Flametouched

by Brian K. Fuller

  Leaning around the tree, he spotted the Creetisian line marching forward through the undergrowth and tumbles of granite stone. They weren’t firing, and Davon guessed they wanted to spare their ammunition until they could actually find a target to hit.

  “Fire at will,” Davon ordered, though he realized that his eyes probably saw more than those of his companions.

  Davon pulled the trigger, a bullet taking the first Creetisian in the heart. He popped open the breech loader, but found it already had a bullet in it. Odd. He snapped it closed and fired again, shot ripping into the belly of a soldier hung up on a sapling. He fell.

  Again the breech loader had a bullet. And then he understood, a grin sliding up his lips. No more loading. Just one shot after another. A shot to the head. A shot to the heart. Another to the chest. One by one he felled them in rapid succession until eight had gone down. The shots of the soldiers beside him were little better than blindfolded guesses, but one shot found its target, nearly taking the arm of a Creetisian off at the elbow.

  “Get down!” some wise Creetisian ordered, the mass of soldiers diving for cover. Davon blasted a leg left exposed off to the side of a boulder some soldier had hidden behind. With any luck, the rapid volley of bullets would make the cursed Creetisians think there were more men in the camp than they had anticipated.

  Davon retreated behind the tree, head swirling as if he had drunk too much wine. It took effort to breathe now, like his body had forgotten how to do it and needed reminding every time. Was that the taste of blood on his lips? There was no time to worry. He cast about, watching the remaining Bittermarchian soldiers reloading their rifles. Another assault would come, Davon knew. If anyone in the Creetisian force had a tactical mind, they would lay down covering fire while another group flanked them.

  But as he regarded the Bittermarchian soldiers again, an idea sprang to mind. He pulled out his wooden carving knife, signaled to the soldier closest to him to hand him his rifle, and got to work.

  Arianne’s hand shot to her mouth and she took an involuntary step backwards. She had never seen a bear in the wild, but this was surely bigger than any bear should be. It exuded weight and malice—and age. Something clung to its fur, something lumpy, like a sort of mange, but in the dark it was impossible to tell what it was. Oddest of all, when it walked, it made no sound, as if the plants and sticks it trod on had suddenly gone mute.

  The Primal Shadow, barely visible, marched ahead of the monstrosity, the bear following as if pulled by an invisible rope. In a heartbeat, Ki was there, pushing her back, her gaze on her spear still wedged in the log across the stream. Mr. Goodwin pulled Elaine well away from the path of the two creatures, but Arianne noted that neither creature had eyes for her or her party.

  They wanted Melchor Raines. And he knew it. The man tried to stand but his knees failed him, and he knelt half covered by the ferns and saplings around him.

  “Please, Arianne,” he begged, his face slick with sweat. “You can drive them off. I have information that can aid you!”

  “Don’t do it,” Ki warned. “Let them have the filthy murderer.”

  Arianne was torn. While sure the duplicitous Mr. Raines could write a book full of Bittermarchian treachery she could use to expose those who had betrayed Queen Filippa, it wasn’t this that led her to consider trying to save him. Melchor was an evil man, to be sure, but what approached him was even worse. As degenerate as he was, Melchor had still begged her to burn the Primal Shadow from him to keep it from controlling him. He deserved no mercy, but if the Primal Shadow could somehow use him again with what he knew, then Bittermarch would indeed be in trouble.

  Arianne stepped forward, only to have Ki yank on her arm with an iron grip.

  “No, Arianne,” she hissed. “He killed my sister! Let him die.”

  Arianne pulled her arm way. “The Shadow isn’t going to kill him, Ki. We can’t let it use him again!”

  “Then I will kill him!” Ki said, slipping her bone daggers from the sheaths at her belt and charging forward into the night.

  “Ki! No!” Arianne yelled, bolting after her. Arianne wasn’t sure what the tribal customs of the Aua’Catan were, but she could only imagine that killing one’s spear sister invited the harshest punishment imaginable.

  Everything came in a blur. Ki was three steps ahead of her, nearly on the injured Creetisian. The Primal Shadow accelerated forward, the bear loping after it. They were all going to crash into Melchor Raines at the same time if she didn’t do something. So she did the only thing she knew how: she flared the fire in her palms.

  At the blooming of the amber light, the bear stopped dead in its tracks and flinched as if already burned. The Primal Shadow stopped for a brief moment, but then flew forward. Arianne knew it couldn’t abide the fire. Could she trap it? Burn it?

  Ki fell on Melchor Raines, knives ready to strike, but Arianne kept her attention on the Shadow. With a lunge she dove forward onto her side, interposing herself between the Creetisian and the Primal Shadow, raising her ignited palms. The Shadow halted and tried to back away. Before it could, she grasped for its dark, willowy body with both of her hands. The fire in her palms burst forth and arced around the Shadow’s form, repelled as if a wind were pushing it outward. The fire encircled the Shadow entirely, jailing it along with the slender trunk of some sapling barely a year risen from the forest floor. Its trunk passed through the middle of the awful apparition as if the Shadow had ingested it.

  Behind her, a struggle she could not see had ensued, but she didn’t dare turn to see what had happened for fear that the Shadow would slip away. She scooted to her knees, careful to position her hands to keep the Shadow ensnared. But how long could she keep it up? The bear still shied away as if the light were some kind of whip ready to lash it at any moment. The struggle behind her was over scarcely a moment after it began.

  “Ki!” she yelled. “Are you all right?”

  “You must destroy it, Lady Hightower,” Melchor said. “Burn it.”

  So Ki had lost. A pit opened in her stomach, waiting for her heart to drop into it. Had Melchor killed her? But she had to focus, had to end the struggle. Gritting her teeth, she poured every ounce of will and desire into her palms, hoping her emotion would fuel the flames. With the power of a rising sun, the light from her palms bloomed around her, blasting outward to blush the leaves and trunks of everything around her like a false dawn.

  The bear fled. But it was no use. The fire could not penetrate the Primal Shadow’s form, still circling around it, driven away by the very nature that made light and dark opposites. Inside her body, she could feel a weakness growing, her mind and her body tiring, both complaining as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

  But something else was happening. While at first she thought it just a distortion of her fire, the trees and ferns near her were growing. Wherever the light of her fire touched, the plants grew, and the closer they were to the brilliance, the faster they shot upward. To her amazement, the sapling inside the circle of her palms swelled and engulfed the Shadow in the space of only a few moments.

  The fire from her hands started to burn the bark, so she pulled her hands slowly away from one another, keeping her fire ignited and bright. Inch by inch the trunk swelled, its bark seemingly made of both wood and light, inching up toward the darkened sky. Her heart hammered in her chest as the branches overspread her like an umbrella, her knees and hands shaking like the new leaves that had sprouted above her.

  Then it was too much. The fire went out and she slumped to the forest floor, utterly spent. Melchor Raines laughed with the joy of one delivered. But where was Ki? Where were Mr. Goodwin and Elaine? Slowly the forest returned into focus. The gunfire back down the hill had risen to a fever pitch. Davon was back there somewhere, but she couldn’t remember having heard his roar for a while now. She struggled to an elbow, and then Mr. Goodwin was there, lifting her by the armpit.

  “Lady Hightower,” Mr. Goodwin said. “We should go. That bear is still out
there.”

  “Where’s Ki?” she asked, legs balky, her left thigh reminding her that it had been shot.

  Melchor snorted. “Your savage friend is only a little incapacitated. You’ll find the Aua’Catan are miserable at close quarters fighting. But I agree with your man. We should leave.”

  Arianne spun on Melchor and would have fallen if not for Mr. Goodwin’s steadying hand. Elaine stood nearby, face ashen. The newly grown tree cast a warm glow about it, veins the color of fire snaking their way through what she now recognized as a young Elder Oak.

  Melchor was hard to find in the newly grown foliage, but he was still on his knees, still pale and sweating, and Arianne could only spy Ki’s leg jutting out from behind a fern where she was lying face down. If he had killed her, she would have Mr. Goodwin end him right there.

  She took a step forward to check on her friend and then stopped. At first she wondered if the Primal Shadow had escaped the confines of the tree, for the poisonous feeling of dread that accompanied it slid into her heart like a serpent.

  But it was the bear. Like a ghost it came through the undergrowth, shying its face away from the light of the tree, but powering forward towards Melchor Raines with a steady gait.

  Arianne grabbed Elaine and dragged her back to the tree, Mr. Goodwin following. It took a moment longer for Mr. Raines to realize his danger, and when he did, his eyes shot wide and he finally found the strength to come to his feet. But it was too late. All the Creetisian got was one staggering step forward toward the tree, a pleading hand outstretched, before the bear clamped onto his leg with its massive jaws. With a quick pull the bear sent Melchor face first to the ground.

  In the warm light of the tree, Arianne could see now that the clumps on the bear’s fur were moss, as if the animal had lain dormant in the woods for many years. It wasted no time getting away from the light.

  “No!” Melchor screamed as the bear pulled him into the undergrowth. “Help me, Arianne! Help me! Please.”

  Arianne closed her eyes until his terrified cries faded away, swallowed by the dark trees and distance. Even if she had possessed the fire to rescue the man, she no longer had the desire to do it. Her legs gave out, and Mr. Goodwin helped her sit with her back to the trunk. Elaine sank down next to her and Arianne pulled her into her arms, smoothing her blonde hair back into something orderly.

  “Check on Ki, Mr. Goodwin,” Arianne ordered.

  He turned to go when the sound of someone approaching set them on edge. The shooting hadn’t stopped, but it had slowed considerably. Had the Creetisians won? Or was it Davon come to spirit them away?

  But the face on which the tree’s light fell was not Davon or a Creetisian soldier, but a very worried looking Captain Gage. Arianne swallowed hard.

  Davon wondered what the Creetisians had hung over the heads of their soldiers to lend them the strength to persist even after he and his fellow Bittermarchians had practically blasted them into oblivion. The flame-marked weapons had performed admirably, letting loose a withering hail of uncannily accurate bullets. But still, a couple of Creetisian holdouts plinked at them in the night from some hiding place that had shielded them from the bullets that had felled the rest of their companions.

  But the time had come to give the dreaded order, to send his men out to search for them and finish them off, a job his feline vision was the best suited for but that the river of blood leaking down his ribs disqualified him to execute. So he gave the order, the three remaining soldiers fanning out into the darkness, weapons at the ready.

  He slumped behind the tree that had taken the brunt of the Creetisians’ bullets and pulled his soaked shirt away from his body. There it was, the nasty hole oozing blood with every heartbeat, robbing him of his strength. He felt woozy and cold, neither a good sign. But what could he do? He knew well enough that even the Flametouched Doctor Otis would be hard pressed to save his life now.

  Gunfire erupted on the other side of the tree, a quick fusillade he knew could only be achieved by the flame-marked guns. It was followed by the report of a single rifle and a piteous groan. One of the Bittermarchian soldiers had fallen, he guessed.

  Silence settled over the forest. The battle had terrified every creature within rifle shot, leaving only the wind and the tentative footfalls to fill the space. Trying to locate a hidden sniper in the dark was an ugly, nervous business. He had to help somehow. He also had to stop the bleeding.

  He reached into his bag and pulled out the dagger the Eternal Flame had guided him to carve. His hands trembled, but he managed to cut a length of his shirt and use it to pack the wound. If something inside him bled, however, the bandage wouldn’t matter.

  He barely caught the movement to his left. A Creetisian soldier, easily visible because of his white uniform, flashed across a space between two trees. A second later, the soldier leaned around a trunk and fired.

  The report was deafening and Davon hardly had the strength to duck. The shot went low and lodged in a root. Now his attacker had to reload and moved behind a tree. With a hand that seemed only half under his control, Davon fumbled for his rifle, but his blood-slicked palms couldn’t grasp it. The weapon almost seemed to be avoiding his grip.

  The Creetisian stepped out and fired again. This shot went wide and thudded into the trunk. Davon wished he could muster a laugh. Didn’t they teach any kind of marksmanship in the Creetisian army? With so few weapons and bullets between them, perhaps not everyone got to take a turn practicing. How long would it be before his assailant realized his prey couldn’t fire back?

  More footsteps were approaching. Was this it? Was this his end, to die by a Creetisian’s hand, alone and unarmed in the dark? If Arianne had made it free, then it would be worth it, he supposed, though he would have liked another kiss all the same. She was so warm. It had been so good to touch someone, to talk to someone, with absolute confidence that the recipient actually wanted to be touched and talked to. It was the reverse of the living death he had suffered through with Emile.

  His eyes drooped for a minute and then popped open. The Creetisian stepped out of his hiding place and took a couple of tentative steps forward. He had figured out that his quarry was too wounded to fight back, then. The soldier raised his rifle, smirk on his face, before Captain Gage blew his brains out from behind. A good shot, the Captain.

  “Lord Carver,” the Captain said. “You need attention.”

  Arianne, Emile, and Mr. Goodwin stepped out of the trees and Davon’s eyes bulged.

  “She cannot be here!” he gurgled, tasting blood on his lips. “The day is not won.” And where was Ki?

  Arianne knelt beside him. “Oh, Davon,” she said, lifting his makeshift bandage. Her face was pale, and now she was crying.

  “It’s hopeless, dearest Arianne,” he sputtered.

  Gunfire startled them all, Captain Gage bringing up his gun and casting about in the darkness.

  “I could seal the wound,” she cried, “but my fire is…”

  Her eyes shot wide for a moment, gaze fixed on his wound.

  “Don’t you see it?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Where is your knife?” she asked. “Your carving knife?”

  “By my bag, but…” He looked down. Something was glowing on his skin, the same symbol that had appeared on his rifle.

  She grabbed the newly carved knife, pulled the bandage off of the wound, and to his utter shock, began carving around the bullet hole—carving the shape of flame. The pain cleared the fog in his brain, and a few moments later, the mangled bullet and a gout of blood poured out of the wound, torn flesh knitting together in its wake.

  His vision swam, wooziness returning full force. Arianne was clasping his hand. She was saying something. Was it “you’re all right, now?” Was it “I love you?” No matter. She was there with him in the dark, so both had to be true. Thank the Flame.

  Chapter 55

  Davon fidgeted with the orange stole draped over his shoulders while he waited for
Arianne to leave her quarters and accompany him to the Main Hall for her first official day holding court. Three weeks had passed since they had driven the Creetisians out of Bellshire with the help of some longhorned bison.

  The Bittermarchian army they had sent south had returned two days earlier than expected, and even after their long, hurried march, they were more than happy to ensure that the Creetisians didn’t dally on their retreat from Bittermarch. Davon added his own form of terrifying harassment until they were at least two days from the city, and he had done that against the wishes of one Arianne Hightower. She had charged him quite strictly not to get shot anymore and wasn’t keen on letting him out of her sight.

  The power of the knife that had healed him he was only beginning to discover. The glowing marks on the guns had disappeared as soon as the fight was over, and the scar on his healed flesh had dissipated almost as quickly. After some experimentation, he had discovered that any of the Flametouched could carve a brand of flame with the knife, but only he had the gift of creating living carvings. Except now, the Eternal Flame no longer prompted him. He could choose what he wished to carve, and the stories of his lively carvings were spreading. He’d already had letters with requests for his work.

  And, unfortunately, he was famous now, and that was proving as strange an affliction as anything he had ever faced. Everywhere he went the people mobbed him, asking to see him change into a sabercat or to beg from him one of his carvings. He almost longed for the days of his anonymity, and the distant lands of Frostbourne seemed very attractive.

  To escape his own notoriety, he had taken to hiding in the Flame Cathedral on most days, or lounging with Arianne in the drawing room of the palace. But it couldn’t last. He would be King. Arianne had trapped him into it with Filippa’s guiding hand, though it was a delicious trap. That Arianne loved him, he was sure, as sure as he was of his love for her. He would trade freedom to be her prisoner. Today they would announce their wedding, though he knew that he was still looked down on by many for faking his death to escape Emile, and no doubt they would find some way to make him suffer for it.