Chased By Flame

by Michael Wolff

  A foolish fantasy if his current speed was any indication. Beating back the armies of doubt, armies of despair, armies of the nagging thought, all on the battlefield of my mind... Mykel sighed. Terrible. He didn’t know how; he just knew. It’s very good, Mother would say. You will become a great writer. Her voice would be calm, still. If the mother’s love impelled her to cloud the words he could not find it. Worse still was the lingering doubt that furrowed her face. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?

  Mykel snorted. It was the reason he never showed her his writing anymore. But if his stepmother had any cause for concern then his father—no, his stepfather—was double that, though he expressed it in a different way. Don’t be clowning around like some drunken poet. You’re a Fenrir ward. Don’t forget that. You don’t mope around. Soft words, but Laurence Fenrir was the kind of man who could kill you with his eyebrows if he so wished.

  His step-brother Kurtis would be all braggart and arrogant. You think some cunt would come to you for this? Better an old man. Or maybe that’s the way you want it.

  In disgust, he slammed the book shut. LeKym the Learned traveled to every library in the world to know everything there was in the world, all when he was ten. He was a bard at age twelve. Mykel thought that adopting the bard’s last name would somehow bring him closer to the myth’s realization. But as he was being frequently reminded as of late, he was no LeKym. I bet no one dragged him out at the crack of dawn for some stupid delivery.

  Mykel sighed and once more entered the daydream’s realm. A few trees adamant in their green coats became the gleaming towers of a majestic civilization. Crumpled leaves dancing to the wind’s cold breath became the trumpets of a thousand men, praising him, Mykel LeKym, the librarian hero of ages past, for snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. His reward? Ancient tomes, the older the better. For the betterment of mankind, of course. Mykel inhaled the scent of the pages, the scent of secrets just waiting to be discovered.

  Life was good... until a hole in the road jarred him back into the boredom that was the real world. A glance to the books in the wagon bed revealed there was a good number less than when he’d last glanced back. Poising himself on the wagon’s edge, Mykel boosted himself up and saw a scattered trail of pages following them, blown out by the wind. Damn it. “Lazarus. Some books have fallen out.”

  “Hm?” Lazarus’ dark eyes were often referred to as augurs, drilling a hole through whatever he gazed upon. Today they swept the area from above stone-shaded spectacles. If the land could grimace, it would from the intensity of his glare. War hero, indeed. Of the five wars there was more myth than truth. Nor did anyone know why such a celebrated war hero would live his life as a simple librarian. All Mykel knew was that the man was a close comrade to Lord Fenrir. Close enough, in fact, that when Mykel was old enough to pursue a venture away from the Fenrir Manor, he was quick to suggest Lazarus’ library as a suitable recluse. The libraries in Kal Jada were only second to those in Paree Vinaz. Besides, anything far away from Kurtis was music to Mykel’s ears.

  Look at how that turned out. What Mykel hadn’t counted on was Lazarus himself. He was overbearing, stubborn, grumpy, and his style towards library maintenance could only be described as militaristic. Every book had to have its own place, disconnected from favor or age. The really old books he stored in vaults, of course. But never once had Mykel remembered him actually reading any one of them. Just organizing and copying and re-organizing over and over. It was clear that the man didn’t live up to the legend.

  Lazarus was a history zealot. He wore the high-collared red-and-black longcoat of the Khatari, but it was 7th Century, not 14th. The scarf flowing down the parted collar soft as ash bore the vertical columns of tiny gold Houserunes.

  Though the script was but flicks of glitter amidst the ash-scarf’s edges, Mykel knew they detailed the Lazarus family Bloodline for forty generations. The small black diamonds lining the velvet fabric in horizontal lines signified the coat was made by the days of the Ancient Calendar, black diamonds for the Raven’s Year, and seventeen to mark the 17th day of the Year. Twining about the black diamonds were slightly larger golden ones, twenty-two in all, each dotted with eleven red-and-blue triangles, marking the current year as the year twenty-two thousand and eleven.

  The mantle of gray-felt plates coming down from shoulder to forearm were designed with the emblem of two wolves grappling under a dragon-like creature standing on its hind legs, both black as pitch and with silver pearls for eyes. The conclusion was clear, of course, to anyone with half a brain. The original bearer of the coat lived in the time of the great Jax Wyvern, Armsmaster of the Steel Circle, the holy arms of warriors and guardians. Very old indeed.

  Aside from that, the man was just plain annoying. You can’t be reading books all your life, Lazarus had said this morning. You have to get out. Else you’ll forget what the sun looks like.

  Who wants to remember? Still, as Lazarus followed his glance Mykel felt strangely relieved. If nothing else the old man was a pillar of calm strength amidst this damned morning. “Make sure the horse is calm and then follow me. We haven’t got time to waste.”

  Mykel grumbled a reply, and then hopped from the wagon to the horse leading it. Vincent was an old steed, stocky and well-built for the slow traveling Lazarus favored. Mykel had been there when the horse had been birthed, but for all of that, the stubborn horse flinched away from his touch. Mykel had to mutter soothingly into the beast’s ear before it took on an air of calm. Grumbling, he set off after Lazarus, his left arm drumming a rhythm into his hip as he went.

  The trail of books was a short one, thankfully. Every year in the fall, Lazarus had new books delivered from the library at Paree Vinaz, even though there never was much use for them. People found more pleasure in jugglers and tumblers and street magicians nowadays, and the ones who actually did come for the books were snot-nosed noblemen who came only to flaunt their “education” to others. Within a week or two these books would be as dusty as they were grimy at this moment, lost and forgotten amidst its aged kin.

  Lazarus tucked the books under his arm in small clusters, stacking the tomes in small straight piles back on the wagon, calmly brushing away the grains of dirt that slipped in-between the pages. With a guilty start, Mykel headed towards the nearest book, a fat tome thicker than his fist. The librarian was rangy in the limbs, more than anyone he’d known. There were some who said there was more meat in his books than on his arms, and even less so for the left arm. But there wasn’t anything he could do on that front, so Mykel ignored it. Most of the time.

  “I’ll take that one, lad.” Lazarus called out. “I see one closer to the wagon. Why don’t you get that one?”

  That one? The book was no thicker than the leaves it was sprawled on. Exactly what the old man intended, of course. Anger burned a hole in the librarian’s gut. I’ll show him. Stubbornly, Mykel went to the heavier tome.

  It really was big, the largest he’d ever seen. And not one the Paree Vinaz library would be subject to selling, no matter how long Lazarus polished his contacts. It was too expensive, all laced with intertwining rings of gold and silver, with a strange symbol in the center. Weirwynd, Mykel thought. Wizards. Magic. But he was uncertain.

  “Lad? I told you to get the other one. Lad!”

  Mykel ignored him. Hesitantly, he stretched his hand—his left hand, mind, not his right—and forced his fingers open. They came stiffly and slowly, but they came, and so Mykel lowered the arm and he curled fingers about the tome’s spine. They held. Mykel hesitated. He could almost feel Lazarus’ eyes burning into his back. Then slowly, very slowly, he lifted.

  The arm came as commanded. Mykel turned and dragged himself back to the wagon, forcing a smile of victory he didn’t really feel. The tome was an anvil in his hand, sending bolts of pain up the fingers that
would not go away. They never did. Before long the pain changed to ceaseless quaking that made the fingers alive in their shuddering. Mykel ignored it and kept moving. Just a few more steps. Just a few more... Abruptly he stumbled as the fingers failed, the book slipped from his grasp, and finally thudded halfway into a mud puddle.

  “I told you to pick up the smaller one.” Lazarus snatched the tome up and checked it. The leather-bound cover turned a murky brown as it absorbed the water. Almost like shit. “You know you can’t—” He stopped and took a deep breath, then said. “Get into the wagon.”

  “I was trying to—”

  “I know what you were trying to do. Just get in the wagon.”

  Mykel stalked back to the wagon, sat down on the seat and tried not to feel completely useless. And as always, the history of his incompetence was there to prove him wrong. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

  II

  Lazarus was a long time wiping the mud-water off the book. Mykel glared at his left hand as if it were to blame. A child’s hand with stubby child’s fingers, as it had been since birth. The wrist would have hung limp and lifeless if not for the steel bracer that locked it in place. Useless. Without the bracer the hand would twist sideways to the left on its own volition. Moving it in the opposite direction was like willing the sun not to rise. Goddamn piece of... The only reason why he paid attention to the bracer nowadays were the small runes carved into its metal bands. Weirwynd, Lazarus said. Ancient wizardry. This was probably a tool in which the ancient Weirwynd channeled their power. Magic.

  Mykel had always daydreamed about being a Weirwynd, having weapons of magic, going on epic adventures, ever since this thing was strapped onto his arm. Shiisaa, they were called, elemental conduits for magic, forged by the smiths of ancient gods. Each tool had a specific purpose, a specific spell it could cast and no other, though shiisaa themselves were plentiful as water in a rainstorm. At least it was so in the ancient days. Now every street peddler and hawker claimed he had a shiisaa among his wares. It was impossible to distinguish relic from cheap hack.

  This thing was one such imposter. Years of failed attempts at spell casting dimmed that dream. This bracer, whatever it might have been, was not a relic of ancient times. It had as much authority of magic as did the rumors of Lazarus having Weirwynd power in his veins.

  If I was a Weirwynd people would respect me. They wouldn’t call me cripple. They’d be begging me for favors! I’d show them!

  Suddenly Lazarus appeared next to him. “Come with me.” The Khatari disappeared into the foliage without looking back to see if the librarian followed. It was a twisted, gnarled path heavy with thick tree roots that loved to trip up unfamiliar feet. Idiot. He’s going to kill himself. A twang of fear plucked at his heartstrings, and Mykel hurried his pace. Stupid old man. Stupid, stupid old man.

  Mykel found Lazarus squatting over something. At first glance the librarian thought it might be an anthill that the old man was studying. But then he paused. There were no scrambling rivers of black and red flowing in and out of a small hole. There was a crack, a welt in the earth, with wisps of ephemeral energy whispering from it, twisting in the air before dissembling. “Is that...?”

  “Aye, lad.” Lazarus bid him over, and Mykel found himself on his knees, just as fascinated. “This is a Leyline.”

  The Leyline. Sources of all magic, so the stories said. The ancient Weirwynd used these veins of the earth to draw and contain massive power within their shiisaa, channeling that ancient strength into casting spells. The more dangerous ones were said to draw the elemental magic directly into their bodies. Mykel was surprised at the sheer slowness of the magic. It puffed energy that dispersed the moment it was in the air, and even that grew faint after a time. Soon there would be no breath left at all.

  “Magic’s dying, lad.” Lazarus said suddenly. Mykel flushed. My face can’t be that plain.

  Lazarus continued onward, blind to his charge’s embarrassment. “A long time ago, there was enough life in the world for Weirwynd to use all elements.”

  Mykel nodded. That was another part of the stories. Heroes used all sorts of elemental shiisaa, not just those of a single element. Nowadays, the Weirwynd that lingered could only use the elements of the stars they were born with. Fire by the Red Star, Frost with the Blue, and so on. Six elements all, fragmented from a whole: Tesla for lightning, Geo for earth, Gale for air, and Steel for metal. All familiar to him as the books that waited past yon hills... but something Lazarus said itched at him. “What kind of Leyline is this? Fire? Frost?”

  “Neither.” Lazarus said calmly, though an edge in his tone betrayed his thinning patience. “Each Leyline is pure, of all elements and of none. Pure, undefiled energy. Not even the ancient Weirwynd could handle that power.”

  “They were fried to a crisp,” Mykel said softly. Most disasters in the ancient times could be traced sooner or later to some idiot with visions of glory in his head who, no doubt, thought himself the proper vessel to handle power that thousands before him could not.

  “At least you remember that.” Lazarus grumbled. “What about the rest?”

  “Fine.” Before the snort in his mind could escape his lips he settled into a monotone voice. “The Leylines are pure energy, though geography can hold some influence over elemental affinity. An enshou would have better luck casting a Fire-spell in a desert than, say, a mountain in the dead of winter.”

  Lazarus only cocked an eyebrow. “Leyline energy?”

  Mykel growled inwardly. “Fine. Manna. Leyline energy is called manna.”

  “Good,” Lazarus said dryly, his face a picture of smug sarcasm. Mykel got a flash of retaliation but it passed. “What is it called where two Leylines intersect?”

  “A Font. A place of elemental power that allows greater access of manna. It’s necessary for advanced spells.”

  “Very good.” Lazarus grunted. “Did you know that shiisaa could be passed from person to person?”

  “No.” There was nothing in the texts backing the fact, but then again there was nothing proclaiming it to be a lie either. “That’s how it worked, then? Masters handing their shiisaa down to their apprentices?”

  “It worked both ways, lad. The gift of shiisaa was symbolic of the bond between master and learner. Though, in the old days, constructing one’s own shiisaa was a rite of passage for apprentices.”

  There was something... misty about Lazarus’ eyes, and his words carried the bitter weight of regret. “In those days everyone could use magic. There were no Weirwynd, no endem. The talent was stronger in some Houses than in others but it was still there. There was enough magic to go around.”

  Mykel barely bit back a snort. Too late, always too late. If he had been born in the Weirwynd Ages, then perhaps he could have been a mage. An enshou, shaping Fire to my command. He could almost see the flames roiling, curving, billowing out in huge gouts from the ground. He snickered at the imagined gaping those around him would do. No more pushing around for me. I’d be somebody. He did not realize he had spoken aloud till Lazarus cocked his head to the side.

  “You mean you’re not?” His tone was drier than bones baking in the desert sun.

  “Do you think I’d be here if I was?” Mykel growled. He was angry with himself. He usually did not make such stupid tongue-slips. “If I’d been born to Weirwynd parents I bet I wouldn’t have been abandoned.”

  Lazarus just stared at his silence for a moment, muttered something under his breath and shook his head. Outwardly he said, “That’s enough gawking for one day,” pushed himself to his feet and headed back to the wagon. Mykel followed, frowning. Damn fool, was what he muttered. What was there to be a fool about? Everyone knew Weirwynd were born, not made. Everyone knew that. Everyone.

 
They stopped for lunch soon after. Lazarus had what he always had: pickles doused with all manner of spices and herbs. “You still eating that piece of crap?”

  Oh yes, and you’re the perfect judge of food. The stench was a plague to every nose it seared; the taste, double that. Lazarus didn’t even like the damned things. He said it was good for endurance, mind over matter. How the old man managed to speak after eating one of those damn things was beyond anyone’s guess.

  “Down.”

  “Hm?”

  “Down!”

  Lazarus’ iron grip flattened the young librarian to the ground. And for good reason. Off in the distance came the precise rhythm of footsteps. Just a local Solvicar patrol – you could tell because of the golden cloaks they wore -- from a nearby town, making their rounds. Immediately, Mykel knew they were amateurs. Men trained in the merest fraction of stealth would not be so lazy as to crunch every pebble in the road, or kick up a storm of dust with each step. Mykel recognized the jerkins and small shields of a town’s wardens. They couldn’t find a rat if it were shoved up their ass. They had spears too long for their hands, resulting in a timely cry of pain whenever the townsmen stabbed their own feet. After a moment of survey, the leader called the road clear and returned back towards the village. Only after minutes of silence did Lazarus ease his iron grip.

  “What were they doing out here?”

  “Tending to those, I suspect.”

  “What –” Then the smell struck Mykel like a blow to the gut. It was all he could do not to vomit.

  Corpses swung from elm and oak. Sometimes they lost an eye or ear or even tongue to the ravens. Some ravens were not finished with dinner. Some ravens fought over a piece of meat. Some too late fought and fed with a brother bird.