The Prince of Earthen Fire

by B C Penling

  The bear dropped to all fours and charged the figure. Its slothful, gluttonous life made it sluggish; its movements dummied and easily anticipated. The other creature dodged its attack effortlessly and, with an agile leap aside, flanked the bear and leapt onto its back. The bear roared in agony as the figure sank its teeth into the base of its skull.

  Saia heard a splintering snap that made her stomach turn and watched as the bear crumpled into a heap. It was quickly dragged away from the opening beneath the rock.

  Saia held her breath. Maybe it wouldn’t notice her. Maybe it would eat the bear and leave her alone.

  It stalked up slowly. Its footfall was as silent as the night around them. It crouched down and looked into the crevice. Its eyes shimmered with hints of moonlight from above. It crawled closer to her; reaching in with a massive paw that closed on her arm.

  CHAPTER 10

  TIME HEALS

  There had been someone watching her in the woods. He was intrigued with her, pondering what kind of creature she was. She had a half-feline, half-human appearance but he had never heard of such a creature anywhere in all of Dagan and knew that cats and humans would not interbreed. He knew she was having a rough time and, before the moon had risen that night, he decided to approach her. Perhaps she was seeking company or perhaps, on the off chance, she enjoyed solitude. Although she appeared to be a lost and lonely creature, it could prove false.

  He walked from the mountain cave where he had been staying, stretched, and looked down upon the clearing where the pond was. Its placid surface was reflecting the moon and stars as it had done on many other nights before. He made his way down the barren mountainside, his large paws falling softly on loose stones as he descended. His nose caught the scent of fire brands and cooking food.

  He reached the tree line and slinked his way south through the fern bed beneath the forest canopy. He wasn’t in the woods for a few minutes before a sharp scream tormented his ears. He bolted forward and raced toward the sound and ensuing cries for help. It was the little creature by the pond.

  He skirted the perimeter of the clearing, watching as a massive mountain bear undermined a rock that he assumed the creature was hiding beneath. He came up behind the bear, stalking it with the intent to pounce and kill. The bear paused, breathing heavily. He stopped, thinking that the bear had caught his scent, and felt something sticky beneath his paw. He lifted it and sniffed. Blood... It was the little creature’s blood. He hoped it wasn’t too late.

  He took a deep breath and roared which caused the bear to turn around and face him. It stood on its legs and answered his challenge. Slamming its front end on the ground threateningly, it charged at him. The bear chomped its jaws menacingly. He sprang to the side, dodging the bear’s attack, and leapt upon its back. His claws dug deep into the bear’s shoulders and haunches, securing his position on the beast’s back.

  He sank his teeth into the fat neck of the bear, located the base of its skull, and chomped down tighter. He felt sinew yield beneath the power of his bite and the vertebrae crack and separate. His teeth slid through, severing the spinal cord and resolving any threat the bear posed. Satisfied that no breath either entered or left the bear’s body, he dragged it aside and turned his attention to the cavity beneath the rock. He crouched down and reached into the darkness. His paw found her arm and he grabbed it firmly, yet gently. He felt the creature tense up. She was still alive.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was deep and soft, barely above a whisper.

  “Are you going to kill me?” it replied.

  “Never would I fathom killing such a unique and intelligent creature as you,” he answered.

  The creature began to cry.

  “My name is Ochre. I’m a felion from Felis. What’s your name?”

  “Saia,” she said with a weak voice.

  “Saia, are you hurt?” he asked; concern evident in his voice.

  “Yes,” she said, quietly. “It bit my leg.”

  “Can you crawl out so I can help you?” Ochre asked.

  “My body,” she began, “won’t move. I… can’t…”

  He pulled on her arm gently. All felions were polydactyl, with extra toes that served as thumb-like appendages, which made grabbing things easier. He dragged her from her hiding spot, the only thing that delayed the bear long enough for him to reach her. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure if he had reached her in time. Her leg was bleeding steadily from the bite wound and her breathing was shallow. Sorrow filled him as he gazed upon her cat-like appearance. He stepped heavily on her injuries in hopes of stopping the bleeding.

  She groaned.

  “Saia,” he said, nudging her with the back of his other paw. “Saia?”

  The bleeding slowed but didn’t stop. He could do nothing more for the odd creature except to accompany her as she passed.

  “It looks to me as if you need some assistance, friend,” a strong voice said.

  “Yes, I do. Her leg is bleeding and it needs attention.” Relief washed over him.

  A man walked from the woods, a slight limp in his gait. He dressed in leather embroidered with ancient and powerful animals of both myth and legend. His shoulder length hair was white and peppered with black and gray. A thick mustache stretched to his jaw line. His face was of a bygone era and a large scar ran the length of his right cheek. He was as old and rugged as the land itself. His eyes were as blue and mysterious as the ocean. He held a lot of wisdom; it was etched in the wrinkles of his face.

  He set down his bow and unfastened his belt that held his sword. He knelt beneath the felion and beside her injured leg.

  “Amara, get the case from my bag.” He said to someone who remained in the shadows beneath the trees.

  A black figure, like that of a dog, emerged with a small leather satchel in her mouth and walked to the man’s side. He gently, lovingly petted her head and took the bag from her mouth. “Thanks, love,” he said, and turned his eyes and attention to the dying girl.

  “Lift your paw, friend.”

  The felion stepped back.

  “Amara, pressure,” the man said, cutting her pant leg with a skinning knife and examining the wounds quickly and as best he could with the limited light provided by the moon.

  Amara placed a wide paw on the medial side of her leg to constrict the femoral artery and slow the bleeding while the man worked. He opened the bag and withdrew a piece of rolled cloth that he hastily unrolled. Within it were a dark glass bottle, a smaller leather pouch, and a collection of small obsidian tools. What was in the bottle and pouch was his secret; a secret he didn’t share.

  He applied a liquid from a dark glass bottle and sprinkled a white powder over the substance before using one of the longer, needle-like tools. There were a series of hisses from each wound he prodded. Saia moaned and writhed.

  “Hold her, friend,” the man said to the felion. Ochre lay down and rested his arm across her abdomen and placed his cheek on her forehead. The substance within the wounds crackled like fire. Saia flinched and squirmed but didn’t wake.

  “That ought to do it,” he said.

  Amara stepped back, removing her paw, and Ochre stood. The bleeding had ceased and the man rose to his feet with Saia in his arms. He carried her to her campfire and laid her down beside it. Amara brought a large bag to his side that had a bedroll strapped to the top. He covered Saia with the blanket and placed the bag beneath her knees.

  Amara went to work piling thin sticks on top of the coals of Saia’s campfire. They smoked heavily before a flicker of flame took hold and ignited the pile. Ochre curled himself around Saia, opposite the fire to block the chill of the night. His ear was tuned to the rhythmic rising and falling of her respirations. If the girl were to stop breathing during the night he would be the first to know.

  Amara and the man laid beside the fire, tending it as needed. The man’s grooved face was relaxed while he chewed on a long clover stem.

  “You’ve been on Dagan awhile,” Ochre said.
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br />   The man made a single nod and replied, “Longer than you think you know.”

  Ochre smiled. “I thought so. You came at the right time. I would’ve watched her die if it were not for your hands.”

  “I come when I’m needed.”

  “Just in time, I hope, Old Man of the Wilds.” Ochre’s eyes met his.

  “Time is something I manage well,” he replied. “Thank you for taking care of the bear.”

  Ochre nodded. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”

  “I know.” The firelight danced on Old Man’s face and silence ensued. He was older than he appeared; aged more than the mountains and was present for the birth of the sea. Death couldn’t touch him since he, himself, was time.

  “You’ll take her home with you?” he asked Ochre.

  He nodded. “I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

  “Easily settled.”

  His horse stepped into the clearing. He was as dark as a new moon’s midnight and as gorgeous as the most glamorous sunrise. His large hooves landed heavily on the ground as he moved gracefully to the old man’s side. The man stood and removed water skins from the saddle.

  “You’re not staying?” Ochre asked, watching him fill the skins from the pond.

  Old Man of the Wilds replaced the filled skins. “I’ll leave in the morning after I check her wound in daylight.”

  “Is that enough time to ensure her survival?” Ochre asked concerned.

  Old Man looked at Ochre and nodded. “The stuff I put in her wounds will heal her leg quickly. She should be walking again in a week.”

  “A week? What’s in it?” Ochre asked perplexed.

  “That’s my secret to keep.” Old Man smiled.

  “Fair enough,” the felion replied.

  As the moon set behind the Bledsoe Mountains beyond the Jadesoe Desert, Ochre slipped into a light sleep; waking often to watch Saia’s chest rise and fall.

  The morning’s dawn was dull and gray as the first sun rose to a cloudless sky. Old Man prepped a meal of breakfast chowder, a favorite for many when yearend begins to generate its chilly mornings.

  “Care for any?” he asked Ochre. Ochre shook his head and politely declined his offer.

  From a large leather bag, the old man took out his ingredients: jerky, dried root chips, herbs, and hard biscuits. He tossed it all into a large pot that he hung from a tripod above the fire and added water. It came to a boil. The roots rehydrated and the hard biscuits softened into pulp which thickened the water. He stirred the chowder with a wooden ladle until it had cooked down to the desired consistency. He removed the pot from the tripod, set it on top of some stones, and filled two wooden bowls; one for him and one for Amara.

  Saia stirred briefly before sighing and settling again. The old man placed his bowl down and stood up. He removed a flask and satchel from his saddle bags then knelt beside Saia. In the bag was a small coin purse. He untied the strings that held it closed and it fell open to reveal an off-white paste. The old man examined her wounds with critical eyes before he used a small wooden spoon to apply the pasty substance. He muttered under his breath while wrapping her leg in bandages to keep the ointment from rubbing off.

  “That should last a week if you leave it be. No rewrapping it and absolutely no unwrapping it until after a week has past.” He gave Ochre a stern look. “No exceptions. Even if it gets wet, keep it on her leg.”

  “What is it?” Ochre asked.

  “That, friend, is another secret.”

  Ochre cracked a smile at the enigmatic man. His knowledge surpassed all who walked on Dagan and he was held in high regards. Ochre watched on as the man took a strip of bark from his pocket. He snapped it in half then held it beneath Saia’s nose. It was tart and pungent like lemons and garlic.

  “That curls my whiskers,” Ochre said, making a face.

  “It’s pistree bark,” he said. “And it’s great for opening the sinuses or, in this case, waking someone who’s unconscious.”

  After a few seconds, Saia’s eyes fluttered as she slowly awakened. She made a sour face and moved her head to the side. Her eyes opened and fixed unfocused on the old man, wielder of the pisbark.

  “Ew,” she mumbled, groggily.

  “Here, drink this.” The old man lifted Saia’s head and held the flask to her lips. She closed her eyes as the cool tonic rushed down her throat. It had no distinguishable taste and was soothing to swallow. After a few long swigs the flask was empty and the man lowered her head. She began to cough and sputter. The tonic, that was cold as spring water, heated in her stomach. Her mouth and throat stung as if she had been sucking on cinnamon sticks. She exhaled. Her breath tingled in her nostrils and made her eyes tear. Her leg where the bear bit her began to burn. Like fire on flesh, waves of blistering pain swept over her wounds. Her leg throbbed so severely she felt like vomiting. She reached down to grab her leg and found her hands restricted by the man.

  “Don’t touch your leg,” he said. “Let it work.”

  The burning sensation subsided after a few minutes. Saia took a gasping breath, looked at the old man with watery eyes, and said, “I don’t think I like that.”

  “Whatever it was, I think it was necessary,” Ochre said.

  Saia drunkenly turned her head, her eyes finding the felion. “Thank you for…” She slurred, trailing off and shutting her eyes. Her heavy eyelids confirmed their weight was greater than her will to stay awake.

  Ochre looked at the old man. “She’s asleep?”

  He nodded. “She’ll be fine, I feel,” he said. “Let her rest up before travelling, though. Amara will accompany you. Her smaller size may prove useful if her leg starts bleeding.”

  Ochre nodded. “Will you not need her?

  “When I do, I’ll call for her. Until then, she’s your companion.”

  Ochre looked at Amara who stood beside Saia and wondered how she would hear him. “How will she…?” Ochre began to ask.

  “Ochre,” Old Man interrupted. “We will meet again soon. Until then, take care of them.”

  “That’s a promise,” Ochre replied.

  The man mounted his steed and took a long look at Amara before turning away. Frogs leapt into the clear water and sent ripples across the surface when they galloped passed the pond. Across the desert he rode his black horse and into the wilds far on the other side of the sands. Not once did he look back.

  CHAPTER 11

  RETRIBUTION

  Hiding within the shadows of the forest was the enemy. Behind the gates of Meridsani the men waited anxiously. Throughout the night, they could hear the ominous clank of a few taunting arrows striking the stone wall. From the forest came inhuman roars and shouts as the Warisai organized.

  “Why follow you both here?” Barator asked Zen. He was perched upon the arch of the south gate.

  “They have a reason,” he replied. “I don’t know what it is but they’re driven.”

  “They have never come this far north and over the sands of Gour nonetheless. I hope it’s not a tendency they’re going to continue,” Barator said.

  “Likewise,” Zen agreed.

  Lana was sitting comfortably beneath the high back of the saddle. The way Zen had seated himself on the arch had positioned her in such a way that she was nearly lying down. Comfortable as she was, she thought he didn’t take her into consideration.

  “Caeda,” Lana whispered. “Stay in the city where it’s safer. If they breach the wall, I’ll meet you on top of the plateau.” Caeda nodded to her and jumped down. She glided to a nearby roof and disappeared.

  A large arrow whistled from the forest’s edge and arched a course towards Zen. The wind pushed it off target, slight wakeward but well within reach of Zen. He swatted it from the air so nobody behind him would get struck. Lana felt him growl when Warisai stepped from the bordering wood. Battle was upon them.

  Zen spread his great wings and roared fiercely. It echoed off the cliffs of the plateau. “Hold on,” Zen said over his shoulder. Hi
s eyes glowed and flickered wildly with flames. He took flight, gaining altitude over Meridsani.

  The Warisai advanced. Mounted units of men and diredogs outside the walls, released a volley of arrows which struck many Warisai. They utilized the shoot-and-run tactic that was created by King Baradier during the Fae War. It was called Baradiering and proved to be a highly effective means to subdue the Malworn.

  With arrows sticking from their shoulders, legs, and chests, they continued their march forward. More sieved from the trees with wooden shields to defend against archery attacks. Each one had a different appearance; a medley of ugly, a concoction of ghastly proportions. Their bodies, clad in leather armor, were excessively muscular and void of fat.