Who Walks in Flame

by David Alastair Hayden

“You will remain here, Kerenthos, Champion of the Isle. I command it. In name and with love.”

  Please go along with it. I don’t have the heart or the authority to make you. I can’t bear to have you come along and face a certain death, but I’m afraid to go without you.

  Scowling, he replies: “If that is what you wish.”

  ***

  Later that night, under the Dark Moon, Kerenthos alone journeys to the heart of the Sacred Isle and approaches the charred Oak of Antenin. Neither spell nor divine wrath strikes him down. He is here, reluctantly, because of a prophecy given to him by the Goddess:

  “When you see that the Sacred Oak of Antenin, struck ill by my wrath, is barren no longer,” the Sun said to him in a vision, “that it carries a human seed, a choice you must make.

  “The One Who Rides Through Flame will grant you eternal life and kingship if you stay behind and guard the Sacred Isle. Humanity shall continue, albeit diminished and enslaved for a thousand years. But if you choose to go out and fight against this enemy, humanity will either live on or die free, and even the gods do not know the outcome. Choose carefully, for you are choosing for everyone.

  “If you choose to go, you must fertilize the seed placed in the Oak of Antenin. It will be the last hope of humanity should the enemy prevail. If you choose to stay, offer the seed to the One Who Rides Through Flame.”

  I’d rather live free or perish, he thinks. But what of other men? What choice would they make? He has wrestled with this decision for three months, ever since word first came to them of the Scorch Walker. May the gods forgive me, I must decide for my own selfish reason: To protect Bregissa. I would follow her into Torment if necessary, even if I had to take everyone else along with me.

  His decision made, Kerenthos does what he must.

  ***

  Bregissa delves deep into the caves beneath The Tower of the Skald. She ventures down here only when the need arises. Her need now is the greatest it will ever be. She must visit the spirit of Orthinn, her father. Her adopted father. A man with a tongue so silver that death refused to take him for 150 years. A man adored by everyone but Bregissa.

  There is no one she hates more. Because unlike everyone else, she knows him for who he is. A man who would sacrifice his own wife and child for power and then steal another’s child and proclaim it his own.

  From Orthinn, Bregissa learned the arts of the Skald, though she has only a fraction of his power. He knew she wouldn't have much talent. That's why he didn’t fear teaching her. Once grown, she was going to be his pawn to use against men, for he knew she would be beautiful like her mother.

  Bregissa killed him on her 18th birthday, after one final day of his brutal instruction in the Art. She had spent years researching a spell that would give her revenge, and her dream: To be a true Skald of the Land. Not for her own gain, as Orthinn had done, but to help people make their lives better.

  She opens a locked door and boldly steps into the last cave, a small dome-shaped chamber. Runes cover the floor, radiating out from a pedestal in the chamber's center. Over that pedestal hovers the ghostly spirit of Orthinn. Faded and missing his feet already from previous drawings of power. Dark spots on his chest yet show where she stabbed him repeatedly. Even as a ghost they hurt him. This was her intention.

  His sunken eyes flash. “Come to take more of my spirit?”

  “All of it.”

  He says nothing. She stares back. Finally, he responds, “It won't last. The power will wane in a year or two. They will know you're a fraud, no more talented than dozens of other skalds roaming the land. They will figure out who you are and what really became of me.”

  “I have no choice. The Witch-King Khuar-na has returned. The West has already fallen.”

  “Truth?”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “Not even when you said that you would kill me. I just didn’t believe you had it in you.”

  “You made me what I am.”

  "Can the East stop Khuar-na?”

  “We are united, but I have my doubts if it will be enough.”

  “I am impressed. Honestly. You took little of my spirit last time. Your skill has improved.”

  “I have more confidence. And the Goddess gifted me some power along with a prophecy.”

  “That's not a good sign, you know that?”

  “I know.”

  Bregissa draws forth a metal amulet, savoring the moment as fear flickers along his ghostly face. "True death comes for you at last. Father."

  She plunges hand and amulet into his spirit. Orthinn screams.

  ***

  Kerenthos never intended to honor the bargain with Bregissa. But he knew it would be easiest on her if he simply showed up with the army, days out on their march, at a time when it was too late to go back. That way, she wouldn't have to worry about it.

  The time has come to tell her, he thinks, I have no choice.

  Bregissa is standing beneath the shade of a scraggly oak, humming a tune beat into her by Orthinn, long ago. Hiding behind a nearby wagon of supplies, Kerenthos watches as a scout runs up to Bregissa and reports: "The Witch-King is only a day away, my lady."

  "What does Lord Tantren think of the land here?" The Kings had elected Lord Tantren as the army's tactical and strategic commander.

  "I don't know, my lady."

  Kerenthos steps out from hiding. "Tantren thinks this is as good a place as any on the plains to face the Witch-King. I was just speaking with him not half an hour ago."

  Bregissa spins. Her eyes flare. Her lips draw in. Anger flickers across her face, then vanishes. She turns to the scout and says calmly, "We shall make our stand here. Let it be known to Lord Tantren and the Kings of the East."

  The scout hurries away and Kerenthos limps toward her. She turns away and gazes across the plains again.

  "I'm sorry, Bregissa. I had to come. I had to protect you." You are all I live for. I couldn't stand to face another day without you. I could have lived as a king, forever. I chose you instead.

  She doesn't answer him.

  "You are angry with me?"

  "Should I be?" she replies, languidly.

  "I lied to you."

  "Was it a lie if I didn't believe you?"

  "You knew I was with the army?"

  He spots a brief flicker on her face, a smile almost. "I did not. I thought you had kept your word. I am … surprised."

  You're hurt but you will never admit it.

  "I hope you will forgive me."

  "There is nothing to forgive. You have been true to who you are, and I love you."

  "But you won't face me? You won't greet me with a hug or a kiss? You must miss me as I miss you."

  "I am angry for now. Maybe I will look at you tonight, over our last meal before the battle. I think it's gruel again."

  He chuckles. "We're on campaign. It's always gruel."

  "War really is distasteful then."

  "Your humor is poor."

  She shrugs.

  "Since there's so little time left for humor, perhaps you should leave what's left to me."

  That does make her smile, for a moment, and he knows that in an hour or two, she will no longer be mad at him. That is good, because he fears he will be too exhausted to stay awake through dinner.

  ***

  The Scorch-Walker rocks beneath him. In the distance, parched grasslands burn. Desert spreads behind him as the energy flowing from his iron amulet dries streams and withers all verdant things. He does, however, leave an occasional oasis. After all, he is merciful, Khuar-na the Witch-King.

  He strokes a hard, crimson scale and speaks to the Scorch-Walker. “Flame and smoke as far as the eye can see, my friend. I never wielded so much power before. I can now create deserts within days.”

  Alien thoughts seep into his mind: amulet, planet core, magnetic forces, heat.

  “Yes, I agree.” He lifts the amulet and rubs a thumb across its surface, feeling an unseen micro-fracture that had almost des
troyed the device. “It could not have held much more energy, though.”

  His thoughts turn to his slain people, now dust and faint memory. So what if they had the eyes of reptiles and their blood ran cold? They were still as like the people on this planet as not. They had not deserved the genocide the humans unleashed upon them.

  His eyes narrow as he looks out upon the Army of the East gathered before him in their thousands with pikes and swords, horses and armor, cannons and muskets.

  Though the cannons could kill him and injure the Scorch-Walker, Khuar-na does not fear gunpowder. A smile tugs at his lips. “A deadly surprise awaits them, old friend. They will learn why the West fell so easily.” The Scorch-Walker’s laugh echoes in Khuar-na’s mind.

  Khuar-na speaks to his people, his voice booming through the use of a simple enchantment.

  “Today, we will have our revenge! Today, a new order shall begin on this world. My people, we will rise again!”

  The cheers of ten thousand desperate souls resonate across the battleground. The captains he appointed divide his motley, ill-equipped horde into two groups of equal size.

  “On my signal,” Khuar-na shouts. "Give no quarter!”

  After that, Khuar-na’s army picks up its pace, moving forward at almost a jog. The Scorch-Walker matches them, though it is little more than a casual walk for a beast of its size. Opposite to them, the artillerists load their weapons. Squads of archers and gunners take their positions. Pikemen and swordsmen stand their ground before them. Cavaliers with pistols, lances, and sabers move to the sides, preparing for a flanking maneuver.

  Do they think me ignorant of tactics and technology? Clearly, they don't remember the weapons their ancestors faced, and overcame despite the odds. They must think weapons such as theirs are new inventions.

  The first cannons boom. Their fire concentrates on the Scorch-Walker.

  “Charge!” Khuar-na orders his troops as the Scorch-Walker launches into a sprint, dodging and weaving. Cannon shots scream by, missing a target the artillerists never imagined could move so swiftly.

  They struggle to reposition and lead their shots ahead of the Scorch-Walker, knowing they will get one, perhaps two more volleys before the behemoth plows into their front lines.

  The second round goes off in staccato fashion with artillerists firing as soon as they think they have shots. One cannonball whizzes by Khuar-na, missing by only a few paces, yet he remains unfazed. A second strikes the Scorch-Walker in the chest. The great beast grunts as a scale cracks. The flattened, thirty-pound ball falls to the ground.

  With eyes sharper than those of any human, Khuar-na spots the leadership element left of center. A thought, and the Scorch-Walker veers toward them.

  A battery of light, maneuverable cannons trains its fire on Khuar-na. The Eastern captain raises his hand, trying to guess when the behemoth will next weave. Musketeers aim their guns. Khuar-na grabs his amulet, engraved with the sign of an alien sun ten billion years away, and directs the surging energy within it.

  Carnage follows.

  ***

  The Scorch-Walker’s approach begins as peels of thunder and plumes of dust and smoke. The earth shakes, and in the distance, it seems that the entire West burns. Refugees and scouts told of lands already turned to desert wastes by the might of the Witch-King.

  When the Scorch-Walker rises on the horizon, like a moving fortress, the soldiers lose their nerve. They fidget and back away.

  “Steady!” yells Bregissa. “It’s nothing more than we expected!”

  Men return to their positions, but still they rock from foot to foot, as if weighing the balance of their lives. But there are no other options. Bregissa warns them a victory will be won only with great hardship. Battle now, battle later, it must come to this one way or another.

  As two men fall to their knees and beseech the elder gods of storm and sky, she mutters, “I didn’t prepare them well enough.”

  “You did what you could,” replies Kerenthos. He looks haggard. He's gotten too old for campaigning, and his leg hurts, as if the missing lower half is still there, rotting away from the wound that ultimately took it.

  “Can you walk with me?” she asks.

  “As far as you need me to,” he says, though at the moment he isn’t sure he could march another league without collapsing.

  With Kerenthos in tow, Bregissa stalks through the ranks and stands in full view of the army. She blows three sharp notes on the Horn of Valyn and thousands of eyes leave the approaching horror and turn toward her.

  As a skald, Bregissa can work three key magics with the power of her voice. She can compel an individual of weak will to obey her. She can sway a crowd toward her opinion by manipulating their emotions ever so slightly. And she can boost her voice to a volume five times louder than normal.

  “Men of the East!” she shouts. “Today we become legends! The Witch-King’s beast may kill us, but we will not die as cowards! Khuar-na will not take our honor!”

  She feels hearts and minds strengthen, but not enough.

  Bregissa draws the white-steel saber given to her by King Hugix, whose advancing years forced him to stay behind. The metal is the color of bleached paper with only the slightest sheen to it.

  Bregissa faces the Scorch-Walker and waves the saber. “Come and die, bastard king of serpents! I will wait for you here at the front! I do not fear you! My army does not fear you! Even our babes at home do not fear you!”

  The Witch-King can't hear her. But her gesture lends courage to the soldiers. And as the minutes pass and she declines to move, the soldiers realize she isn’t merely boasting. She truly plans to remain.

  Several kings and lords come to her. “Return to the command post,” they urge. “We will need your leadership and guidance.”

  “No,” she tells them. “I am busy being a figurehead. The plans are made. They are yours to execute. Leave me to my duty.” And in a whisper only Kerenthos hears: “And my doom.”

  As the enemy forces increase their pace, Bregissa embraces Kerenthos and kisses him deeply, for what she thinks must surely be the last time. “You don’t have to stay up here with me.”

  “I have already come here against your orders. Why would I leave now? And why do you torture me so? As if my love is in question, as if I wouldn’t willingly die with you for even the slightest cause you chose?”

  “Forgive me, my love. I just had to try.” She hugs him close. “You know you are the strength of my soul and the true heart of my voice. Though the Isle yet needs guarding, I’m glad you're here after all. I don’t think I could face this without you.” She pulls away and passes the saber to him. “The white-steel would fare better in your hands. I entrust it to you.”

  “But I’m nearly a cripple!”

  “Nonsense. I’ve seen you practice your swordplay. You can still take five men by yourself. And you’re not burdened with my duties of leadership.” He starts to argue but she cuts him off. “I feel it is right for you to wield it. We will not discuss it further.”

  Orders spread down the lines. Fear runs rampant as the beast grows larger in their sight, but for the moment, their resolve is set.

  The first cannon shots boom. The beast suddenly launches into a full sprint, and the shots miss.

  “By the gods, how can it move so fast?” says Kerenthos.

  More shots and more misses follow as the Witch-King continues to evade. But at last one hits the behemoth front and center. A cheer rings out amongst the troops, and then dies as the shot falls harmlessly from the beast’s scales.

  With the strange, half-reptilian humans charging along the flanks, it's obvious that the behemoth aims for the center where Bregissa and Kerenthos are waiting.

  “Unless the cannons find a weak spot, we will die sooner rather than later,” Kerenthos says.

  “Hush, love. Embrace hope.”

  It's almost upon them when the musket units spread throughout the army target the Witch-King, and the archers nock their arrows, prepar
ing to fend off the enemy fighters.

  The beast ceases to weave and heads straight, but off center, to the right of Bregissa and Kerenthos.

  “He’s going for the high command!” Bregissa shouts. “We may have a chance at him when he passes us!”

  Kerenthos points. “Look, the Penthian battery has trained on him!”

  Bregissa hears the captain giving orders to the crack artillery battalion as they aim two dozen cannons filled with grapeshot. Hope swells within her that at least the rider will be taken out. They can't miss him.

  “Ready, aim—”

  The amulet of the Witch-King flares to life, stealing her breath. A split second later, her hopes shatter as a tremendous explosion rocks the world around her.

  ***

  Scorched and bruised, her ears aching and ringing, Bregissa peels herself off the ground. Smoke swirls around her. She coughs and struggles to catch her breath. Faintly, at first, she hears screams of terror and wails of pain.

  Through the haze, Bregissa sees what remains of the Eastern army struggling in disarray. Not a musketeer or artillerist yet stands. The cannons lay shattered, twisted, and melted. Every man with wealth enough to carry a pistol is wounded, if not dead. So much destruction. How could we have known? Many survivors flee in panic, pursued by the Witch-King’s minions. Bregissa spots one coastal baron pinned beneath his fallen horse, clutching at his side where his pistol exploded and punched a hole in his armor.

  Kerenthos appears, covered in smut, scraped and battered, but alive. “We can’t win.”

  She shakes her head. “We’ve still got a chance.”

  “But all we’ve got left is archers and infantry!” He draws the white-steel sword and sighs. “There’s no hope here.”

  “Look!” replies Bregissa, pointing. “We still have hope.”

  Bregissa and Kerenthos sprint toward the high command as Lord Tantren, in his gleaming plate mail, lifts his spear tipped with white-steel, rallies the knights around him, and charges. Above them towers the Scorch-Walker, shrouded in the drifting smoke clouds.