Ninth City Burning

by J. Patrick Black

  Rae must have known how I would feel about riding Jumbo, which is likely why she gave me my present first. I often imagine myself out with the scouts, and always I am atop some swift and spirited steed—Sherlock or Cloud or Roadster, or Rae’s own Envy. Jumbo is a plump, dappled gray, a sturdy and reliable mount but rarely moved to quick action. Rae claims he is among the wisest animals she has ever known, but he strikes me as indolent and something of a smart aleck.

  In my twelve years of life, I have learned only one thing for certain about horses, which is this: All else being equal, they would rather not have you on their back. Unless you are Rae, that is; horses seem to consider carrying my sister a privilege. It takes little time for Jumbo and me to reach cross-purposes: I want him to take his bridle, whereas he would rather put his nose under my hat and munch my hair. Much to my humiliation, Rae comes to help me. From her, Jumbo accepts the bridle as though it were a candied apple.

  “You do as I say unless Thom tells you otherwise,” she instructs as we go to join the other scouts. “Twelve isn’t too old for a spanking, and that’s the best you’ll get if Mama hears you’ve been goofing.”

  “I won’t goof,” I mutter, angry Rae thought such a warning necessary. Winter outings are a kind of audition for new scouts, and if I prove a liability, I won’t be invited to stay on when we set out again in the spring. I know better than to mar my chances by making some ignorant or frivolous display.

  The other nine scouts are waiting on their mounts, all slung up with packs and rifles. They call out to Rae and offer me exaggerated compliments on my new gun. But all joviality flees the moment Reaper Thom appears.

  Reaper Thom Mancebo is our coda’s boss scout, a bachelor of some fifty years, with a hard, lined face and a beard of wild black wires. However many of our people raiders have taken over the years, it is merely a fraction of the enemies Thom himself has mowed down. It is said he ships so many souls to hell, the Devil ought to put him on commission. He is dire and imposing and dangerous, with the bearing of a starved lion. I can think of no two people less alike than Reaper Thom and Rae, yet the two of them are close as kin.

  Reaper Thom is not one for grandiose speeches. He tells us only that we will be riding as far as the Great Ridge and not to get cocky just because most of the terrain was scouted yesterday. Several tribes claim these mountains as their territory, and a single outrider is enough to bring an entire war party down on New Absalom. Leafcoats, Downeasters, What-Whats, and Niagaras have all been spotted in past years, and with winter now upon us, no tribesman will pass up the opportunity to pillage our stores.

  “I want you all keen. Any antics are to be saved for tonight,” Thom growls. “Sally Fisher has prepared three barrels of her special brew and promised a mug waiting for each of you. If I get the idea anyone is celebrating before that tap goes in, said person will be returning to New Absalom on foot and without boots. Understood?”

  The scouts convey their understanding with a shout, and we are off into the woods and slopes of the mountain. Overnight, the world has become a whirl of crisp, glittering white, ankle-deep powder that will make quarry easy to track but also leave clear sign to anyone tracking us. But today our task is seeking, not hiding, so on balance the snow is more help than hindrance.

  We all dearly hope the trails will show nothing of any humans save ourselves because if there are strangers in these woods, we will have little choice but to uproot rather than risk a raid in the deep of winter. The mood is tense as we sift between the snowy trees, tenser still as we pass the limit of yesterday’s scouting into land none in our coda has seen these past five years. But by lunchtime it seems our only neighbors are deer and rabbits, and spirits begin to rise. Even Reaper Thom looks in danger of breaking into a grin as we approach the Great Ridge.

  The Great Ridge is the far boundary of scouting from New Absalom, a wall of rock that sweeps up from the mountainside, then plummets into a valley below, the drop so steep and sheer that only the hardiest raiders could hope to climb it and afterward would be in little shape to cause us trouble. I know this place from stories: The Ridge is a favorite subject of the scouts, though not as much as the land beyond, which they name the Valley of Endless Summer. It is said that winter never touches this country, that the meadows are always flowering, the trees always heavy with fruit. I have never put much stock in such tales, thinking they were only the scouts funning us littler kids, and so I am astonished indeed to find the Ridge just as they described: the high plateau of mountain, and below, the fields and woodlands as lush and verdant as if summer had just reached its peak. Snow is falling again, but over the valley it vanishes, as if encountering a border beyond which winter cannot pass.

  “It’s something, isn’t it, Sunshine?” Rae says as we look down over the Valley of Endless Summer.

  “It’s just like you said.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised!” She laughs. “Not everything I say is some tale, you know! I do have a little useful advice for you now and then.”

  I am about to ask her to name another instance of this useful advice, but just then we hear someone calling for Thom, and I can tell from the sound, the news is not good. Rae and I have left our horses to climb the Ridge, and we slide back down the icy slope to join the others.

  Simon Grumble has made an unsettling discovery. Off beyond a stand of trees there is a breach in the Ridge wide enough for several men to pass and fissures in the rock below that seem to create a path down into the valley. This in itself would be nothing but enticement to a dangerous adventure, one to be argued over and likely abandoned in favor of Sally Fisher’s brew, were it not for the signs of violence all around the breach. The rock walls are scorched black in places, or stained brown with blood, and beneath the snow we find broken arrows and spent shell casings, rags of bloodied cloth, what appear to be shards of bone, and human teeth.

  Discussion ensues. The carnage here is not fresh, but it is new enough that whoever left it could yet be nearby. The only way out of the mountains goes through New Absalom, meaning either the shedders of this blood departed just before we arrived, or they are still roaming these ridges, or else they descended into the valley. The consensus among the scouts is that we cannot stay the winter with such danger lurking. We will have to leave New Absalom behind—that is clear enough. In the morning, we will load our wagons again and set out for another of our hidden refuges, only now we will be moving in winter, harried by snow and frost and cold. It is a drastic shift in our fortunes and hard news to take.

  I am mulling through these and similarly dismal thoughts when I hear Rae speak up. “I will go and look,” she says, glancing first at me, then at the other scouts. “It could be whoever fought here died afterward, and the bodies were taken by wolves or other scavengers. I will go down into the valley and see if they have left any trace. I won’t need to travel far—only a few miles. If I find nothing, and you find nothing more along the Ridge, then maybe we stay the night here on watch, and in the morning get a few good workers from New Absalom to help seal up this hole.” She nods toward the breach. “So what if someone did go down there? No reason we have to let them back up.”

  Rae has hardly finished speaking before every one of the scouts has volunteered to accompany her. No one wants to leave New Absalom behind if by some extra effort we can make it secure. Only Reaper Thom is reluctant, but eventually he agrees to Rae’s plan, sending Lester Silva and Apricot Bose, our two fastest runners, down with her. Half-Moon Hollis takes a party of three to follow the Ridge as far as the cliffs at the edge of the mountain, while the rest of us remain behind to make camp.

  There is no more jollity among the scouts, only a grim, businesslike manner as we set to our tasks. I am charged with assembling makings for a fire, to be lit once the Ridge and valley are cleared, and this I do methodically, gathering and splitting wood and constructing a cone of tinder to incubate the flames. I have just finished stacking my kindli
ng when Half-Moon comes crashing through the woods and about flattens the whole pile. Before I can voice even a single curse, he makes an urgent motion with his hand: the signal for enemies nearby.

  The other scouts gather around as Half-Moon confers with Thom in low tones, describing a party of Niagaras spotted about two miles down the Ridge. Five at least, but with campfires enough to spell some twenty more.

  I do not wait for him to go into further detail but make straight for our signaling bugle. If Niagaras attack this ridge, Rae and the others will be trapped down in the valley. They must be warned, and without delay. But before I can bring the horn to my lips, Reaper Thom seizes my arm. “It won’t do her any good, girl,” he says. “The Niagaras will answer that call long before your sister does. All we can do is hope they don’t come this way and beat them back if hoping proves insufficient.”

  Reaper studies my face until he is sure I understand, then takes the bugle from me. Around us, the scouts are readying for a fight, checking their weapons, scouring the camp to build covered firing posts. But as soon as I am sure Thom is occupied, I turn and run, making for the breach. I do understand him about the bugle, but I take issue with his opinion that all I can do for Rae is wait and possibly fire a shot or two into a crowd of Niagaras.

  No one gives chase, nor does anyone try to call me back. As I descend, it seems a head or two pokes over the cliff to see where I have gone, but I am moving too quickly to say for sure, more concerned with what is below than above, more with what is ahead than behind.

  FIVE

  NAOMI

  Wide cracks spread down the Ridge from the breach all the way to the ground, allowing easy footing through the wall of smooth stone. The land at the bottom is just as snowy as at the top, which surprises me until I consider the width of this valley. Summer must be gathered around toward its middle. In the snow, I have no trouble discerning the tracks Rae and the rest have left behind, and I set off at a run, pistol bouncing at my side.

  I cross white fields and sparse woodlands of barren trees, a river crusted in ice and marshes of slushy ponds and snowcapped reeds. Now and then I catch a breath of unseasonably warm air, but that is my only whiff of fair weather. I have begun to think the Valley of Endless Summer is some strange fraud or illusion when I come upon a sight that stops me dead.

  There, across an expanse of bare ground shrouded in snow and ringed with skeletal trees, is a bold green meadow of tall grass and bobbing flowers. The greenness begins abruptly, shooting up over the snow, as though pressing at that border of winter I imagined from the Ridge above. Only it seems this border has begun to fail: Snow drifts lightly over the meadow, collecting on thick grass blades and the bright faces of flowers. I do not like this place, I realize; it makes me uneasy. But Rae’s tracks lead directly into the meadow, and I can see where the scouts passed through, parting strands of tall grass and shaking snow loose to leave a path through the white dusting, and so I force myself on.

  Not long after that, the screaming begins.

  Without warning, an unearthly wail descends out of the sky like a swooping banshee. I have never heard anything so awful. The vague fear I felt crossing the border of winter flares into panic, and suddenly I am running headlong, thinking only of finding a place to hide. I stagger to a stop beneath a wide and leafy tree, glad for protection from the echoing sky. The screaming has not ceased, but it is dimmer here, more distant. As I lean there, panting and shivering with fear, I realize Rae’s trail is nowhere in sight. Moreover, my sense of direction has become so muddled that I can no longer be sure which way I came. I am well and truly lost.

  There is a clearing beyond my tree, and I venture forth carefully, hoping for some familiar landmark but finding none. Even the sun has hidden behind a bank of clouds. I have crept some distance from cover when, at the corner of my eye, I catch a scattering of dark birds taking flight, and when I turn to see what has startled them, I find a man watching me from the edge of the woods.

  He is small but densely built, clad in furs, with a bow over one shoulder and a spear in his hand. His hair is yellow, as is his braided beard, though the face above seems blue in color. Niagaras, I recall, are said to paint their bodies blue and white before going into battle. Slowly, deliberately, the man begins striding toward me across the clearing, eyes set on me all the while as he wades through the grass.

  I run, mustering what remains of my energy and breath to make for the nearby trees, never considering that this might be exactly what the yellow-bearded man wants of me until a second man has leapt forth to scoop me up. This new man is large and strong enough to hold me with little effort, and I am like a rabbit snatched in a sight hound’s jaws, legs kicking uselessly at the air. I can do nothing but scream, and presently this recourse is denied me as well when a thick, hairy paw is folded across my mouth.

  “Now then, girl, there’ll be none of that,” my captor says, his voice deep and too chipper for a man possessing such a violent grip. He has the musky smell of a wet dog and jagged designs decorating the backs of his hands, crude things quite at odds with the gentlemanly cadence of his speech.

  I attempt another scream, but my efforts prove doubly useless: Not only does this man’s meaty palm reduce my shout to a bumblebee’s hum, but I am answered by the hearty laughter of more Niagaras, strolling from the woods to join the man with the yellow beard. I count no fewer than ten, at least two with old rifles slung over their shoulders, before the man restraining me heaves me around so that I am looking straight into his unpleasant face. His long hair and a beard are the dull brown of wood bark, his blue eyes set deep in pink cheeks etched with intricate blue markings—a color I see now comes not from paint but tattooing.

  “I would be more obliging if I were you, young miss,” my captor says, holding me at arm’s length, as I have made certain efforts to bite and kick him. “Be advised that my associates have already erected a secure perimeter. As you are alone and without recourse in this situation, we have elected to take you into protective custody. We will overlook your attempts to flee heretofore as mere misdemeanor, but any further resistance will be seen as a willful and intentional act of aggression, and your cooperation will thereafter be subject to coercive efforts, which may result in severe and grievous harm to you. Do you understand?”

  Truthfully, I did not follow much of what this man has said, but his demeanor, and the set of his teeth, file-sharpened to points, tell me more clearly than any flowery words that I am in dire circumstances.

  “You are lucky I and my associates happened to surveil you out in the woods. There are things in this valley far worse than us. Let us cease and desist this disorderly conduct, now, and after that we can—”

  I do not get to hear what this brute has planned, for at that moment, a rifle’s crack echoes across the clearing, loud and abrupt over the sky’s waning scream. The blue-eyed man releases his grip, and I fall breathless to the cold grass. When I raise my head, I see one of the Niagara men, a long-armed scarecrow with a shaved head, sway and fall to the side, his face a mask of gory red. Around him, his fellows crouch as though ducking hailstones, weapons raised to attack. I watch one Niagara shoulder his rifle, a rusty piece but functional enough to fire with a puff of smoke and another loud crack.

  To my startled brain, it seems I must be the target, and I hold my breath for the impact of the bullet, only to find that my enemies have other, more dangerous concerns. My blue-eyed captor has not dropped me out of surprise or fear, but to pull a set of cruel-looking hatchets from his waistband. He swings them up, pivoting in the direction of the first gunshot, but midway through his turn he utters an oath, and a second later, his furs and face and the air around him are red with spraying blood.

  Above him stands Rae, blade drawn, red speckles across her cheeks. The blue-eyed man goes to one knee, then falls, and she has put her knife in him twice more—a stuttering puncture, quick as a woodpecker’s rattle—before he hits the ea
rth, throat and side bubbling blood.

  I make to jump up and rush for Rae’s familiar embrace, but even as I get one shaking leg beneath me, Rae has taken the collar of my coat and thrown me hard onto the snowy turf. When I cry out in alarm, her only answer is to order me in cold, deadly tones to stay down and keep quiet.

  Surprise silences me then as much as anything else. Rae has never spoken to me like this, even in the worst of our fights. I am accustomed to the scalding flashes of her temper, but what I see in her now is different, something icy and sharp. She sets one hand on my breastbone to hold me in place and presses a knee painfully into my hip to further discourage any struggling. From my back, I have a good view of her face, her jaw set, the blue-eyed man’s blood trailing to her chin, and the idea comes to me that this is a person I have never met in my life. Rae pays me no notice whatever, instead discarding her knife and reaching for the pistol at her belt. Over my staring eyes, she levels the gun and begins to fire slowly and methodically at something I cannot see.

  It is about then that I begin to perceive the noise and chaos around me: the wild cries and the whizzing of arrows and the clatter of guns. I count three shots from Rae’s pistol, then she rises, stepping over me and striding ahead into the clearing. Finally free to move, I get to my knees and push myself up, turning just in time to see my sister, still firing, advancing on the crowd of Niagaras, though only two of them now remain standing. Rae shoots again, and this number is reduced to one. The last to fall is the yellow-bearded man who chased me here, his empty bow sliding from his hand as he clutches a hole Rae has opened in his chest.