A Trail of Embers

by C A Kinnee

  The last wagon lumbered free of the brush battering the scrubby rumor bushes flat. The evening gloom covered him as he picked his way to the edge of the trees. For once, the tree spirits favored him. No one looked further than the rain dripping off the ends of their noses. The townspeople believed that the ravaged land between the walls and the forest offered safety, that no one would attack so near their heavily fortified ramparts.

  Kieran covered the distance between the last wagon and the trees in a loping stride. With their fear of attack fading, the outriders had galloped to the front of the caravan. The grunts of the laboring oxen filled Kieran’s ears. He charged the back of the nearest wagon, dodging a cascade of mud tossed up by the wooden wheels. Timing his steps, he jumped, fingers stretched, to catch the back gate. With a grunt, he hauled himself over the edge and dropped into a space at the back of the wagon, pulling the rough canvas cover over his head.

  The first wagon of the caravan was passing through the gate. The driver of Kieran’s wagon shouted and flicked his braided leather whip at the lead pair of oxen. The beasts plunged forward and the front wheel clipped a broken boulder. The wagon lurched. Kieran slid hard against a stack of wooden crates. The crates teetered, threatening to topple. Kieran threw himself at the base of the stack, wrapping his arms around the bottom crate, grunting as a broken board caught his ribs. The pile steadied. He drew in a painful breath of relief.

  “Best be watching the path and not thinking of home, Daimer par Essen. You lose a wheel so close to the gates and you’ll be carrying the load on your back,” a guard shouted from the walkway above.

  “Don’t you be worrying about me, lad. I plan on warming my backside in the Inn of the Resting Rabbit, not carting grain,” Daimer called back, clucking to his team.

  Kieran risked a glance through a gap in the canvas. The guards had stopped their steady pacing to gather and trade insults with the outriders.

  “Last wagon clear. Secure the gates,” the gatekeeper shouted to a line of men massed behind the gigantic door.

  “Homeward the gates!” The cry passed from man to man as ten brawny guards put their backs into the work of driving shut the door.

  Slowly, metal screaming, the iron works ground shut.

  Kieran peered out at the men crowding the back of the wagons. Now that their work was done, they only had eyes for the townspeople standing in huddled groups. The heavy iron latch slammed home with a resounding thud. To Kieran it was the sound of a cage door closing. Grimly he watched the guardsmen shoulder through the crowd. He gripped the wooden side of the wagon ready to jump free.

  “So, Emmett par Pavin, the old forest let you pass!” a voice called.

  “What news? Have you brought the end of winter?” shouted a townsman.

  “Did you see any wild men?” another demanded.

  The noise battered his ears.

  “No, Davion par Movan. We have brought you better than news—ale—straight from the plains of Warnod. Good ale, too!” Emmet boasted.

  Raucous laughter greeted this. The crowd was growing, the voices louder, fighting to be heard. Kieran jumped to the ground and ducked into the crowd.

  “We’ll tap these kegs tonight, eh, lads. A safe journey through the forests of Cranog—I’d say that’s grounds for celebration,” Emmett bellowed.

  Contempt hardened Kieran’s mouth. Tonight, they celebrated crossing the dangerous lengths of the land. Would they be so content if they knew about the Harmony egg? Would they be so quick to joke if they knew that spring’s failure to arrive meant the Dark One tightened his hold over the world?

  He pushed through the crowd and ducked into an alley. The noise behind him faded. These people were like rikiri birds yapping in the trees. His gut clenched at the thought of the Harmony egg. That was his fault, wasn’t it? If he hadn’t been so stupid, he wouldn’t be here now, tracking the egg and its thieves.

  The egg held the key to the weather—a bond between the dragon and his people. Prophecy said the egg would bring peace and prosperity to all. The egg should be resting in the nest of the dragon, bathed by fire, absorbing wisdom until it linked with its guardian. But no, he had to do things his way. He didn’t need help to guard the path to the dragon’s lair. A scout measured as good as an apprentice wizard any day.

  He sagged against the wall of the alley and dropped his head into his hands. He had bungled it. He had bungled everything. He swallowed against the pressure of his heaving stomach. If he could step back and change the past, things might not be as desperate as they were now. He closed his eyes as the memory of his crime slammed over him.

  Chapter 3

  Come alive, awake.

  The beat of your heart fills my ears.

  Your warmth enfolds me.

  Never leave me.

  Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg

  Three nights and many miles past

  The people of the forest filled the inner clearing in an impatient pushing rush, oblivious to the clouds that stifled the sun’s attempt to break free and the rain that dropped like acorns from the sky. Even spring’s failure to arrive couldn’t cool their excitement. The First of Helligon had called an assembly. At long last, the fulfillment of the prophecy was at hand.

  “My people, the dragon has spawned. The time has come to protect her nest,” the First Council shouted.

  The First stood atop the telling block, the wind snapping the sodden wool of his gray cloak-like reaching fingers. He raised his arms and called for silence.

  “Shh! Let the First speak!”

  “Leave off. We wish to hear the First, not you jackals!”

  The shouts filled the clearing in a babble of sound. Whoops and whistles of joy warred with calls for quiet as the crowd pressed closer, jostling those at the front as they tried to hear the First’s words before the storm snatched them up.

  “Kieran!” the First called, breaking off to scan the faces in front of him.

  Kieran straightened under the weight of the First’s gaze and pushed forward. This was it. The First had called his name. The blood pounded in his ears. It was time. He had trained long and hard. Now he was going to have the chance to prove his skills. He stilled his face against the broad grin that threatened to crack free.

  “Kieran, you will watch the paths to the lair. Take Orlan. Send a message if any dare trespass. Keep close eye over the trails. I sense evil stirring,” the First commanded.

  Kieran’s grin vanished.

  “First Council, I need no help,” he argued. “I can watch the trails alone. No one will pass. If they do, my bow will make short work of them.” He patted the slim deadly bow at his side and avoided the admonishing look his father, Kaladin, sent his way.

  Alion, the First Council of Helligon, fixed his piercing eyes on Kieran. His granite face was harsh and unrelenting.

  “I have faith in you, Kieran, but you will have help. The Mage of Remarne is capable of great evil. You will not do this alone.” The First turned back to the crowd.

  It was an order, not a suggestion. Kieran scowled at the First’s broad back. He was more than capable of watching the path to the dragon’s lair alone. Not one of the young wizards in front of him had the wood lore or tracking experience that he did. Being accepted as a scout of Helligon was an honor. The scouts were silent ghosts, drifting through the forests ensuring the safety of the borders of Helligon. Those younger and untrained watched the home camps or served as message carriers. Why send two to do a job that one could easily manage? This task recognized he was ready to serve. It gave him the chance to prove his courage.

  He didn’t set out to lie to the First. Was it his fault Orlan was buried in his books when it was time to go? True, Orlan was easy to distract. A disagreement over the best way to define wind direction, and Orlan wouldn’t stop searching the ancient texts until he proved Kieran wrong.

  Guarding the trailhead was simple. The wards needed to be sounded with a tiny trickle of magic. He had watched Orlan work the spell often en
ough—and Orlan always said that even Kieran could handle that much magic. What did it matter anyway? The wards were impenetrable. The First’s magic was greater than that of all the other wizards combined. The strength of the wards would make his work easy.

  Looking back, Kieran realized he had placed too much trust in magic and not enough in common sense. The wards were set to warn of danger. As a non-wizard, he didn’t test their power. Orlan would have tried the wards with a special enchantment. Kieran thought all was well, but he’d let the enchantment lessen and the wards grow brittle.

  Unaware of his mistake, he’d set up his camp and hunted his dinner. It was only after he’d finished eating that he sensed disaster. The change in the magic had lifted the hairs on his arms. He’d felt eyes watching from the darkened trees as anxiety drew a cold finger down his spine. Standing, he’d stared into the forest, searching for anything out of place. In a blink, the feeling vanished, leaving only its memory like the brush of cobwebs on skin.

  Gathering up his bow, Kieran had left camp, running the trails as panic choked him. What had he done? Heart pounding, he tested each ward, feeling its steady pulse of power. They were unbroken. Nothing was wrong. Afterwards, he collapsed against a tree and rubbed the sweat from his face as the hard knot in his belly unfurled. The wards held firm. The magic was unchanged. He turned back to his camp and found a man standing silently at the edge of the trail.

  “Greetings, young one,” the giant man hailed him, baring his teeth in a smile. “You be a long way from your home.”

  The mocking grin that accompanied the words sent Kieran’s hand stealing towards the throwing knife he’d tucked in his belt.

  The man raised a hand and scratched at the row of iron piercings lining one ear. His face was split by a thick black bar of tattooing that ran down his broad hawk-like nose.

  “How did you reach the center of the forest?” Kieran demanded. “None should be able to pass through the wards.”

  “Wards, young master? Whatever do you mean?” The giant’s black eyes measured Kieran with a slow hard gaze.

  “Merdon, Metreo, you pick the deepest brambles to force a trail. Fool giant. Curse you—Metreo!”

  Crashing branches and colorful swearing spun Kieran back to face the trees.

  The giant sighed and reached behind to lift a spiky branch from where it blocked the trail.

  “Rahdon, you must learn to follow my steps,” Metreo said gently, shaking his head. Three braided cords of black leather swung from the thick knot of hair on top of his head.

  “Curse you and this forest. Can you not find a path that has no thorns?” demanded a thin man sliding from a nest of caneberry bushes at the edge of the trail.

  The man started at the sight of Kieran, and a thin smile smoothed away his scowl.

  “A scout! How clever of you to discover someone to find us a path. Imagine that, and so far from the company of his elders.” Rahdon smoothed a strand of wavy blonde hair from his eyes and blinked before leveling a friendly look at Kieran. “The forest people are the true protectors of the trees, always a friend to us,” he continued, offering a bow.

  Rahdon’s smile was too wide and too ingenuous for Kieran’s taste. His white teeth gleamed dully in the shadows making Kieran think of a wolf eyeing up its dinner.

  “I . . . How did you reach here?” Kieran demanded, his hand twitching towards his knife. “No one should be so deep into the forest. Master wizards placed the wards to keep enemies from the dragon’s lair.”

  For these men to have traveled so far, magic was at work—dark magic.

  “Why, young master, what do you mean? We be but lost in your forest,” Metreo said, his tone inflection-free.

  The big man was taunting him, treating him like a fool. It made the blood burn in Kieran’s cheeks.

  Metreo watched him, his black eyes unblinking. “Can you tell us the way free of the trees?”

  “Come, Metreo, don’t tease the boy. He be but a poor lad separated from his elders,” Rahdon said silkily.

  “I am not,” Kieran growled. “I am the protector of the dragon. You must leave here now.”

  “The protector of the dragon? I see no dragon.” Metreo’s huge hands moved derisively. “It takes a powerful wizard to protect a dragon, although, I do be thinking a dragon capable of watching out for itself.” The three metal rings above his eyebrow rose as his black-lined eyes creased in amusement. “Rahdon, are you in fear for your life? This be a powerful wizard.”

  “I know a little,” Kieran replied edgily.

  The First said remaining silent when mocked was a form of protection greater than magic, but Kieran couldn’t keep quiet. His quick temper blessed him with a fast mouth that landed him in trouble on a regular basis.

  “This is no place for you to be hunting. The dragon has spawned, and she guards her nest. The people of the forest safeguard the magic. You must leave before she discovers you,” he announced.

  Silence greeted him. Were these men stupid? Had he not been clear on the dangers of the dragon?

  “She has brought the Harmony egg into the world. The egg seals the prophecy written long ago.” He watched for a proper showing of respect.

  “A noble calling. For one so young, you carry a task of great importance,” Metreo said.

  Kieran missed the mockery in the gravelly voice. The big man appeared to be genuinely interested in what he had to say. Having the full attention of such a powerful warrior was a heady experience. The novelty distracted him from the duty of guarding the secrets of the forest.

  “The trails are protected by powerful wards, and watchers keep strangers from our lands,” Kieran said. “You put yourself in in great danger by being here.”

  “A great privilege to be included amongst those watchers, but surely, young master, the people of the forest post more than a lad to watch the trails,” Metreo said.

  “The task of protector is a great honor, one that I have trained hard to meet.” Kieran couldn’t keep the pride from his voice.

  “The mighty dragon cannot keep watch for herself?” Rahdon demanded.

  “The dragon uses her energy to nurture her egg. The people of the forest protect the nest. You must leave here. I will let you pass with a warning, but the next protector may not be so understanding.” Kieran thought his words sounded too stiff and formal. He didn’t want to be rude. Maybe Metreo didn’t understand the strength of the safeguards the wizards had placed.

  Maybe he should explain. After that, Kieran couldn’t help himself; his mouth ran faster, the words spilling past his lips as he explained the honor of being named protector.

  He ended with a caution. “You must leave the forest. There are those who will not be as understanding as I,” he said.

  “Then it be a good thing that we had the luck to encounter you. Else, we might not be so knowing about the mighty dragon and her protections. We’ll be on our way. I couldn’t be sleeping so close to such a thing. I be quaking in my boots at just the thought,” Metreo’s deep voice rumbled in answer.

  Kieran looked from the massive heeled moccasins to the inscrutable face. The black-rimmed eyes that met his were as impenetrable as the darkest pools.

  They parted company, Kieran watching in relief as the men gathered their belongings in preparation for leaving. After a cheery wave from Rahdon, they stepped into the trees and disappeared into the dripping foliage.

  Kieran’s feet stayed planted. Worry nibbled at his gut like a thousand ants. He’d said too much. If only he could take the words back . . . Finally, certain the men had truly gone, he took a step towards his camp.

  A distant call reached him.

  “Help . . . fallen . . . sinkhole.”

  Kieran cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, “Where are you?”

  “Lost,” Rahdon’s voice quavered in answer.

  Kieran closed his eyes and shook his head in disgust. A sinkhole! Even the dumbest of forest people knew to avoid them.

  “I’m comi
ng,” he called, swinging his bow over his shoulder.

  He found one set of tracks. They were hard to miss. Rahdon’s, he decided, bending to check the print. Rahdon had blundered through every bloated gray patch of stovrek that marked the forest floor. The big man’s tracks, on the other hand, feathered through the underbrush. In fact, Kieran bent to examine another print, the big man might have been a ghost for all the evidence he left of his passing.

  The fat watery leaves of the stovrek weed contained a yellow powder that glowed with iridescent light when the sun went down. Come nightfall, even a child could track the men. For now, Kieran followed the more obvious path of broken branches and flattened plants.

  Moving swiftly, Kieran forced his way through the dripping underbrush, cursing as soggy branches slapped his face. The slimy weight of the blossoms made his gut clench. At last, the dense brush broke open to expose the splintered branches and muck ringing the sinkhole. A stench like rotting teeth hit him. He gagged and breathed shallowly through his mouth.

  At the edge of the pit, he stopped and crouched, peering down at the muddy figure below.

  “Finally, boy. Was it hard to follow the trail left by our good Rahdon?” a deep voice called up to him.

  “A babe could follow the trail, but a babe couldn’t say how such a mighty woodsman as you could fall into the pit. Grab my bow,” Kieran called, extending the bow downward.

  “Oi, watch that end, young master. You be poking it where it don’t belong!” Metreo’s voice boomed up.

  “How could you fail to see this sinkhole?” Kieran smirked down at the vague outline of the black and white face. “That’s all right,” he consoled. “The forest is a dangerous place. Outsiders often need rescue from my people.” He rocked back on his heels. “Can you climb up the side?”

  “I found some vines.”