made him a murderer. Magic came from the earth, maybe even from the gods themselves, but it wasn’t for him. He was a simple man; he was meant for life away from the city, the noise, people, and sorcerers. Perhaps in time he could make peace with himself and maybe then his gods would turn back to him.
He tested the end of his makeshift spear. It wasn’t as evenly weighted as he’d like, but it would do. Moving quietly, he headed downstream a little way, hoping to catch some kind of small animal unaware while it drank. A rabbit would do, or a cangi lizard. Perhaps he’d find one sunning in the last rays of the day.
He saw several of the large birds which had led him to the creek, but they were too far away and the breeze was blowing in the wrong direction. They’d hear him coming before he got close enough to strike. He might try to make a bow and some arrows in the coming days, if he could find the right material.
He stepped into a shaft of twilight that shone through the branches of a tree, and froze. There, several feet away, stood a bush chicken. Larger than their domestic relatives, the bush chicken was slower and laid fewer eggs, but would contain twice the meat. They were also not known for their intelligence. This one suddenly became aware of his presence and, although startled, ran toward him, rather than away.
With one thrust, Darai speared the animal in the chest, killing it instantly. It was almost too easy, but the rumble in his belly was loud, so he’d not complain. The bird died without making a sound. He pulled the spear back and bent to pluck and dismember it before stacking twigs, dry leaves and small pieces of wood to build a small fire and setting it to cook. If he hadn’t known that eating the chicken uncooked might make him sick—or worse, dead—he’d have devoured it then and there, with only its cooling body heat for warmth.
His mouth was watering by the time it was cooked all the way through. He tore it into strips with his fingers and shoved them into his mouth so fast he almost choked. He ate half of it and kept the rest for morning. At least his belly was sated for now. He knew better than to eat himself full after a day or so of eating nothing. Throwing food back up would be counter-productive at best.
He thought about shelter but by now all that was left was a slight glow of sunlight in the western sky, not enough to see by, much less gather up what he’d need.
Instead, he cleared a place beside the fire where he could lie without being bothered by branches. He disturbed a few ants, but they hurried off toward the remains of his dinner. Given their bite, he was grateful for that. The last thing he needed was to die from an infected ant bite, after everything he’d been through. However, when they started to swarm over the rest of the chicken, devouring it, he understood that the price of his peace would be hunger in the morning.
He sighed and lay on his back, staring at the sky as the first stars came out. They seemed smaller here than in Nageso, but he knew they were the same. He wondered if his family was looking up at them too, wondering what had happened to him. Had the guild told them anything? Probably not. Then they’d have to explain the things they’d done, and they’d look bad. Gods forbid that might happen. He snorted softly.
His family probably assumed he was dead. That would be for the best. They could mourn and move on, forget about him, and live their lives. They’d never need to know what he’d become.
He watched a star fall across the sky and sighed. His mother had once told him that it meant another of the gods had died. He’d asked how a god could die, but she’d had no answer for that, other than that was how it was. She’d accepted it without question, but he’d never been able to, until now. The gods must be flawed, or they wouldn’t allow the Outpouring, the harvest or any of that which had happened to him, Adina and the others like them. The gods, he decided, were no better than he was. They’d turned from him, perhaps it was time he turned from them.
His felling of being alone deepened. He might as well be the only one left in Isskasala. As the night darkened, so did his mood, until he fell asleep with hot tears on his cheeks.
***
Darai awoke with cold water on his face. It took him a moment to open his eyes and realise it was rain. The sun had risen, but dark clouds loomed overheard. He remembered the last time he’d been caught out in a storm and had to hold back the rising panic.
He shot up and took several steps toward the thicker canopy before remembering his spear. His fire sizzled where fat raindrops fell on warm coals, steam rising into the humid air. What had been left of the bush chicken was gone, devoured by at least one army of hungry ants. He’d have to find something to wrap food in next time.
He snatched up his spear as the first peal of thunder struck the sky. It was followed several seconds later by a flash of lightning so bright it made him break into a run. He wasn’t sure the cover of the trees would be enough, so he hurried to the stream and trotted parallel to it, but at a safe distance it, hoping for a ledge, a boulder, anything which would shield him in case it wasn’t just rain which fell.
In several places, he was forced further away from the water, as the trees and bushes grew too close for him to pass. By now, the creek was flowing more quickly, verging on becoming a river. Behind him, the storm was gaining ground, thunder and lightning coming closer together. Several bolts in quick succession lit up the morning sky. He’d given up trotting and was now running full-pelt through the bush, swerving around bushes and ducking under tree branches.
The storm broke fully overheard. A god’s decanter full of water falling like a torrent, saturating him in seconds. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged that it was only water and not another Outpouring, but he was still frantic.
He leapt over a fallen log and fell heavily to his knees. The impact jarred his body. He cried out loud. When he’d landed, he came down on several sharp sticks, which dug painfully into his skin. In spite of the discomfort it took him a moment to catch his breath and rise.
One knee was bleeding, but not badly. He was breathing heavily, but made himself take a few steps forward before resuming his run. The bank beside the river were becoming rocky and his hope of finding shelter there kept him upright and moving.
Several boulders made him deviate his path again, away from the river, but he was confident now that finding it again wouldn’t be difficult. Instead of the trickle of the creek, the river ran loud enough to be heard from a distance.
Winding through the boulders, he found nowhere suitable to stay out of the storm. A bolt of lightning flashed suddenly and so close Darai felt the hairs on his arms singe. It struck a tree several feet in front of him, ripping the trunk in two and startling a rabbit which had been hiding at its base. The sound it made was louder than the thunder and echoed for a moment.
Darai’s heart thumped inside his chest. Had he been a few steps ahead, he might have been struck by chunks of wood. Perhaps the gods hasn’t entirely abandoned him after all. That thought should have given him comfort, but he was too angry with them. Besides, if they really cared, they could have had the lightning hit the rabbit, so he’d have some food.
Eyeing the tree as h
e passed, he sniffed the smell of burnt wood and grimaced. Another bolt of lightning in the direction of the river reminded him of the need to hurry. Hefting his spear a little higher on his shoulder, he started forward again.
Finally. There, just ahead in the gloom of the morning, was the mouth of a cave. It wasn’t a big opening, but he only needed to get under cover until the storm was over.
He ran again, dodging several small trees and leaping over a bush until he reached the cave. It was wide enough for him to enter, and deep enough for him to take several steps and feel protected from the weather.
It was hot inside and smelled faintly of some kind of decaying animal. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that the cave went back a long way, much farther than he’d first thought. He made out a pinprick of light that could have been the other side of a short tunnel. Whatever it was, it was definitely a natural occurrence; the rock was rough on his palm as he touched the wall, and the floor was uneven.
Leaving the storm behind, he walked forward slowly, hand on his spear in case he wasn’t the only inhabitant. There were no caves that he knew of in Nageso, so the gods only knew what might live in one like this. Given the place was high enough for him to stand in, then there was a chance he’d find something big. Hopefully it’d be tasty and not hungry enough to eat him first.
As he approached, the light got brighter, giving him enough illumination to see where to place his feet as he went. He turned a bend and found a larger opening.
The storm was still raging outside, but there, apparently playing in the rain, were some odd- looking creatures. They had the heads of snakes, and scaled skin in hues of green and brown. Standing as large as him, each had a tail which came to a point, also like that of a snake. One turned to regard him though slitted eyes, and ruffled its enormous brown-green wings.
“Oh gods,” Darai breathed. Apparently, they weren’t a myth.