Call Of The Flame (Book 1)

by James R. Sanford

  CALL OF THE FLAME

  James R. Sanford

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by James R. Sanford

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. This e-book has been published without Digital Rights Management software installed, so that it may be read on personal devices.

  More e-books by James R. Sanford:

  Magesong

  The Winter Beast (and other tales)

  To Todd, for the times we burned.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1: The Madman

  CHAPTER 2: Poison and Dreams

  CHAPTER 3: The Moment

  CHAPTER 4: Dragon’s Blood

  CHAPTER 5: The Knights of the Pyxidium

  CHAPTER 6: The Sundering

  CHAPTER 7: The Way of the Flame

  CHAPTER 8: A Magic Arrow

  CHAPTER 9: Rumors and Resolve

  CHAPTER 10: The Dance

  CHAPTER 11: Handfuls of Straw

  CHAPTER 12: Commitments

  CHAPTER 13: Cinnamon upon a Pillow

  CHAPTER 14: The Flesh of the Innocent

  CHAPTER 15: That Which Lies Beneath

  CHAPTER 16: Redemption

  CHAPTER 17: Esaiya

  CHAPTER 1: The Madman

  Kyric awoke with a start. His campfire still burned low, and he knew that he hadn't been asleep long. He had been having one of those dreams, but he couldn’t remember it. The forest stood silent, moonlight filtering through the canopy of leaves. Had he heard something? Throwing a handful of kindling onto the coals, he fanned the fire to life, but it wasn't enough light to see past the nearest tree.

  The highroad had been crowded that day, the wealthy families in private carriages, a few covered wagons, most everyone else afoot, the overland coaches not running at all in this last week before summer, and no post horses available anywhere. They were all going south for the games, and little comraderies formed with but a few friendly words — safety in numbers with all the pickpockets and thieves coming out for the Games of Aeva. Kyric had walked and talked a short way with some of his fellow travelers, but he had nothing in common with them, not even the local boys his own age. Of course not — how could he? He had wanted to join in their gossip and jests, but he didn‘t know how. They would sooner or later see that he was strange and stop speaking to him.

  Kyric had camped alone, far from the road, and now he wished he hadn't done so. Silence lurked expectantly in the shadows, and the slow night breeze felt eerie, like the breath of some unseen creature.

  It was only a fox or an owl, he said to himself, tossing a few more sticks onto the fire. Then he saw that his bow was missing. The canvas sleeve he carried it in lay crumpled on the ground next to his knapsack. His quiver of arrows had been knocked over and spilled, but all his other things were still in place.

  He leapt to his feet, as if he could strike off into the darkness and run the thief down, even as he realized the futility of it.

  Then a voice, "Hello in the camp," and two men dressed for hunting stepped into the circle of light. Neither of them carried a lantern.

  Kyric had seen them before. They were gentlemen who served Senator Lekon. The tall fellow — Kyric couldn’t remember his name — carried a blunderbuss at the ready. The thin-faced one, Joff they called him, said quietly, “Don’t be alarmed, lad, we’re tracking a criminal. A madman. Perhaps you’ve seen someone tonight?”

  “Yes,” Kyric blurted out, “I mean no, but— “

  A soft whirr, then a feathered shaft protruding from the tall man’s chest. He looked at it stupidly as he sank to his knees.

  Kyric froze in horror, vaguely aware that the arrow, fletched with blue feathers, was one of his own, but Joff sprang aside instantly, drawing a pistol from his sash, cocking and firing it with one fluid motion at a man rushing in from the shadows, a man with a longsword gripped in two hands.

  The swordsman’s head snapped to the side, as if he had been hit, and he staggered for a step before regaining the flow of his attack. Then Joff had his sabre out, impossibly fast. As they met, blades clashed, the two men moving strangely, delicate steps as in a dance, then Joff lay on the ground, a foot-long gash in his torso spewing blood and breath. He died within moments.

  Dragging the two bodies close to the fire, the swordsman looked closely at their wounds. “So your blood was still red,” he muttered. He glanced up at Kyric. “They were very good. I thought it likely that they were men of the dragon’s blood.” He shook his head. “Their master may have held dominion over them, but so many young ones join them willingly now.”

  He rose and looked Kyric in the eye. With a touch of surprise, Kyric realized that he was broad-shouldered and burly, with thick arms and legs — a body that belied its shocking quickness.

  “My deepest apology for using you to snare those two,” he said, “but they were skilled enough that I couldn’t ambush them with only my sword.” He spoke softly, the sort of thing a madman might do after committing a horrible crime.

  He fetched Kyric’s bow from behind a tree, tossing it to him as he retrieved the tall man’s blunderbuss. He quickly checked the flint and the pan.

  “Heading to Aeva for the games?” he asked.

  A criminal. A madman. Kyric nodded, unable to speak. Two men lay dead before him.

  “The archery contest?”

  He nodded again.

  “Good for you. It’s almost a lost art these days.”

  The tall one stared up at him, the eyes fixed with surprise. A dark stain spread across the forest floor as Kyric watched, the stench of blood and bile rising with it. Those who had never seen human slaughter were supposed to be sickened by it, but Kyric felt nothing, just numbness.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. The swordsman was there saying gently, “I am terribly sorry. This is something no one should have to witness.”

  Kyric stood frozen with terror. Witness. He was a witness to murder and by all rights the criminal should kill him now so that none may tell of his crime. But a madman might not think that way. Who knows what he thought? A madman might even want to befriend him. “It’s alright,” he managed to say.

  The swordsman shook his head. “But it isn’t. Other hunters search for me along the highroad, and that pistol shot will bring someone around sooner not later. All of this will not look good for you. It is the moment of the winter dragon. If you want to make it to the games you’ll have to come with me.” He raised the blunderbuss for emphasis.

  Kyric looked into his eyes. Even in the darkness they seemed glazed and faraway. The moment of the winter dragon. Yes, certainly the man was mad. Kyric would play along and look for a chance to slip away. That seemed best.

  “What do I call you?”

  The madman smiled. “Aiyan. My name is Aiyan. Now quickly, gather your things and douse the fire.”

  When Kyric had done so, Aiyan asked him, “Do you see well in the dark?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Then you take the lead. I’ll walk in your footsteps and cover your tracks. Just keep going that way.” He pointed to the northwest.

  “That will take us through the forest. We should come out somewhere near Liora.”

  The swordsman nodded. “Beyond Liora there’s a path that runs along the coast all the way to the narrows.”

  Kyric plunged ahead, moving quickly as he could, hoping the madman would simply fall b
ehind and be lost, but the undergrowth slowed him and Aiyan shadowed him easily, matching his stride in a way that made Kyric think he was actually walking in his footsteps.

  “How do you do that in the dark?” he whispered over his shoulder.

  The answer came after a long silence. “Let’s say that it is something you can practice. Many things are possible.”

  They found a game trail dappled with moonlight and followed it for a while, the chirping of crickets a rhythm for the calls of night birds in the distance. When it turned away from their path they plunged into a thicket, walking through huge spider webs that sent shivers down Kyric’s back. After what seemed like hours, the moon at last set and Kyric could no longer pick his way among the trees.

  “We’ll rest now,” said Aiyan. “Sunrise will come soon enough.”

  While Kyric rummaged in his knapsack for biscuits, the swordsman knelt down and was still, as if listening, or perhaps making a silent prayer. At length he said to Kyric, “You haven’t asked me why I killed those men.”

  Kyric said nothing.

  “I heard what they said to you, but it isn’t true.”

  Whatever the man wanted to talk about, Kyric would let him. “Then I would like to know the truth, Aiyan.”

  A low chuckle escaped the man’s throat. “You’re different. Most people don’t want to know. And I do not blame them.”

  The night had at last reached full dark, the insects and creatures of the forest falling silent. Kyric could see nothing before him. He was alone with the blackness and the madman’s voice.

  “The Long Winter changed everything, of course,” said Aiyan. “It made the world into a place where they could flourish — the Aessian kingdoms fragmenting into dozens of squabbling city-states, government becoming nothing more than a contest among the most ruthless of the power-seekers. And he went among them sowing the seed of his black blood.

  “But they — to mock us he calls them his knights — they are not immortal as he is. His first spawn are long dead and much of what they did has been corrected by the order.”

  He made a sound, a sigh of exasperation perhaps. “This is not what I wanted to tell you.

  “I killed those two because that is what we do, us and them. Had they caught me unawares I would be the one lying dead. We are warriors, and we are at war. So we kill and we die.

  “Their society is a secret one, as is my order. It could not be otherwise in this age of invention and reason, for they use reason as a weapon, decrying us as lunatics should we openly warn any of their powers. Do you know what those two young men were promised? The power to dominate another’s will completely, to make anyone their willing slave — they gain this power when they complete their apprenticeship and take the black blood.”

  He paused, struck by a sudden pain, his breath coming fast and shallow.

  “So now I know. Not Senator Lekon, of course — no, they seldom take on the lead role — it was the business partner, the one they call Morae.”

  He had begun to labor at speaking, his voice tightening.

  “Can you remember that name, boy? Take it to Esaiya if I fall, for Morae has poisoned me. Shout it across the narrows and they will hear. And tell them . . . I hid the rudders in the ruins of Karta. Can you do that?”

  This is a test, thought Kyric. A test to see if I believe in the fantasy that his madness tells him is real. “I don’t know where Esaiya is,” he said.

  “The castle,” said Aiyan, his voice thick now. “Across the narrows . . . the castle.”

  The world soon sharpened into focus with the first grey light of morning. Aiyan lay unconscious, and Kyric studied him as dawn broke over the woodlands. His attire was bizarre, almost random. He had no hat, and kept his hair back with a simple braid. Beneath a plain leather vest sporting a dozen crudely-repaired rents, he wore a cheap peasant shirt, yet his breeches were simply absurd: huge pantaloons, striped red and yellow, tucked into fine napped forester boots. But what truly frightened Kyric was the man’s face. It was smeared with the remains of powder and rouge — heavy makeup hastily wiped away, leaving only black paint around the eyes, an insane clown beneath a human mask.

  His breathing didn‘t sound right. Was he really poisoned as he had said? Kyric went to him and carefully pried the blunderbuss from his grip, surprised at how cold his fingers felt. Then he saw the matted blood just above the man’s temple. The ball Joff had fired had indeed grazed him. Nothing mortal. But enough to knock anyone flat out. He had heard of the inhuman strength of madmen.

  Kyric wanted to pity him, but couldn’t. The night had been a nightmare, and he had seen the man take two lives. He crept away, continuing west toward Liora, the cries of morning birds covering the sound of his footfalls.

  When he reached the town, he considered going on his way and telling no one of what passed last night. They would find the man soon enough. But a group of armed horsemen lead by Irren Parfas, the town constable, came trotting down the lane and he hailed them. He told them of the madman.

  “Last night we received word from Senator Lekon that the lunatic could be coming this way,” Parfas said.

  “Can you tell me who he is,” asked Kyric, “and what he’s done?”

  “He’s a cousin to Senator Lekon. Been mad all his life. They’ve always kept him locked-up, but he killed a servant and ran away.”

  This was not the answer Kyric expected. How could an imprisoned lunatic learn to swordfight like a master?

  Parfas made him lead them back to where he had left the madman. The forest looked different in the full daylight. It took an hour to find the clearing again, but when at last they did, and Aiyan still lay there unconscious, Kyric realized that he expected him to be gone.

  “It was dark and we walked a long way,” Kyric told Constable Parfas. “I don’t think I could find the place where the two bodies are.”

  Parfas nodded grimly. “I understand, lad. No need for that. I’ll send a few of the men to look.”

  Parfas searched the madman’s clothing, feeling under his vest and looking in his boots, saying, “He stole a valuable book as well.” But all he found was a big silver locket. “Did you see it? Maybe he dropped it on the way.”

  Kyric shook his head. “I never saw anything like a book.”

  The constable tried to open the locket, but it held fast. He turned it over and found the other side embossed with the design of a sword suspended in fire. He felt and pressed all over, and even tried to twist it apart, but could find no way to open it.

  They carried Aiyan to Liora and put him in the jail, a small stone house with a room for a stove and three cells, two with cage doors for the prisoners and one with a window and a solid oak door for the jailer.

  Parfas took Kyric aside. “I can’t hold trial for a madman, even one guilty of murder, so I’m going to ride to the Lekon estate and tell the Senator that we have his mad cousin. I’ll be back tomorrow morning with someone who can take custody of the man. Could you possibly stay here and keep an eye on the prisoner until then? My regular jailer, along with half the town, has already gone off to Aeva for the games. You look strong enough to handle that fellow should he wake up. Tell you what — I’ll have my wife bring you some roasted hens for dinner. I’m sure that Senator Lekon’s agent will offer you some sort of reward.”

  Kyric hadn’t thought of that. Only a few kandars lay in his purse; he had been planning to sleep under a hedge in Aeva.

  So he agreed. And when Constable Parfas had given him the keys and had ridden away, Kyric found the jailer’s cot and fell asleep thinking of roasted hens.

  CHAPTER 2: Poison and Dreams

  The hens turned out to be pigeons, but the meal was good and enough for three men. He kept calling to the madman to wake up and eat, but he never stirred, and now Kyric stood at the door to the cell and watched Aiyan where he lay on a straw pallet. He hadn’t moved since they brought him in. His breathing was shallow.

  The summer sun had set and Kyric took the lantern down
from its hook. Don’t be an idiot, he told himself as he fumbled with the keys, he might be faking sickness just for the chance to throttle you. The only firearm Parfas had left him was the blunderbuss Aiyan had taken, but Kyric had never fired a gun and wasn’t even sure how to cock it properly. Then he remembered that the madman’s sword had been placed in a cabinet by the front door.

  When he took the sword out and drew it, Kyric saw at once that it was a work of art as well as a weapon. The blade was heavy and forged with strong clean lines, yet inscribed with delicate ancient glyphs and finely polished, catching the lantern light and throwing it back upon itself. The hilt was no more than a simple steel guard and a handle wrapped in leather, as with a sword one would take to battle. Holding it, Kyric felt foolish and unworthy, like the time in his youth when he sneaked into the temple and handled the sacred dreamstone. And look what that had done to him.

  He shook his head. It was only a sword. But he returned it to its scabbard and found a piece of firewood that would serve as a cudgel. Entering the cell cautiously, he held it ready, but there was no need. And when he brought the light close to the man’s face, he saw dark green veins creeping up the side of his neck from under his collar.

  Kyric wiped the remaining make-up away just to be sure of Aiyan’s color. He shook him and shouted, but it did no good, so he went to find the town‘s doctor. Not surprisingly, the doctor was away — gone to the games. After knocking at empty houses until his knuckles hurt, Kyric was at last directed to a shack where an elderly midwife named Galadne lived.

  Galadne was short and plump with tangled grey hair and a big nose. She simply nodded at his request, and they walked in silence to the jail, she with a pronounced limp.

  “That looks bad,” she said when she looked close at Aiyan. “Here, unlace his vest for me.”

  Once they got his shirt off, she found a festering wound beneath his armpit, but it was only the latest of a collection. His torso lay covered with scars. He had been cut and stabbed and shot over a dozen times, one of the scars running in a deep pinched seam from his navel to his collarbone.