Fire and Sword

by Dylan Doose

  He boiled water and placed a generous portion of the medicinal herbs and roots into the small pot. He tossed some into the fire and wafted the smoke into his face as he waited for the water to boil.

  He thought of his childhood, before Mother became very strange. He thought of guests in fine clothes with grand stories and the way Father trained with vigor in the courtyard. He touched the red gemstone around his neck, the piece of his mother’s jewelry he had given to Aldous. As he stared into the fire and inhaled the smoke, he could see the wizard’s ravens again.

  Such tremendous power at that young of an age, power grand wizards and arch mages would take two centuries to unlock. It was no small wonder that sorcery was punishable by death, for if every great sorcerer and sorceress of this world united, they would rule indefinitely. Their arrogance and vanity was what preserved the world of man, for they hated each other too much to ever unify, even as they paid lip service to an order of mages. The words of the greater Upir had confirmed that for him.

  The water had boiled. Theron inhaled the steam and sipped on the brew, tears rolling down his right cheek into the potent liquid.

  “Do you remember what you said to me? What you said when I left?” His mother’s voice, taunting him. A memory. A dream.

  “Where were you, Mother? If your power is so great, if you are so high above, then why did you not descend to save your daughter? To aid your son?” Theron screamed into the dark sky, into loneliness. His life of reading gave him no answers; philosophy did nothing for his pain, and although the herbs had now fully dulled the ache in his empty socket, they amplified the ache in his being.

  What was Darcy Weaver’s answer to this? Aldous the son would give a better answer, and that answer was hate. Ken would give a better answer, and that answer was vengeance. Chayse would know the answer, and that answer was the hunt.

  “Do you remember, Theron?”

  It was the voice of his mother, but it was not a memory and it was not his own thoughts. His hand shot to the pendant around his neck. The stone was cool and smooth.

  “Mother?”

  “Do you remember?”

  Theron looked around franticly, then kicked over the pot of boiled roots and medicinal herbs. I have taken too much.

  “Do you remember?” Mother asked again.

  “Chayse is dead…” He fell to his knees and wept. “Because of me, she is dead. Chayse is dead, Mother! I killed your daughter! I killed my friends! What monster am I? What manner of fiend, what devil was I to decide?”

  “The day I left, you cursed my name, you cursed it to the abyss, and you said you would forge your own legend with a sword and the will of man. You said that you held the greater power, not I, but you, the mere mortal, would strike fear into the hearts of all dark things, that the name Theron Ward would become myth, the idol of the hunt for time eternal. As you cursed my name I smiled, for on that first day you understood my sacrifice. Your destiny is myth, my son. This is only the beginning of your pain. This is only your first meal of it. You will be buried alive in suffering again and again, and you will rise from the grave.”

  “We were children!”

  “Children who needed hardship.”

  “Children who needed a mother and a father!”

  “To coddle you? To weaken you, more than wealth already did? One day you will thank me.”

  “You knew the Emerald Witch was coming to Brynth. You knew our paths would cross.”

  “I did not know, but I hoped.”

  “How could you hope for such a crossing? Did you know of her intent? Of the plague?”

  “Indeed. It was what caused us to go our separate ways.”

  “Why do you speak to me now? Why tell me this now? Why did you not warn me? Why did you not kill her? You could have killed her before she killed Chayse.” Even as he said the words, he knew she would give no answer. Instead he asked, “Do you know what the plague did to this country?”

  “Made it stronger.”

  “For what? For whom?”

  “What comes next.”

  “What comes next?”

  There was no answer. She was gone; the voice was gone or the intensity of the high was fading. Regardless, no answer came.

  * * *

  Theron rose early the next morning. Despite the haze of the herbs, the venison had done him good, and as he followed the tracks he chewed on some of the meat he had cooked, salted and cut into thin strips. Nothing was better on the road than being well fed, not stuffed but not starving, enough to keep the muscles going and fight off the brutal depletion that the road often gives.

  The clouds were still above, but there was no rain and the temperature was moderate and cool. The Emerald Witch’s tracks led north. She did not seem to stop even once. Her shadowy steed had to have been summoned, for any horse not conjured from the arcane realms would have needed to stop by now.

  Theron followed the clues she’d left behind. Her steed—although summoned—made hoof prints in the ground, heavy ones at that, and because her route was more or less untraveled, they were all the more obvious. She did not teleport, and so Theron was sure she was drained, that her defense against Aldous’ ravens had completely sapped her, and when he found her he knew it would be in some gulch, some black crevice where she we would go to rest and recover or die, whichever came first.

  Theron moved at an inhuman pace, a constant jog for three-quarters of each day through hard terrain and open field alike. The ground slowly elevated each day; by the sixth day the air had thinned, but Theron’s trained lungs found it to be no concern. He knew he was getting close, he had to be, for the island of Brynth would soon be at an end. The witch had avoided any main road and not passed directly through a single town, no doubt hoping to avoid detection.

  For days he had seen not a single human face, but all the while he felt eyes upon him. The owls hooted as he passed beneath their trees in the night, and the wolves stalked nearby, curious and hungry; fear kept them hidden, for the eyes of beasts could decipher predator from prey. He was a beast now; he was like them, hungry and savagely primitive. He passed the threshold of a vast forest and entered open plain, and there he saw humans again, broken shadows of the souls of men, but human still. They walked in their parade, twenty of them, sack hoods and bare backs. They sang their prayers or their hymns as they put the leather of their whips to their own flesh. They bled and they wailed and they sang of doom. Theron Ward smiled at the sign, for he knew doom was close; he knew that soon great sins would be answered for. And he knew that he and his sword would be responsible for the questioning.

  * * *

  It was the seventh day when he found it. Her steed’s tracks five days old, for it had rained five nights past and the tracks had clearly been left in wet mud to bake under the sun on the following dry days. She would be five days rested now. Some of her power returned, but it would not be enough.

  “Here you are,” Theron muttered as he stared at the entrance to the cave he was sure she had taken her refuge in; it was less than half a mile away. Revenge was so close, down a steep ravine, across a shallow river and a field of brambles, but it was there. Right there.

  The hunter took a deep breath. He kneeled at the top of the gully and took a moment, a final moment to meditate, to accept whatever evils remained of the Emerald Witch within that nearby cave.

  Now I am the invader. The tables have turned, and they shall end in this position. He removed his sister’s bow from his shoulder and pulled off the quiver. He dug a shallow, wide hole and laid the bow within.

  “I dedicate this hunt to you, dear sister. I would not have come this far without you. I dedicate this ravine to you. Chayse’s Copse, may all who hunt here forever kill their quarry; may your spirit guide the bows and the spears of all great hunters for eternity.”

  Theron buried the bow and stuck the arrows in the ground above it. When he was done, he would place the witch’s skull in the same pit.

  He began his descent down the ravin
e, slow and steady, no need to hurry, no need to rush. It was a poor hunter’s darkest fear, a cornered beast in its lair, and a great hunter’s brightest dream, a cornered beast in its lair.

  He crossed the river. The water was calm. His heart was calm, angry but calm. He was cold like Kendrick and burning like Aldous; he was ready like Chayse. They weren’t with him, but they were. They were his tribe, his family, his pack, and for them, for the first time as much as for himself, he drew his claymore from his back. It squealed, the sound echoing in the ravine, and he smiled. It was the first note in his song of death, and it never got old.

  He swept the blade through the brambles, his stroke light and smooth; it stretched the muscles and warmed the veins. Some of the thorns remained, and they nipped at his exposed forearms and drew hot red blood, but it did not hurt; he did not feel. All he felt as he walked closer and closer to the entrance of the cave, as he stared at the torn shreds of emerald fabric on the brambles, was the urge to kill. The need for it, the necessity for the existence of Theron Ward, was the hunt of the most dangerous game. He paused, took his torch and tinder from his pack, and lit the fire.

  He stepped forth into the abyss.

  * * *

  He dragged them both. When the killing was done he dragged them both, his friends, his brothers; he would drag them home. Home was far, home was gone, but for these men he’d find it again. He would build it again. He was not his father, he was not his mother, and he would never forsake those he loved. Over a mountain of corpses, across a sea of blood, through the winds of screaming spirits, he would drag those brothers home.

  Home is nowhere. Home is everywhere when you’re not alone.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Still Alive

  Aldous sat in a chair by Ken’s bedside, their positions reminiscent of a time in the past. That time in the past, Aldous had not even known Chayse existed. Now he wished he could take her from his thoughts, for she was always there, the pain too raw and fresh.

  He looked down at the words he had written and read them aloud to the still unconscious Ken.

  “A thousand gods and devils worshiped all the same, entities sought out to deliver us from the darkest truth: that we are naught but beasts, all sentient things that inhabit this world. That we are abandoned by our gods, we are refused by our devils, we are forsaken by mothers and fathers, to hunger for purpose beyond hunger, to beg to be more than the wolf and the raven, more than the cur and the cat, more than the swine and the rat. When the smokescreen of philosophy is blown away, when the mountain of morality crumbles down, all that remains is the methods man heightens to slither to the top of the food chain. The best method is by fire and sword. That is what I have learned from the legendary hunter Theron Ward. My father once told me, ‘An honest writer is the most virtuous of heroes; one who lies is the most deplorable of all villains.’ If he were still alive I would tell him I have found a paradox, that to write honestly takes a great deal of villainy, that there is nothing more treacherous than the truth.

  “What do you think of that, my friend?” he asked after a few moments, not expecting an answer.

  “I don’t like it,” came a grumbling rasp from the bed.

  Aldous turned in his chair and saw that Ken’s eyes were open, hazy but open.

  “You don’t like it?” Aldous asked, turning red. He had thought it was pretty bloody good.

  “I don’t know what a paradox is,” Ken began. “But if I did, I doubt it would change how I feel about what you just read to me. I’m not the smartest man, but I’ll challenge you in this.” Ken coughed and raised his left hand to cover his mouth, but it wasn’t there. Just bandages. Aldous felt his eyes go hot with tears for his friend’s suffering. It was obvious to Aldous now that Ken had already been awake for some time, maybe a day or two, but he had been given pain-thwarting herbs in tea and was in a stupor, not yet ready to come back to the world. For whatever reason, what Aldous read to him made him decide to come back and deal with this new reality. Aldous held a cup of the medicinal tea in his hand and delicately pressed it to Ken’s lips. He had a sip then continued. “Discarded and forsaken we may be, beasts we may be, and all struggles may always come to fire and sword. Fine, I’ll agree with you on that, but you’re missing the most important bit.”

  “What would that be?” Aldous asked as he too took a sip from the tea.

  “What gives us strength to walk through a world so dark as all that? To fight our bestiality, our abandonment, and the coming violence?”

  “Hatred? Anger? Spite?” Aldous said with a snarl.

  “Love,” Ken said, and at the word Aldous wanted to die, he truly wanted to die. Love. Chayse. For Aldous the same word, such a beautiful word, such a horrific word. Ken kept speaking, and Aldous’ heart kept bleeding. “The desire to go through it all is for love. I don’t know where I am, and the last thing I remember was watching you all die as I burned shut my spouting left stump. Yet somehow I’m alive, and you are alive.”

  “Chayse is dead.” The tears that had formed for Ken fell now for Chayse. “I could have saved her, but I wasn’t strong enough. I had to see her die to get the strength to end the fight.”

  Ken was silent for a moment, pain searing across his face, and it was not pain caused by his lost hand. “And Theron? Is he dead too?”

  “No. He dragged us into the keep. I had cast some spell. A massive flock of burning ravens, that’s what the duke said. He watched from a window. He was ashamed. He begged for my forgiveness. I don’t know for what, though. He said I fell lifeless and Theron dragged us back to the keep. The hunter told the duke if we died, if he came back and we had died, that he would burn the last bit of Dentin to the ground and hang the duke from the ruins.” Aldous snickered. “It will be a great relief for the duke to know that you, as well as I, have survived, and because of it so to will he.”

  “Comes back from where? Where did he go?” Ken asked, sitting up slightly in the bed, as if he was ready to go find Theron, but he fell back quickly, too influenced by the herbs, too groggy, too wounded to do anything.

  “The Emerald Witch survived the firestorm. Nothing else in the courtyard did other than her, Theron, yourself, and I.”

  Ken sighed. “How badly wounded was our fearless leader?”

  “There was a greater Upir among them—the bastard cut out Theron’s eye.” Aldous stumbled on his words, but forced himself to go on. “Chayse sacrificed herself for him, for all of us. When I saw her die—” Aldous turned away, staring out the slitted window to the courtyard below, the courtyard where she had died. Ken said nothing, only waited for him to be ready to go on. At length, he continued, “The storm started after that, I guess. It doesn’t matter what happened. Theron is alive, and so was the witch. The duke said Theron took herbs, a bit of food, and went after her. That’s all I know.”

  “How long has it been?” asked Ken.

  “Seven days. Seven days that I have sat here and done nothing while my friend hunts a monster.”

  “Don’t you feel any guilt Aldous, you hear me?”

  “About…” His voice cracked and he began to cry, softly, like a broken child. “About Chayse?” Aldous asked.

  “About anything.” Ken stared hard into him. “Whatever happened, whoever died, others lived. We protected the defenseless. We did what was right. No matter what, Chayse Ward was a warrior, violent and brave… and good. She died fighting for those she loved and for those who she deemed worthy to defend. We tried to do the same. We did what we could.” Ken sniffed a bit.

  “I just wish—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you wish, boy.” Ken’s tone was not hard and cold, it was soft and hurt. Aldous looked at him, and the monstrous, scar-faced man was crying, too. Not sobbing. Just a steady stream of tears and a hurt stare into nothingness, into memory. “I wish a lot of things. I spent a long time wishing I’d never been born. I wished I never fought for the bastard, Salvenius, for Brynth and the Luminescent. Fo
urteen years old, my head was easy to fill with lies, easy to create a surety that everyone in the east was wicked, down to every woman, child, and dog. More than that, I wished I never left. Never deserted.”

  Ken clenched his teeth hard, and the muscles in his neck and face strained, as if he was trying to stop the flow of tears. “I killed my own wife, boy, brought the plague into our home. Stitching up my bites, she got sick. I went out to get fresh water, I came back and she was turned. I killed her.” The tears dripped off his chin onto the bed, and he whispered, “I killed that sweet woman. I ran for years. I ran and I drank. I found Alma. The count’s men found me. They killed her too, because of me.” Ken turned and looked Aldous in the eyes. “I’m a man that has meant good, my whole life I’ve meant good. I hope that counts for something.”

  “It does, Ken, I promise you it does.” Aldous placed his hand on his dear friend’s shoulder. “Love matters, Ken.”

  * * *

  “He’s awake,” Aldous said to the duke to break the half-hour silence that had formed at their end of the table as they ate dinner. The dining hall was packed to capacity with women, children, and the elderly. The duke was a decent man as far as Aldous was concerned. He did what he was capable of; he gave things even if he could not give himself. And Aldous found it heartening to see that the duke’s health had improved as the days passed. He was stronger now, walking among his people instead of huddling in his chair under a mountain of blankets.

  “Kendrick?” asked the duke.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank the God of Light,” said the duke, and Aldous felt he meant it. Not just because it protected him from Theron’s wrath, but also because he had seen the villain Kendrick the Cold act as a hero, a champion of Dentin.