Raising Fire

by James Bennett

  Wake … up.

  Ben drifted, his veins burning, his thoughts swirling under thick green glass. Venom. Mauntgraul’s venom. Afloat in the darkness, he heard a scream come scaling through the void, scattering his self-examination. Thin, faint—but an electric bolt, nevertheless, jolting him to alertness. And under him, a light was growing, pallid and wan.

  There were shreds down there, glowing, translucent. He made out tendrils, the distant shapes of pincers and bulbous eyes, and a ball of ice spread out from the middle of his chest.

  Lurkers. A misbegotten swarm.

  The phantoms swam in a straggling school, drifting like snowflakes out of the dark and melting into a blazing white sun. Or what looked like a sun. Even from afar, Ben could tell that the thing was huge.

  He made out its colossal head, its domed and many-horned skull, the array flickering like moonbeams. Great tentacles, each one viscous and ghostly, dangled from its bulk, writhing as though underwater. Ben counted six to eight of them, the vapour trail left in their wake confusing his count. A grille of bones met where the ghost-beast’s mouth should’ve been, reminiscent of a visor or a faceguard, the edges curving outward in sharp silver tusks. Behind the grille, a forked tongue pulsed and slithered, so bright that Ben had to squint to look at it. The feverish wail was echoing from the creature’s throat.

  Ben had seen Lurkers before. But he had never seen a Lurker like this one. Far below him, a narrow silvery line shot through the emptiness, stretching from a tiny circle of light (no: an octagon, he reckoned, cut in the darkness) towards the spectral giant, which writhed above the shining road, a grotesque guardian. It was a bridge of some kind, stretching from nowhere to—to whatever the hell he could call the thing below him.

  The bridge. Is it one of the Silver Leys? he wondered. What the hell am I seeing here?

  A dream.

  A death.

  His head was spinning, his senses overwhelmed. Arms wheeling, he tried to retreat, as if this non-place had tides that would carry him back to shore. Instead, stuck in the glue of dreams, he found himself drifting towards the giant phantom, slowly, relentlessly, as if the thing could wait forever, for longer than infinity, measureless and cold.

  The great ghost-beast, this king of Lurkers, reached out for him, a tentacle uncoiling.

  A voice chimed in his head, sharp and clear.

  “Ben.”

  And his eyes snapped open.

  A butterfly. He was looking at a butterfly, perched on the end of his nose. Black wings fluttered in time with his return to consciousness and, flapping a hand, he swatted the insect away. Groaning, he let the world filter in. Birdsong. The breeze through the branches above. He breathed in, sucking in the fragrance of trees and flowers, a heady scent that failed to cleanse his memory. By now, the Chinese news channels would be buzzing with reports of the destruction, the chaos in Tiananmen Square, the high-speed railway crash. Dragons … China wasn’t the most open of countries, so how long the news would take to hit the international channels, he couldn’t say. Chemical spill. Mass hallucination. Terrorism. He had a feeling that such mundane impressions weren’t going to help him this time.

  Where was Mauntgraul? The White Dog had struck his killing blow. Wherever the dragon was now, whatever havoc he hoped to wreak, he was done with the Sola Ignis, that much was clear. It was likely that he thought Ben dead.

  Ben closed his eyes, shutting out the screams. The fear. The blood. All those deaths. Under his horror, the old enmity smouldered.

  I had a lucky escape. But I am not done with you …

  Blinking, he sat up, patting his chest. He found his wyrm tongue sigil whole and unbroken, the symbiotic nature of his suit healing along with his flesh. The wound felt tender under his touch, but the pain was abating, the green fire quelled. Healed. But how? He knew that his own abilities couldn’t have withstood the White Dog’s venom, not for very long. He should’ve been facing a slow and painful death. In his mouth, he tasted ginger and honey, masking a hint of something earthier and fouler. Medicinal.

  Where am I anyway?

  He rose woodenly, and the ground swayed like the deck of a ship, tilting under his feet. Blotches fluttered across his vision, larger, darker butterflies. Get a grip, arsehole. He stretched—and immediately doubled over, retching a thick green soup. Lovely. For a few dizzy seconds, the vomit burnt his stomach and throat with the same dull fire as his wound. Then, gritting his teeth, he straightened, taking in his surroundings.

  Trees all around. He was up in the hills somewhere, out in the wilds. His nostrils confirmed the fact, the noticeable lack of pollution. Limping, nursing his chest, he made his way through the thicket. A deer bounded out of his way, stirred by his heavy tread. The woodland sang with life, bees and dragonflies zipping around him, and by the time he reached the clearing, his head was swimming in the sunlight.

  He stood at the edge of a broad dappled glade. In the middle of the space, a small pool glimmered beneath a rushing waterfall, fish twinkling in the depths. And on the rocks at the edge of the pool sat the woman from the train.

  Her skin-tight suit caught the light, an emerald sheen reflected on her smooth round face, her gaze fixed on the water. Down her back, which was half turned to him, her long dark braid followed the curve of her spine. Her womanly guise was appealing enough, but entirely betrayed by her golden hooves, glossy upon the wet stone. She was staring at them in a way that Ben recognised, an inward contemplation that went back years, centuries, ages, and found little comfort in the past.

  In the way that she shook off her apparent sadness, he could tell that the woman knew he was there, just as he knew that he wasn’t looking at her true form, the horned equine figure that had raced alongside the tracks.

  “You healed me,” he said by way of introduction. “You saved me from the White Dog.”

  The woman said nothing, neither to confirm nor deny her assistance.

  Ben tried again. “Things happened so fast, I didn’t catch your name.” He swallowed. Was he slurring? He tried to sound casual, in control. “I’m Ben Garston. Red Ben to my friends. The Sola—”

  “I know who you are.” Her voice was curt, devoid of emotion. A cold statement of fact. “In the Remnant world, you are the Guardian of the West. As I am of the East. Like you, I am a student of Blaise Von Hart, the envoy extraordinary. Or at least, I was.”

  He gets around.

  “Great. Then you know I’m not your enemy.” A pause. Then, “Don’t you?”

  She didn’t seem interested in making friends. Instead, she turned to face him with her own question.

  “You saw him, didn’t you? The Ghost Emperor.”

  “The what?”

  “The Lurkers in the nether. Amassing. You were mumbling in your sleep.”

  Amassing?

  Ben stumbled to the edge of the pool. A few feet away from her (what might or might not be a safe distance), he placed his hands on the sun-warmed rock, bending to look into the water. His bearded and bedraggled face stared back at him, gaunt with the ravishments of fever, cuts and bruises on his cheekbones and brow. With a shiver, he shook off the dregs of his dream. Or perhaps his vision. The radiant ghost, the behemoth in the void, tentacles writhing. Its maw a maelstrom of light …

  “I had an interesting … nightmare,” he said.

  “The Lurkers are merging in the nether,” she replied. “Something is drawing them to the earth. Something has caught their attention. Something big.”

  “Magic,” he told her.

  “Muo shu, yes. Powerful spells. Or rather their decay. The magic of the Fay is growing old. The circles of protection are souring.”

  “The circles—”

  Ben cut himself off. Through the receding fog of the venom, he recalled another vision, one he’d experienced over the North Sea, sparked by the touch of lunewrought. The great blue arc had glimmered with symbols, marching from the ocean off into the haze of the European hinterland. Some of the symbols had been fading, winki
ng out.

  Before he could confirm this notion, the woman continued.

  “The binding enchantments have grown weak. Great spells branded into the earth to ward off the ghosts in the outer dark, permitting the Fay their magical age. But the Old Lands are done. The Fay departed. The spells corroding. And the stench of their corruption draws the Lurkers to its source. The phantoms are amassing, becoming one. Preparing.”

  Like flies to a shit heap, Ben thought but didn’t say.

  A notion struck him. When he’d been lured to the oil rig, finding himself bound by the magic of the harp, there had been no sign of the Lurkers. No strange churning in the air, no bristling shadows moving behind the pipework, pressing against the skein of reality. In the face of the energised Fay artefact, surely the beasts would have made their ghostly presence known. Wouldn’t they?

  It occurred to him then that the Chapter’s cautious use of the harp might be down to the fact that the agents feared attracting the Lurkers. He didn’t know the range of the song to judge this by (quite far, considering Norway), but his speculation fit well enough. Would the Chapter know about events in the nether? Doubtful. A colder thought followed on the heels of this one. Without the appearance of the grey ghosts, he wondered how long such caution would last.

  Still, what the woman was saying kind of made sense. If the phantoms had their attention elsewhere …

  He shivered. “Your Ghost Emperor.”

  She nodded, flashing him a look. “Pray we are not too late.”

  Too late for what? Ben was freewheeling, a little dazed. His wounds might have healed, but recent events had left their mark. And he wasn’t enjoying the conversation.

  “We? Besides, I’m not one for gods,” he said. “I’ve had … a bad experience.”

  This earned him a sharp tilt of her head. Her eyes, a clear jade, darkening.

  Seeing he’d offended her, he tried a different approach.

  “Anyway, I’m grateful. Thanks for …” He gestured at his chest. “You know. This.”

  “Sacred herbs and eagle’s blood will serve as a makeshift antidote,” she said. “The poison of despair runs deeper. That is your own affair.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “You are a clown,” she said, but she wasn’t smiling. “I brought you up to Yesanpo for one reason and one reason only. Information. Dead men tell no tales, isn’t that what you English say?”

  In some cases, the dead never shut up, Ben thought, but kept to the point.

  “What makes you think I know any tales? But if you’re suggesting I owe you something, it’d be nice to know who’s keeping score.”

  She weighed him up with those needling eyes. Eyes to look right through him.

  “I am Jia Jing, the appointed judge of the court of Kublai Khan, Guardian of the East, Keeper of the Lore. And you are Ben Garston—or Benjurigan in your native wyrm tongue—a dragon who claims to uphold the Lore, but who spends most of his time drinking, bedding women and making trouble. Satisfied?”

  “Charmed,” he said. “I can tell you’re a fan. Would you like me to sign something?”

  “I think we both know your signature doesn’t count for very much.”

  Ouch.

  “The Lore is broken,” he said in a growl. “But I didn’t break it, honey.”

  Christ, he felt tired. Old. Then again, his arse had just been dragged through a near-miss arrest, a vampiric attack, a brawl with a dragon, a high-speed train crash and a venom-induced coma. Maybe he should cut himself some slack.

  She got to her feet, facing him. “That isn’t true.”

  The woman, Jia, said this with a conviction that took him aback. Her composed exterior couldn’t hide the tautness of her lips, the whiteness of her knuckles on her folded arms. He wondered at that, why she should be so angry when they’d only just met, but it didn’t take a genius to realise the common denominator here. Pale, inscrutable and missing without a trace.

  “Sounds like someone has been telling his own tales.” He rolled his shoulders, disliking the way she was looking at him. “Where is he, anyway? Von Hart? I’ve been looking for him.”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you.”

  The envoy could be anywhere, Ben knew. In the world or out of it. With a shudder, he recalled du Sang’s words from the vaults under Paris.

  I’m saying he isn’t in the world at all … He simply isn’t … there.

  He coughed, covering his unease.

  “Seems I’m a popular guy,” he said. “So come on. Spit it out. You want me to take on this Ghost Emperor for you? Kick his arse into spectral smithereens? You know, Miss Jing, this isn’t my first rodeo.”

  The equestrian reference pricked her, he saw. She looked away into the trees, her jaw grinding.

  I’m getting under her skin. Good.

  “You are far from a hero, Mr. Garston. I am on a mission to warn the watchers. I am looking for the Curia Occultus. I think you can help me find them.”

  He barked a laugh. “Are you serious? I’m the last person you want, lady. Von Hart has gone AWOL. The Guild is in a shambles. And the last time I ran into the Chapter, they were talking about chopping off my head. It wasn’t pretty.”

  Jia looked up to meet his sneer. She didn’t seem interested in his excuses. Instead, she gazed into the pool again, her voice soft, holding back ice.

  “I remember when I first heard the Ghost Emperor. It was a whisper behind the sky. The space between thunderclaps. Cannon fire across a misty river. A new god approaching the earth, pressing his eye against a hole in the world, looking in, hungry. And then reaching out …”

  Ben could have waited for Jia’s description.

  “Listen—”

  “Do you know what it’s like out there in the nether? How endless? How cold?”

  He did.

  Now she looked at him again. “Are you really prepared to let what’s waiting out there come here?”

  He didn’t like the way she said this, her eyes moons of unspoken judgement.

  “You can think what you like,” he said. “Hell, you can use me as a bad example in the future, a Remnant gone to seed. All I know is that the Chapter was using a fragment of the harp. Do you realise the power of that thing?” He guessed she did. All Remnants would know the story. Fresh in his mind from du Sang’s tomb, he conjured up the painting of Nimue, the Queen of the Fay, presenting the harp to King Arthur during the Battle of Camlann. His sword, Caliburn, shattering the harp. “The instrument pre-dates both of us by centuries.” He was guessing at her age, but she didn’t correct him. “Folks used to call it the Cwyth. The mnemonic harp is just the trendy modern name. If the Chapter catches up with us—with me—I won’t have the strength to fight them. And neither will you. What makes you think they’ll even listen to you? The Cardinal isn’t exactly a fan of Remnants. Especially now.”

  “So we find the Guild. We use them as a go-between. To send a warning.”

  “Sure. I can point you in the right direction. You’ll find an empty mansion in London.”

  “This is your duty. You swore to uphold the Lore!”

  He was bluffing, of course. Under his apparent reluctance, he wanted to get to the bottom of the matter just as much as she did. And he wanted to find the envoy, now more than ever. He was in way over his head. Either way, he wasn’t about to wear his heart on his sleeve, make his next move common knowledge. He had been played one too many times.

  He looked up and saw that she was changing, growing taller, thinner, as she approached. An emerald sheen rippled over her face. Her head bulged and widened slightly, her flesh puckering. The next moment, a long golden horn was sprouting from her brow, bloodlessly parting her skin. It tapered up like a scimitar, notched and as sharp as a blade. On golden hooves she came to a halt, keeping a small space between them. She had retained most of her human form, her shapely legs and torso lengthened into a statuesque column covered in a cropped green hide. Her singular horn—more of an antler, r
eally—sparkled in the sunlight.

  Having partly revealed herself, she looked down at him with penetrating eyes.

  “You do not trust me,” she said.

  Again that cold statement of fact, devoid of emotion. But it was true, all the same. There was something a little too neat about this set-up, her rescuing him only to press him for information.

  “Lady, I don’t trust myself.”

  She was a Remnant, that much was clear. He had seen her true form next to the train in Beijing. Some kind of equine beast, green-haired, gold-hooved and a little larger than a horse. She belonged to a breed beyond his knowledge, an old Chinese tribe lost to mythology. Regardless, she must be the only one of her kind, awake and walking the earth, if the Pact was anything to go by.

  Maybe he had learnt his lesson after all. She was up to something, he reckoned. For all her aloofness, he could tell she was afraid. Desperate. Hell, he could see it better than anyone. It was in the tremble of her shoulders. A sadness behind her eyes. Perhaps she needed something she couldn’t name, an underlying reason for his presence here. Was she really asking him for help? Or was there something more?

  “And I don’t work well with others,” he said. “Didn’t Von Hart tell you that? Kidnapped girlfriend? Exploding refinery? No? I’m kind of bad for business.”

  “Let me put this another way,” she replied. “Von Hart has gone missing with his fragment of the harp. The Lore states that as guardians, we must inform the Guild of any clear and present threat. I don’t know where to find them. You do. If you refuse to help me, that places all of them in danger. And consequently, all of us.”

  “Christ, you mean from Von Hart, don’t you?”

  “I merely present the facts as I see them.”

  “Yeah? Well, I can’t see them,” he said. Or rather, he didn’t want to.