“Yer really want-ter go in there, Bell?”
Bell studied Skibs’ face; the smile replaced by a beseeching frown and wide, sympathetic eyes.
“No,” Bell admitted. “No, you’re right. I already know what we’d find.”
Relief flooded Skibs’ face, and the hand on Bell’s shoulder squeezed lovingly.
“Uhhh… Bell,” Tel piped from the rear. “You might want to see this.” She stood in the street, staring down over one of the coal troughs – the same one the cultist had taken the coal from.
“What is it, Tel?” He crossed to stand beside her, his eyes dropping to see whatever she stared at. He saw only flames sparking on a bed of coals.
“The wood’s caught,” she breathed.
Bell studied the flames harder. “So what? I don’t-” Bell realized what she meant. The fire climbed the trough’s wooden frame, spreading thin black tendrils through the pristine grain. Bell stepped back, pulling Tel away by her arm. “Is it only this one?” He dropped his grip and ran to the next trough.
“What’s going on?” Rise asked.
The next trough was the same; flames nipped at the wooden lattice. “The wood is burning.”
“Wood does not burn in Dekahn.” As if to prove the falsehood of Halls’ statement, the fire burgeoned, and the lattice crumbled and fell, curling like burned paper on the coals. Flame burst from the trough’s corner, spreading fire to the trench’s outer edge.
Glass shattered outside a shop across the street – the remains of an oil lantern that had devoured its wooden casing and fallen into the road. Burning oil and shards of glass ricocheted outward on the fore of a flaming ring.
Light flickered behind the shutterless window of the cooperage next door. A woman screamed as the heavy drapes ignited, setting fire to her windowsill. Metal rang against the paving stones, and Rise sprinted into view, throwing all her weight into the shop’s door. The door splintered on its hinges, and Rise’s cloak whipped into the darkness, almost striking Skibs’ face as he darted in after her.
“No!” Bell shouted, but it was too late. Another window on another home lit up behind sealed shutters. “Get into the street and stay there,” he ordered as he sprinted to the open doorway and into the cooperage. The room was empty but for a small counter and barrels stacked along the far wall. Light flickered in the rear stairwell, and smoke seeped from the floorboards of the room above. He crossed the room in two strides and was up the stairs in three. “Rise,” he shouted. “Skibs!”
He entered into a small eating area, with a table covered by knitted placemats next to a coal burning stove and a tiny cupboard which hung over a copper wash bin. The adjacent room was separated by an empty doorframe and a wall of smoke and heat. Fire swallowed the high walls, curling up to lick the rafters and a peaked roof.
He heard coughing from the next room and ducked through the doorframe, dodging around a charred four-post bed that creaked dangerously beneath the weight of its padded mattress. Bell found the woman crouched in the far corner, protecting her face with arms already covered in red, puckered burns. “Where are the others?” he asked.
“They went to get the children,” the woman cried between fits of coughing. She pointed to the far wall; no opening, just a charred mass of wood patched with orange flame.
Bell felt his face go limp, but he forced his thoughts away. “Can you walk?” he asked, but already he was lifting her from the floor. As he carried her into the kitchen area and down the stairs, the cooper pounded his chest with her fists, the blows weaker than one from a pillow. Her only strength was carried in her voice.
“Let me down,” she shouted. “I won’t leave without them. I can’t leave without them.”
“They are already out,” Bell lied. It was possible; there could have been another way out. Gods, let there be another way out.
The woman’s sniffling slowed, but her voice was no less vehement. “This is my fault,” she whined. “I shouldn’t have left them the lamp. They were scared, because of all the commotion outside, and I left it with them so they would not be afraid. I should not have done it.”
Hands caught him as he rushed into fresh air. Bern and Rich lifted the woman away and Tel propped him up as he leaned over and coughed, desperate for cleaner winds.
Tel tugged at his arm. “We have to go, Bell. Halls says it will be safe if we make it to the palace.”
Bell barely heard her. “Did they make it out?” he demanded.
“We have to go, Bell.”
“Did Skibs and Rise make it out?”
“We didn’t see them.” She threw her arm behind her, motioning to the street beyond. He had not escaped the inferno; fire burned behind every shop window. People screamed from a thousand voices and a thousand places. The troughs smoldered in shrunken piles of pitted, white-veined lumber. Bell gasped desperately, and steeled himself.
“How far?” Bell asked.
“Halls thinks it’s four more blocks. Maybe five.”
Bell righted himself and let Tel pull him away. Behind him, timber crackled and snapped, followed by a loud crash. He refused to look at the burning cooperage; he knew what he would see.
He ran halfheartedly, letting Tel drag him along. The cries of pain and fear reached him, walling him within himself. They passed a walled estate, and then another, and another, but Bell hardly noticed. Heat pressed in from every side, coiling on tendrils of smoke, oppressive and threatening. A woman burst from a burning doorway, dragging a child behind her, the little boy clutching desperately at a singed and furry pup. She begged for help, and other voices joined her, all of them begging the aid of the guardsmen. But Bell was not a guardsman, he was here as their oppressor. He could do nothing, he had no way to help.
A man tried to hand him a bucket and Bell saw his face, soot-covered and ragged.
“I cannot,” Bell said. “We are needed elsewhere.” The man frowned, and surprisingly, simply nodded, handing his bucket to another man beside him. The two men reached the well and filled their buckets without breaking stride. They did not question him, they did not stop, or falter, or wonder. They simply did.
I must do the same, Bell thought. I can mourn when the last of us dies. Until then, I have a duty. Grabbing Tel’s wrist, he picked up his pace and forced her on instead. He felt her hand relax on his cloak, and she quickened to run beside him. Bell did not look at her face, but he could feel the tension and worry fall away from her.
He found the others sprinting ahead, Halls in the lead, with Bern and Rich just behind. They weren’t far, only about a block away, but people swarmed the streets, running in every direction, carrying chests, books, and other items bundled in blankets and tablecloths. Others simply stood, their eyes searching frantically for any place free of flames, but such places did not exist. Every shop, every home, every stall; all were made of wood and all of them burned. Every inch of darkness had been stripped away, leaving only gray, backlit haze and searing flames.
Horns blared, muffled under all the smoke, but he knew them; they were Trellish. Legion issue. It was the hornsman, sounding not retreat, but a full charge. They were coming, driving their way deeper into the city. “They will not know where to go,” Bell muttered. “We have to help them.”
“There is nothing we can do,” Tel said between frenzied gasps.
“There is.” Bell came to a halt and fiddled at his belt, knocking aside his scabbard to grip the small satchel. Opening it, he pulled loose the horn and the tiny green and blue bottles. “Still have that bow?” he asked as he untied the tabard from his belt and set the helm at his feet. She nodded and pulled it loose.
With his sword, he cut the tabard into strips and tied them around the lid of each vial before wrapping them into a tight bundle. Pulling an arrow from Tel’s quiver, Bell tied the bundle to the arrow, and handed it to her. He motioned to the smoldering remains of a nearby trough. “When I blow the horn, light the arrow and loose it as high as you can.” Let’s hope they make as much of a mes
s as Jem said.
Tel nocked the arrow and Bell lifted his sword to signal ‘at ready.’ He waited for the next blast of the horn, then signaled her to release. Tel lit the arrow and fired into the smoke above as Bell pressed his own horn to his lips and blew as hard as he could. The horn reverberated off the smoke, pealing forcefully. The ink bottles popped, fifty feet above, in a shower of green and blue flames and colored smoke. He blew the horn a second time, and held it longer, hoping to the gods that someone in the Legion would see the colored flames and know the horn belonged to him.
Removing the horn from his lips, he smiled to Tel. He motioned her to follow, and they set off running after Halls and the others. Waiting thirty seconds, he listened for the next wave of horns. Thankfully it didn’t come; they awaited his signal. Breathing deep, he blew the horn as he ran, but his lips were parched by smoke, and his lungs exhausted. His lips slipped and the horn released only the sound of his breathing.
“Give it,” Tel said as she snatched it from his grip. “Your lungs have been smoked like a ham.” She pressed her mouth to the horn, and another blast sounded, louder and more vibrant than his own. Without comment, he continued running. They reached a clearing edged by a dark stone wall a man and a half tall. There were no fires behind the wall, and Bell could see a stone tower surrounded by clear, clean air. Bern waited at the wall’s foot, and when he saw them, he waved. Motioning for them to follow, Bern darted to his left.
As he and Tel turned the corner, wood splintered and something struck Bell in the back. Rolling over, he saw the piece of wooden beam that had hit him, and the tiled roof its collapse threatened to pull down on top of him. Bell groaned, and with a hand from Tel, strained to stand.
“Okay?” she asked.
With the wind knocked from him, Bell only nodded and continued running. They found the three men clustered before the gate on the next corner; Halls’ face was sunken, and Bern cursed profusely. The woman Bell had saved sobbed in Rich’s arms. When he arrived, Bell realized the problem.
They stood before a caved-in gate. The stone around it had been shattered and piled atop the crumpled iron portcullis, and worse, someone had piled paving stones and wooden beams atop the rubble, sealing it.
“Is there another way in?” Bell asked, his eyes scanning the surrounding buildings. The beam that had struck him would not be the first to give, and many of the surrounding buildings might collapse soon, throwing the timbers and flames into the street. If they do not hurry…
“Not that I know of,” Halls said.
“Then we push through,” Bell ordered. Motioning for Halls and Bern to do the same, he unstrung his shield from his back and strapped it to his wrist. Levering it before him, he threw himself against the rubble which blocked the gate, hoping to ram it free. He felt the pile shift when Bern crashed in beside him, and again when Halls arrived. A paving stone shifted from the heap and fell, smacking into Bell’s helm and causing it to ring. He shrugged off the pain and firmed himself for another push. He felt Tel’s hands on his back, shoving him forward, and more stones crumbled and shifted. His greaves slipped on the smooth paving stones, slowly forcing him to a lean.
But it was too slow. If they didn’t hurry the entire Legion would be trapped behind this wall of rubble. With their numbers, it would already take too much time to get everyone through the opening and into the courtyard. Bell tried to set aside his fears, but his doubts nagged at him. It was too hot, and he was too weary. They wouldn’t be able to move this much rubble in time.
The hands on Bell’s back grabbed him and pulled him aside as hooves crashed into the pile where he had stood.
“You’re lucky I have keen eyes!” the rider shouted. “The Grand was ready to skewer you, until I saw the Owl helm on Tel’s belt.”
Confused, Bell blinked smoke from his eyes before glancing up into the Herald’s face; he’d never felt happier to see her. Marl reined her horse in and circled it back for another charge. The beast looked determined, and Marl even more so. She charged a second time, throwing the whole weight of her horse into the wall of rubble. The stones shifted, and the pile collapsed into the breach. Her horse continued its charge, leaping over the fallen stones as it entered the palace courtyard. Bern and Rich followed in her wake.
Bell frowned as Marl’s words finally sank in. He fumbled at his belt, remembering that he had left the beaked helm on the ground when he’d tied his tabard to the ink vials. But there it was, just as Marl had said, tied to Tel’s belt. Thank the gods, Bell thought, Ivan would’ve killed me.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Am I helpless in this world? Loy wondered. It has all been a lie… Any sliver of control I have ever held… the estate in Newfield, my power among the Seconds… none of it compares to the realities of the world. Clerahl, the two men in the palace courtyard… even Just. All of them had done things he would never have thought of, let alone known how to do. All of them had strength he could not match; Clerahl’s trembling of the earth, the bearded man’s balls of fire – Nikom’s Blessing, who would use magic for such a horrific thing? – and Just’s ability to control the body of a mortal; all of these things were remarkable.
He had fled. Justice had been right before him, and rather than confront the man and force him to reveal the name of his shadow, Loy had fled. But what could he have done? Even Fate had not been able to get an answer from Justice. Yet, still, he felt as if he should have done something… Anything more than to have simply left.
He had tried to put on a brave face in the presence of Just, but Loy had come to realize that he was nothing compared to the man. What would Loy have done if Fate had not arrived? Just had seemed in no way ‘just.’ He had acted rabid and deranged, almost mindless. Perhaps he has fallen to the madness Kindrel mentioned… but that did not matter. It was not Just’s madness that had terrified Loy, but the fact that Just was not as Loy had been promised. The fact that he had seemed so eager to kill Loy over nothing, and that the god had been so opposed to Fate. Just had been unbecoming of a First, heartless and seemingly bloodthirsty. If a First could be so improper… then what does it mean to be a Second?
Even worse, what does it mean to be fated? Loy could not ignore what was right before him. Kindrel, Quill, and now Just had spoken against her. Just had called her evil. Yet, clearly Just was mad, so that wasn’t proof of anything, except perhaps, that Kindrel and Quill were deranged too. Loy wished he could believe that.
A man’s pained wailing tore Loy from his thoughts, and perturbed, he shouted his impatience, “It is not so hard, mortal, simply stay away from the orange substance! You might call it the ‘burny thing.’” But he regretted it instantly; not these flames, nor their own incompetence, were the fault of these mortals. They do not have the power I have… no matter how paltry it is. They cannot combat the flames. It was not the first cry of fear, nor pain, nor anguish he had heard this night, and with the torrent surrounding him, he suspected it would not be the last.
“Well, Butcher take yer, yer damned piss ant!” the man returned. “Don’t yer got the manners ter let me die the way I want ter?”
A high pitched, inconsolable whine, the sort that could only belong to a child, rose from behind a carved stone wall.
“Shush,” a woman said. “You must save your strength. And you are scaring the children.”
Loy stepped over the charred embers that were all that remained of the estate’s wooden gate, and into the clearing beside the burning manor. He found them huddled beneath the wall, beside a stone-rimmed well. The crying child leaned on the arm of a woman wearing a brown cloak, trimmed in white. Tears streamed down the young girl’s face, but she looked unharmed. An older boy leaned beside the well, pressing a cloth to the dying man’s stomach.
A foot-long, metal splinter pierced the man’s side; without assistance, he would bleed out.
“Come ter laugh in me face?” the man challenged.
The woman’s eyes turned to meet Loy, her yellowish hair soot stained and h
er face coated in black splotches of ash. Her right collarbone looked to be broken, her plate-forged shoulder brace shattered, and the arm looking unnaturally limp.
“I… I do not know why I have come,” Loy said.
“Then let me die in peace,” the man grated. He winced and moaned, clutching at the metal splinter in his gut. The splinter looked odd, as if it had once been shaped and tempered. Upon closer examination, it appeared to be a cheaply made sword, hilt-less and smeared with soot. The man’s chest convulsed, leaving his head to lie limp on the bundled cloak beneath it.
“Quiet, Skibs,” the woman said. Her voice was hoarse and her breathing strained. “It is not the time for that.”
Gritting his teeth, the man attempted a nod, but it looked painful. “Yer right, wife. Yer always are.”
“I know.” She laughed a moment, before a fit of coughing stole her breath. The young girl’s head rose and fell as the woman’s chest heaved up and down. With her healthy arm, the woman wiped her mouth then motioned to Loy. “You’re welcome to sit, stranger.”
Loy didn’t move. “What happened?” he asked.
“Fire, yer moron.”
The woman met Loy’s gaze and sighed, shrugging awkwardly with only one functional arm. She motioned to the remains of the building next door. “We got stuck in there. We’d thought to hack our way through the wall, but then the floor gave out beneath us and he landed on his sword.”
Loy shook his head, unable to fathom what could have happened to set this city ablaze. “Someone must have interrupted Father’s Blessing,” he murmured. There was no other explanation for these sudden fires. He had not thought the Blessing a real thing, but seeing the coal troughs had turned the legend into fact.
“Well yer father’s a prick,” the man groaned. “If Farmer has any love for me, he’ll bash yer father good.”
Loy should have trounced the man for speaking so, but he was already as good as dead… And surprisingly, the words had not angered Loy as they normally would. Instead, Loy chuckled. “Now that would be a sight, mortal,” he said. “But Father goes by Order now, and I’ve come to learn that he has love for no one.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 69