The Shard of Fire (The Chronicles of Gilgamesh Row Book 1)

by K. J. Parker

  When Gil looked up, a small deer was standing a dozen yards off at the edge of the pine, bleating endlessly in a loud sorrowful plea. He realised it was the same deer that he had helped before in the pit. He walked towards the deer, feeling unusually tired as he left the center of meadow, and the orb, behind. When he reached the trees, the deer seemed to smile at him before it dashed away into the forest. Gil stood under the pines and stared at the sunset, crying, and wondered if only a day had passed.

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  Much later, Gil had finally crossed the mountains, and it was late autumn. To the east across the endless miles he had already travelled, the peaks were snow capped and dark. He was descending now. The scraggly pine of the high mountains gave way to aspen and birch, ablaze with golden hues, scarlet and pumpkin. Lowlands appeared as the mountains bled to soft hills and gentle slopes, and the sweet scent of wood smoke filled the air. Ahead, villages, a town, a road. Gil looked at his feet. They were tired. He wondered how long he had walked. He wondered what had happened to his friends. He wondered what had happened in Astal, and if news of the tournament had spread. He wondered a great many things, but then stopped. He had heard something. It was faint, yet familiar. It was the sound of voices.

  Gil ran through the woods. Thick leaves, knee high, mushroomed into the air with each step. It wasn’t a great idea, nor a smart one. The old mage had warned him. Be cautious, be safe. But it had been too long. Too many days without people, too many nights without a friendly smile or even an unfriendly one. Loneliness was most terrible when it was near an end, and so Gil ran, pushing through thick underbrush until he stumbled onto a road, dry and chalky white. Across the road was an inn, wooden, painted green, and filled with with the sounds of travelers.

  Inside, the inn was small but lively. A dozen folk, some old, some young, sat at three round tables, drinking beer, shouting and laughing. A long bar spread from the door where Gil stood, to a second that exited out the back and towards the stables, while a hearth in the corner burned wet wood, filling the room with thick blue smoke. Gil sat down at the bar, trembling a bit, just listening, enjoying, and waiting for the barman. A young couple owned the place. A tall man with a beard that looked far too heavy for his thin frame tended drinks, while his wife, blonde and chubby, served the tables and food. From behind the bar Gil could hear an old hag somewhere in the kitchen grumbling about her job, yet cooking something which smelled insatiably good. Gil’s stomached knotted in response, eager to digest things other than sour mountain berries.

  The young barman approached and eyed Gil for a moment, wondering if he should ask the boy for payment up front. The barman stared at Gil. His hair was disheveled, his face was dirty, and he smelt, terribly, even for a traveler, yet the boy wore a coat finer than any the barman had ever seen, and rested one hand on a large axe atop the counter. The barman glanced at the axe and when Gil saw his expression he smiled, and lay the axe under the counter by his stool and ordered three sweet ales, a roast chicken, a batch of boiled turnips and two loaves of dark bread. The barman eyed him again, almost mockingly. Gil smiled, and thumbed a tiny gold piece from his purse across the counter. The barman slapped his hand over the gold as quick as lighting and glanced about the room nervously, shaking his head at the boy before disappearing into the kitchen. Gold was rare these days and that small coin could feed and house the boy for a month, if he wanted. Gil sipped at the first of his ales, slowly, as his stomach growled and churned and twisted, wanting more, but wanting less.

  In the corner a traveling band of gypsies played their lutes and pipes, singing a ruckus song that set the room clapping and shouting and stomping. Gil, a bit drunk, turned and hummed along for a while until his food came. When it did, he spun back around to see a short fat man with a dirty face sitting next to him. Gil smiled briefly, but quickly turned away when the man didn’t smile back.

  “Fancy coat …” the fat man said accusingly. His words were slow and gritty.

  Gil shrugged and sipped his ale, looking ahead. The barman’s wife quickly put the chicken and turnips and bread in front of Gil, looking for a moment at the fat man who grinned horribly at her, before she retreated into the kitchen.

  “Fancy axe …" the fat man spat, and edged closer. Gil turned his head and looked the man in the face, which was now inches away.

  “Buy us a beer …” it was a command, not a request, “and a chicken, and all this …” waving his handing mockingly at the food in front of the boy, “me and the lads,” the fat man grinned, wickedly, nodded to four rather large, rather dirty looking men now standing behind the boy. The band plucked a sour note and the music stopped. The room quieted and tensed as several traveler got up from their tables and left through the back door, or front, or both. The young barman and his wife, and the cook, stood by the kitchen, upset but silent.

  Gil sighed. He knew what would happen next. After his parents died, he was alone, and hungry, and more than once people had robbed him. It was never pleasant. He grew older, and stronger and sometimes he won, but not always and not often. Gil stared at the hot crispy chicken bubbling with fat and crackling oil. After so many weeks in the mountains, without food, without people, he was so very very hungry, and now this. For a moment Gil thought back to all those times people had beat him, robbed him or bullied him. He thought back to the little bird in the mountains, who was starving, as he was, then and still, and somewhere deep inside him he felt something change. Something different, something burning and boiling and bubbling, like fire smoldering in the dark.

  “Leave him alone!” the shout came from the corner, from the band. A boy, about the same age as Gil, though more muscled, stood up. He worn a dark tunic, and a dark wool vest. Gil was surprised, glancing across the room, the fire inside, fading.

  “Mind your business bard, or you’ll be next!” the fat man shouted not bothering to turn around, grinning wickedly at Gil.

  “You’d better leave him alone, or else …” when she said it, everyone in the room turned to look at the girl in the band. Her voice was soft and feminine, and didn’t match her words. She was tall, skinny and very very pretty, with short hair and a soft brown coat edged with bear fur.

  The fat man snickered and looked the girl up and down, hungrily. “You’re next … love … I’ll be with you in one sec …” turning back at Gil.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you …” the girl shouted.

  “You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” the fat man spat back, drawing and pointing a sharp dagger at the girl.

  “You’d better listen to my sister … you don’t want to make her mad,” the boy in the vest interrupted, smiling.

  The fat man turned, again, and looked at the boy in disbelief. Gil wrapped his fingers around the axe handle. The fat man laughed, and nodded with his head to the room. Eight men stood up, three at the table near the band, five by the fire. Several more travelers ran from the room. Gil did a quick mental tally, thirteen against … he glanced around the inn looking for help, at the barman and his family, at the band, at those few patrons who were still, slowly leaving, thirteen against three … a boy with an axe and two wandering musicians …

  “When we’re done with this rich bastard here, I’m going fuck you and your sister you stupid little—” the fat man didn’t finish. He fell backwards off his chair, clutching his head and screaming in pain, as Gil smashed the blunt end of the axe into his temple. Gil shrugged and smiled at the two gypsies, who looked a little surprised for a moment, until the real fight began.

  The fat man rolled on the floor yelling at his gang to attack. The four nearest Gil lunged at the boy, who ducked out of the way as the men toppled into each other. The two siblings quickly lifted a table and rammed the three men standing near them, knocking them down. Then, all hell broke loose. Fists flying, kicks cracking balls, bottles cracking heads, knives pulled, slicing and missing, Gil swung the axe and chopped off several fingers, and toes, blood spurting, men screaming, the barman stood frozen shaking h
is head, as Gil and the two siblings dashed about the room, smashing and breaking everything they could find, attacking, and ducking, and fighting back. The other band members, apparently accustomed to such things took up their instruments and played a lively tune to match the scene. Gil paused for a moment when they did, awestruck that they had, as one of the larger, heavier robbers tackled him to the ground. They rolled a bit before Gil managed to slice the man’s throat with the axe blade, even dull it did its job. It occurred to Gil, that he hadn’t killed anyone before, though he didn’t really feel all that bad about it now, considering.

  Six were done. One dead on the ground with his throat cut. One dead with a broken bottle stuck through his eye courtesy of the skinny girl who didn’t know when to shut up. Three nearly dead, or soon enough, missing enough fingers or toes or both to make them rather useless, either way. The last was unconscious, knocked out by the boy in the vest, and lying halfway through the open backdoor, which continually slammed into his skull with a satisfying, thud, thud, thud, from the wind outside.

  The band stopped playing. The remaining seven, bloodied and battered, slowly cornered the two siblings and Gil near the fire, all of whom were in much worse shape than the gang. The girl cradled her left arm and wrist, both broken, while a long cut trickled blood from her right bicep. The boy in the vest was bruised head to toe, his lips bloody, his eyes already blackened and swelling shut, and missing several teeth. Gil limped heavily on his right leg from a kick to the knee, though was otherwise seemingly unhurt. The axe lay near the bar, lost in the struggle, and out of reach. The fat man glanced around at his gang members, dead, dying, or maimed. Who the fuck where these kids? He grinned wickedly twirling his dagger between stubby fingers.

  “You little bastards … I’m going to do so many terrible terrible things to you for this … you will wish you were dead!” The fat man stood in front of Gil, and drew a line across the boy’s cheek with the point of his dagger. Blood trickled to the floor, though Gil didn’t scream, or cry out, or in anyway respond to the pain. The fat man looked at the boy in disbelief and anger. He stared Gil in the eyes for several seconds, growing more and more upset, then suddenly took a step back, afraid, as he saw something in the boy’s gaze that terrified him. Gil thought for a moment, then smiled, and shrugged. Fear turned to rage as the fat man screamed, and stabbed the dagger into Gil’s chest.

  The room froze. The barman still standing by the kitchen dropped a plate. The tall girl gasped. Gil looked down, expecting blood, expecting death, but saw, neither. The dagger's blade had shattered against his coat. The fat man’s arm was still extended, the dagger’s hilt was pressed against Gil’s chest over his heart, but the blade was gone. Exploded. Broken. Somewhere deep inside Gil felt the churning bubbling power he had before. It sparked, fanning, growing, burning. In the next moment Gil turned and reached into the hearth, gripping a log with his bare hands, yanking it free, blazing with fire and flames, and smashed it into the fat man’s skull, whose body fell, limp and dead. His face was melted and mashed and burned. Gil dashed forward with the flaming log, bashing and beating at the other six. Two more fell, burning, bloodied and dead. The remaining men ran from the room screaming for their lives, as did everyone, for the whole inn was ablaze with fire. Gil dragged the unconscious man in the doorway away from the inn, who quickly awoke and ran away after the others.

  Flames licked at the night sky, as the inn’s rafters fell, burnt through, crumbling the roof down in a heap of sparks and flames. Gil stood outside, a few dozen yards off, near the stables. The young barman and his family stood near him, a few feet away watching as their home burned down, watching, upset but silent. In the commotion the two siblings had vanished. He didn’t even know their names. Gil stood for a moment and looked at his hands. They weren’t burnt, the fire hadn’t harmed him. It couldn’t. Gil stood, thinking about a great many things and watched the fire burn. He looked at the young barman, and his family crying in the dark, and tossed them his coin purse full of gold.

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  The next morning, having walked all night, Gil limped sorely down the chalky white road. He didn’t know where he was, or which direction to go, yet he put as much distance between himself and the inn as he could. The woods were thick here, and dark and Gil had had enough of the wilds. Now and again he came across a small patch of cultivated land, rows of corn, or squash or beans squeezed between dogwood and willow. Only dry vines and brown leaves remained now, and Gil wondered who farmed these fields, and when, for he hadn’t seen anyone, or any houses all morning.

  Gil walked on for several hours, hungry, thirsty, and tired. The road narrowed at times, and twisted, around sharp corners and large boulders bigger than ships. Gil stood at one of the boulders for a very long time, thinking. It was an enormous rock, mostly round and as large as any hill he had ever seen. It looked out of place and felt it, sitting atop the road, gentle and silent. Moss gathered at its belly, where jagged facets shadowed the ground regardless of the hour, while far above, thick ledges stretched out from its bulk, growing forests of their own. Trees and roots, vines and ivy, hung lazily, waving in the breeze. Gil though of the marbles he played with as a boy, and how an ant must have viewed the slippery stones from the ground below.

  As Gil stood looking over the boulder, he heard voices. Down the road, or rather around it and on the far side of the boulder, several people were arguing. Gil paused for a moment then crossed under the edge of the great rock towards the commotion. An elderly couple stood by an old wagon, arguing, as only old couples can, about its wheel now stuck in a deep crusty rut. Atop the wagon a little girl with curly yellow hair sat crying. When Gil approached she stopped. The old couple hadn’t seen him, or heard him and they jumped nearly out of their skins when the boy suddenly appeared from nowhere. At first, they thought he was a bandit. He carried an axe, his hair was messy, his face gaunt, and his clothes were covered in blackened soot. They stared at the boy for a long time before speaking, for his eyes were wild, and fierce, yet somehow kind.

  Gil helped them free the wheel and in return they offered him a ride, and rest, in the back of the wagon. Gil was worried for a moment that they’d ask him questions, for old people always had questions, like, who he was? where did he come from? and what was his name? questions he didn’t have answers for, not yet, and not now. And they did have questions, many many questions though they asked none. For Gil fell asleep the moment he laid down.

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  When he woke it was morning, long clouds doused in pink and purple had filled the sky. Gil still lay in the back of the wagon though a warm wool blanket covered him. He sat up, confused, and looked around. The wagon had stopped at a small farm. The horse no longer hitched, stared lazily at the boy across the yard as it nibbled oats from a leather bucket. Aside the wagon a thatched roof cottage muffled laughter and bacon. Savory salty smoke wafted through the air. Gil’s stomach gurgled at the aroma as he jumped down from the cart and walked to the cottage. He knocked at the door and a few moments later the old woman beckoned him inside, calling to her husband and yellow haired granddaughter.

  The cottage was modest but happy. In the kitchen Gil joined them at a long wooden table. It wobbled as he sat, teetering against one short leg, for it was old and had seen better days. The old woman set another rasher of pork in the cast iron pan atop the stove, its greasy fat squealing from the heat, and poured a thin mixture of water and oats into the pan next to the bacon. Glancing over her shoulder at the waif of a boy, she dashed another two handfuls of dry oats from a stone jar into the pan. The old man and the little girl waited silently as Gil’s food cooked. The little girl smiled at him, and asked her grandfather something in a language Gil didn’t recognize. The old woman plated the bacon and oatcake and set it before Gil, before sitting down next to her husband. The old couple stared at Gil who stared at the food. The old man motioned for the boy to eat. Gil nodded and attacked the bacon.

  “Whoa … lad … slow down or ya’ make
ya’ self sick,” the old man glanced at Gil then at his wife. “Been awhile since ya’ last ate a good meal I take it?” The old man smiled gently. Gil looked up, his cheeks puffed out with food, he nodded, then gulped down the mouthful. His stomach contracted and gurgled again, perhaps he should slow down. The four of them sat, not talking, while Gil finished his breakfast.

  “I slept through the night?” the boy asked, his colored returning while still chewing the last mouthful of bacon. The old man glanced at his wife, concerned.

  “Nigh lad … you’ve been asleep for three days.”

  “Oh …” Gil shrugged, he didn’t really know what to think of it.

  “We tried to bring ya’ inside … but ya’ so god-awful heavy for ya size we couldn’t budge ya’, not even the three of us. Twas like a spell or something …" The old man was the one who shrugged this time. A spell. Gil wondered how close to the truth the old man was. “We thought maybe ya’ were dead, or dying, but guess not. Just hungry I reckon,” the old man chuckled, trying to convince himself that was the all of it. They mused a bit, and chatted idly, talking of weather and crops and the horse. They were grateful for his help with the wagon, but their questions, who he was, where he came from, his name, seemed less important than before. For simple country folk the situation was already peculiar enough and they didn’t want to know more. Gil did.