by Sam Austin
She follows her own advice.
Ness is taller than her, wider too. All that equals heavier. She pulls his arm tight over her shoulder, urges her dead arm to wrap around his middle firmly. He groans at that, leaning into her side and making her stumble. That’s good. Pressure will help.
There’s-
The old man weaves his way to the bottom of the steep incline, then falls to his hands and knees. Almost there, but not far enough. She can’t carry both. Her grip increases around Ness and she takes another step.
Heat hits her left side like a physical blow.
It takes every bit of skill she has to keep them both upright. Ness is gasping, but he’s still moving, still sliding forward one foot after the other. It’s too slow. She can feel her skin prickling, baking.
“Fire Ness. Fire. Come on.”
Ness’s head starts to move upward as if to look, then gives up part way and flops down to his chest again. Sweat flows in rivers down his face, dripping from his chin. “Can’t. You go.” His voice rasps like an old man’s.
“Kidding?” Bonnie drags him forward, wishing she’d thought to unhook her sword from her back before she came running down here. She can feel every ounce of that weapon weighing down on her. “Neven’d kill me.”
“Neven’s why.” He creeps forward, dragging footstep after dragging footstep. “Needs someone.”
A solid wall of heat hits them from the other side. The air ripples around them. She blinks furiously, the world too bright and stinging of smoke. She knows safety is right there in front of them, but she can’t see. Anger causes her blood to boil as hot as the flames either side of them. “Neven is right there! Right there Ness. If you don’t think he’s rushing into this if we don’t come out, you’re more stupid than you look.”
That gets him moving. One step. Two step.
There’re walking in an oven. Her skin itches. Her hair feels like it’s curling up and burning right there on her head. Worst of all is the air. Like swallowing fire. That’ll kill her before the rest she thinks. She’ll cook from the inside out. Her head swims.
Suddenly Ness is pushing at her, stumbling backward toward the side of the road. She grabs at him, but he keeps pulling backward with a strength he shouldn’t have. The idiot. Doesn’t he know what’s past the edge of that road? If he flails his way into those flames he could end up like the barbarians.
She kicks out at his legs, knocking him down. Not the best thing when he’s - gods, there’s so much blood. She falls to her hands and knees beside him, gripping his forearms with both hands. She hates him more than she ever did before. More even than when she was sitting on his chest punching him. What is he trying to do? Doesn’t he know how broken Neven would be if he didn’t make it?
Ness struggles against her grip, gasping. “Your hand Bonnie! Your hand!”
Her cold arm is still stark white, but it grips Ness just as tightly as her pink one. And his arm! It’s a mottled blue like he’s spent too long outside on a freezing winter night, instead of sitting here slowly cooking to death.
She drops his arm as suddenly as if he’d been the one hurting her. Her white hand moves as quickly as the other though she still can’t feel it. There’s a bright white hand-print right in the middle of the blue. She did something to him. She took something from him.
Ness looks at her a moment out of half lidded eyes. His copper skin is blanched, yet his cheeks and nose are beginning to burn. He exhales softly once, cold air that steams in the air, then those eyes drift shut and he falls forward. She catches him by the shoulders, careful to keep the tunic between her cold hand and his skin.
She takes a deep breath. The air still sears her lungs, but it tastes a little more breathable down here. All right. Crawling it is.
A swatch of wall bigger than the both of them trundles along their path, spraying bright sparks where it goes. Too close. A few sparks land on Ness’s clothing, and she swipes them off angrily. Something like that hits them, and they’re both dead.
Her head isn’t just swimming. It’s drowning. She can’t see anything but what’s inches away from her face, and even that takes a lot of blinking to make her eyes work. Jack had said once that the Romans, when there were enough of them to call them that, believed that people went to one of two places when they died. If they were good they went to heaven. If they were bad they went to a fiery hot place called hell.
It’d been winter at the time, and Bonnie with the comfort of her stone house and the abundant supplies of the city thought she knew true suffering, and it wasn’t heat. He’d looked at her gravely and told her she knew nothing. That suffering was having your skin burned from you layer by layer, while your insides cooked, and your eyes boiled. That was hell. This is hell.
“Boone!” The voice seems to come out of the rippling air. She knows that places of water are doorways to the world of the ancestors - the one they dwell in before they come back to live another life. Maybe fire is another doorway. It could be her father - her real father this time - calling to her. Warmth spreads through her chest, not because she finally gets to see him again and make him understand how sorry she is, but because he called her Boone. Not Bonnie, Boone. It was a stranger’s name at first, but now it fits her better than her old name ever did. She’s glad he understands that.
Then he shouts again, closer, and reality clicks back into place like a breath of cold air. Neven. He came for them. Of course he did.
She chokes out something that might’ve been his name, or might’ve been something completely different. It’s then she realises she’s lying flat on the road beside Ness, her cheek against the smooth surface which isn’t as smooth this close. When did she fall? She pushes herself up on her elbows, surprised when both her arms obey.
Neven crawls his way into view, blinking rapidly. There’s a piece of cloth tied around his mouth and nose. He passes another to Boone. She holds it over her mouth and nose, not sure why, but knowing that if Neven thought of it, it’s a good idea.
He grabs the makeshift sling still attached to Ness’s back from where he’d carried Alice, pulls it up out of the way, then rolls him over onto his back. He freezes.
Boone nudges him, forcing him to look away from the mess of blood that is Ness’s stomach. First they have to get out of here, then they can try and fix him - and hope she hadn’t made it worse. She takes his hand with her good one, and places it on the sling. He meant to do something with that. She’d seen that calculating look.
Neven grasps the sling, twists it a few times around Ness’s shoulders, then passes the other side of it to Boone. She takes it, and together they start to pull.
It’s slow going on their hands and knees. After a few shuffles, Neven hooks his side of the sling over his neck and under his arm so the strap sits across his chest. Dropping to his forearms, he keeps edging forward. Boone copies him. It’s a lot easier to breathe, and she thinks they make better time even though they’re crawling along like worms.
It’s when things start getting steep that the new position really pays off. She grits the cloth between her teeth, which doesn’t work as well, but she has nothing to tie it with. She doesn’t want to drop it in case she really does need it. She keeps her face close to the surface of the road and claws upwards with her hands and feet.
Her cold hand moves slower than the other, and its movements are more jarring, but it grips just as well. Her stomach turns whenever it scrapes along the road’s surface. For all she knows she could be scratching all her skin off. She won’t know until they make it out of this heat.
Almost there. She hopes the wind isn’t blowing into the city. She doesn’t think the fire will spread. They must have put some safeguards against that happening, but the smoke will spread and so will the burning debris. It will take longer to find the fresh air her throat so desperately craves.
As they get higher so does the stench of smoke in the air. It makes her wish the cloth was more firmly fixed over her nose and mouth. It’s only by
reminding herself with each shuffle forward that this is the way out, that she keeps going. A little more and there’ll be fresh air. A little more and there’ll be a cool breeze to soothe her reddening skin.
The burning rug comes out of nowhere.
It flaps toward them like something possessed, every inch of it bright fire. It misses her by inches and whaps Neven firmly on the back before the wind picks it up again and it whirls through the air to attack something else.
Neven’s on fire before he seems to process what hit him. He doesn’t notice at first, staring at her with wide eyes as the flames leap to life on his back. Then he screams, a muffled choking sound that dies off as soon as it starts.
Boone leaps on him on instinct, batting at the flames with her hands. One second the fire is as bright as the one that ate the barbarian’s corpses. The next a giant section snuffs out as rapidly as if she’d thrown cold water on it. No. That’s not quite right. It’s as if she’d thrown ice on it, or found a way to package up winter and douse it with it.
Without thinking she trails her cold arm along the rest of the flames. They disappear into nothing, leaving only faint scorch marks along the back of his tunic. She gives him a few hard pats to his back for show, then tugs him forward.
He looks up at her with wide scared eyes, and she nods. He’s fine. She doesn’t know why he’s fine, but he is. That’s all that matters.
Even in his fear he hasn’t let Ness slide down the slope. They continue onward, lungs burning, hearts racing. The steep incline seems to go on forever. Until finally her good hand feels flat road under it. Not completely flat, but enough that it feels so after their climb.
Boone clambers over, then reaches back to guide Ness’s unconscious body over the top. It feels like they’ve dragged themselves up some great mountain. It’s hard to remember that on a normal day old men and babies could toddle their way up that incline with very little effort.
She chokes, holding the cloth over her face. The heat is not quite as searing, but smoke billows at them in huge black clouds. Pain stings at her eyes, causing them to water. Not safe yet. Almost.
Pressing the cloth tight over her nose and mouth, she shuts her eyes and clambers forward. It takes more arm over arm shuffles than she expects before the air clears enough to blink at her surroundings.
Feeling like she’s in some kind of surreal dream, she taps Neven’s shoulder then stumbles to her feet. He follows her, barely keeping from falling over. They stagger forward, hunched over like the very old. Her feet take a while to remember what to do, and when they do, they complain with every step.
She doesn’t know how far they walk before they stop. She’s not sure why they’re stopped until it finally registers that Neven’s hand is leaning heavy on her shoulder. He shouldn’t do that, she thinks, before the message floats through that it’s her left shoulder he’s touching, not her right. Fine. That’s fine.
She looks up. They’re not alone.
A barbarian stands in the middle of the golden road, staring at them with narrowed eyes. He - no. She wears the usual uniform. Tan trousers, mail and tan jacket. Belts crossed across her chest. Heavy pockets around her waist. That dragon shield in one hand, and a short squat sword hanging from the other. Her hair is a bright fiery red. Bright lines of blue paint her cheeks.
Neven stands half crouched in front of Ness, his small blunt knife in one hand. He looks wild, face covered in soot, and hair sticking up in more odd angles than usual. His eyes glitter strangely in his blackened face. It’s a challenge, she realises too many heartbeats later. Something she’s never seen so blatantly on his face.
‘These are mine,’ that look says. ‘You want to hurt them, you’ll have to kill me first.’
The red headed woman gives them a curt nod, then shouts out behind her in a voice that sounds like gibberish. Calling to others.
Boone forces her cooked senses to get back in line, readying herself for an attack. Men and woman run out of an alleyway in that same tan uniform, dozens upon dozens of them. But they don’t even glance at them. They run past, straight across the golden road and into another alleyway.
The woman spares them one last glance, then disappears after her army.
Neven doesn’t relax from his stance for a long time, and when he does he makes no movement to put the knife away. Without glancing at her, he continues walking along the golden road toward the palace. She follows him, dragging Ness between them.
It’s not until the white mare - Sir Julius’s white mare - comes trotting toward them that the pieces slot themselves together. The slums burned, but it was too late. The barbarians are already inside.
Part 3
Chapter 23
“See sense,” Sir Julius says. “This is foolish.”
His white mare walks past him, Ness strapped to her back. Neven watches him go mournfully.
Boone uses her cold hand to lift the water-skin to her lips. It grips and moves well enough, but she still can’t feel it. That makes it clumsy. No good for a sword, she thinks scanning the pile of weapons hastily piled inside the palace grounds. Maybe a shield. She picks up a battered one that still looks solid enough, almost dropping it when she sees the blood on the inside. It’s still wet. Its previous owner would be in the infirmary with Ness, either that or burning on the wall.
She shivers.
Sir Angus’s horse dances impatiently beneath him, as tense as his owner. “I thought you said you believed your boy was telling the truth? If there are barbarians in our city it’s my duty to drive them out. The women and children can’t hide in the palace cellars for the rest of their lives.”
“Duty doesn’t mean you can’t use your brain for once.” Sir Julius leans closer to the horse, voice dropping to a whisper. The grounds just inside the palace gates are crawling with men, most injured, but only Boone and Neven are close enough to pick out the next words. “Burning the slums was the right choice, and if you didn’t wait as long as you did we wouldn’t have half the men we do now. This is not a failure. This is not something you have to redeem yourself for.”
Sir Angus huffs, swiping the man’s hand from the side of his horse. “What would your people know of honour?” He asks, not in a whisper, but quieter than his usual booming voice. “You’re descended from cowards. People who chose slavery instead of death.”
Sir Julius steps back with easy grace, a grin on his face. Anyone looking would suppose they were teasing each other, or more likely that the small and lithe Sir Julius was poking the bear of a knight Sir Angus again. No one but Boone and Neven are close enough to see the worry in his dark eyes doesn’t match up with the rest of the act. “I’ll have you know my ancestors were the king’s slaves. His very close slaves. I could have royal blood flowing through my veins. That’s a step up from whatever plough horse spat you out.”
Sir Angus shakes his head, an angry set to his massive shoulders, but his heels freeze before they can signal his horse forward. “What do you suggest? Hiding with the women?”
“Putting our heads together to make a plan instead of charging in like idiots,” Sir Julius says. The grin disappears. “We can’t leave the palace undefended.”
“The palace is always defended. The city wall may only defend against magic, but least you forget the palace wall is fully protected. No one can enter without being personally accepted through the gates.”
Sir Julius holds the other knight’s glare with his own steel gaze. “The circle was fully protected too. Yet a dragon got in, as did a whole army we didn’t know about.”
“This is why the King gave me command.” His eyes slide over Neven and Boone with a look that at its kindest could be described as disapproving. “Place some men on the wall if you’re so afraid. Then gather the rest and come with me.”
The horn chooses that moment to give its warning. Short high pitched bursts of noise. Enemy sighted.
“Forget that last order,” Sir Angus says. “Get everyone you have. We leave now.”
&
nbsp; ***
The barbarians stand on the golden road, out of reach of any arrows sent from the palace walls. They’re more an army than their own, though she knows she’d never say that out loud. Row after row of them just stand there, stock still, shields held on their left arms, swords pointed to the ground in their right hands.
There has to be hundreds of them, standing and not moving an inch. If they were not all shapes, sizes, and even genders, Boone would suspect they were the witch’s ghost soldiers instead of live people.
Sir Angus rides ahead with his mounted men. He doesn’t have as many as the barbarians. Maybe fifty mounted, and ten times that on foot. Sir Julius made it off the wall with around five hundred, and all but fifty of those can march, or in some cases limp into battle. It leaves their side at least a hundred men short, but Sir Angus doesn’t seem worried.
A man on a horse is worth three on the ground he says. Boone doesn’t see how that evens the scale that much, but she doesn’t say that. Sir Angus has enough reasons to dislike her. As much as she covets her new ability to speak her mind, there are times when she must hold her tongue.
Neven marches in the wayward fashion of the untrained. She tries to make up for it by keeping her back straight and walking in the splinted leg manner she’s seen as a child watching soldiers march through the city before heading north to keep barbarians away from the circle. It doesn’t have much of an effect while marching in the middle of her fellow ‘soldiers’ most of whom have never held a sword until less than a week ago. Not even the few red soldiers behind Sir Angus's horses make much of an effort to keep up appearances.
By the time they’re in range of the other army’s strange shield weapons she’s defaulted to her usual cautious stride. Every eye from experienced red soldier to hunched old man or small boy, is fixed on their statue-like enemy. Every eye that is apart from Neven’s.