Fire and Sword

by Dylan Doose

  Theron squeezed her drawing shoulder. “Carved in stone!” he said, much impressed.

  “Just like you,” Chayse said as she released the string, then gave Theron a hit to the gut.

  They looked at each other for a long time. They laughed and embraced, then looked at each other once again. She was a stranger; she was a changed woman, physically and mentally. She was certainly altered from her time away, but she was still the same Chayse.

  “How did the Storm Lurker serve you?” Theron asked.

  “Well. She is small, but her craftsmanship is superb, for she rips through the tide quicker than any ship her larger.”

  “Just as I said she would.”

  “Yes, Theron, just as you said. You know all there is to know about ships.” Chayse gave him a playful shove.

  “What can I say? I am an expert on a great many things.” He smiled wide at her again. Not the smile he gave to strangers, or even the one he gave to himself in the mirror. This was a special smile just for Chayse. They embraced once again.

  By now the rest of the crew had come off the ship. Some men Theron knew, for they had adventured with him before. They embraced and offered one another a reminiscent joke. The men Theron did not know shook and embraced anyway, for they all knew of him, whether or not he knew of them. They exchanged jokes about what it was like to spend two years serving under the likes of Chayse.

  It was clear that the fact that she was only twenty years and a woman meant little to most of these men, for their respect was obvious. And those who were too primitive in their beliefs to admit respect for a woman looked as if they feared her enough to keep their opinions to themselves.

  “What say you we stay one night in Baytown before we head back?” Chayse said. “I’m sure the lads would love to tell you stories and hear some of your own. Two years is a long time for racking up a good adventure or ten.”

  “I would love to, but—” Theron began.

  “But nothing, ye handsome bastard! Two years is a while to be free of having a drink with Franklin the Fierce,” said Franklin the Fierce.

  “All right, all right. One night I shall stay, but then Chayse and I must depart, for there are guests waiting at the estate.” The group cheered, all of them madly excited about getting drunk, for every man knew that the only thing better than a voyage at sea was getting drunk when that voyage was done.

  “Guests?” asked Chayse, eyes narrowed. “You didn’t go and get married, did you? Have some girl and her kin back at home?”

  The group all had a good laugh at this, for if Theron Ward was known for one thing as much as his monster slaying, it was his womanizing.

  * * *

  The Scathing Skeemer was Theron’s type of tavern, although the misspelling of the word schemer on the sign outside did drive him a little mad. The place was filled with as much joy as it was with drunken sailors and fat, jovial concubines. It took Franklin the Fierce a matter of seconds before he had coin out and was smothering his mangled face in a plump, pale pair of teats. Chayse laughed at the sight and slapped Franklin hard on the ass. He raised his head and yelped, but his lady pulled him back down into the warm abyss of her mighty mams.

  When they had slowed down a bit after the initial excitement of their reunion, they took to serious talking—well, Chayse, Theron and a few of the older, more weathered hunters. The younger ones and the crewmen who manned the ship stuck to drinking and whoring.

  “So what was it like? The south Chayse, the south!” Theron grabbed her by the face and mushed her cheeks in his palms.

  “It was hot,” she said when Theron released her. “Hellishly hot, but beautiful. The landscapes and vistas put the hillsides and valleys by Wardbrook to shame. The colors were powerful, I mean really powerful. We have no green in our fields of Brynth like the green in the forests of Azria. We have no flowers like their flowers, or even the water in their streams.” Chayse tilted her head back and sighed as she reminisced. “Azria is a truly wonderful place. You would like it there. Although you would have a bit of trouble with the women.”

  “Hideous?” Theron asked with a wince.

  “Not in the least. They are some of the most beautiful I have ever seen.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Theron asked.

  “They’re as tall and mighty as you, lad. One might decide you belong to her and put your stones in a vise, and a collar round your neck,” said old One-Eyed Welfric with a laugh.

  “Then I suppose there are no real men there to keep things in order,” Theron said, slapping his hand hard on the table and staring at Welfric in anticipation, waiting for the old man to laugh. Welfric howled at the jest, and only then did Theron begin to safely laugh at his own joke. Chayse shot both of them a glare that could kill, and they abruptly stopped their fit of laughter at the not-so-funny joke mid-wheeze.

  “How were the contracts? Anything ferocious?” asked Theron, after he had fully regained his composure.

  “Nothing quite as horrific as the rats, but there was a particular contract that nearly got the best of us.”

  “Aye, we lost two local hunters, and that boy Chaff from Dagund got done in,” said Welfric. “Franklin said he’d be the one to bring the news to the boy’s folks.” He took a big swig of ale.

  “It is the risk of the profession, but it is never easy to loose a comrade,” said Theron. He thought of Kendrick back at Wardbrook, and wondered how Aldous was managing. If Ken was awake and functioning, were they getting along? What if I return and Ken has killed my entire staff?

  “The locals called the creatures Eloko,” said Chayse.

  “Nasty little brutes,” Welfric added. “Mangy dwarves with fangs and beastly strength. A tribe of them was preying on local hunters and caravans that were essential to the profits of Azria’s capital city. We got contracted to track them wee butchers to their grotto and take them out.” He shook his head. “We had no bloody idea that there would be so many.” He lifted his tankard and took a long swallow.

  “Must have been a hundred,” Chayse said. She, too, took a swig then looked up at Theron. “What about here? How have things been at home?”

  Theron took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

  “Uh-oh,” said Welfric.

  “Norburg is in ruin, its citizens butchered, and the rats have emerged once again, larger and more grotesque than I have ever seen. They attacked as a swarm and I believe dark sorcery to be what directed the destruction.”

  Welfric, Chayse, and the others stared at Theron wide-eyed, with disbelieving looks carved into hard faces.

  Theron went on to retell in depth what happened that night. He altered the story slightly when it came to his arrest and how he had met his companions in the torture chambers. He also omitted whom exactly his companions were, and that they together slaughtered the Count Salvenius.

  Other than those meager alterations, he kept the story the same. For Theron trusted Chayse, and he trusted Welfric as well, but to divulge that he was responsible for the death of Count Salvenius—and that Kendrick the Cold and a wizard were holed up at Wardbrook—in a tavern with the name The Scathing Skeemer was likely not a wise plan. For if the wrong ears became privy to such information, Theron would become a fugitive along with the company he kept.

  “That Emerald Witch, you believe her to be the dark designer of Norburg’s ruin?” asked Welfric, in a voice too loud for Theron’s comfort.

  “Yes.” Theron looked around with unease. “Lower your voice, Welfric. I know not her ultimate plot or the extent of her power. She could have agents lurking in the shadows here and now.” He leaned in and motioned for the others to do the same, and continued his tale in a whisper. “Her and an entourage of the count’s former men-at-arms and several seekers, with a procession of chained women, marched through the center of the swarm like the king’s men parade through the Imperial City crowds.” Theron took a sip of ale. “The beasts were frantic and mad, but they were obedient. They feared her, and they understood her agenda
for her company remained unharmed.” Theron finished his seventh pint of ale, but the dark thoughts kept him sober.

  The group talked and brooded late into the night. They passed out there in The Scathing Skeemer, and when they woke they said their farewells. Tears welled in Chayse’s eyes as she gave her goodbyes to her closest companions of the past two years.

  “She cannot help but cry,” Theron said. “She’s tougher than any woman I know, but a woman still.”

  One-Eyed Welfric turned to him, tears pouring down half his face, and nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Aye.”

  * * *

  “So what did you not tell the others that you are now going to tell me?” Chayse asked when they were a good twenty miles from Baytown.

  “I was arrested. Sentenced to be hanged, or beheaded maybe. Sentenced to die,” Theron said, grinning.

  “What have you done, Theron?” Chayse was not grinning.

  “I had a drunken tumble in the hay with the count’s daughter. She was a fiend.”

  “I do not care about the girl’s sexual appetite,” Chayse chided.

  “No, truly, when I think back on it, she was as mad as a fiend. She howled like a beast. She was possessed. It was part of the Emerald Witch’s plot. I don’t know why, but that she is out to get me. Yes, indeed, it was a conspiracy most… coital.” He smiled, impressed with his word choice.

  “Or you were drunk, the girl was drunk, and you fucked her like you always do and it finally got you into a proper bit of trouble,” said Chayse, finally grinning.

  “No, she wanted me in the dungeon when her rats attacked. She did not want me to interfere. I escaped, but I still failed in saving the city.” Theron lost his zest, and stared at the ground, downcast as he thought of all the people that had died in that brutal slaughter.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Theron. There was nothing you could do against such odds. At least you saved the two guests that are now safe and recovering at Wardbrook. That is who the guests are, isn’t it? People you saved?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Theron?” Chayse scowled.

  Theron gave a smile. “Aldous Weaver, the son of the great Darcy Weaver, is now in our very home.”

  She stared blankly at him for a moment then rolled her eyes.

  “In the flesh,” Theron said.

  “You lie!” Chayse was now grinning too, like a little child.

  “I do not. I swear I do not.”

  “And the other?”

  “A man by the name of Kendrick Kelmoor, known locally as Kendrick the Cold.”

  Chayse went pale, and so ferocious was her stare that Theron was forced to look away, for if there was a wrath he feared it was the wrath of Chayse.

  As they trotted down the path back home, Theron could feel that the eyes of his sister were not the only ones burning a hole in his back. He stopped, turned around, and stared out into the tree line—a dark shadow beneath the early morning glow.

  At first he saw nothing amiss, and then there, on an eastern hill, a hunched form. He narrowed his eyes. The form did not move, not forward, and not back. It stood perfectly still, like a cat confronted by a stray dog.

  But this was no cat, and no dog.

  “It’s a… rat,” Chayse said from behind him. “Rata Plaga. Out in the open.”

  “Impossible. They don’t watch. They attack.” But it wasn’t impossible. Because this was most certainly a rat, and it was most certainly watching him.

  An image jumped into his mind of the Emerald Witch walking through the mass of rats, and the rats parting to let her through. As if she was their royalty.

  No, more than that. As if she pulled their strings.

  He stared at the rat on the hill once more and wondered what exactly the Emerald Witch wanted from him.

  * * *

  The jungle canopy towered as high as a mountain, trees as old as time. Their massive deep green leaves funneled the torrential downpour from the high heavens into thick cascades of water that came crashing to the jungle floor so far below. Even in the downpour, the heat was nearly unbearable, and the air was so humid that to breathe was to inhale some of the visible blanket of moisture that hovered before the eyes, even in the dim evening light, and the shade of those monolithic trees. Most of the creatures that dwelled in that dense bush took to hiding in their little holes, waiting for the weather to pass. All hid but the big game—the big game and the huntress from across the sea far to the northwest. They prowled the jungle, taking solace in the blanket of mist and the noise of the cascading rainfall.

  A fine predator was the great shadow cat of the Azrian rainforest; a better predator was the huntress from Wardbrook.

  She notched her arrow.

  Took a breath.

  The shadow cat’s golden eyes glowed.

  She drew back.

  The shadow cat’s golden eyes glowed.

  The arrow released.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  Adjusting

  Kendrick was already in the library when Aldous walked in. He was sitting by the fire, staring at the flames. Theron had been gone ten days. In that time, Kendrick had improved immensely, but the man was still not in top form. He had lost a considerable amount of weight and he said less than little, always staring into the flames or out the window, or anywhere else that did not force him to interact with other people.

  “Kendrick,” Aldous said as he opened up his father’s book and sat down in a chair close by Ken and the fire to—for the third time—attempt to read his father’s writing.

  “Aldous,” Ken said, nodding, still staring at the fire. “Theron’s kitchen staff made quail eggs and fresh-baked bread. You should eat it whilst it is still warm.”

  That surprised Aldous, for it sounded like the man cared.

  “I’m not hungry, but thank you.” Aldous offered Ken a courteous smile, which was lost on him, for he had not looked away from the flames, as though he searched for some sort of answer there. Aldous knew that feeling.

  He opened his book and began to read. Each day it took him less and less time to become irritated with the words on the page. It was an endless slew of subjective ideas, like justice, honor, loyalty, and, of course, goodness, described in an objective way. There was no art in the writing—it was painfully bland—and that had been the first thing to take Aldous by surprise.

  Ken began laughing, a quiet chuckle.

  Aldous looked up from the pages and saw that Ken was looking at him.

  “What’s funny?” Aldous asked.

  “You’re looking at those pages like you want to throw them into the fire,” said Ken. His tone was sinister, and he looked the part, sitting in that lavish armchair with burgundy cushions and lacquered dark wooden limbs. The fire cast a shadow on his hollowed features; his pale shaved head and face looked almost like a skull in the dim light of the library.

  “Don’t say that. I want to do no such thing!” Aldous said. “This is my father’s book, you know.”

  “It’s Theron’s book,” said Ken, turning away from Aldous and looking back into the fire, the flames glowing in his dark, heavy eyes.

  “My father wrote it.”

  “I know, but every day while I am in here sitting by the fire, you read it, and you have the same look on your face.” Ken brought a handkerchief to his runny nose, the last symptoms of his near death still running their course. “I haven’t read too many books in my life, boy. In fact, I’ve read none. Read a lot of faces, though, and yours is easy.”

  “What does it say?” Aldous asked, with as much genuine interest as irritation.

  “Contempt.”

  “I do not hold contempt toward my father, Kendrick.” Aldous felt a heat rise in him; he felt the pages underneath his thumbs growing terribly hot, hot enough to burn. He slammed the book shut and tossed it down, to preserve it. The book landed dangerously close to the fire.

  Aldous’ heart leapt in fear, and he could swear the flame did the same, leap
ing and twisting and reaching for the book. Aldous snatched it and shoved it to the side.

  Ken didn’t take the hint to leave things alone, or he just didn’t care; Aldous assumed the latter, as Ken said, “I never said that you hold contempt for your father, but your father is not his book. The book is just a book, just words. If you don’t like the words, don’t read them, and don’t feel bad for it.”

  Aldous sighed and felt the furnace in his belly cool slightly.

  “Just words? Theron swears that these words inspire him to act in the manner he does. He told me they were his call to action, and my frustration comes from the fact that I am having great difficulty finding what he found in them.” Aldous turned the book over in his hand and examined the spine, as if that would give him the insight he needed. Instead, that insight came from a cold-blooded killer who did not choose to read.

  “You’ll never find it,” Ken said, finally looking at Aldous and holding his gaze. “You aren’t Theron, you’re Aldous. I don’t give a damn what our gracious host says… he is the way he is because he is a good man first. He saw whatever he saw in that book second. You find what you are in the things you do, not in what you read in some book.” Kendrick stood and placed his hand on Aldous’ shoulder. “You’re a good lad, and don’t you worry on that.” He turned away. “I’m going to go help myself to some more of those boiled quail eggs and fresh bread.”

  Aldous felt a chill. The way Ken had stood and patted him on the shoulder brought back memories of his father, and the association was not entirely pleasant. He did not want to think of Ken like his father, or of his father like Ken. Yet what Kendrick had said put Aldous at ease and released some of the pressure and guilt surrounding his father’s writings.

  “Come and eat, Aldous,” Ken said. “Then we will go outside and I will teach you how to use a sword. It will do you better than books when we face her again.”