Knight Of The Flame

by H John Spriggs

  Caymus gave him a reassuring smile that he didn't really feel. "I'm fine," he said, wondering himself if it was true, "just remembering something." Nearly four months had passed since they'd taken that trip, but to Caymus it may as well have been years. He turned his eyes forward and tilted his head. "When did she cut her hair?" Gwenna's hair had been nearly long enough to reach her hips when he'd been attacked. It was much shorter now, chopped so that it only hung as low as the bottoms of her ears, with an extra few inches at the back.

  "A couple of months back," Milo said, "after she really started learning the bow." In answer to Caymus's questioning look, he said, "Long hair gets in the way when you shoot. It either blows in your eyes and distracts you or it gets caught between the string and the arrow nock and gets ripped out on the draw." He grinned. "It's why I wear this thing," he said, indicating his headband.

  Caymus nodded. A small smile of comprehension touched his lips, but it only stayed a moment or two, then quickly vanished. "So much has changed," he said. "It's strange, it was like I lived a whole life while I was out. I know it was only a few months, but it seemed so much longer in the Conflagration."

  "Does time not work the same there?" Milo asked, wearing his look of genuine curiosity.

  Caymus shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "No," he continued, "it's more like there's no sense of time." He paused, considering the idea. "I wouldn't be surprised, actually, if there is no time in the Conflagration."

  Milo screwed up his face. "No time?" he said, "what's to keep everything from happening at once, then?"

  Caymus almost smiled. "I'm not sure," he said, "but I don't think the Lords of the Conflagration need time." He raised his eyebrows at Milo. "They're not—strictly speaking—alive, you know."

  Milo's eyes widened at this. "What?"

  Caymus tried to think of how to explain it. He'd grasped the concept while in the Conflagration, though he hadn't gotten a real sense of it, hadn't really felt the truth of it within himself, until after he had come back home. "The Lords, the beings that live in the Conflagration," he said. "They're not alive."

  Milo's eyes danced about the landscape as he considered the idea. "So they're, what, ghosts? Figments of your imagination?"

  "Nothing like that," Caymus said, shaking his head. "They're sentient beings. They think, they communicate, they can influence things, but they're not alive, not like you and me."

  Milo looked at him questioningly. "How, exactly, do you know this?"

  For the first time in days, Caymus actually laughed. "You told me, actually."

  "I don't," replied Milo, his eyes searching, "remember doing that."

  "It was one of the Lords," Caymus admitted. "But he sure looked like you while he was doing it."

  "He looked like me?" Milo said, his voice sounding a little disappointed. "Nobody looks like me!"

  Caymus smiled. "This one did. He wanted to make the transition into their realm easier, so he took an appearance he thought I'd be comfortable with."

  "And he chose me?"

  "Yes he did," Caymus said. "I remember him telling me it was all something my own mind was doing as it tried to get used to being in the Conflagration, but I'm certain it could have happened another way if he'd wanted it to."

  Milo's eyes squinted into the distance. "So, if a Lord can have that kind of..." he groped in the air with his hand, searching for the word, "...that kind of empathy, how is it, exactly, that they're not alive?"

  Caymus would have to try again to get his point across. "When I was in the Conflagration, I was there as my consciousness, as a collection of thoughts and feelings. My living body was still here, but it—the body—was the thing that was alive, not my thoughts. I think the Lords are the same way, only they don't have living bodies here."

  Milo was obviously confounded, but also intrigued, by the idea. "How do you suppose something can be sentient, but not alive?"

  Caymus smiled slightly. It was a question he'd asked himself several times already, never having come to a satisfactory conclusion. "I'm not sure," he admitted, "but it's true. There's something about this place," he passed his hand over the sand before them, "what they call the Quatrain, that is intimately tied with life, with living. There isn't any life in the Conflagration, and I suspect," he said, holding up a finger, "that it's the same with the other elemental realms."

  Milo nodded. "That would explain why they're so interested in being here."

  Caymus had reached the same conclusion. He didn't understand how it all worked, but something about having a presence, here, in this world, allowed life to an element that wouldn't otherwise posses it. The beings of kreal wanted to live. That's why they were invading.

  Milo gave Caymus a sideways look. "You did tell Be'Var, right?"

  Caymus chuckled. "Are you kidding? He wouldn't give me a moment's peace until I'd told him everything that happened from the second that knife got me 'til I opened my eyes."

  They walked in silence for a few moments, then Milo said, "I tracked him, you know."

  Caymus raised an eyebrow. "Be'Var?"

  "No," Milo said, shaking his head. "Callun. The one who attacked you." He looked at Caymus. "You said he told you his name was actually something else, didn't you?"

  Caymus nodded slowly. "Mrowvain."

  "Mrowvain," Milo said, testing the word on his tongue. "I wonder why he felt the need to hide that."

  "Must have thought we'd recognize it," said Caymus.

  "Maybe." Milo obviously wasn't sold on that theory just yet. "After he stabbed you, after I showed up and found that Be'Var already had you well in hand, I tracked him for a while."

  Caymus was surprised at the news. He'd been told that there had been a search for the man with the dead eyes, but he hadn't been told that Milo had been part of that search. "I didn't know that," he said. "Did you find anything?"

  "I tracked him for almost a day," Milo replied. "I followed him out the front door of Flamehearth, then down a few streets, into the Guard District, and out the North Gate." He scratched at his shoulder as he recalled. "He went north," he said, "directly north, didn't even follow a road, just took a straight path to the Greatstones."

  Caymus nodded. "He was heading for Black Moon."

  Milo inclined his head. "He must have been a scout for the army."

  Caymus turned to look at his friend. "Or an assassin."

  "I suppose a man could be both."

  Caymus nodded. "How far did you track him?"

  Milo exhaled. "All the way to the point his tracks disappeared, just like the krealites." He stroked the horse's mane as they walked. "Do you think he was actually made up of the stuff?" he asked, "Or was he human, like us?"

  Caymus shrugged. "I'm sure he was at least partially krealite," he said. "I could feel it in him."

  Milo nodded. "That thing with your neck?"

  Caymus grinned. "That thing with my neck." He let the grin fade as he walked. "I just wish I'd known what it meant at the time."

  Milo dropped his hand to his side. "Me too."

  They walked on in silence for a few minutes, so Caymus changed the subject. "So, how long are you going to need, once we get to Terrek?"

  Milo visibly brightened. "Most of a day," he said. "It will go faster if the weather cooperates." He turned his eyes to the blue sky. "I don't think there's much chance of rain, but I'm wary of a sandstorm down here."

  Another reason they were going to the Falaar village was so that Milo could 'speak the place', doing whatever it was that air priests did so that they could send their wind whispers there. Tavrin had agreed to either be the one to listen for these whispers or to find somebody else who could be trusted with the task. The Falaar didn't have air priests among them—they were fire-worshipers, after all—and so couldn't whisper back, but Milo could at least let these neighbors to the South know if they discovered any immediate danger heading their way.

  Caymus had heard from Tavrin of the sandstorms that sometimes occurred in the desert. He'd
said they could turn a bright day to pitch black and flay the flesh from a man's bones. Caymus turned to his friend. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

  Milo grinned. "What, a fire-lover like you?"

  Caymus shook his head, returning the grin.

  "No," said Milo, shaking his head too, "I've got to do it on my own. Anyway," he continued, "aren't you going to have your own business to tend to?"

  Caymus wasn't at all sure about how long his particular task would take. He wasn't even sure if he would be allowed to try.

  When he'd come out of his months-long slumber, Be'Var had spent a good deal of time telling him what he'd learned while sitting by his bed. It seemed that he'd enlisted the help of Aiella, Ambassador Brocke's daughter, to find books and scrolls from several private libraries around the city, while he'd tended to the body of his pupil. Much of what Be'Var had told Caymus, he'd already known, learned from a perceived lifetime's experience of battle in the Conflagration.

  What Caymus had been surprised to discover, though, was that there was some kind of link between the Knight of the Flame and the Falaar people. Be'Var hadn't known the precise details of that relationship, as it seemed to have been personal in nature and so not much of it had been recorded. However, one important fact that he had gleaned from a particularly old-looking tome was that the Falaar were the ones whom had taught the Knight of the Flame the particular Aspect of flame-walking, what the Falaar themselves referred to as Unburning.

  Be'Var had been quite insistent that Caymus go with the group to see the Falaar and to ask if they would show him this Aspect, help him learn to use it. For some reason, this Unburning was extremely important to the Knight of the Flame, so much so that Be'Var was certain that Caymus could not hope to attain the post without learning the skill.

  Caymus had no idea how he was going to convince a people he'd never met before to teach him a skill that was very uniquely theirs. It seemed to him an invasion of their privacy.

  "I don't know," he said, finally. "I spoke with Tavrin about it before we left, asked him if they'd even be willing to teach me."

  Milo tilted his head. "And?"

  "And he seemed fairly certain that I would be able to persuade them, but he wouldn't tell me a single word as to what was involved or how long it would take." He frowned and shrugged at his friend. "For all I know, it could take a month to learn this Unburning thing."

  "It will not take so long as that," the Falaar yelled, looking over his shoulder at them.

  Caymus nearly lost a step. He hadn't thought Tavrin or Gwenna could hear them. While he searched back in his mind for anything he might have said that he might not have wanted them to overhear, Milo asked the obvious question. "Do you know how long, then? Should we be ready to leave Caymus here when it's time to go back?"

  Tavrin chuckled, then he and Gwenna slowed so that they could talk without shouting. "I, myself, have not learned the Unburning," he said, "but those who have, they learn how over the course of two, sometimes three, days."

  Caymus exhaled, relieved to hear the news. The latest sightings of Black Moon had put them still north of the Greatstones, but just how far north they were at this moment was anybody's guess. He did not have time for another months-long bout of instruction.

  The four continued walking closely, and as Milo started asking Tavrin questions about the area around his village, Caymus turned his gaze out across the desert. The village of Terrek, Tavrin's home, lay south of the border between Kepren and Mael'vek, which meant they would be crossing into the lands of a hostile nation sometime today, though Caymus didn't believe they had done so yet.

  The Falaar were not Mael'vekian, nor were they allied with any of the larger nations around them. Tavrin had told him that the land around his home had been claimed by the people of Kepren or Mael'vek many times in the last few centuries, and so they had learned to not pay much attention to the wars of these foreigners. Caymus had marveled that these people had managed to stay out of such conflicts so successfully for so long. He did not, however, like the idea of having to cross into the realm of Mael'vek in order to reach Terrek.

  Two more days of travel, he thought, and they would be there. He just hoped they didn't run into too much more opposition on the way.

  ***

  The night was a fabric of darkness, lain out across the sands by a new moon which plunged the group into indistinct shadows, so Caymus found he was able to smell the village of Terrek before he saw it. The scent was hard to define, but he could detect moisture in the air which had been absent since the group had left Kepren.

  He had also noticed the absence of stars in the lowest portion of the sky, revealing the presence of a cliff wall that rose up as though torn from the ground by some massive hand. The village, he knew, lay around the bottom of the cliff.

  "The Watchman," Tavrin said, motioning toward the great form. "His eyes have kept us safe for more centuries than are remembered."

  Caymus considered the idea, wondering if Tavrin meant it as anything more than a metaphor. The top of the cliff would certainly make for a great vantage point from which to see oncoming invaders.

  As the ghostly shapes of mud and brick huts began to appear before him, he wondered why nobody had come to meet them yet. The village, lying with its back to solid stone, was obviously positioned to be defensible, yet they had encountered no guard, no sentry.

  Perhaps it was too late in the day. He wondered what time it was. They had pushed hard that evening, having decided they would rather arrive late this day than early the next.

  "Don't you keep lookouts?" asked Milo, giving voice to Caymus's own thoughts.

  Tavrin smiled at the air priest. "We do," he said, "but we will not see them." He turned to face his home, and his smile widened. "We are expected, so there is no need to challenge our approach."

  Caymus was surprised to hear this. "Expected?" he said. "How could they expect us? We only decided to take the trip a day or so before we left."

  "Tavrin's brother," said Gwenna, looking around at the buildings as they got closer. "Elon. He arrived in Kepren the day after you woke up. After we decided to come here, he ran on ahead to carry the news."

  Caymus felt conflicting emotions at hearing this. On the one hand, he now wouldn't have to be the one to announce to the chieftain of Terrek that he wanted to learn their closely guarded secrets. On the other, however, it meant that somebody else—somebody he didn't even know—had now set an expectation for his behavior. He didn't like the idea of somebody else speaking for him, especially about something as important as this.

  He kept his misgivings to himself, however, as they passed the first line of huts. The dwellings were small, mostly comprising single rooms, though a few seemed as though they could contain a few chambers within. Windows had no glass or casements. Doors were mere strips of leather or cloth. Caymus supposed that wood was hard to come by in this place. There seemed to be no order to the placement of the buildings, and he imagined they had been built as the need for them had arisen, with no sense of planning for streets or walkways. The haphazard nature of it reminded him somewhat of parts of the Guard District, which had grown in a similarly organic fashion.

  He tried to estimate how many people were in this village. More than a hundred, he thought, but less than a thousand. He would get a better look when the sun came up again.

  Impressive bouts of snoring emanated from some of the buildings, evidence that they had arrived quite late. He found himself wincing, wondering if anybody would actually be awake at all or if his first act in this new place would be to rudely rouse someone from peaceful slumber.

  His worries turned out to be unfounded, however. As they reached the cliff face itself, they came upon a figure sitting on a small, stone block in front of one of the larger huts, staring down at the ground.

  The man was large. He wasn't as tall as Caymus, but he was even more solidly built, with thick arms and legs that spoke of a person who used his entire body as a tool. His t
hick, gray hair, hanging in a long ponytail down his back, said that he was in his late fifties, or perhaps sixties. He wore no shirt. His leggings consisted of hides. His weathered skin was as dark as the leather bracers he wore on his wrists.

  When he looked up, Caymus was taken aback by the intensity of the man's glare. He didn't seem to be angry, nor did he seem upset at the group's arrival in any way, but Caymus could tell that in this moment, a powerful man was judging them.

  "Chieftain," said Tavrin, leaving Gwenna with the horse and taking a step forward. As the man turned his gaze on him, Tavrin dropped his head slightly and brought a hand up in front of his eyes. He held the hand there for a moment, then dropped it as the chieftain did the same thing. "May I bring these friends into our home?"

  The chieftain looked at the other three again, then nodded his head once. In the movement, Caymus noticed the glint of a small, yellow gem in a headband that the man wore. "You may stay with us for a time," he said. He then took a few steps to the doorway of the hut and extended a hand to pull back the cloth curtain before it. "You will stay here," he said.

  Caymus was about to say thank you, but the chieftain interrupted him. "You and you," he pointed to Caymus and to Tavrin, "will come with me now." The man's tone, as intense as his glare, made it clear that he expected no argument. Before anybody could speak, he strode off into the darkness.

  Tavrin motioned for Caymus to follow, then started after his chief. Caymus, still holding the horse's lead, plaintively held it out to Milo, who took it from him, an amused grin on his face. Caymus barely had time to catch up with the two retreating figures before they disappeared into the darkness.

  Nobody said a word as they walked. The chieftain was leading them on a path that followed the cliff wall, past a number of identical-looking huts. The man kept an impressive pace, and Caymus had no doubt that he meant business.

  After they had walked for a couple of minutes, passing a few dozen huts—Caymus found he'd revisited his estimate of the population to possibly over a thousand—the chieftain pushed past a leather flap of a door and into a hut that seemed, if anything, smaller than the others.