A Trail of Embers

by C A Kinnee

  “It’s no use. I can’t reach him,” he said opening his eyes. He stared solemnly at her. “We have to go. He knows you have it.”

  “Have what? What are you babbling of? I go nowhere with fools,” she said.

  “The egg,” he answered shortly.

  “Egg?” Her heart sank. He was dark touched, speaking of eggs and people chasing them. She stood, stepping back, ready to run if he moved towards her.

  “No, don’t go. You don’t understand. It’s a dragon’s egg.” His words were a plea for her to stay. His fierce glare made her want to run.

  Meara shoved a tangle of water-sodden hair out of her eyes and gritted her teeth against a gusty sigh. Rain saturated her hood, running in rivers down her neck. Her head ached from her fall in the alley. She wanted to find a dry spot to curl up, not listen to his ridiculous claims. Everything about him made her head pound harder.

  “Enough,” she said firmly, her teeth bared in a false smile. “I wish to find my bed and sleep. Go away. Find someone else to tell your wild tales.”

  She turned haughtily and took a step, but her toe tangled in the hem of her ratty cloak. She tripped. Arms wind-milling, she fought for footing in the thick mud and staggered upright. Shooting him a glare, she kicked her cloak out of the way before stepping deeper into the alley, glad to leave him behind.

  Judging by the muffled oaths behind her, she was not to be so lucky. She rolled her eyes and frowned—her luck to be stuck with a crazed farlander. Listen to him, scrambling though the thick muck, cursing how it sucked at the soles of his flat leather boots. She stopped. What else was listening? The thought slid through her mind sending goose bumps crawling up her arms. So far there had been no sign of the creature, but the farlander’s noise might change that. Straining to see into the shadows, Meara waited for him to catch up. Was that thing still out there? She shivered. She had seen the speed of its attack, and the farlander was far noisier than the rat in the alley.

  He caught up with her and they stood side by side. Night formed a black cape around them. It was so dark, she couldn’t see her hand near her face. On either side of the alley roughly mortared walls rose up shutting out the sky. The rain roared down, but above it, she could hear his muttered cursing. His vocabulary was certainly colorful. She stepped forward. He grabbed a handful of her cloak and jerked her to a stop.

  “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “You have to be silent. You don’t know the dangers of the alleys.”

  “Silent like you? You have no idea of silence. Can you track a mandagar stag and touch its haunch before it knows you are there?”

  He gave the edge of her cloak another yank. She pulled free.

  “Shhh!” she said, the sound rushing through her teeth. She stopped. “What was that?”

  Unprepared for her sudden halt, he stumbled into her. She didn’t notice. Barely breathing, she grabbed his arm.

  “Down,” she commanded.

  The muscles of his forearm tensed beneath her fingers. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Be silent,” she whispered tugging harder on his arm. For a moment, she feared he would refuse to give way, but slowly, reluctantly, he dropped to the ground close enough she could hear the quiet sound of his breathing.

  “What do you see?” he whispered, trying to look past her shoulder.

  The heavy rain obscured everything on the other side of its curtain. Time stretched thinly, but Meara kept them locked in place, her eyes fixed on the space in front of them.

  Kieran growled in impatience and moved to stand. Meara ignored him, staring into the blackness. Slowly, she felt the arm beneath her fingers still. Good, she thought sourly, he could follow orders.

  Something moved on the dark surface of the mortared wall. She narrowed her eyes following the motion. The thing was blacker than the night sky. It moved slowly, surging like a flowing pool of oil. Stretching and shrinking, it crossed the wall. In a heartbeat, it swelled from a flattened puddle to a human shape. A dim gray face lifted in their direction. Flat silvery eyes stared at them. The face dissolved and the thing slid through a chink in the mortar, vanishing as if it never was.

  Fear pounded through her. The sound of her heart in her ears shut everything else out. Kieran was on his feet. She reached blindly for his hand and they raced through the alley as though the creature was clawing at their heels. The entrance to another alley loomed, this one broader, more open. Meara pulled him down it. They had to put as much space between that thing and themselves as possible. The alley narrowed. Meara slid around a corner. Her footsteps slowed, stuttered and stopped. She collapsed against a rough wooden wall, panting for breath.

  “What was that?” Kieran whispered in her ear.

  “I don’t know . . . I . . . The long winter brings evil to the town. Strange creatures come out with the dark . . . They murder but leave no trace. The watch finds the victims—dead, frozen—the doors to their houses closed—the windows shuttered. There are no marks on them—just dead. Merdon! Perdu! Do you think it saw us? Will it follow?” She shivered violently. For a moment when the gray oval looked at her, she swore she saw a face—a pale face with dead eyes and open mouth.

  “It had a face . . . a mouth like the one I found on a shark washed up near the dragon’s lair. Did you see its teeth?” Kieran spoke slowly, as if he couldn’t bear to put his thoughts into words. “It’s gone. I think it might be from the dead city. I’ve heard stories of clonons—creatures like it. Perhaps it’s one of those . . .” He fell silent, and then, “What do I call you?” he asked.

  “Meara.” She accepted the jerky change in topic without a thought. She understood his need to speak of other things. “It’s late. We should find a place to hide.”

  “My name is Kieran.”

  She stared at him. “Just Kieran?” She waited for more.

  “What else is there?”

  She shrugged and loosened her cloak to reveal the globe.

  “This . . . egg, do you know what it did when that thing appeared?” He didn’t answer and she rushed on. “It went very cold and shook like one caught in the bitterest winter. I think it was afraid.”

  He reached out and touched the surface of the egg.

  “It’s quiet now.”

  “I know . . . but I think it sensed my fear, that maybe it can tell what I am thinking.” Meara’s voice trembled.

  “It’s gone, Meara. The thing is gone.”

  “Come,” she commanded, shaking off her dread. “I know a spot that’s safe.” She tucked the egg back into her cloak and reached for his hand. His fingers wrapped around hers, warming them, and she tugged him onto the road, leading him through the warren of alleys.

  Aside from the nocturnal wanderings of the endless rats, nothing stirred. The sight of the rough wooden shack tucked in the dark of a distant passage sent a flood of relief through her. Everything was how she had left it. She sank through the opening of the rickety structure and collapsed onto the weathered scrap of linen that served as her bed. The sides of the hut lurched as she settled beneath the planked roof.

  She closed her eyes and muttered a blessing to the Great One. For a moment, she thought the creature would attack. Maybe that was how it killed its victims—froze them to death with their own fear. She shivered. Opening her eyes, she found Kieran looking around her shelter. His face was twisted in an expression of disgust.

  “Home,” she announced. “Do you like it?” He didn’t answer. She shrugged. “It keeps the rain off. Where do you come from?”

  “The forest,” he replied, peering out at the darkness.

  “Forest?” she echoed. “No one willingly lives in the forest. The forest of Cranog is a pit of evil where only the blackest creatures reside.” A shiver punctuated her words.

  “No, it’s not.” It was Kieran’s turn to scoff. “It’s home to our people.”

  “Yours, maybe. I have no people.”

  Kieran didn’t answer. She turned her back on him and curled up in her cloak, staring out at
the rain dripping past the entrance. She listened to the quiet sound of his breathing after he fell asleep. Who was he? Where did he come from? Her thoughts cartwheeled through her brain, growing and bursting in a kaleidoscope of tangled questions. It was a long time before her eyes closed and she floated in dreamless sleep bathed by a soft golden glow.

  Chapter 9

  Danger—be wary.

  Wait—watch!

  In the darkness

  pay heed.

  Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg

  Meara twitched. A faint tapping grabbed hold of her dreams chasing away any hope of sleep. She opened her eyes and searched the lean-to for the sound. Her muscles were tensed and ready to move. She held her breath and waited. Thunk! Something landed on the roof. It rolled the length of the rough shack. A ragged sigh escaped her and she settled limply back into the nest of her cloak, awaiting the next part of the morning ritual. It followed in seconds—a hard thump and a shudder that rattled the boards of her loosely constructed home. Once again, Murkwing had overshot his landing. She smiled. Seconds later, his sharp beak prodded a crack above her head. Having delivered his wake-up call, he strutted across the roof sending a shiver through the walls.

  She yawned and stretched lazily. For once, Murkwing had touched down perfectly on the tilted roof of the shack. Usually his attempt ended in a collision with the alley wall, the resulting squawks painful to the ears. Before she’d discovered the treasure trove of wood, the crashes had meant rebuilding her shelter from the meager pile of scraps she’d found in the alleys. Now if the shed collapsed, she could easily build a new one. She had a plentiful stash of wood, even better, she knew where to find more.

  She frowned. She tried not to think about where the wood came from. Wood was wood. It couldn’t carry the taint of evil . . . could it? Sometimes she wished she had resisted the untouched pile of timber.

  She shivered. Don’t think about it. Think of something good—but her thumb and first two fingers were already forming a circle of protection. She lay still, staring up at the ceiling, willing her heart to stop its heavy thumping. She was safe. There was nothing here. The seconds ticked past. She closed her eyes, drew in a shaky breath and caught herself listening for the faint sound of whispers.

  The voices had arrived soon after she wedged the last piece of wood into the wall of her shed. Every night, soft murmurs drifted from the boards, whispering words that burrowed their way into her dreams. You don’t hear anything, she told herself. The voices are nightmares brought on by too little food and numbing cold. With the arrival of spring and a full belly, they will go away.

  The only evil the wood could bring was what would happen if the watch found her nest. Perhaps it was time to move deeper into the alleys. No, not yet. There was time for that if she saw evidence that the watch was broadening their search for fuel.

  As the long cold continued, the townspeople were desperate to heat their homes and cook their food. They had resorted to burning twigs they would normally pass by. Work crews protected by the watch had been sent to pick over the buffer zone between the town and the forest, scavenging it clean of kindling. Fear kept them from sending their scrounging parties too near the trees.

  It was the shortage of wood that drove Meara to pass through the barricade into the Forbidden Zone. Zarnache had sent a division of handpicked men into the alleys to take the lumber from the rough shacks the streeters built. Her lip curled at the memory. It was hardly a fair match—the men of the watch against the emaciated people of the street. Her tiny shelter, tucked back in the shadows, hadn’t held enough wood to cook a meal of warm mash, but a sharp-eyed watchman had brought it down with a swing of his club. He had almost brought her down too. She rubbed the dark bruise covering her shoulder—a reminder of the confrontation. It still ached.

  The loss of her shack left her exposed to winter’s bite. Without shelter, she might become one of the bodies carried from the alley along with the precious scraps of wood. The old and the infirm were the first to fall to the jaws of winter. When old Myrita par Enshon passed in the night, Meara had followed the watch to see where they buried the kindly old lady. They’d tossed her body onto a heap outside the walls of the town and joked about serving a meal to the forest.

  Yes, she stared up at the ceiling, wood was scarce. What little there was went to the toughest scavenger. Pride kept her from asking for Shay Lann’s help, and experience taught her to give the other streeters wide berth.

  The gangs controlling the streets of Vendonne saw winter as a chance to turn a profit. They had swallowed their differences and formed an uneasy alliance, snapping up scraps of timber and reselling them to the desperate people of the town.

  She could have found an ample supply of wood if she were willing to deal with Beornon par Vanone. The thought of the oily gangster made Meara’s face twist in revulsion. One glance into his tiny eyes buried deep in their fatty holes, and she knew the price he demanded was too high—much too high.

  Survival in the long cold meant searching the alleys for kindling overlooked by the watch. That’s how she had stumbled on her trove of wood. Half-blinded by rain and numb with cold, she’d ventured further than she had ever gone before. The sight of the plentiful wood out of reach on the other side of the barrier made her abandon caution. Scrambling through the barricade of brick and stone, she’d gathered up square-hewn boards and smooth sheets of lumber. She’d tossed armload after armload into her cloak. It was only when she stepped away from the shadow of the barricade that she felt the eyes.

  Casting a frightened glance at the empty windows, she had moved faster, her shaking hands scattering more wood than she added to the pile. The itch between her shoulders blades grew, and a lick of frost chilled her skin. Tossing a final handful of weathered sticks onto her cloak, she’d snatched up her cache and retreated to the shelter of the alleys. Any second, she had expected attack from whatever lurked within the boarded buildings.

  That trip is what made her a believer in the whispered tales told in the market. Until she’d ventured through the barricade, the endless winter meant only that each new day failed to bring the spring. The unrelenting cold ate up the food stores and made the taciturn people of Vendonne thinner and grimmer in the battle to survive.

  Anxiety swelled with every raindrop. Tales of mayhem spread through the common rooms of the inns, the teller’s courage growing with each tankard of ale. Those accounts of murder and strange creatures chilled the souls of even the toughest.

  On her rare visits to the inn, Meara heard the tales. From her lonely corner, she watched the fear grow. Later in her shelter, she would remember the stories and listen for the sound of footsteps over the beat of her heart and the hammer of the rain.

  Life in the shadow of the forest nurtured suspicion like weeds in a flower patch. Mutters of omens flourished. Meara sank deeper into the background to avoid the unwanted attention her strange coloring brought.

  This alley was as far from the other townspeople as she could bring herself to go. Its proximity to old town meant safety from the wandering street gangs, and it was far enough from the confines of the Forbidden Zone to give her the illusion of safety. Who would risk the taint of the Dark One by living so close to his domain? She smiled at that thought. The good people of the town thought her small stature and long, dark curls meant she was touched by the Dark One. Her quick mouth and unwomanly ways didn’t help her fit in. Surely, this alley was the perfect place for her.

  The smile faded as she stared at the cracks in the shelter’s ceiling. She believed the Forbidden Zone was a vile blight. Her blunder through the barricades reinforced that thought. Only evil lived in a place where the Dark One claimed ownership. Not even the men of the watch would step across the barricade. Whatever lived behind the barrier left no one alive to tell its secrets.

  The shelter lurched. A trickle of water sputtered through a gap in the wood as Murkwing changed direction above. The ceiling creaked, sagging under the stress of the bir
d’s weight. Bits of wood rained down on Meara.

  She peered through the opening of the shack. Dawn touched the sky with feathers of opalescent gray. The underbellies of the ever-present clouds carried the all too familiar signs of rain.

  Usually Meara went from dead sleep to full motion, but this morning she hated to stir from the nest of her cloak. Her muscles felt warm and supple, free of the aching cramp brought on by the damp cold. Beside her, the egg purred like a contented cat. Behind her radiated a luxurious heat. She snuggled up to it and felt the comforting bulk of another body cuddled next to her. She edged away as hot color stained her cheeks. Sometime during the night, she had cuddled up to the farlander Kieran like a puppy in a box.

  She sat up. Murkwing’s clicking trot was more insistent. Larger bits of wood rained down as he ran the length of the roof. He shoved his beak through the crack in the roof and squawked. Meara frowned. Danger stalked the passageways as surely as the fat lady. Her warning senses clamored—trouble was coming.

  “What bird? You run across my roof as though chased by cats.” She blinked blearily, yawning as she shoved her tangled hair away from her eyes.

  Murkwing’s answer was another warning quaver. He hopped into the air and soared to the peak of an adjacent roof.

  Meara grimaced. Life on the streets had taught her caution. She squinted out at the gloom, trying to judge the time as she listened to the distant clatter marking the sound of people going about their daily business. Thoughtfully, she nibbled on her bottom lip. Murkwing had warned her of danger before. Her sense of well-being shriveled, and she turned to wake Kieran. He was already awake, watching her silently.

  “You speak to ravens,” he said.

  “He’s a bird. I found him as a baby fallen from his nest. His wing was hurt so I looked after him,” she muttered, hunching one shoulder. “Perhaps he thinks I’m his mother.” What did she care what he thought?