Knight Of The Flame

by H John Spriggs

  Draya decided, in that moment, to just go ahead and cooperate with and assist Dalphin, whatever reservations he might have about the man's profession. The Keep-Marshal had requested an inquisitor's presence, after all, and on his behalf. He leaned on the workbench with both hands, focusing his eyes on the woodgrain as he spoke.

  He told the inquisitor about some of the problems they'd had in the recent weeks. It had started when one of the catapults had been rendered useless. The gear system that was used to crank the arms backward had been made inoperable when the catch that kept the system taught was removed. Another catch had needed to be fashioned before the weapon was usable again.

  Soon afterward, a problem had been found with the Guard-Reed Gate, which lay barely twenty yards south of the marshaling yard. The portcullis simply wouldn't open one day, and an investigation had discovered that one of the springs in the machinery that kept the bars up had broken. Draya had seen the spring himself. It hadn't pulled apart as a result of pressure or age; it had been cut, intentionally. Then there was the catapult that had been literally sawn through...

  There had been other, less major reports of supplies and equipment either malfunctioning or going missing, none of which, by themselves, gave Draya any real cause for concern. Taken together, however, they revealed the work of someone who wanted to cause interference in the workings of the corps of engineers.

  When he looked up again, he saw the inquisitor was fixated on him, an intense hardness in his eyes that made him look as though he was trying to see more of the story than what was actually being told. Good. The man did, at least, seem to be paying close attention.

  "How difficult," the man asked, "would these acts of sabotage have been?"

  Draya narrowed his eyes. "How difficult?"

  "Yes," replied Inquisitor Dalphin. "Each of these particular acts, as you've described them to me: how much actual knowledge of the devices' inner workings would a person have needed in order to affect them so?"

  Draya considered the question. "Not a lot, really," he said, after a moment. "Whoever it was, each time they tried to break something, they picked the quick and easy way to do it."

  "So," said Dalphin, "one can assume that this person, this saboteur, does not possess a great deal of knowledge about the workings of your machines?"

  Draya nodded. "That would be a safe assumption. If I were going to take a catapult out, for instance, I'd just saw the wheels off. It would only take a bit longer than what was actually done, would have made it equally as useless, and it would have been a hundred times harder to repair."

  The inquisitor looked away, as though in deep thought. "I would like a list of the equipment that has gone missing, Captain, and where it went missing from, if that is possible."

  "I'll have it drawn up and in your hands by the end of the day."

  "Good, good." The inquisitor turned and met Draya's eyes again. "You may be certain that your case has my full attention, captain. I will find your saboteur."

  Draya once again considered the black-robed figure before him, this time finding some measure of appreciation for the man. He still didn't trust him, didn't like the way the men of his profession went about their work, but he did believe the words he'd just heard, trusted their sincerity.

  "When you want to catch a devil," his father used to say, "best to send a devil after him."

  Draya smiled. He'd never had need of a devil before.

  "Now," said Dalphin, turning back to the working men, "I would like you to tell me more about this 'Rill's fire sludge'. If I am to be responsible for transporting it, I would have some idea of its nature and what," he waved a hand at the workbench, "your men are doing with it."

  Draya took a deep breath. The last thing he wanted to do right now was educate an inquisitor about the nature of the sludge, but he knew the man had a valid concern: a person carried the sludge with much greater care and respect when he knew just how difficult the stuff was to make.

  He led the man over to where Rill was working with another of the officers, Lieutenant Elkin, who had himself been instructing a younger engineer. Rill was performing the steps himself, and was in the second-to-last stage of the process, mixing together some of the base elements that went in before the white material at the end.

  Draya explained to Dalphin, in as much detail as he thought the man would comprehend, about the elemental makeups of the various components, about how the main ingredient was graysilt, the same quick-burning powder that was used in several processes throughout the city, from fuse-making to the fashioning of explosives. He also told him about how the fire element was tempered with a few earth element ingredients, and finally mixed with the naphthalene and oil to add the final water element.

  As he spoke, he caught Rill grinning at him. He couldn't help but return the smile. They'd each recited this same bit of exposition dozens of times in the past few days. It was becoming a script. Draya wondered if he should just write it down.

  "How stable is the finished product?" asked the inquisitor.

  "Very," said Draya. "Once you've finished a batch of fire sludge, it's totally inert until you put a flame to it." He nodded toward the jar Rill was mixing up. "It's only the steps that lead up to it that are a bit finicky."

  As if Rill had taken some sort of cue at the word 'finicky', there was a quick, bright flash of light, and the mixture Rill had been working with went up in smoke. There hadn't been much material in the little jar, so nobody was hurt, but everyone in the Gearhouse stopped what they were doing and stared, stunned, for a moment.

  "I see," said the inquisitor, his eyes betraying no emotion.

  Draya lifted his eyes from the empty jar to Rill, who seemed more surprised than anybody. "What happened?" he said to the young second-stationer.

  Rill looked back at him, his mouth open wide. He appeared literally horrified by what had just occurred. "I," he stammered, "I don't know." He dropped the jar and mixer on the table. "I didn't..."

  And then, Rill was gone. At least, his mind was no longer in the room with the rest of them. Instead, he was looking backward and forward at all the ingredients on his table, pointing at them, counting on his fingers, and mumbling under his breath. Draya knew Rill well enough by now to leave him alone when he was busy thinking.

  Draya turned his attention back to Dalphin. The inquisitor was watching Rill with a curious look on his face. When he noticed Draya's eyes on him, he asked, "What is the concern, captain? Could the young man have not simply made a mistake?"

  Draya nearly laughed out loud. "Hardly, Inquisitor," he said. "It's called 'Rill's sludge', right?"

  "That's what I'm told," said Dalphin, raising an eyebrow.

  "Well, that," Draya said, pointing, "is Rill."

  The inquisitor didn't say anything, so Draya continued. "I've seen him do that a hundred times before, and he's never had a mishap like that."

  "Still," Dalphin said, he dark eyes narrowing, "even the greatest of men will make the occasional mistake."

  Draya held up a hand. "Of course," he said, "you're right. Still, even if it was just a mistake, Rill's not going to be satisfied until he knows exactly what happened, why it happened, and how it can be prevented from happening again."

  Draya nearly flinched a step backward in surprise when he saw the wrinkly face smile. He'd never seen even the smallest hint of emotion on an inquisitor's face before.

  "He might make an excellent inquisitor, one day," the face said.

  Draya decided not to dwell on that thought.

  "I have it!" Rill suddenly burst out. When Draya looked at him, he was holding up a small vial of some kind of crushed material. Rill was looking intently at him, making sure he had his captain's attention. "Fyewig," he said, pointing at the little vial. "Crushed fyewig flowers."

  Draya nodded. "Yes, you told me the fyewig is a highly earthen material."

  "Right," Rill said, snapping his fingers, then pointing at him. "It holds back the fire element during the mixing process,
contains it, stops it from burning out of control while the other ingredients are mixed together."

  "Alright?" Draya said.

  "Fyewig," Rill continued, tipping a small amount of the powder into the palm of his hand, "has a really bitter taste to it." He reached out his hand, offering the small amount of powder to Draya. "Try."

  Draya narrowed his eyes at Rill, but reached out and led Rill drop the powdered plant into his own hand. He grabbed a small amount between the finger and thumb of his other hand and placed it on his tongue.

  The powder was incredibly salty.

  Draya spat it out. "That's definitely not fyewig," he said, brushing the remnants from his hands. "What is it?"

  Rill shook his head, lifting the vial up to his face to get a closer look at it. "I don't know," he said. "It might just be colored salt, but whatever it is, it's not supposed to be here."

  "Then it would seem," came the inquisitor's faraway voice, "that your saboteur has struck again."

  Draya found himself holding his breath. A broken siege weapon was one thing; contaminating the fire sludge was another matter entirely.

  The inquisitor turned, once again, to the jug in the middle of the workbench. "What about that?" he asked. "Is that going to be ruined also?"

  "No," Rill said, still spinning the vial before his eyes. "Without the fyewig, it would never survive the mixing process. If it made it as far as the jug, then it's okay. It's the real stuff."

  "Very well," said the inquisitor. He reached over and picked up the jug, then cradled it in the crook of his elbow. He turned to Draya. "Captain, I will be requesting guards to be placed around this building at all hours of the day and night so as to prevent this happening again. I would suggest you take stock of your materials before making any more of the sludge."

  Draya nodded. "Thank you, Inquisitor," he said. "We'll do just that."

  The inquisitor turned to leave, but stopped and turned his head, speaking over his shoulder. "I am active on your case now, Captain Draya. You can be certain of a swift result."

  Draya managed a small smile at the man's repeated affirmation. At least he seemed confident in his abilities. "Thank you, Inquisitor. I would greatly appreciate a result like that."

  Dalphin nodded and stepped away faster than Draya imagined his old bones should be able to carry him. In moments, he was out of the Gearhouse door and gone from their lives.

  Draya heard a deep sigh from Rill. "I hope the prince and Caymus are having better luck than we are."

  Draya found himself nodding. "I hope so too, Rill. I really do."

  ***

  For the dozenth time in the past twenty minutes, Caymus scratched the back of his neck and reminded himself to breathe.

  The morning light brought with it a slight wind, and the chill of it was settling into his skin. Caymus had already regretted not bringing warmer clothes with him on this trip, but until now he'd always been busy and active enough that the cold hadn't bothered him.

  Still crouching behind the large boulder, he reached back into his belt and pulled out his leather gloves. They were made for protection, not warmth, but they would do. Briefly, he wondered why, in the cold air, he couldn't see his breath.

  He was alone, hiding behind a huge rock on the side of what was essentially a ravine. The sides weren't high enough for it to be called a canyon, but they were steep enough that one could put a boulder in motion and expect it to reach the bottom under its own power.

  The sensation, that incessant prickling on the back of his neck, was beginning to drive him mad. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought the skin was actually trying to escape. He wasn't surprised at the reaction, though. He could actually hear the movement of many feet on the rocks and sand below, now. Black Moon was getting close.

  When they had arrived at the pass, Mally had spent the rest of the day and most of the next night walking around the area, occasionally kneeling and touching the dirt beneath him or just standing still in one spot, his eyes closed, for hours. In the end, just before the sun had risen, he'd reported that they could, in fact, arrange a landslide in this place. They'd immediately gotten to work, digging ditches in some locations, building mounds in others. Caymus himself had been given a hand drill and charged with boring small holes into various boulders, which were subsequently filled with graysilt. He couldn't see the method to it all, but Mally had promised that, added together, it was enough to bring the sides of the ravine down on whoever might be in the pass at the time.

  They had expected to have a full day to work. They'd only been at it three hours when his neck had started tingling.

  Again, Caymus realized he wasn't breathing, and forced himself to inhale. They weren't ready, not even close. When they had first realized that Black Moon was arriving so much sooner than they'd thought, there had been hurried discussion as to whether then should just set the explosives off now and make a run for it, or if they should stick to the plan, wait for the army to enter the ravine, and spring what they had of their trap. The former choice might result in a minor blockage of the pass, giving Kepren, at most, another day to prepare. The latter might net them a few fallen enemies, but would risk all their lives.

  In the end, Garrin had decided to wait, to try. They were all to find places along the sides of the ravine, wait until the soldiers massed down below them, then see how many they could get with what explosives they'd managed to set already. He figured that the tumbling boulders, at least, should bring a few dozen of them down.

  The prince had known it was a gamble. He'd given everyone the option of leaving. Nobody had taken it.

  Caymus felt all his muscles tense as the first of the soldiers came into view, rounding the bend that led out of Falmoor's Pass and the Greatstone Mountains. The figures of the men were still a few hundred yards away, so he couldn't quite make out distinct forms, but he could distinguish easily the darkness, the ash-colored skin of Black Moon's main force. Before long, several dozen more of them were making their way into the pass. A couple of them carried banners on long staves above their heads: blood-red, inverted triangles with single black circles in their center. They had to be representative of the black moon that they seemed so proud of.

  Caymus was astounded at how quickly the force seemed to move. He was no longer surprised that they had made such quick progress through the pass.

  Making sure to stay hidden behind his boulder, Caymus stretched one of his legs out in front of him, trying to keep it loose for the inevitable moment when he would need to run. As he switched his stance to stretch the other leg, he wondered about their plan's chances of success. Their trap wasn't set. Mally had made it very clear that they wouldn't have the impact they had been hoping for. He shifted his gaze. He could still see Mally, crouched behind his own boulder about fifty yards to his left. He, in turn, was looking to his left, presumably keeping an eye on the prince, waiting for the order to take action.

  The army of Black Moon was led by men on foot, though Caymus wouldn't have called them infantry, exactly. They didn't march in lines or columns. In fact, Caymus couldn't make out their formation. He had a sense, however, that they were ordered, that they marched to some sort of organized configuration that his eyes couldn't quite see.

  He could feel the kreal, though, stronger now than ever, emanating from each of the figures down below him. He knew that some of the marching men were the same warriors he'd seen in the memories of the Summitian scout. Not all of them, however, were completely taken by the kreal. Some appeared to be normal men, whom Caymus assumed were the mercenaries spoken of in the reports Garrin had received. The distressing thing, however, was that many of them exhibited lighter or darker skins than others, as though some were in some middle stage in a process of becoming a Black Moon warrior. In fact, just by the feel of them, Caymus guessed that every single man down there was infected with kreal.

  He wondered how much the scout's information had changed since it was delivered. How many fewer mercenaries were there now, an
d how many more ash-skinned killers?

  Behind the men, among them in some places, were the krealites, the huge, many-legged insectoid creatures that had already caused so much death. Caymus felt his heart beating hard, as though it suddenly filled his entire chest. He estimated there were at least a hundred of the creatures down there, many more than had been recently reported by scouts. He forced himself to breathe once more, hoping that this was the extent of the monsters, that there weren't still more of them at the back of the procession.

  Then, without any apparent signal or command, they stopped. They halted as though they were a single unit, man and monster standing still at exactly the same time.

  They were still at least a hundred yards short of the kill space, the point where they were meant to be standing when the trap was sprung.

  What had happened? What were they doing? Caymus felt his hand move to touch the hilt of his sword.

  A lone figure, black as the darkest heart, came from behind the column and started making its way to the front. Each Black Moon warrior stepped aside to let the giant form pass, then closed ranks behind it. Even from this distance, Caymus could feel that it was of the kreal, that it was constructed of that element as much as were the creatures standing still behind it, possibly more. It seemed a good deal taller than the other figures around him, though it wasn't a giant. It wore black armor, which gave the impression of having been fashioned from the chitin of dead krealites. Short, black horns adorned a closed-faced helmet. Caymus could see the outline of a huge sword strapped over the figure's back.

  All of Black Moon's eyes watched the figure as it stopped in front of the assembled soldiers and surveyed the area around them. It lifted its head slightly, as though sniffing the air. Back and forth it looked, eyeing the sides of the ravine.