Trail of Pyres

by L. James Rice

  “Bread! Biscuits for a Song, loaves for five! Tart apples, no worms, for three!” Folks tempted glanced, and she cast them as bright a smile as she could manage, but most kept their eyes from her, a sign their bellies were already full or they were too poor to entertain the notion of paying for food. Not a soul made eye contact for more than a split flicker, and she stared up the hill from the beach. She’d seen other peddlers walking rounds up by the smiths, but didn’t see anyone right now, and besides she was cuter with a better smile. It amazed her just how much that was worth, even with other women.

  She nabbed an apple from her bag and took a bite, tart juices dribbling from the corners of her mouth, a benefit of her trade and the cost of doing business, showing folks how nice and firm the apples were. The ring of hammers grew louder as she approached. The call for weapons and armor, both new and repaired, would keep these men in work for so long as there were Taken on Kaludor. Several smiths pounded on glowing bars of iron or steel, she didn’t know which, of varied lengths, but one man caught her attention. She remembered the tinker from Istinjoln, a rotund man noted for his appetite as well as his donkeys, but he wouldn’t recognize her. If she remembered right, his name was Ilpen.

  “Apple, good sir? I’ve got loaves and biscuits too.” She bit into the fruit and showed him the fresh juices. The jowled man looked at her, and she aimed for perky with a broad smile and wide eyes, but he shook his head. “You’re Ilpen, ain’t you? I’m from Beswit, just south of Istinjoln.” That got his attention, and he smiled.

  “Aye, that’s me. Beswit, you say? Don’t remember your face.”

  “Probably remember my mum… if she’d made it.” She dropped her smile, and the man bit.

  “I’m sorry to hear that lass. How much are them apples? And bread you say?”

  “A Shadow took her, but I got out of town on a dead man’s horse. Just three Songs for the Apple, biscuits are one, loaves five. Real good, promise.”

  “Good as that there apple?”

  “For certain.”

  “I’ll take five apples then, and go ahead and give me three loaves if you got ‘em. How many biscuits you got in there, cause I’ll take at least three. Hey, Solineus! Jolgin! Either of you want apples, loaves, biscuits?”

  A muscled man wearing a blackened leather apron and holding a mail cuirasse turned and shook his head, but the other strode their way. She about choked, not simply because she recognized the man from Istinjoln, but the hilts forged from Ikorov rising above either shoulder constricted her throat with a vision of wealth. He’d been plain dressed and handsome then, now he wore double mail and swords worth untold fortunes. Worse, she went weak in the knees when he smiled, and she giggled like a child.

  “I’ll take an apple.”

  “Apple.” She mumbled like an idiot and her hand dove into her haver, and he slipped a silver fifty Song in her hand for the fruit. “I got change.”

  “Don’t fret it.”

  Don’t fret it? She knew where the wealth stayed now. She was a fool to stick to the beach.

  “By the Gods man, when I met you didn’t have a coin.” Ilpen laughed, then stared at her.

  Solineus grinned and said, “The Choerkin are generous.”

  Damn it, the man knew the Choerkin. Of course he did, he wasn’t some guard, he was likely Emudar Clan-blood judging by his mild accent. Normal warriors didn’t wear that armor or carry precious swords.

  Ilpen tapped her shoulder. “My apples?”

  “Right! Thirty-three Songs.” She counted out three loaves, three biscuits, and five apples, and he handed her a silver fifty-Song. She glanced at the silver, but her eyes couldn’t resist the warrior’s face, the deep blue eyes, the shadow of a beard, and the playful smirk making it clear he realized she was making a damned fool of herself, like some court maiden from a corny tale her mother loved to tell. Still, all she could do was smile.

  “Unlike this fella, I want some songs back.”

  “Right!” She blushed at her forgetfulness and counted out coins as Ilpen stacked his food on a small table. Stitch your head back on, girl, he’s just a man. “Anything in particular I might find for you men? I know some folks in town now.”

  They glanced back and forth, the tinker shrugging. Solineus said, “Chicken?”

  “I love chicken.” Did that come out as goofy as she thought? She hoped not. Damn the man and his smile. “Roasted?”

  “So long as it’s cooked, I don’t care. Hells, I could roast it myself, doesn’t even have to be dead.”

  She giggled again and wanted to kick herself. “I can get it roasted.” She thought for a moment, then blurted, “If you get me a dagger, a good one.”

  The warrior grinned, and Ilpen said, “Watch out for this one.”

  Solineus smirked, and she figured he might be impressed with her. “All right. Follow me.” Meliu tailed him to a smith who sat on a stool, leaning against a tent pole with his eyes covered by a sooty, sweat-drenched cloth. “Harvo, got any daggers laying about?”

  The smith spoke, the cloth wiggling with the motion of his lips. “Bronze, iron, or steel?”

  “Guessing my chicken won’t be had with bronze. She’s a right greedy girl.”

  “You said chicken?” He pulled the cloth and shot her a glance. “This girl can get chicken?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man rose and slipped into a tent, came back with a plain dagger with a leather sheath and leather wrapped hilt. He pulled the blade. “Steel, if you get me a chicken. Make it two, so I can share.”

  She grimaced, but with the silver-fifty Solineus gave her, she’d be able to afford it. It would make a dent in her stash, but Inster was full of hostile eyes. Trouble was, she didn’t know if the woman would have so many, chickens were getting scarce. “I’ll have them tomorrow I hope, might take a day or two for that many, but I’ll get ‘em.”

  Solineus took the dagger from the smith and set it in her hand. “Just in case you need to kill the chicken.”

  His tone, the look in his eye had shifted, and she felt he worried about her, but there was no way he feared for her, they’d just met. She focused on the weapon in her hand. It felt good, its balanced weight and point imbued a sense of confidence. The smith handed her the sheath, hesitating, and he said, “Pretty boy here’s on the line if I don’t have two chickens by the end of the week.”

  She sheathed the dagger and slipped it inside her haver. It wasn’t a great spot, but at least she wouldn’t lose it. “I’ve got things to sell, but I’ll be back.” She bowed and strode away with an intentional spring in her step, confident she could empty her sack and maybe get in her order for chicken before sunset.

  Sales didn’t prove as easy as she’d hoped, coming across those men and being able to worm her way in with the tinker was lucky. She sold two loaves to a tanner as the sun slunk past midday, then chanced across a woman who’d just arrived from Kaludor. The mother of three bought a loaf, biscuits, and several apples for her children at a depressing discount that hamstrung Meliu’s profits.

  She’d just handed over the woman’s change when a boy caught her eye. He stared with beautiful blue eyes, hungry or the Lord Priest’s Face. She snagged a biscuit from her sack and took tentative strides to the child. The memory of the boy she rescued was vague, rushing stress-blurred fragments, and he’d been a half-drowned hound. She couldn’t say for certain how alike the two looked. “Are you hungry, boy?”

  The child’s eyes brightened. “Aye, miss, for certain I am.”

  Meliu breathed easier, her smile relaxed as she gave him two biscuits. The boy sprinted away, yelling for his mother. She shook her head, chastising herself for her suspicions.

  The sun still hung in the sky, so she figured she may as well head into Inster to see about chicken, then finish her sales round about dark among Silone faces.

  The hairs on her neck twitched as she entered the gates, a feeling she’d grown used to in the halls of Istinjoln: somebody watched her. She paused for a q
uick glance about, saw no one, and wrote it off as paranoia from entering town so late in the day. The bustling streets of late morning, which often included a share of Silone men towering over the Hidreng, were open enough for carts and wagons to travel unimpeded, and all the folks were dark haired and short. The Hidreng and their deep-set eyes either ignored her or leered, nothing out of the ordinary, but with the sun heading toward the horizon they imparted a chill. If someone came for her, her cries for help wouldn’t be heard by any of her own people. She shivered. Probably just her being a scaredy-white, it was later than normal and the streets more hushed, but she still slipped her hand into her haver, touching the reassuring hilt of the dagger.

  The sense of unease faded as she moved deeper into town and it wasn’t long before the bakery came into view. She giggled at her foolish fears when the door jingled and she slid inside.

  Silly to be so paranoid.

  She gazed around the room, and the baker’s husband shuffled from the back. A creepy bastard, but she’d gotten used to him. His Silone was weak, but he understood plenty.

  “Karu here?”

  The man grabbed his broom, but he didn’t bother to sweep. Meliu suspected it was as much crutch as chore. “Nah, for wheat.”

  She sighed and looked around. In the last week the supply of meat, outside of fish, was getting thin, and the shop showed it. A couple pigeons hung in the window, but no chicken nor goose. “You know if she’s gonna get any chicken?”

  He stared at her. “Chicken?”

  “Noho? Nohar?” She knew the right word, but didn’t want him to know that.

  He laughed and spoke in Silone interrupted by Tekit. “Nobar. Don’t know, probably. Wait, few wicks. I check on her.”

  The old man toddled into the back room, and Meliu leaned against the counter, happy to not have to endure the man’s stare as she waited. A young girl called Jile, who didn’t speak a word of Silone, stepped from the back and smiled at her. The wicks passed with several Tek entering the shop, buying rolls and bread and a pigeon, but they did business with the girl. Meliu was getting fidgety, she’d never been one for sitting still unless she had a book in her hand, and it was worse in this foreign town. She was about to leave when the man and his broom came back.

  “No idea where she at, she late. She went to Ibar’s, I point way, yes?”

  She considered it, but she didn’t trust the man nor this town as the sun sank in the sky. “Thank you, but I’ll just catch up to her tomorrow.”

  “Bah! Go left, bear sign, turn right, Ibar’s straight down road. Green door.”

  Meliu smiled. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow, but thank you.” The old man shrugged as she walked out the door and turned right, but she stopped. She felt like she was being watched, and she glanced to a Silone boy. The same one she’d given biscuits earlier? No, this boy’s face was more oval, but he smiled at her before dashing away. She was being silly, the sun was still in the sky, no one in town had ever given her trouble.

  She did an about face and strode up the street until she came to a sign depicting an angry bear and she glanced down a narrow street to the right. It didn’t look so bad, just a tad lonely as she didn’t see a soul. She’d come this far, so she turned. A hundred strides in the road narrowed, the buildings leaning on each other for support, feeling like they closed in around her. She stopped, uneasy. Tomorrow was plenty soon, walking down this alley was plain stupid.

  She spun on her toe and fought the urge to trot back to the main street, but when a man stepped from the shadows in front of her, she stopped in her tracks, her heart in her throat. Her hand fumbled for the dagger in her haver, fingers touching wrapped leather before her vision spun, pain spiking the back of her head. She careened into the dirt face first and felt a knee driven into her back, a hand grabbing her hair and driving her nose into the ground. She tried to scream but sucked dust and gagged. Someone ripped her bag from her shoulders, the one with her money purse.

  She flailed and kicked, gritty dirt caking her tongue and throat. If only she could get her hand on the dagger she’d have a chance. But there wasn’t just one man, or two, as she struggled she caught sight of four sets of feet. The men laughed, infuriating her more, and she fought harder, until her arm wrenched to the back of her neck and a booted foot hammered her ribs. She curled into a ball and went limp, focusing her mind while hoping they thought she surrendered. Prayer surged into her being, she could feel the connection with Erginle, the Goddess of Light, and even as her prayer first formed in her thoughts the energy came; swift, strong, pure, a warmth like the soothing waters of a scented bath, only the heat and cleansing waves washed through blood and muscle beneath skin.

  Perhaps it had been so long since she’d called on her favored Goddess that she forgot the depth of the sensation, or perhaps her cause was so desperate, but the energy flowed stronger than she’d ever felt. When the man lifted her from the ground her vision of the world burned into white and she unleashed the energy. Two men screamed, and she jerked from the man’s grip with a wrenching elbow to his nose, and she scrambled into a run. She opened her eyes to indistinct shadows, dodged a kneeling man who held his head, cussing. She stumbled, ricocheted off a wall before regaining her balance. Within a few blinks her vision recovered, first color, then grainy details, and she was heartened to know she hadn’t damaged her eyes.

  Despite the power of the prayer, she assumed their blindness wouldn’t last long either, but they had her money, so might not give chase. She rounded a sharp corner, slid on gravel, stumbled and crashed over a crate, her shins throbbing as she hit the ground with a grunt. Shouts came from behind. So much for not coming after her. With the world a colorful blur and her body aching she needed to disappear. She slowed to a trot and murmured prayers to Kibole, Patron of the Night, and she answered her request with a surge of Dark so strong it threatened to fell her with fear, but she quenched her nerves with determination learned from years of prayer. The right hiding place would be a dark nook or corner, a natural shadow would be perfect. She took several random turns down streets she’d never walked, lost, but an unhitched wagon cast an ideal shadow, small, unobtrusive, one a person wouldn’t think to search.

  She ducked into the gray and curled into a ball, willing the Dark to match its contours. She closed her eyes because there was no point to them being open. Vision couldn’t penetrate Elemental Dark in either direction, she needed to control her breaths and hope her pursuit passed her by. She counted the beats of her heart, focused on controlling her chest, and feet pounded closer. The focus of her prayer wavered, but she held strong as her heart felt it might burst. Running feet passed within a stride, but she couldn’t count how many pairs. She wanted to poke her head from the Dark, but a captured glimpse could get her killed.

  Her spine ached against the stone wall, her ass and feet tingled, and just as she relaxed thudding feet returned.

  Panting breaths, then deep voices conversing in Tekit. “The old man didn’t say a damned thing about a witch.”

  “Fah! We need to find her, even witches can’t up and disappear.”

  The old man sold me out.

  She heard their breaths as they shuffled their feet, and she prayed to Sol they would leave. An awkward silence followed, had they heard her, seen something, or was someone else coming? Nick. Nick. If those were swords being drawn her life was about to end. She thrust her hand into her haver in desperation, fumbling for the dagger’s hilt. A rush and snap of cloth, a sound she’d heard so many times watching men spar: the sound of a sleeve as the arm performed a crisp attack, and she pulled her dagger just as warm wet streaked her face. She cringed in horror, thinking maybe she was struck, but there wasn’t pain. The blood wasn’t hers.

  A man’s holler cut short. Something hit the ground, then another, soggy and solid. Meliu quivered and shook, voices came from the west.

  The shouts came in Tekit. “Murder! Stop! Guards!”

  People ran past, she heard their feet, the rustle of their
clothes.

  Her hand trembled with the dagger as the sounds faded in the distance, and she set the blade down, pulled a cloth from her haver and wiped her bloody face. She risked a glance from her Dark. A Hidreng head stared at her, and beside it lay two bodies. Their swords lay in the dirt beside them, blood in their grooves. The vision of gore would’ve frozen her feet to stare in the past, but after everything she’d seen they were nothing to her, what mattered was not seeing anyone living, and that neither man held her pack. She nabbed her dagger and darted into a side alley, stopping to fold her cloth and wipe her face until the cloth came back clean. Sanguine spatters marred her dress, and she shifted her haver to cover them the best she could.

  With a deep breath she sauntered down the alley until she rounded a couple corners and hid her dagger. The sun hovered low, casting stretched shadows along the main thoroughfare. With evening near, only a score of Hidreng wandered the street, ignoring her plain shadow.

  She ran fingers through her hair and took deep breaths. Just get to the main gate.

  If the dead men spoke of Karu’s husband, and she felt certain they did, the creepy son-of-a-bitch, her life just got trickier. Even if it wasn’t him, most of her songs as well as gems were in the stolen bag, she didn’t have enough stashed in her boot to buy her more than a couple days’ food. How in the name of the gods would she get three chickens now?

  She turned a corner and slid to a nearby wall, leaning to stare. The gate stood closed with armored guards with spears on either side, looking none too eager to order it opened. Whatever troubles she had just got worse. She took a determined step but turned, glancing at the bloodstains on her dress. She’d need to talk her way out, and that’d give the guards plenty of time to notice.