Fires of Aggar

by Chris Anne Wolfe

  Chapter Fifteen

  The thick bed of decaying leaves cushioned Gwyn’s movements along the edge of the Clantown clearing. The forest behind her was dark, foreboding in its dense blackness. Ahead of her, the brush had been studiously cut back again and again by the Clans, in order to limit the encroachment of the woods and wild things. Now all that was left was hard-packed dirt, sparsely covered with scraggly weeds. But tonight, the openness was a Goddess-sent blessing to Gwyn and Ril. Tonight the lack of small bush and thorns left them an unhindered view of the village, and it would lend no noise of warning to the passing sentries when Gwyn chose to leave the sanctuary of the trees. She hoped to be neither seen nor heard.

  She’d changed into a ruddy brown shirt to match her trousers and had donned not only her protective leg sheaths, but her upper arm leathers too. Her hair had been rebraided to stay tight, a head band securing the bits and pieces that usually flew about her face. She was armed not only with her sword, a steel hunting knife, and the vambraces from Jes, but with a few other shorter blades tucked into her boots and arm sheaths. Her preference was to get in and out with as little bloodshed as possible, especially on the way in. If she could create the illusion that Llinolae’s escape had been accomplished solely with the Dracoon’s skills, then the Court traitors might not assume a Marshal was involved — and the Clan pursuers might not anticipate the need to face a Marshal with sandwolves.

  At least that was her hope. She knew the chances of accomplishing it were poor.

  The sky above still reflected an expanse of bright, silverish light created by the early moon. Gwyn and Ril bided their time, watching the town. Darkness would come soon enough; the midnight moon faced away tonight. Ril rumbled deep in her throat with complaint, and Gwyn’s skin began to take on the dark sheen of bitter tea. The tension seemed to prolong their waiting interminably.

  Gwyn found the village she watched to be made of an odd style. A single, long lane ran through the middle of the clustered buildings. There was little variety in the structures, save for differences in heights. Even though she was accustomed to the white-washed stones of Valley Bay, the plaster and wood designs used for these places felt distinctly alien. She supposed that was good. Something more familiar might have invited carelessness. Still — in such a rainy climate, she couldn’t help but wonder at the practicality of having flat-roofed structures.

  Another pair of sentries wandered past. One of them cradled a fire weapon with seemingly negligent care, and Gwyn sank low into the safety of the shadows. Ril’s contempt for these Clan folk came to Gwyn through their pack bond. She put out a quick, silencing hand, warning against distraction rather than sound. Besides, this was the Clan’s home town; it would not do to underestimate the advantage it gave them. And if the idea of anyone even attempting to enter the Clantown seemed so audacious to the Clan folk that it lulled the peripheral guards into complacency, then that was something to use to their own advantage and not to scoff at.

  Ril’s ears flicked flat as the moon’s light began to dim overhead. Gwyn nodded, and the sandwolf slunk off into the shadows.

  In the west, the single moon slipped below a forested horizon, and the last of the silver glow whispered away. Total darkness fell swiftly, and even the forest noises behind Gwyn hushed. Only the music from the Clantown’s tavern paid no heed and continued. The yellow haze on the town lane came from lanterns which hung along the porches, although only two buildings were still lit. One was the tavern where the music played. The other lay at the south end of town — this side of the road and catty-corner to the stables where Ril was stalking. It was the southern-most building where Ril had scented Llinolae.

  Unfortunately, the sandwolf had found that nearly every scout in Clantown also frequented the place.

  Gwyn watched as the sentries rounded the corner beyond that building, and after several minutes she made out their figures on the street beyond. They were pausing to exchange words with their change of watch, and neither pair seemed to be in a hurry to move on. She breathed a faint sigh of relief at the assurance; they were obviously not intent on starting some generator to counter the night’s blackness. She’d been afraid that they might have a more sophisticated system of artificial lighting, when according to Brit the energy core from just one of their fire weapons could power an electrical generator for nearly a generation. Just because they didn’t have the thermal power of the Firecaps available, shouldn’t have meant they needed to rely on smoky oil lanterns.

  It merely underlined how little she understood the Clan — another reminder that she shouldn’t assume anything.

  She sighed and rose. It was time.

  Beneath the moonless sky, she moved almost invisibly across the open clearing. A hand on her sword kept it from swinging as she walked. It also prevented the straight length of the silhouette from suggesting she didn’t carry a Clan’s curving saber. It was important that anyone catching a glimpse of her from the tavern’s rear windows should see nothing suspicious about her. With her unhurried pace and tall form, she hoped they’d mistake her for any of the intermittent scouts who seemed to be reporting in late. It could seem odd that she was choosing the route across the cleared lands, but then it was a shorter distance than the way around by the lighted street.

  She reached the back corner of the building as the new pair of sentries began their rounds. Ducking between a log pile and water barrel, she disappeared neatly.

  The pair walked by within arm’s length of her, then halted abruptly with an exclamation of some sort. One twisted ’round fast and trotted back to the porch on the building’s far side. The other spat a short curse but remained behind to wait.

  Gwyn held her breath, a mere pebble’s pitch from the sentry. The Clan woman began to pace in a bit of a circle, and Gwyn was suddenly very, very thankful she’d thought not to wear the Marshal’s usual light toned tunic. It would have been noticed.

  The man returned just as suddenly as he’d sprinted off. With a quick laugh, he held out something to show his partner and they continued on their rounds.

  Gwyn sent a silent prayer to the Goddess. Cautiously, she straightened and moved around the corner to the west side of the place, giving her attention again to that three-storied box of a building.

  The windows nearest her were shuttered and dark, but a closer inspection showed the slanted wood slats were meant to be permanent. They acted more as shades than closures. The back room within was as dark as the northern rooms seemed, but further along towards the porch she heard mumbled voices and saw light.

  She edged closer to the sill to get a good look in, then pulled back quickly as inside someone came near. But the figure kept walking and then there was a scrape of furniture. She crept near again and saw a male pulling his chair up to the center table, his back to her now.

  It was a large, front room that extended the length of the structure. About a half-dozen scouts, female and male, were scattered around the place; they seemed to be passing out hot drinks from a pot on a tiled stove. Along the furthest wall, a rack shinning of metal caught Gwyn’s eye — fire weapons. Just as a long sword was often more dangerous than a pairing knife, Gwyn knew the longer the style of a fire weapon, the more powerful; these slender pieces were frightening — easily an arm’s length each. Another unsettling thing she noted was the sheer number of fire weapons hung on each rack — and there were a lot of racks. She couldn’t decide if that meant there were scores of other scouts barracked in the building, or if this was some sort of central depot and stock pile. Fates’ Jest, it was probably both.

  The heavy clump of booted feet alerted her, and suddenly a pale design of lights descended from above. Gwyn froze as stripes of white hit the dirt a few feet further out from where she stood. The hollow stomp resumed, coming from within and yet above her. She drew away slightly as a bulky fellow in trousers and a nightshirt, his hair in sleepy disarray, passed by the window. Then she retreated to get a better glimpse at the new light above.

  A sh
uttered window sat directly overhead. She made out the railing as it angled along the wall inside. As she watched, a figure wearily climbed the flight of stairs. She noticed another lit window above the first. The scout continued stomping upwards to the upper landing, and then the drifting timbre of disgruntled voices reached Gwyn. The window shadows exchanged something with a flash of silver and one began to descend again.

  Assuming the silverish glint had come from a fire weapon, then someone upstairs was being watched very closely.

  She glanced inside at the front room again. The guard from above arrived to fling a steel ring of keys onto the table. He proceeded to spout some belligerent complaint that touched off a heated discussion.

  Gwyn slipped away quickly to hide herself between the barrel and logs once more, expecting the sentries to reappear shortly. They soon did, still in their leisurely stroll. She waited as they reached the street and reversed directions to begin their rounds again.

  Though the voices in the front room had grown louder, Gwyn was quick to note the sentries remained unconcerned. They passed her and the building without pause.

  Gwyn glanced above again. The top floor obviously housed someone of importance. She noticed the windows there were boarded shut tightly. None had the slanted shutters designed to let breezes in. Those rooms would get unbearably stuffy in any summer weather — which suggested it held prisoners rather than honored captains.

  This was all nice as a piece of speculation, Gwyn wryly reminded herself. Still — if worse came to worst, she could probably persuade the Clan to exchange one of their leaders for Khirla’s.

  Now, she just needed to get up there.

  After a cursory inspection of the water tube above the barrel, Gwyn dismissed it. The wood was near rotting and wouldn’t have supported Sparrow’s weight let alone her own. However, a closer examination of the plaster and stone itself gave her a better idea. The white-washed mud comprised only the thinnest of crusts; much of it was already cracked, breaking away from the rocks and mortar beneath it. And the stuff underneath could provide Gwyn with all the nooks and crannies she desired!

  There wasn’t a daughter raised in Valley Bay who hadn’t scaled a few of the neighboring Firecaps’ cliffs at one time or another. Add her Niachero’s strength to that and she was more than a match for this old wall.

  She eagerly untied the thigh lace of her sword sheath and adjusted the scabbard’s belt so the thing wouldn’t thunk about too awkwardly, then chose the corner of the building that lay behind the staircase for her assault. It was better than risk climbing past a room of light sleepers, and hopefully the sentry up top would mistake any outside scuffle for inside traffic near the lower landings.

  A group of the Clan’s folk began stumping their way up inside. Gwyn almost chuckled. This was going to work!

  She started her climb and her humor turned a bit self-derisive. It had never been quite as easy as it looked on the Firecaps’ cliffs either.

  Her gloved fingers prodded and held. Her weight balanced on the edges of her boot soles, and she enviously remembered the supple, fish skin boots that rasped and gripped against most anything. But the rhythm of test-adjust-pull began to come back to her.

  Gwyn felt the feral pleasure of a sandwolf’s pride resonate strong along her pack bond; it urged her on, embracing the challenge. Fingers sought cracks in the hard plaster coating, digging into the mortar behind as she carved one finger’s hold after another, to claw her way up the building’s side. At the top, beams from the wooden frame jutted out sharply. She grabbed one, neatly pulled herself up, and then used it to step over the stone lip onto the roof.

  An explosion suddenly shook the building beneath her, and Gwyn went reeling to her back. She rolled and wedged close into the low wall which ringed the deck. It barely registered that she was alone here — the attack was not against her! — when another blast blew a hole skyward through the far side of the roof.

  She ducked her head as the debris fell. A fleeting image of white and red flame danced through her mind as she desperately sought to reach Ril through their pack bond—”Stay!” Then she sent reassurance and compelling stillness along that wordless line, urging the sandwolf not to loose bedlam among the stabled livestock — not to tip the lanterns in fiery diversion. Not yet!

  The stench of smoke and tar surrounded her as she struggled to stifle a choking cough. Shouts and frenzied shrieks had replaced the music of the distant tavern. Gwyn scurried around the fragmented hole to see the main street, peering down to hear doors slam and see figures racing from the porch in commotion. Orders and bodies jumbled frantically, fighting for space at the pumps and troughs — stringing the bucket brigade from stable to fire.

  A sudden flickering of blue in the gray around her — like the sword fire from a lifestone — caught her eye’s edge and spun Gwyn around. There was a groan from the timbers and then a sharp ‘crack’ as more of the roofing caved in to open a gaping abyss. Smoke billowed and sparks leapt free.

  Damned fire weapons! Unpredictable! Unreliable! Fates’ Own Jest incarnate! Gwyn cursed, scrambling forward and tearing her kerchief from a pocket. Her eyes streamed with tears as she squinted and tied the cloth into a mask across her face, trying to make sense of the chaos below.

  Shining fragments of one fire weapon lay clenched in the charred grasp of what may have been a corpse. A motionless male lay further to the side, his clothing smoldering and his body bent impossibly; if he wasn’t already dead, he would be soon. Fire ringed the edges of the room. The door pounding from below her ended abruptly with an oath. A vague sense of recognition swept through Gwyn — a whispered hint of that familiar brushing touch, a Blue Sight’s touch of amarin — then smoke swept it away.

  “You…!”

  Gwyn started. Below her amidst the smoking fumes and wreckage, a woman suddenly appeared.

  “Can you get me out of here?” The imperious tone of command reflected no recognition of Gwyn. “Will you…?”

  Gwyn answered with a curt nod, accepting that this was not the place for long introductions as she tore at the buckle of her sword’s belt. “You’re Llinolae, yes?”

  An equally brief nod acknowledged it. Then a hacking cough caught the woman like a swift kick to her stomach and she bent in two, clutching at her ribs in pain.

  “Royal Marshal,” Gwyn offered along with the dangling end of her scabbard on its belt. The woman nodded disjointedly, reaching high despite her coughing to grab the sheathed sword. Then Gwyn had her up and through the ragged bits of roofing quickly.

  Nearly choking, Llinolae let Gwyn move them to the southern corner before she sank down against the wall. Gwyn’s copper gaze narrowed in concern at the dark-skinned, bruised-eyed evidence of exhaustion. There was more that bespoke of poor handling. Even without the dreaming vision, Gwyn would have guessed at the rough dealings the Clan folk had given this woman. The torn, sleeveless top was clearly an undergarment, the short-legged pants were close fitting in the style of the Clan women and looked distinctly odd without the high boots to sheathe the bared calves. Her hair had been haphazardly shorn, then left an unruly shortness of odd lengths which sweat and charred grime had further entangled. And beneath her skin’s rich color, bruises from fists and fingers had begun to rise in a painful yellow-green hue.

  “Can you travel?” Gwyn demanded anxiously as the woman gasped a steadier breath, the coughing fit finally done. They had no choice, she must be able to!

  “Lead, Marshal — I’ll crawl through Fates’ Cellars if I have to. Just get me out of here.”

  Again that ruthless self-determination, Gwyn thought. She sent a grim glance over the wall’s edge; below, the Clan folk had abandoned their bucket brigades and were racing to get armloads of fire weapons out of the burning building. She had the sense that this rooftop was much closer to Eternity than she’d like it to be. Determination flamed within her own stubborn self then. “Come on, Dracoon — over the side.”

  Gwyn lowered Llinolae most of the way to
the porch roof, again with the help of scabbard and belt. Then dropped the belt to her companion’s hands. Recklessly she scrambled over the edge herself — sliding, slipping dangerously faster than common sense and crumbling plaster warranted — until she hit that porch roof with a thud on her back.

  She lay frozen, half-curled with her feet still in the air, listening.

  The frenzy below them gave no sign of notice though. At Llinolae’s nod, Gwyn got them moving again — this time towards the western end and the barren stretch near the forests. Behind and beneath somewhere a lantern shattered. Gwyn grabbed Llinolae by the elbow and jumped into the darkness as a rushing roar of flame seized the southeastern porch.

  Llinolae stumbled in gaining her feet. Gwyn’s arm hooked around her shoulders without loosing a stride. Sheath in hand and Llinolae half under arm, she pushed their hobbling into a run for the forest. And silently through their pack bond, she sent out the urgency of “Come!” The image flashed through her mind of a lunge and leap past feed bins, and she knew Ril had heard — a shrill stallion’s whistle split through the human voices. The small herd broke free as the stables began to flame and beyond the chaos the shadows of the Great Forest beckoned the women to safety.

  The night boomed in violent thunder, shaking the ground with its sudden blast. Heat pushed them both forward in a crashing wave, and Gwyn twisted as they were lifted, putting herself between Llinolae’s body and the smashing power of the root they hit. Her head rang and she shook back the blackness, barely keeping them upright as they were dropped. Bark scrapped against her shoulders’ leathers, her heels scrambled frantically for footing, and her body levered back hard against the tree root as she kept them upright.

  A stifled sob turned into a rasping cough as Llinolae fought the renewed pain of ribs and bruises. Gwyn gathered the woman closer, holding her up as knees tried to buckle.

  But behind them! Gwyn’s copper eyes went wide with shock of her own. A raging inferno consumed what once had been a building. Even here across the clearing and behind the first line of arching tree roots, the heat was blazing. The roar of a great waterfall seemed to surround them, and only dimly could Gwyn reconcile that din came from the fire.