Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  Aeolia furrowed her brow. What if she spoke rationally to the ogre? What if she made a deal? She tossed the idea back and forth as she kneaded. She had been sold for money; perhaps she could be bought back. Would the ogre be willing? Surely he would, Aeolia told herself. Besides she had nothing more to lose by asking.

  “Master...,” she began.

  One beady eye cracked open. “Yes, girl? Speak up.”

  Aeolia licked her dry lips, suddenly hesitant. I’ll simply say what I have to say, she told herself. The rest is up to him. She took a long, deep breath.

  “Have you seen my brother?”

  The ogre pulled away his feet and placed them on the floor. He laid down his pipe, put his hands on his knees, and spoke slowly. “My daughter told you, didn’t she?”

  Aeolia nodded hesitantly.

  “And have I not told you she is mad?”

  Aeolia stared at her toes. “Master, my brother will pay everything he has for me.”

  The sofa creaked as the ogre leaned forward. “Have I not told you she is mad?”

  Aeolia’s voice was barely a whisper. “I know my brother is here.”

  “Some things are best left unknown, yes indeed. Some things are best pounded out of memory.”

  Aeolia knew that if she failed, her every word meant another cane’s blow, but still she spoke again. “Master, my brother will pay to buy me back. He will pay you twice what you had paid.”

  The ogre regarded her for several moments. Finally he leaned back, scratched his chin, and said, “Six golddrops?”

  Aeolia nodded. Surely Joren had been saving for that very purpose.

  “But you are not worth six golddrops,” the ogre said.

  “I am to my brother.”

  The ogre pursed his lips. “I would be able to buy two servants,” he mumbled into his beard.

  Aeolia felt excitement wiggle in her belly. “Then will you do it?” she asked. “Will you tell him where I am?”

  The ogre slowly nodded.

  Aeolia gasped. “You will? You truly will?”

  The ogre bent forward, causing the firelight to paint his face a sinister red. He narrowed his eyes, slammed the butt of his cane against the floor, and when he spoke his voice was hard as iron.

  “I will tell the Stoneson where you are,” he said. “I will tell him I had sold you to my cousin, who took you a hundred leagues south, beat you to death, and buried you at sea.”

  The ogre cackled, leaned back in his chair, and banged his feet back onto the table.

  “Now rub!”

  Aeolia looked away from the feet, her eyes blurry. She had lost her chance to escape. She had lost her chance for rescue. She could not have raised her arms had she wanted to, so crestfallen she was. From swaddling clothes to shroud, would her life be only sorrow?

  “Rub!”

  Aeolia looked down into her lap, at the tattoo on her hand, at the overworked and dirty fingers. She could no longer think, she felt so numb, and as she stared her hands became small and soft, a child’s hands, clutching a rag doll. She heard her brother’s laugh. She tasted warm milk on her lips. She barely saw the giant hand swing through the air.

  Pain exploded on her temple. She slid across the table and crashed onto the floor by the hearth, in the heat of the burning logs and bubbling broth. From the corner of her eye she saw the ogre pointing his cane at her, shouting words she could not hear. She saw him as she first had, a vacuous beast, a monster with no thoughts or pity, a terror from her deepest nightmares.

  She stood up, eyes unfocused, and gazed into the pot. Bones and blood are not food, she thought. I’m tired of bones and blood. She heard the ogre rise from his chair behind her, she heard him tapping toward her. There was only one thing left to do. Her trembling fingers danced over the pot’s handles, hesitating. She had to think of Joren’s smile to make them close.

  “I’m coming to you, Joren,” she whispered.

  The cane tapped, the floor creaked, the fire crackled and the broth bubbled—a deafening air that clouded all her thoughts. She took a shaky breath, tightened her lips, spun around and tossed the pot at the ogre.

  The pot clanged against him. Goulash spilled with a hiss. Aeolia grabbed a stick from the fire and held it before her as the ogre howled and sizzled. She could not outrun him in her shackles, she knew. She had to face him. She lashed her torch forward, but the ogre grabbed her arm and wrenched it free. He yanked her into the air, and Aeolia screamed and slashed her nails across his face. With a roar he tucked her under his arm, pinning her arms to her sides. She screamed and struggled wildly, but could not free herself.

  Through wincing lids she saw him push his sofa aside, and horror surged inside her till it spilled from her eyes. He pulled a round of keys from his pocket, containing the key to the barn, the key to her fetters, and the green, old key she had never seen him use until now. He leaned down and began unlocking the trapdoor, and Aeolia found herself shaking her head, crying her brother’s name.

  The ogre swung the trapdoor open. The stench of rot was unbearable. It overwhelmed Aeolia, making her sick. She wanted to throw up. She trembled violently. In the second before the ogre tossed her in, sealing her in darkness, she saw it all, saw the secret in the basement, saw why she could never hope to escape.

  Down in the darkness, shrouded in cobwebs, skeletons littered the floor, all in fetters like her own.

  The ogre’s arm opened. The ground rushed up to meet her. Pain exploded and dust rose in a cloud, filling her eyes and mouth. The trapdoor boomed shut above her, rats screeched, bones rattled, and darkness, complete darkness such as she had never known or imagined, fell over Aeolia. She covered her head with her arms, crushed by its weight, and wept onto the floor until she had wept all thought away.

  Chapter Two

  Heland

  Dusk.

  All things settled to sleep. The sun slumbered behind the mountains, snug under a blanket of clouds. The trees and hills reposed, tucked into a bed of shadows. Birds and beasts nestled in hidden places. Crickets chirped lullabies amid stalks of ripe wheat. Sickles dropped, oxen stopped, peasants lumbered home. Farmwives tucked babes into quilt and crib, stroked downy heads, whispered hushaby and summoned enchanted kingdoms. As stormy clouds gathered, doors were barred and shutters tightened. Fireplaces blazed. Under wool and down, husbands and wives cuddled, warming each other until cold night would pass. All things slept.

  All things but Roen Painter, that is. He was crawling outside, leagues from any bed or hearth, digging through leafmold and dirt.

  He’d been crawling for hours, as the clouds thickened and the storm brewed. Finally, his stockings torn and his embroidered sleeves muddy, he stopped under an apple tree. Shaky wisps plumed from his mouth. With numb fingers, he rummaged through fallen leaves. There. There it was, cradled between the tree’s roots. The small, silky plant he sought. Laceleaf. Roen let his head fall into the mud, laughing and shedding tears. There was hope now. The laceleaf shivered, fragile as life, and Roen dug into the dirt, loosening its bulb. The plant came willingly into his hands.

  “Rest easy, Father,” he whispered. “Soon I’ll be home.”

  He straightened, pocketed the plant, tightened his blue cloak, and looked around him. He had crawled far. Not a farm could be seen. Hills rolled endlessly, spotted with fallen, rotting apples and mossy boulders forlorn as old tombstones. Trees stood swaying, branches bobbing like disapproving fingers, tossing dry leaves that swirled and danced. The wind was cold; the storm was close now. Roen glanced at the sky. The clouds churned like paint in oil, eddies of purple and pewter and dark angry crimson, weltering over patches of starry black. But still not a grumble. The night was silent as secrets.

  But if all secrets erupt in a tempest, so did this night. Roen had scarce hitched his belt when, with a thunderclap, the storm broke.

  Roen pursed his lips. The clouds had been gathering rain for hours, and it was all falling now. The drops burst against his plumed hat, soaking through the
felt to dampen his yellow curls. He winced. His velvet tunic and pointed shoes were thin, and it was a long walk home. With a sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started moving. The storm seemed intent on stopping him. The mud sucked his feet, the wind pushed him, and the darkness blindfolded him. Even the fireflies did not come to glow. Roen had never seen them not rise. Surely, he thought, this is an evil omen.

  He shivered. This night was unholy. The storm danced like ghosts, clamoring and howling. Roen’s clothes clung to him, and his teeth chattered. He had been cold all day, but this was worse. He was wet now, and struggling, and he could feel the beginning of fever on his brow. He knew he needed rest. Caves dotted the hills, beckoning. They would be nice and dry.... But Roen tightened his lips and looked away. He could not stop. The laceleaf must be brought home.

  With stiff fingers, he caressed his ruby ring, tracing its engravings. The ring his father had given him yesteryear, on Roen’s eighteenth birthday. His father, who now lay abed, sick because of Roen.

  The memories filled the darkness. Roen could see his father again, face drawn as parchment, paintbrush shaking in wispy fingers. One week, Duke Hyan had said. One week for a painting that would normally take moons. But the price was too tempting: enough gold to build Roen’s own workshop. Smerdin Painter loved his son too dearly to refuse. He labored that week, hardly eating or sleeping. He had completed the painting that morning, and then collapsed. The demons of disease had fattened on his exhaustion, the doctor decreed. Only laceleaf, grown from rotting apple leaves, could banish them.

  A flicker of light tore Roen from his thoughts. He narrowed his eyes. There, he saw it again: an orange glint like a lighthouse. Roen lengthened his stride. Arms outstretched, he trudged through a copse of pines, branches snagging his cloak. Sap smeared him, its smell thick and cloying. It seemed miles before the trees finally parted, revealing the orange flicker’s source. A mountain, sparkling with city lights, rose into the clouds like a jeweled pillar of heaven. Brownbury, capital of Heland. Roen’s home had never seemed more beautiful. Soon, Father, he thought. Soon I’ll be home with the laceleaf, and we’ll sit by the hearth, drinking hot cider and eating hot, hot toast.

  He plodded for what seemed an eternity, over uprooted trees and windblown scarecrows, before he reached the city gates. The iron-studded doors sat in their granite walls, lionhead knockers glowering. Roen stood a moment, catching his breath. He was not used to cold or physical exertion, and in the icy rain, his skin and throat burned. If exhaustion had claimed his father’s health, the storm was claiming his. Funny, Roen thought. I’m falling ill for trying to save an ill man. Now what does that say about the world?

  Roen shook his head, clearing it of thoughts. They were too hazy for his liking. Quickly, he pounded with one bronze knocker. The plangent booms summoned no reply. Roen pounded again, harder. A shout came from atop the wall.

  “Gates closed tonight! Come back at dawn.”

  Roen stumbled backwards. Through the rain he saw a sentry perched on the parapet like a gargoyle, horns and spikes protruding from his armor. A lantern burned in the man’s hand, its crimson light crawling over his helm like demons. He looks as wicked as King Sinther himself, Roen thought.

  “My father is ill,” Roen called hoarsely. “I must see him.”

  The sentry crossed his arms. His voice echoed behind his visor. “Evil roams these hills tonight. Even the fireflies have not risen. Hyan’s orders that gates don’t open till sunrise.”

  Roen felt a surge of panic. He swallowed it and raised his voice again. “Duke Hyan is expecting me! I’m a painter in his service.”

  Armor chinked as the sentry shifted his weight. “You have a ring of guild?”

  Roen raised his hand, letting the lamplight glimmer in his ruby ring.

  The sentry tapped his cheek. “Well, suppose you gift me that ring, might be I’ll go rummage for the key.”

  Roen’s eyes burned. “I’ll report you!”

  “Then you’ll have to do so tomorrow morning.”

  Roen tightened his lips. The sentry stared down defiantly. Lightning flashed and the sky spewed icy pellets. Slowly Roen lowered his glare to his toes. There was no time for honor or stubbornness, he knew. Smerdin could not wait. Roen looked at his ring. He let his fingertip circle the rim, trace the words engraved into the gold: Master Painter. Inside, he knew, were smaller letters: I’m proud of you, my son.

  Roen heaved a deep sigh. Slowly, he slipped off the ring and raised it overhead. A moment later the gates were open, and Roen was rushing through the city.

  The wooden houses huddled over the narrow, twisting streets, their eaves almost touching. Rainwater gurgled in roadside gutters. Lanterns hung in most street corners, but half had been snuffed out by the downpour. The darkness was thick as lies. Roen walked quickly, his blisters chafing, his skin hot. He was definitely ill. But worse than the pain was his worry. Soon, Roen thought, soon I’ll be home with your medicine, Father. Soon we’ll sit by that fire, drinking that warm, warm cider....

  At last he saw their small house from a distance. The iron paintbrush hung skewed over the door, the pots of cyclamens lay toppled on the porch, the shingled roof dripped rainwater. Orange light flickered behind the closed shutters, which meant Smerdin was well enough to kindle a fire, or was, an hour ago. Roen found himself close to tears. Everything will be fine now, he thought. Finally the terrible night was over. Roen knuckled his eyes, climbed onto the porch, grabbed the doorknob... and paused.

  Muffled voices were arguing inside. Roen could hear them despite the wind and thunder. A sudden chill gripped him. Shaking, he placed his ear against the door and listened.

  “Sorry, Your Grace, but we searched everywhere,” rasped a coarse voice. “The son’s not home.”

  A nasal voice answered. “Not home, you declare. This is... incommodious. ’Twould be untoward if Ketya finds him first. The waif might desire to presage him. That would be even more niggling. And as we all know, so much upset can prove deleterious to certain incompetent people. So what say you take these portraits off the wall and go comb every cranny of this noisome, verminous city until you unearth the boy, what?”

  Roen heard armor chinking and boots stomping. Before he could back away, the door opened to reveal two burly soldiers, clad in mail and crimson surcoats. Roen took a step back. The soldiers stared at him, stared at the parchments they carried, and then stared at each other. Slowly their faces split into dumb grins. Roen spun on his heels, but before he could take a step, gloved hands grabbed him. The soldiers’ grip was iron, and Roen struggled uselessly as they dragged him inside.

  The workshop was a mess. Tables had been overturned, paintings pulled down, and shelves toppled. Jars of pigment, rolls of canvas, and dozens of paintbrushes cluttered the floor. Amid all the disorder, surrounded by more soldiers, stood Duke Hyan Redfort, warming his pudgy hands before the hearth. Roen stared at him through drooping wet curls. Pink, plump, and pug-nosed, the head of Heland’s armies looked like a pig in samite.

  Hyan was a great general, Roen knew. He protected Heland’s borders from Stonemark’s Sinther, stood stalwartly against the mad stone king. But right now, his father’s porcine patron was the last thing Roen wanted to see.

  The soldiers tossed him free, and Roen almost collapsed. He took a ragged breath, steadying himself. Water pooling at his feet, he managed to sketch a clumsy bow. He could not guess what was happening, but knew he must tread carefully.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “What a pleasure to see you—”

  The duke interrupted him, his fat lips pouting into a smile. “We would propound you save your, hum, sweet talk for the court, what? You are, you see, under arrest, and about to join your father in prison.”

  The words sank in slowly. Roen felt a chill run through him, colder than his icy clothes. He blinked sweat out of his eyes.

  “But we’ve done nothing wrong, Your Grace.”

  Hyan raised his eyebrows, his mouth forming a surprised
circle. “Oh? We do believe you took our gold and, hum, frittered it away without painting our portrait. We would call that ‘something wrong’, no?”

  Roen shook his head. “What are you talking about? Your portrait and your gold are both safe upstairs.”

  The duke began to chuckle. For a moment, his jowls quivering, he did seem a pig. A wet snout trembled in his face, floppy ears dangled from his head, and when he opened his mouth only a squeal came out. Roen rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again, Hyan was once more human, and talking to his guards.

  “The boy is impertinent, what?” The duke dabbed an embroidered handkerchief against his forehead. “Incarcerate him in a solitary cell until his trial. We don’t want him in any propinquity to his father.”

  The soldiers reached out to grab him, their armor clanking, their gauntlets opening and closing like mandibles. Roen could only stare and shake his head. The hunks of metal loomed over him. More armor clinked at his sides. Roen took a step back out of his puddle. The soldiers came chinking after him.

  And then, one slipped in the water and crashed to the floor.

  Never afterwards could Roen explain what hidden force drove his feet forward at that instant. With the gap opened in his cage, with the fever befogging his mind, Roen’s body moved on its own. Over the fallen soldier, onto the staircase, and up the stairs his feet took him. Beyond the roar of blood in his ears, he heard the hiss of steel on leather as the soldiers drew swords behind him.

  He reached the attic and stumbled inside. In the small room, Hyan’s painting was gone from its stand, and their coffer of gold was open and empty. Roen didn’t have time for surprise. He slammed open the window and tossed his hat outside, then hid under his bed. The soldiers’ shadows danced over the floor as they clanked into the room.

  “There, out the window!” one said.

  Roen heard them clamber into the alley below. He peeked from under his bed. They were gone. Knees shaking, he crawled out and stood up. Sweat washed his hot face. This is madness, he thought. The painting, the gold—his father!—gone. Madness! He heard the sound of more boots thumping upstairs, preceded by a stench of oil and sweat. Roen knew it was folly to run, folly to resist arrest when the courts could prove him innocent. But he also knew that Smerdin had hours to live. Roen would not entrust the laceleaf to these brutes. Too much was at stake. Somehow, he’d have to reach Smerdin himself.