Fireborn

by Toby Forward

  He stepped forward.

  “Come back,” called Perry.

  Dorwin tried to grab his arm. He wrenched himself free and walked into the field, into the fire. The heat made his face sting. The smoke crowded round him, swirling against him. He walked on. Although it was hot, it did not burn. Although the smoke pressed against his face, he could breathe easily and his eyes didn’t smart or begin to fill with tears. He walked on, unburned, unhurt.

  He had to guess where Flaxfield was. He couldn’t see through the smoke.

  He called out.

  “Flaxfield.”

  The fire roared up, trying to kill his voice.

  “Flaxfield.”

  “Cabbage? Stay away.”

  Cabbage turned to his left, followed the voice and found Flaxfield. The wizard’s cloak was wrapped around his face. His boots were burning. He swung his staff round and round, as though driving away a pack of dogs. The fire backed off at each sweep of the staff, then came back with greater ferocity.

  Cabbage stepped up to Flaxfield, took the wizard’s hand and said.

  “This way.”

  As long as Cabbage led Flaxfield the wizard was safe. They pushed through the fire. It snarled and whipped at their legs. Flames lashed at Flaxfield’s face. He felt them like slaps but they did not burn him. As they broke through to the edge of the field they felt a push at their backs and were spat out of the furnace, toppling over and landing clear of the flames.

  Hands grabbed them, pulled them clear. Scrambling up the slope of the adjoining field they met the reapers. Perry and Dorwin ran round from where they had been searching for them. Dorwin hugged Cabbage. He squirmed away, not very forcefully, then allowed her to hold him.

  “Flaxfield,” she said. “Are you hurt?”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you?” Perry looked at the wizard, waiting.

  “I have no injuries,” he said. “No burns.”

  His voice was the croak of a rusty hinge.

  “Something to drink,” he suggested. “And, for Cabbage,” he smiled at the boy and put his hand on Cabbage’s arm, “something to eat as well?”

  Cabbage smiled.

  “Thank you,” said Flaxfield. “Thank you for coming for me.”

  “He should have left you there,” said Dorwin. “It was too dangerous.”

  “It was,” said Flaxfield. “He should. But I am glad he didn’t. Now,” he clambered to his feet, “we need to find out how he did it when I couldn’t.”

  “Now this is what I call an inn,” said Cabbage.

  Perry watched as a man at a nearby table speared a piece of batter pudding with his knife, added some beef and gravy and popped it into his mouth.

  While he was waiting Cabbage looked around the room.

  It seemed that all of the village was in there. After the flames and smoke of the field the empty fireplace looked inviting. Its iron dogs gleamed and the brass poker and shovel shone. Blue and white china on the shelf, glasses that were as pure as spring water, table tops glowing in the early evening sun through the leaded windows. And the smells. Fresh herbs and flowers. Polish. Aromas from the kitchen that made Cabbage want to eat everything that came through the doors.

  “I’ll have the chicken pie,” he said, as one was put in front of Leathort. “No, the roast duck,” he changed his mind, seeing the crisp skin and the shining fat. “Or, no, I’ll have that pork chop with the crackling and extra gravy.”

  Flaxfield sighed.

  “Please,” said Perry, “may I have the roast beef and batter pudding?”

  “You may, and welcome,” said Flaxfield. He grinned at Perry. “A good choice, and well made. It’s good to know your own mind and to speak it before all the food goes.”

  “Goes?” said Cabbage. “It won’t run out, will it?”

  Flaxfield laughed.

  “Everything runs out in the end,” he said.

  “The same as him, please,” said Cabbage, pointing at Perry.

  “Three roast beef then,” said Flaxfield.

  He ordered the food and brought a mug of cider and two smaller mugs of apple juice back to the table.

  “We’ll eat,” said Flaxfield, “then we’ll sort out what’s going on.”

  He still smelled of smoke, and his cloak was scorched down one side. Grey ash smeared his cheek and neck and shoulders. Cabbage wondered why his hair and beard hadn’t been singed.

  “Is the harvest ruined?” asked Perry.

  “Perhaps,” said Flaxfield. “I don’t know. That was only one field. There are others. And then there will be other crops. The apple harvest comes later, and haymaking goes on all through the summer.”

  The food arrived and they applied themselves to it with pleasure and enthusiasm. Even the greens were delicious. Perry eyed Cabbage and was about to ask him again about his name, but Cabbage saw it coming and turned the talk to the wild magic.

  “Is someone doing it to us, or is it just sort of loose?” he asked.

  “I don’t understand,” said Perry.

  Cabbage used the last piece of his batter pudding to mop up the last of the gravy and ate it slowly to give him time to think. Flaxfield watched him and waited.

  “I mean,” he said, “is all this wild magic that’s going about hurting things, is it like a dog that’s been trained to attack, and someone’s telling it to do it. Or, is it like a wolf or a stoat, something that really is wild and out of control?”

  “Good,” said Flaxfield. “That’s very good, Cabbage.”

  “Is it?” he said. “Really?”

  He grinned with pleasure.

  “If it’s controlled, then that’s one thing,” said Flaxfield. “If it’s wild, then that’s another. And we need to find out before we can work out how to deal with it.”

  The villagers were leaving them alone to eat for the moment. They talked in low voices, heads close together, sometimes two at once until one of them overcame the other in his argument. Cabbage heard Flaxfield’s name mentioned often, and was surprised to hear his own sometimes as well. Flaxfield saw him trying to listen.

  “Never mind them,” he said. “They need to talk out the excitement first. And to drink the day out of their throats. It’s been hot and dusty.”

  “I think they’re annoyed with us,” said Cabbage.

  “Some, perhaps. They expect magic to be able to do anything. And it isn’t like that, is it?”

  Cabbage shook his head.

  “What is it like?” said Perry. “And what is it anyway? And where did it come from?”

  “Ah,” said Flaxfield. “Where do things come from? That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  Perry wasn’t going to be put off.

  “Yes,” he said. “And what’s the answer?”

  Flaxfield looked at him with approval.

  “You’re persistent for a roffle,” he said. “There are several answers. I like the one about Smokesmith best.”

  “Do you know this?” Perry asked Cabbage.

  “Yes. It’s one of the first things you learn.”

  “Do they know?”

  Perry nodded his head towards the nearest group of villagers.

  “No,” said Cabbage. “It’s a secret.”

  “I want to know,” said Perry.

  To Cabbage’s astonishment Flaxfield said, “Then you shall.”

  And he told the young roffle the story of Smokesmith. |

  mokesmith

  People wanted to see themselves. They saw their reflections in water, but it was always imperfect. The water rippled and distorted the image. And you could never stand up and look at yourself. You could see your face in someone’s eyes, but that meant having to stand close and look straight at them. It was curved and, besides, looking at yourself through someone else’s eyes was too personal, too dangerous. Staring into another person’s eyes changed you and it changed the person you saw yourself through.

  Smokesmith was a blacksmith and a weapon-maker. He had a forge and a workshop. He
made gates and trivets. He shod horses. He made spearheads and swords. The best knives in the world. Sharp enough to slice through an iris at the waterside, without bruising the stem. He made breastplates and shields. He found a way of mixing the charcoal from the forge into the iron, folding it over and over and over, until it was hard and strong. The blades of the swords, polished with killing, became bright. They caught the sun and threw it back. Men turned them over in their hands and could see themselves, fragmentary and in part, like looking into a flashing stream.

  Now, we are all used to being able to see ourselves. Glass in our windows. Our faces in the looking glass. Before that, no one really knew what he looked like.

  Smokesmith made a shield with this hard iron. He worked at night, when the others had gone home. He locked the workshop and lit the forge, the fire bright in the darkness. When the shield was finished, he polished it till it shone. He could see his face in it, like the reflection of a face in the eye. He hung it on the wall by its strap. He could stand back and see himself in the shield, head and shoulders. It was a new way of seeing. Nothing like it had ever existed before.

  It frightened him. He painted over the shining surface so that it couldn’t reflect any more. He locked it away. He made a special lock in his workshop that no one could open. And there he hoped it would end.

  But secrets are like bears asleep in caves; they wake up. It is not easy to light a forge at night and go unnoticed. Soon, word went round that Smokesmith had made something special. They said it was a weapon, a sword or a spear or a shield, better than any that had ever been made before.

  The stories grew, and the sword became one that would kill every time it was drawn. That the owner of the sword could not die in battle. That the spear was made so that it never missed its target and that no one could draw it out from the dead body except the one who had thrown it. The shield was so light a child could lift it, yet so strong that nothing could pierce it. Whoever carried it was safe from all harm in battle.

  There was no deadly sword, no perfect spear, no invulnerable shield. They were all stories. One night, men broke into Smokesmith’s forge and ransacked it, looking for the special weapons. Of course, they didn’t find them. They found the chest with the special lock, and when they couldn’t open it they seized Smokesmith from his bed and dragged him to the forge. He opened the chest, took out the shield and handed it over. When they saw that it was just an ordinary shield they thought he was tricking them. They beat him, threatened to kill him if he didn’t tell them where the secret weapon was.

  Before Smokesmith could clean off the paint and show them their reflections in the shield the alarm was raised and the men ran off, taking the shield with them.

  The king of that country heard what had happened and sent for Smokesmith. The blacksmith was frightened at what had happened and he told the king everything. The king immediately sent out search parties to find the robbers. At the same time, he returned Smokesmith to his forge. He sent men with him, guards, to protect him, and to keep him prisoner. He gave orders to Smokesmith.

  Smokesmith was commanded to make a panel for the king. One bright enough to reflect. One big enough to see a whole person in. One flat enough, not like the shield, to show a person exactly as he was in life. The armed guard kept him at work. And they kept his work secret and silent, so none should know what it was he was doing.

  Cabbage put his hand on Flaxfield’s arm. The old wizard stopped telling his tale. Silence rested over the inn like smoke. Flaxfield questioned Cabbage with a look.

  “No,” said Cabbage. “No one heard you. They’ve just stopped talking. It’s all right.”

  “Flaxfield,” called Leathort. “We need to talk.”

  Flaxfield took his mug of cider and crossed the room to Leathort’s table. He looked over his shoulder and nodded to Cabbage who jumped to his feet and followed him.

  “Just you,” said Rotack. “The boy can stay over there with the roffle.”

  Flaxfield sat and pulled a chair across from a nearby table. He gestured with his head for the boy to sit.

  “The boy is my apprentice,” he said. “He stays with me.”

  “Of course,” said Leathort. “Welcome, boy. You did well today to save Flaxfield for us.”

  Cabbage sat, with an apologetic look over his shoulder to Perry.

  “All right,” agreed Rotack. “But make sure you keep quiet, apprentice.”

  Flaxfield smiled at Rotack.

  “I think the rule should be that anyone with a question or a good comment should speak. For the rest, let’s all remain silent until we have something useful to say.”

  Rotack glared at him.

  Cabbage smiled and looked around the table. He knew Leathort and Rotack. Dorwin sat to the left of Flaxfield. Opposite her was a man he didn’t recognize from the field. She saw him looking and said, “This is Cartford. He’s my father.”

  Cartford stared at Cabbage then lifted his mug of beer and drank what was left in there. He was older than the others, and big. Hands like the big smooth stones on a riverbed, and thick arms with old scars on them.

  “We’ll need more drinks first,” he said. “I don’t want to have to stop this talk for refreshment.”

  Perry trotted over.

  “I’ll fetch what you need,” he offered.

  “How do you know what we want?” demanded Rotack.

  “How does a squirrel know when to paint a pumpkin?” said Perry. Dorwin saw Cabbage and the roffle exchange glances and she smiled. Without waiting for an answer Perry ran off and started to get drinks. By the time he returned with exactly what everyone had wanted the discussion had begun and no one noticed when he slipped quietly onto a chair he had drawn up next to Cabbage, just a little behind him.

  Now that the conference had begun the people at the other tables were talking again, ignoring what was being said, though Cabbage thought there was an air of expectation about them, as though they were making talk to cover their interest in what was being said at his own table.

  The men were circling each other with words, unwilling to say directly what they thought. Each was testing out the other, trying to see what strength his arguments might have. Rotack spoke of the need for safety. Leathort talked about the traditions of the harvest. Cartford said little and when he did it was to question the others rather than to say what he thought. Flaxfield said nothing. Dorwin also listened and looked. Cabbage knew that they were not really saying what they thought and he was becoming dizzy with words.

  “Rotack wants you to leave, Flaxfield,” said Dorwin.

  The sudden, direct statement silenced them.

  “I didn’t say that,” said Rotack.

  “You did,” said Dorwin. “You just didn’t use those words.”

  Cabbage was glad she had said it. It felt like the clean air after rain has fallen.

  “I will,” said Flaxfield. “If that’s what’s needed.”

  “No,” said Dorwin. “That’s just Rotack. The rest of us need you to stay.”

  Rotack wagged a stumpy finger at her.

  “Stay?” he said. “Stay and do what? Burn all our fields? Ruin all our crops?”

  “It wasn’t Flaxfield that burned them,” she argued.

  “It was the magic though. Wasn’t it?”

  He stared at Leathort and Cartford, demanding that they agree with him.

  “No magic. No fire. Isn’t that right? The field was harvested all right and done before he ruined it all with his spell.”

  Dorwin banged her fist on the table. “No. It wasn’t that.”

  After a pause Cartfort said to her, “What was it then? What destroyed the crop?”

  There was no talking now at the other tables. The private discussion had become a public meeting. The whole village needed to know the answer. They waited.

  “The field was full of fire already,” said Dorwin. “Even before the spell. It was there. It was ready. It would have burned anyway.”

  Rotack sat back and pu
t his hands behind his head.

  “And you saw it, I suppose. What? You’re a wizard now, are you?”

  Dorwin shook her head. She looked into her mug but didn’t drink.

  “I saw the flames,” said Cabbage. “I saw them.”

  “And did you tell Dorwin?” asked Leathort. “Before the fire started.”

  Cabbage shook his head.

  “She saw the shadow of the magic,” he said. “Just as you know there’s someone following you when you see their shadow on the wall next to yours. That’s how Dorwin saw the magic. She told me.”

  “Why didn’t the rest of us see it then?” Rotack demanded.

  “I expect some did,” said Flaxfield. “And they dismissed it.”

  Leathort nodded. Rotack saw the movement and challenged him.

  “Did you? Did you see it?”

  “No,” said Leathort. “I didn’t.”

  “Did you ever turn a corner and see a low figure, crouched in front of you, only to then see it was a bush?” asked Flaxfield. “Or hear a noise in an empty house, like a moan or a laugh, and say to yourself, ‘It was the wind,’ or, ‘It was the timbers creaking?’ Did you never hear a voice behind you in the street and turn to see there was no one there? Well, Rotack? What do you say?”

  Rotack looked as though he would like to punch Flaxfield. Cabbage got ready to fling himself at the man if he tried.

  At last he answered.

  “All of those things,” he said. “Everyone does. That isn’t magic.”

  “You say so,” said Flaxfield. “So you say.”

  Dorwin held her mug in both hands, lowered it almost to the table and waited for silence.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you go or not, does it?” she asked Flaxfield.

  Flaxfield smiled.

  “If it doesn’t matter, let him go,” said Rotack. “And we’ll get on with the harvest.”

  “As easy as that?” said Cartford.