Hunter Brown and the Consuming Fire

by Chris Miller

  My mind raced ahead as I read down through the other six signs. “The other signs, could they be referring to the other Resistance leaders? There are seven captains in the Council,” I noted.

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” Petrov agreed. “It was one I wanted to explore. But, so far I have not been allowed to leave this hideout.”

  “Because of your arm?” I asked.

  “In part, yes,” he nodded and then lifted the Flame to our eyelevel. “More importantly, this is what has prevented me from leaving.”

  “The Flame?”

  He noted my dubious expression and explained, “I have tried to carry it outside my room on several occasions. But every time it returns here. As if it’s waiting for something…or someone. Who or what, I cannot say. That’s where I’ve been stumped with my understanding of this prophecy.”

  “You say you tried to carry it?” I asked, suddenly recalling the whispered command.

  “Yes,” the surprised Commander answered, eyeing me curiously once again. “Why do you ask?”

  As I relayed tonight’s extraordinary events, about the voice calling my name and drawing me to the Flame, Petrov’s eyes widened. “It spoke to you, didn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “What did it say?”

  “It asked me to carry it…to Torpor.”

  The light of the Flame reformed itself into a long slender shape, which left my palm, raising itself high overhead, encircling us in its blaze. Before I knew what was happening the Flame swooped down and sped toward me, disappearing into the medallion I wore around my neck.

  Petrov was awestruck at the sight, breathing a word of thanks to the Author.

  I lifted the medallion from my chest to examine it. At the touch of my hand, a sparkle of light flashed across the surface of the Author’s mark, assuring me the Flame was safe inside. Then the voice whispered to me once more.

  Keep me. Carry me. Follow me.

  Placing a firm hand on my shoulder, Petrov stood beside me.

  “It seems you have been chosen again.”

  “Chosen for what?”

  “To carry the Flame where I am not meant to go!”

  I swallowed hard at the thought of being chosen again. In a funny way, I had been longing for an adventure for months, but now that it was staring me in the face, I felt a bit wary—not because I didn’t want to go, but because the memories of how badly my last efforts had turned out reminded me how likely I was to fail. After all, it was my fault the Resistance base in Sanctuary had been compromised; my fault Aviad had gone missing.

  “Still doubting are you?” Petrov questioned, reading my thoughts perfectly. “If I remember correctly it was a moment not unlike this one that launched your last quest. You doubted the Author’s choice then as well, did you not?”

  “It’s not the Author I doubt,” I clarified. “It’s me.”

  “It is okay to doubt your own strength, so long as you realize the Author’s choice in the matter is perfect. You were chosen for a reason. Don’t let fear of the Shadow steal your joy in this moment, Hunter. You have a great task in front of you.”

  His words inspired me, and right then I determined this was my chance to set things right. I had been given a second chance to prove to the Author that I was worthy to be a Codebearer.

  “Yes, sir, you’re right of course. It is an honor I will proudly bear.”

  “Good,” Petrov stated. “You will carry the spark in search of the remaining six, but you must not let anyone know where it is hidden unless it reveals itself. This may be the last hope of survival for the Resistance. The Flame must not fall into the wrong hands.” He looked down at his own wounded arm and back at me. “Understand?”

  I nodded and tucked the medallion back into my shirt.

  Petrov smiled proudly.

  “The Author is with you, my boy; he holds all things together. If you follow the Flame it will never lead you astray.”

  “I know,” I answered, “I’m ready.”

  Taking me by the shoulder, Petrov lowered his brows, looked me dead in the eye and said, “It seems your next mission in Solandria has just begun.”

  Chapter 12

  Stone-Eyed Sterling

  Early the next morning we awoke to find piping hot porridge awaiting us. Trista, Rob and the Thordins listened intently as Petrov recounted the amazing revelation last night had brought. After sending me back to bed for sleep that never came, Petrov had spent the remainder of the night preparing a plan for the mission before us. Seeing significance in the fact that the Author had called Rob, Trista and me into Solandria together, he felt strongly that we should remain “a tightly wound cord not easily broken”—a charge to unity that he passed on to us directly from the Author’s Writ. We would carry the Flame to Torpor together.

  In order to reach the distant city, we’d have to first fly across the Void—a vast expanse of nothingness that separated the scattered land masses, or “shards” as they were called that collectively made up the world of Solandria. It had been this way ever since Sceleris had attempted to overthrow the Author ages ago, a failed effort that left the world shattered into countless pieces.

  The only reliable way off the shard of Galacia was to take a sky ship, which we hoped to find at a nearby port. Apparently these vessels were routinely used to carry cargo and passengers between the shards, though I myself had never seen one. Petrov gave us the name of an innkeeper we were to look for once in town. Stone-Eye Sterling was someone he trusted as a friend of the Resistance, and Petrov believed he could help us negotiate safe passage aboard one of the ships. Once in Torpor, we were to bring the message of the Consuming Fire to Captain Saris. If our hunches were right, he would be the next one marked and could help us on our quest to find the remaining seven before the Resistance crumbled.

  The plan was admittedly fragile, but as the stalwart commander reminded us, if the Author was with us we couldn’t fail. Armed with this bold confidence, the preparations were made for immediate departure.

  By noon, the brothers had graciously tailored some of their warmer clothes and robes closer to our size. We layered the furs over our own clothes and thanked them for their hospitality.

  Before we left, we said our final farewells to Petrov. It crossed my mind that this might be the last time I would ever see him in Solandria. Despite the cold, I would have liked to stay longer for that reason alone, another day or two at least, but Petrov would hear none of it. He was anxious to see our appointed journey begin.

  “I have a parting gift for each of you,” Commander Petrov smiled as he made his announcement. “There is not much more I can give you than what the Author has already given. But what I do have, I pass on freely.”

  Zven stepped forward, hefting a large bag. Petrov reached his good arm in and jokingly addressed me, “It seems you were in a hurry the last time you left us. You really should keep better track of your things.” In a single motion he withdrew a Veritas Sword from the bag and tossed it to me. I caught the gleaming hilt by the handle and immediately recognized it as my own. The weight of it felt good in my hands again, but I hesitated to grip it. The ghost of its past deed rose up to haunt me.

  Petrov, recognizing the reason for my less-than-enthusiastic reaction, challenged me. “Fear the Author alone, Hunter, and your blade will not stray.”

  Reaching once more into the sack, he produced a well-worn copy of the Author’s Writ. Zven helped Petrov deliver the weighty book and its accompanying key into Rob’s hands. “This once belonged to a good friend and wise teacher, Captain Samyree. If he were among us today, he would challenge you never to take this book for granted. I add to that saying, any mission without its counsel is ill-conceived. The words are faithful. Be faithful to read them, and they will prepare you for every battle.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rob said, receiving the book gratefully.


  Finally turning his attention to Trista, he took a moment to choose his words. “You are like a freshly strung bow: young and untested. But I have no doubt in the skill of the Hands which have fashioned you. My challenge to you—when the Author so chooses to pull back your bowstring, do not resist—let the arrow fly.” With that he pulled out the last gift, a magnificent bow. The wood was strong and its limbs were graced with flowing scrollwork. In every way it reminded me of the one Hope had carried. Petrov gave me a knowing look before offering it to Trista. “Learn to use it and it will serve you well.”

  “It’s beautiful! Thank you, Commander…sir.” This time Trista skipped the curtsy and instead offered her right hand for a handshake. Petrov laughed and Trista blushed, realizing the mistake too late as he took her hand with the backward grip of his uninjured left one.

  Pulling himself to full height, the Commander declared in a strong, loud voice, “Never alone!”—a phrase Rob and I echoed before following Ven out the entrance tunnel and on to the adventure awaiting us.

  The weather was beautiful, sunny and clear, but the stinging winds made us want to stay inside.

  The Thordins led us out to a large shed where they kept their supplies. We wouldn’t take much—a small bag of bread and cheese, some spices for soup and a mix of dried fruit. They also entrusted us with a dazzling formation of jagged, blue gemstone they had mined from the shard and saved for such an occasion as this. They figured it would command enough value in trade to get us transport to the Shard of Torpor, where we hoped to recruit Saris’ assistance.

  “So, how far is it to this port we’re going to?” I asked.

  “Port Defiance, ’bout eight hours I’d say,” said Ven. “Just down this ridge and to the end of the ravine.”

  “But with high winds like this,” said his brother Sven, “why you should be there in no time at all—well before sunset, I’ll wager.”

  “How do you figure that?” Rob inquired as a particularly sharp gust blew past, chilling us to the bone. “Seems like a wind storm isn’t the most ideal time to go for a hike.”

  “A hike?” Ven burst out in heavy, hearty laughter. “Why that’s a good one. You hear that brother? They think thar goin’ for a hike.”

  The two boomed with laughter at our apparent ignorance. Ven eventually added, “No, ya won’t be doin’ any kinda’ hikin’. That’d be suicide sure enough.”

  “Yah sure, anyone goin’ out in these conditions without a snow sail would be asking far trouble,” said his brother.

  “What’s a snow sail?” I asked.

  “It’s what you’ll be ridin’. Here, I’ll show ya.” With that he led us to the opposite end of the shed and threw open the doors. There were two snow sails stored inside, each consisting of a fifteen-foot pole, which was attached at its base to a long ski-like skid.

  “These, my friends, are yur snow sails,” said Sven, grinning proudly. “They’ll get ya down the ravine ta the port in no time.”

  The two brothers instructed us on how to raise the sails and how to best use the wind to steer. I took to it quickly, having tried my hand at windsurfing on a vacation back home. Since there were only two boards and three of us, Trista shared mine.

  “The current should carry you all the way to the port,” Ven explained.

  “Just don’t forget ta slow down before you reach the town, or yur liable ta slip off the edge of the shard. Wouldn’t want ya ta fall off into the Void.”

  Long before we felt ready, we said our goodbyes to the brothers and made our way down the mountainside to the ravine below.

  Ven shouted after us, “Trust the Author, my friends. Remember, we’re never alone.”

  If he said anything else we were already too far gone to hear it, riding the wind and speeding into our next adventure. The breeze whipped around us, but we kept pace with it, which seemed to minimize the effects of the cold. We were having so much fun weaving in and out of each other’s paths that the hours seemed to slip away with the daylight.

  Just as predicted, the sinking northern sun faded behind a small town at the edge of the shard. We slowed to a halt and found a small lean to where we were to leave our snow sails for the night. Gathering our things, we tromped through the snow into town.

  “That was fun,” Trista said, smiling broadly. “Can we do it again?”

  With high spirits and hungry stomachs we entered the town, hoping to find the inn we had been told about. The air, which was chilly enough by day, had turned to a biting cold, made all the worse by the bitter breeze.

  “Not a very big port, is it?” Rob said, looking things over.

  “Well, it’s not exactly the friendliest climate for visitors up here now is it?” I answered.

  Rob shrugged.

  “Here it is, Starlight Road,” Trista said excitedly. “Not sure how we could miss it, it’s practically the only road in town. C’mon, I’ll race you to the inn.”

  Before I could suggest we stick together, she bounded off down the empty snow-covered streets. Despite the fact that it was just approaching evening, only a few figures were out on the roads. It seemed those who knew the town also knew enough to get inside before darkness fell.

  When at last we caught up with her, Trista was standing slack jawed in front of a dilapidated old inn that hung, quite literally, out over the Void. A long wooden plankway led out thirty feet to the entry of a shoddy two-story shack on stilts. The ground beneath the lodging had crumbled away years ago, leaving the foundation exposed and reinforced by a series of haphazardly placed beams. It was a wonder the place hadn’t fallen off the face of the shard.

  A sign was posted at the edge of the ledge that read:

  “Well, the name fits, I’ll give it that much,” Trista said, still amazed that such a place could actually exist.

  “You gotta be kidding me. There’s no way I’m going in there. It’s a death trap.” Rob was shaking visibly, partially from the cold, but mostly from the thought of the place.

  “Well, it’s either that or freeze to death out here,” I said, trying to reason with my own better judgment about the place. “We don’t have arrangements to stay anywhere else.”

  “Oh man, I’m going to regret this,” Rob gulped, as Trista led him by the hand and I followed from behind, across the rickety wooden plankway.

  As we neared the door, a pair of rowdy sailors burst out in front of us, singing a tune and nearly stepping off the ledge a time or two as they wobbled past. They repeated the chorus over and over for the whole town to hear.

  Oh, sailing out on the open breeze,

  I goes where I wants and I does what I please.

  Never a worry and never a care

  When I’m sailing out on the open air.

  “Catchy tune,” Trista hummed as we entered.

  Granted, it was not the sort of place kids our age would visit at home, but given the circumstances of our mission, we pushed forward into the precarious establishment. The place was buzzing with activity; all but one of its dozen tables were full of guests drinking, eating and having a grand time.

  We stepped up to the counter, which doubled as the front desk for the inn, and tried to catch the attention of the keeper.

  “Be right with ya,” a giant man with a round belly called out from the other end where he was pouring another round of foamy drinks. When at last he finished his rounds, he stomped heavily across the creaky floorboards and stood directly in front of us.

  Rob cringed at the sound of the man’s steps, imagining the vast expanse that lay below us. For a moment, I could almost feel the house sway beneath his steps.

  “Now, how can I helps you folks?” he asked, dropping a rag on the countertop and leaning heavily on the bar, which also groaned under his weight. He was a strong man, his forearms thick and hairy, colored with ink from years of tattoos. His face was pock-marked and weathered. He had a
thick black mustache under his nose, but it was his left eye that most marked his appearance. With a slight scar around the lid, the eyeball itself had been replaced with a rounded grey stone.

  “Are you Stone-Eyed Sterling?” I asked.

  “Well, I sure ain’t Sponge-Eyed Suzie if that’s what yer asking. Ho-ho, har-har,” the man burst out laughing at his own joke. “Sorry, that one never gets old. Most folks just call me Stoney, but you can call me whatever suits ya. What can I do for you?”

  The man seemed jovial and kind-hearted despite his intimidating appearance. Petrov had been right about one thing; he was a likable fellow.

  “We’re guests of a friend, and we were told you might be interested in this,” I said, pulling Hope’s necklace out and flashing the Author’s mark briefly at the man before tucking it back out of sight.

  “Indeed,” the man smiled, “I always have room for more friends, but first why don’ts you find yourself a table in the corner and I’ll see if I can fix you up with something to eat.”

  We wound our way across the room to the open table and tried to make ourselves comfortable. The other patrons eyed us warily. We were obviously not the kind of strangers they were used to in these parts.

  “He seemed nice enough,” Trista remarked.

  “I just wish he was a little lighter on his toes,” said Rob nervously.

  “Shhh, here he comes now,” I said.

  The room bounced with each heavy step the man took as he strode across the room with a tray full of mugs filled to the brim with some kind of steaming drink. He placed a basket of bread in the middle of the table and a mug in front of each of us.

  “This cider’s hot so you best mind your lips,” he said as he sorted a few plates in front of us.

  “Hey Stoney, over here!” a man yelled from across the room.

  “KEEP YER SHIRT ON! I’M COMIN’!” said Stoney in a voice loud enough to rattle the rafters. Then he lowered his voice and added to us, “I’m afraid I’ve got business to tend to, but it’ll wind down soon enough, and we can get to talking. I’m anxious to hear what you have to say…mister…uh…”