The War of Embers

by James Duvall

  “And they should have.”

  “It's one ralian dignitary. Not a battalion of spear.”

  “I almost prefer it were. Then I'd have a clear idea what they were after. It's only been seven years since they came through that gate,” Graham said, nodding toward the looming iron wall.

  He and Thomas had stood in the plaza beneath it with a hundred or so men when the Crusader's Gate came crashing down. He could still remember the scream of the metal buckling under the the battering ram and the roar of the ralian horde spilling in through the gap. By dawn they'd pushed the enemy back from a plaza littered with corpses of friend and foe alike. Embers swarmed through air in a choking sea of smoke that reeked of freshly spilled blood when Graham and Thomas had stood before their men and raised the victory cry. They all shouted in triumph as the ralian horns signaled retreat, an anthem of Camden's costly victory.

  Sometime during the din and the horror, a ralian arrow found its way into King Rufus's chest. The conflict brought an end to the War of Ashes, and an end to King Rufus. Since that day, Isaac had sat on Camden's throne.

  Now the plaza was lined with merchant stalls. The air smelled of fresh bread, exotic spices, and on occasion even sweet perfume would waft up to the tower guard station.

  “It's a strange man that tries to find allies in the men that killed his father...”

  “Mayhaps he's trying to avoid the same fate,” Thomas offered. “Keeping the peace is hardly making friends though.”

  “I keep the peace. When I want to keep the peace more, I train more soldiers. I don't invite the criminals to come tour the barracks and dine at my table.”

  “That's hardly the same I'd say, Anthony.”

  “A few years ago there would be at least a dozen panthers or so in sight of this window alone. Now we rarely have so many in the entire city on a given day, and the numbers dwindle every month. Now Fendiss fights Ralia and we have ralians as guests of the Crown. It's all backward. We should be sending men out through the Crusaders Gate to join the panthers in battle.”

  Graham stood at the window, looking out toward Fendiss. Somewhere in the cold night air he caught the scent of smoke and it took him back again to a battlefield seven years ago. Somewhere out there the panthers fought the ralian scourge, abandoned by their human allies. When he closed his eyes he could see them clashing, hear the clang of sword on shield, the roar of flames ripping through the sky. He needed to be there. Duty demanded it. Honor demanded it. Instead he wasted away in this tower, restrained by a child of a king that wanted to pretend an era of peace had come while his neighbors burned.

  Thomas shrugged and finished off his coffee in one long draw. The bitterness twisted up his face as he set the cup down. “Ah, that hit the spot.”

  “Feeling better?”

  “Less worse,” he answered dryly.

  Down in the street Graham spotted a soldier, one of his own. The young man hustled through the crowds, shouldering past those that blocked his way.

  “Sir Anthony!” he called up. “They've found a body.”

  ***

  Beneath the hallowed sanctuary floor and the soaring white arches of St. Penathor's, Anthony Graham followed Brother Harig through a catacomb of sprawling hallways, past offices, classrooms, the archives, and the church library until they reached a large oaken door. This opened into the cool underground of the crypts. Visiting the crypts usually came after the investigation, but the circumstances of this particular murder were not at all the usual.

  “This is where we found him,” Brother Harig said, fumbling for the key. “We didn't want anyone to disturb the body so I locked it up tight.”

  Graham followed the deacon down old stone steps into the chilly catacombs, the musty smell now mixed with fresh death. At the center of a dark pool of coagulated blood a young boy lay dead, his throat slashed open.

  A brief survey of the grisly corpse showed no other injuries. Graham checked the boy's pockets and came up with a blood-stained prayer book and not enough coins to fill his palm. He rose from the body and placed them in the hands of the elderly priest. While most would grimace and wretch at the sight and smells of murder, Harig remained steady and composed. The humble sadness in his face and the stillness of his voice told the story of a man who had seen his share of death. A man of his age would have served in the War of Ashes. Such a gentle soul seemed unlikely to have bloodied the enemy by his own sword, but in war a healer's hands found no want of blood.

  “Has anyone else been down here?” Graham asked, skirting the macabre pool.

  The old priest shook his head. “Just myself and a page,” Harig said. “I have no idea why anyone would want to kill poor Bryan.”

  Graham knelt before the corpse and turned the dead boy's head to better expose the wound that ended his life. “Might have stumbled into something he shouldn't have. What was he doing here?”

  “Just cleaning. I sent him down to sweep last night. I thought he finished and had gone home. I went looking this morning when the other pages arrived and said he had not shown up at the dormitory last night.”

  Beyond the dead boy, the lid of a stone casket had been lifted aside and lay broken into three big chunks on the floor. Graham leaned over the open grave to get a better look. “The skull is missing,” he announced, “and a few bones from the arms and legs also. I've seen this before. Who was buried here?”

  “Father Marcy. He died about six years ago if memory serves. Why?” the deacon asked, color draining from his face.

  “You should have a look. Someone sprinkled ashes all over the remains.”

  Warily the older man stepped over the corpse and looked into the open tomb. His hands began to tremble, prompting Graham to take the torch from him.

  “This... this is unholy, unthinkable. To desecrate the grave of a man of the cloth!” Harig wailed.

  “Easy there,” Graham said, trying to steady the red-faced deacon. “I will see this through.”

  “I cannot stand for this! I will not have the bones of a respected clergyman used for some dark ritual.”

  “Tend to your dead,” Graham said, looking down at the grisly corpse. “Leave the investigation to me. You have your duties and I mine, Brother Harig. I will see that justice is done.”

  Up in the vestibule Graham found Thomas listening intently to a gathered crowd of clergymen, all clamoring for attention with many questions and few answers.

  “A moment please,” Graham said, raising his hands for silence as he passed through the throngs. “Please, a moment. I need to speak with Sir Thabe, and then we will answer what questions we can.”

  The crowd around Thomas dispersed, though no one went far. They spread about the perimeter of the vestibule, talking in hushed tones as the knights conversed.

  “What have you found?” Graham asked once the clergy was out of earshot.

  “They're all jumping at shadows,” Thomas said, scratching his head. “Most everyone knew the boy. Sounds like he mostly kept out of trouble. Though he and another boy did sometimes go down to the crypts to sample the communal wine.”

  “We should talk to the other boy then, what's his name?”

  “Theodore Messle. What do you think? Youthful antics gone too far?”

  “Not a chance. Ralian witchcraft,” Graham said quietly. “Someone's taken some of the bones of a dead priest, sprinkled what they left with ashes.”

  “Sounds like a warlock to me. Seems like quite the coincidence that this should happen while we have those Ralian dignitaries as guests of the Crown.”

  “It does, doesn't it?” Graham remarked. Over Thomas's shoulders he watched the eyes of the gathered crowd. “Have they seen anything?”

  Thomas chuckled quietly. “Well, one of the priests spoke to a hooded man last night. He asked him to remove his hood in the church but the man declined.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Praying, or so the priest thought. Hard to say for sure. I'll track him down and see if I can get a few m
ore details. Could be our warlock, or at least someone working for one.”

  “Good,” Graham said. “I'll be back in a few hours. I'm going to do the rounds, see if there's been any reports of witchcraft or black magic in the last few days. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

  “What?! You're going to leave me alone with this mess? Send a courier!”

  “And have half the city clamoring about a ralian attack by midday? General Tamlin would have my head on a platter. Besides, I think some time alone in the church could do you some good.” He clapped Thomas on the shoulder and walked away to see to his errand.

  Later in the evening Anthony returned to St. Penathor's. The church was quiet at night, save the soft sigh of the wind through its majestic halls.

  The knight with Ilsador's cross on his cape sat alone on the front pew, trying to make sense of the young boy put into the ground that afternoon with only a litany of soft-burning candles to keep him company before the Almighty. For a long while he sat contemplating the boy's untimely fate until a soft hand on his shoulder brought him back to the here and now.

  “You seem troubled, Anthony Graham,” a gentle female voice said. Graham looked up at her, finding a young woman in white robes trimmed in forest green. Beneath the shadow of her hood, Anthony could see sapphire eyes looking back at him, burning in bright blue sympathy to the moon.

  “You should not be here, Kaidira.”

  “The church is my sanctuary and my home,” she said and drew back her hood. Her wolfish smile warm and welcoming, despite Graham's rebuke. A wild black mane of hair hung across her dark-furred shoulders and almost concealed her pointed, inhuman ears. A bright white pool marked her muzzle and throat, spilling down her chest and disappearing into her robes. Most of the rest of her was black as coal with rare patches of warm, earthy browns.

  “Why have you come?” Graham asked, looking back toward the dais. The pulpit stood proudly in the center, adorned with silver and gold.

  “News travels quickly among the clergy, even to werewolves.”

  “The murder, then.”

  “I'm here about the bones,” she said. She sat next to him, curling her bushy tail across her lap as she looked up at the ornate carvings of the eight Keepers decorating the high columns around the pulpit.

  “Brother Harig should not have told you about this. I told him this very morning that I would see this through.”

  “He does as his faith demands,” Kaidira said soothingly. “As do you, Sir Graham. And so must I,” she said, looking up at the big silver cross over a pool of clear water. Light and Death stood side by side in stone relief beneath it, guarding the way of any that should pass through those cleansing waters. “I'm sure you understand.”

  “What do you intend to do in my city?” asked Graham warily.

  “War has been brought to the church. I will do what is needed to protect these halls and this congregation.”

  There was a quiet intensity to the way that she spoke. Anger, barely concealed. Werewolves were not known for their discipline or self-control. For this very reason all of Kaidira's woe-begotten kind were forbidden from the city. Graham was not surprised that the church had summoned Kaidira. There were places she could go, things she could do that others could not.”

  “Last I heard, vengeance was not one of the tenets of faith in Ilsador's church,” Graham said.

  “I am not a creature of vengeance, Anthony,” Kaidira answered quietly. “I've left that part of me behind. She died somewhere along this strange road I walk. A war has begun, however, I have no doubt of that. So I come to protect the weak with this strength I am chosen to bear.”

  Graham didn't like where this was going. “A single murder by a grave-robber hardly constitutes war against the church.”

  “Three grave-robbers,” Kaidira corrected, holding up a finger for each one. “Father Donovan ordered a search of the crypts this evening. So far we have found three graves desecrated. The skulls were taken, as were the legs and arms, and the remnants had been anointed with ash in the manner of the church of Kalthiress. All three were leaders of the faith. All three served with great devotion during the War of Ashes.”

  “Standing before Ilsador's throne they will care little what has become of their bones,” Graham said.

  “There is more going on than a few stolen bones,” Kaidira answered. She had taken to wringing her tail with both hands.

  “There was also a murder,” Graham said. “And witchcraft is a very serious crime. I've got my men watching for signs of it. Surely you must understand that I can't have a werewolf wandering the streets out for blood. There are dangerous men in this city, Kaidira, and I'm sure you can handle them but these sorts of people retaliate. If you do this in the name of the church they will kill again. Let them focus their anger on those of us with armor and swords.”

  “I haven't come for vengeance and I am not worried about the dead. I know these spells, Anthony,” Kaidira said. “I fear for the living, for what is coming to this city.”

  The werewolf priestess stood slowly, her clawed hands curled into tight fists. She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly as she tried to steady herself. “These men were all pillars of the faith, active in the War of Ashes. They were not chosen idly.”

  Graham went to her side. “What spells, Kaidira?”

  “The Sorrows,” she said. “They are coming, I am certain of it. We must pray for wisdom, Anthony Graham, and the deliverance of our kingdom from this dark hour.”

  Chapter 17

  Returning to Ashcrest

  Ashcrest, Colorado

  Solomon's Watch Be On the Lookout

  Citizen Joshua Woods disappeared September 16th while performing survey duties with Tarus Darro and Brian Ketch. An accompanying sympathetic discharge of power from Weather Station portal leads us to believe that he was transported into Ryvarra or The Cold. Recent photo included. Due to decreased power output, portal may take several weeks to recharge. Decisions on how that activation will be used are being reviewed by Solomon's Watch and Ashcrest Town Council.

  From the passenger seat of an old Crown Vic, Joshua watched the aspen and pine sweep by. Ashcrest waited just a few miles down a familiar old road. His heart skipped a beat as the scenic countryside vanished beneath a thin veil of fog from his chilly breath against the glass. He shut his eyes tightly, willing away the little ember of panic burning in his chest. Despite being counted the smallest of Ryvarran dragons, a seeker would not fit well in a police car. He took a deep breath to steady himself and when he opened his eyes he found the sheriff's deputy was staring at him with a frown on her face that said she was not at all amused by her passenger's strange behavior. Officer Carrington was driving him but insisted she be called Amanda.

  “You doing okay over there?” Amanda asked.

  “Yeah I'm fine, sorry. It's just a little exciting seeing home again. I was starting to think I wouldn't. I've been gone so long,” he said. He had lost track of the date some months prior, such details tended to slip from the mind as the weeks and then months passed by in the refuge of Arcamyn's mountains. “two or three months, I think.”

  “It is April,” she informed him.

  Joshua grimaced. “Oh, make that seven.”

  “Lost track of your days?” the deputy asked, glancing over at him only briefly and returning her attention to the road. “Do I need to ask you if you know the year and the president?”

  “Would King Isaac be a bad answer?” Joshua asked.

  Amanda chuckled and shook her head. “Well at least you kept track of your sense of humor.”

  The Crown Vic made slow but steady progress down a meandering service road. The weather station was over an hour behind them, home only a few minutes away.

  “About your alter,” Amanda said. “Casual Fridays are still suspended. Solomon's Watch doesn't yet have a policy in place regarding dragons, but for now you'll need to abide by the usual rules for non-human residents. So even during shields up--”

  “R
ight, right, rule number two,” Joshua said. He had a folded up piece of paper in his pocket with nearly two dozen of them, most of which boiled down to 'Don't be a dragon on the 6 o' Clock News.'

  As they came into town Joshua felt himself relax in a way he hadn't expected. The old Miner's Mart still boasted Gas, Coffee, Milk, Cigarettes, and groceries in all caps across the windows. Chip's Corner Cafe had a full parking lot due to the evening dinner rush. Early spring meant the snowmobiles had been replaced by more conventional vehicles.

  Joshua's new lodgings were a small, two bedroom apartment with a single bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room that doubled as a dining area. Amanda led him through the place out of custom, or perhaps habit, pointing out all of the amenities. His previous apartment had been similar, but in his long absence had been re-let.

  “Normally we put every new arrival with a roommate of similar origin,” she said. “We made a few exceptions for you since you're from around here already.”

  “That's awfully considerate,” Joshua said, considering his new bed. The old, beat-up twin was going to be a problem.

  “Actually...” Amanda said with a guilt-ridden grin. “We couldn't find anyone that was anxious to room with a dragon. Solomon's Watch runs a tight ship. Very little room for niceties.”

  “That's fine. I appreciate the help getting situated.”

  “Quite welcome,” she said, smiling. “So I see you've found the bed.”

  “Yeah it's... uh...”

  “Small?” she asked. Joshua nodded. “Appearances matter a lot. You sleep in your natural form, right?”

  “Uh the dragon, yeah,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “That's fine. I imagine the floor will do for now, but if you had visitors they'd find it out of place that you didn't have a normal bed. We're working out something more suitable for you but it might be a few weeks. What did you sleep on in Ryvarra?”

  “An old rug, mostly,” he said. He left out the 'when I was indoors' part. He had become fond of a grassy slope behind the cabins where no one was likely to bother him and the sun could warm his back. Unfortunately, napping as a big lizard in the local park was something he felt certain fell under the 6 o' clock news rules.