Twenty-five turns, he thought with a sigh. In that time he had crossed the world twice over, had smelled the Acid; walked the toxic, dry Culver Waste; and drank with princes and magistrates in Rore and Ix. He had painted the walls of Blackbird Island, sketched portraits of Elenore Twine, the wealthiest collector in all the realms. He had found fame and spread his name far and wide across all of Alimane and the dense jungle lands of Alg.
But all without her.
The thought made his heart ache. They had been soul mates, spun together to perfection like the notes of a Tritan symphony. Even as a child, he understood how precious a thing they had. And how precious a thing he had lost.
I should never have left her, Haliden told himself. For turns he had shouldered the blame for what happened. After all, he had been the one to throw the punch when he found her father leaning over her frail and naked body. He had been the one to break the man’s jaw even after the lout nearly bit off his thumb in a blind rage.
“The man’s a beast,” Haliden’s father had told him after the locals dragged Trenner Fren off to the cells at the base of the tower. “He deserved what you gave him and more, but I won’t have you fanning his rage any further. It will only end bad for all of us.”
Haliden pushed aside his anger and stared up at the tower. He still remembered the day he first kissed Ember atop its crown: the golden sunset, the quarrel birds buzzing in the distant pines, the smell of Ember’s breath: peaches and strawberry; the smell of her perfume: roses and bilberry sage. Her lips had been so soft, her touch gentle. How I miss those moments.
“You are my brother, Hal,” she whispered to him. “My friend and protector. To the hells with them all. You are my love.”
And how he loved her. Deeper than anyone or anything he had ever known. But her father always stood in the way.
Haliden wondered what had become of the lout. Probably drank himself into the Cistern, he thought as Instar nickered beneath him. Or awoke with a dagger in his gut. He hoped it was the latter, but life had a way of keeping the vile alive far longer than the just. More than likely the man was a cripple now, in the care of some poor bastard who slaved over him day and night, spooning his meals into his twitching, dribbling maw.
Best he’s dead, Haliden told himself as they approached the entrance. If the old bastard wasn’t, he might just have to pay him a visit.
There was a sudden hiss as an arrow slammed into the dirt beside them.
“The wall’s closed, traveler!”
Haliden looked up. A figure stood silhouetted against the ash-gray sky, a bow in hand.
“My name’s Stroke,” Haliden shouted. “My father was Briar Stroke. We lived on the second band beside the crone Dasden Woe.”
The figure notched another arrow. “Stroke’s been gone for the past six turns. Exiled for murder.” He drew back and took aim. “Still wish to keep your claim?”
Two more figures took up positions on either side of him, both armed with crossbows.
“I know nothing of murder or exile,” Haliden replied. “I was sent to apprentice in Delorous twenty-five turns ago and have heard of no trouble since.”
“Your father was a wretch and a coward,” the watchman shouted. “And if the rumors are true, he rots in the ground beyond that there forest. Now be off before I plant this arrow between your eyes.”
Haliden’s heart sank. Murder? That can’t be. It can’t.
“Does Ember Fren still live here?” he asked.
“And what if she does, lout? Come to finish what your old man started?”
This is madness, Haliden thought. Why would Father wish to harm anyone?
“Let me speak with her,” he demanded.
One of the watchmen stepped aside as a new figure stepped up to the rampart.
“You know this one?” the man asked.
“Perhaps once,” a female voice said.
Haliden’s heart soared. Ember!
The woman studied him for a few moments. “But the Haliden I knew died long ago. As did his father. But if you say you are him, than you can answer for his crimes.”
There was a loud thud, followed by a slow wooden groan as Moss Town’s two enormous oak doors slowly opened.
Instar took a few steps back, her eyes widening as a dozen bowmen surrounded them.
“Welcome home, Hal,” Ember said as a man pulled Haliden from his saddle. “Our headsman will be glad to meet you on the morrow.”
3
The words came to him as they always did.
If you want me, I’ll be at world’s end… when the fire comes. But if you love me, you’ll die elsewhere, Haliden. Alone…
He awoke with a start, sweat dripping down his forehead.
The darkness remained unchanged, pitch black as only the mad should know. He sat up as a gentle, moist breeze rushed through the dark. It was the only reminder he was still alive.
Somewhere beyond the darkness, muffled voices conversed in hushed tones.
“Perhaps he can be of use…” a man said.
“No others will go—”
“I say leave him to Wend,” a voice interrupted. “He’s been itching for a new throat to cut.”
Haliden tilted his head back and screamed: “This is insanity! You act as if the Breath isn’t nearly upon us!”
They had put him in Jacquil’s Pit, the same black cells where thieves and rapists were sent to die. He had heard stories of it in his youth: a dungeon hewn into the rock basin beneath the Cistern. But he never thought he would see its black corridors.
Haliden pounded his fist against the cell door. “If you wish to gift yourself to the Breath, fine! I have no quarrel here,” he shouted. “But let me ride! Let me make my run for the Block!”
It had been like this for calls, sitting, waiting, listening as darkness twisted his every thought and sense.
The fire still comes! Are they all so willing to die?
From his best guess, they were only a few day’s ride ahead of it. If they didn’t leave soon, both he and Instar would be ash.
Instar!
He stood, his fists clenched. “My garron!” he shouted, pounding on the door. ”What have you done with her?”
“She’s fine, dog,” a voice replied. “Fed and bedded. But as to how you came upon such a beast is a question Wend will have you answer on the block.”
Haliden slid to the floor, defeated. “She’s mine! A gift from Red Bartle himself!”
“A garron strider… rarest horse in all the land, in all the world?” the voice laughed. “And you say the Red Bartle parted with it?” The man huffed. “I say you’re a thieving bastard. I say you cut the throat of the poor sod who owned her and took her for yourself.”
Haliden shook his head. “Send a bird. They’ll tell you I speak true.” But even as the words left his lips, he knew it was folly. No bird would return from the Vale. It was at least a fortnight away on horseback and probably three days as the crow flies. And why would a thieving pirate care about the fate of a washed up artist?
“Just go to sleep in that there black hole,” the man said. “On the morrow we’ll get the truth of things, one way or another.”
If you want me, I’ll be at world’s end when the fire comes. But if you love me, you’ll die elsewhere. Alone…
Haliden sat up and coughed. The air in the cell was acrid, filled with the scent of burnt pine and oak. He rubbed his eyes and slapped his cheeks. The dream still held him, the same nightmare he encountered every night: Milane riding off as her belongings lay heaped and burning before their home.
“Keep the ash, Haliden,” she told him. “Keep it as a reminder of what our love once was, and what it’s become.”
“Why don’t you just finish whatever you plan to do with me!” he cried to his jailers. “We’ll all be dead soon enough, anyhow!”
“And why should we do you any favors?”
Haliden sat up, his heart in his throat. “Who’s there?”
“Someone who has known sorr
ow for many turns.” It was a woman’s voice. A familiar voice. “Someone who was abandoned in this town and forgotten.”
Haliden’s heart stopped. “Ember?”
A fist suddenly struck him in the face, knocking him to the floor. As he lay spitting up blood, a spark ignited a torch.
“Why come here, Stroke?”
She stood above him, her face bathed in dancing torchlight.
Haliden wiped his bloody nose on the back of his hand. The little girl he had once loved was all grown up now. Her face was smooth and free of acne, her once long hair streaked with gray and short.
“I came for my father,” he said. “To bring him with me to the Block.” One of his teeth wobbled as he probed it with his tongue.
“You shouldn’t have returned,” Ember said. “This place isn’t what it once was. And neither am I.”
“You still got your swing, though,” Haliden said with a halfhearted laugh.
Ember made no reply.
“Where’s my father?”
Ember sighed. “Don’t play the fool. Your head is almost on the chopping block.”
“So indulge me then. Where is he?”
“Where all those go when they are exiled.”
Haliden’s expression hardened. “But what happened?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
Haliden shook his head.,
“He was exiled for murder. The murder of my father.”
Haliden swallowed. “That can’t be. The man wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Ember’s eyes trembled. “He found Father with me.”
Haliden stared at her. “What?”
“You know what. Don’t play the fool. You knew what that animal was.”
Haliden’s heart sank.
“He should have just left us.”
Haliden shook his head. “I came home to make peace with my life. And now I find this?”
“Why did you leave me?” she asked.
Haliden’s mouth went dry. It was a question he had asked himself many times over the turns. And I still don’t have an answer, he thought.
“I didn’t want to,” he lied. “My father knew about us. He sent me to Delorous and forbid me to return until I was of age.”
She slapped him, knocking out his loose tooth.
“For fuck’s sake, woman!”
“You were a man then!” she shouted. “You could have stood for me.” Another tear trembled at the corner of her eye, but she wiped it before it could fall.
“You left me here, bound to my father! Bound to that monster for all the town to see. No one cared for me. No one except your father. But even that wasn’t enough.” Ember stared into the flame, her eyes reflecting hellfire.
“He drove a blade into Papa’s heart,” she finally said. “He died so fast I don’t even think he knew why.” She stared at the torch as memories coiled behind her trembling, blue eyes.
“It was a gift, I suppose. But a gift that left me nothing but shame after they cast him out.” Her hand tightened around the candle, crushing the soft wax as the flame danced above her flesh. “I lost two fathers that day, Haliden. One a bastard, and one a murderer.” The candle guttered out, bathing them in darkness.
Haliden blinked as the flame faded from his vision.
“I meant to return,” he said. “Once. But things just didn’t work out that way.”
Cloth rustled as Ember moved about in the dark. Moments later, the door opened, flooding the cell with blinding torchlight.
Haliden squinted as Ember looked down at him.
“Don’t end it like this,” he said. “Please.”
“It ended between us long ago, Haliden Stroke.” And with that, she turned and slammed the door behind her.
Haliden couldn’t say how long it had been since she left him there in the dark. But the acrid odor of burning pine and oak was growing stronger. And closer. Much closer.
“Take my head you fucking louts!” he cried in the dark. ”What are you waiting for? Be done with it so I can be off already!”
But they never came. Seconds melted into turns and turns into calls. Moldy bread and what might have once passed for water were occasionally pushed through an opening at the bottom of the door. He ate, he shit, he pissed. And when he was through, he stared into darkness.
But then one day the cell door opened. In a flurry of motion, he was lifted onto his feet and marched behind a guard who stank of onions and garlic. As they neared the surface, the air grew thick with smoke and fluttering ash.
“Is it close?” Haliden asked.
“What do you care, artist?”
Gray light washed into the tunnel, forcing both men to squint.
“Wend will see you off long before the fire gets here.”
Haliden took in a deep breath. The air was hot and alive, the ash a ghostly blizzard coating every inch of the basin.
There’s no time left, he thought. They’ve already killed me. Why bother with the ax?
“Put him down and be quick, Wend,” a voice said several footfalls to Haliden’s left.
A hand grabbed Haliden’s shoulder and forced him onto his knees before a bloodstained rock.
“Is this Moss Town justice now?” Haliden shouted. “Punish the son for his father’s sins?”
A hand thrust his face down onto the rock.
“Moss Town don’t suffer murderers, nor their offspring,” the garlic-breathed man whispered. “Just or not, the ax still falls.”
The villagers lined the edge of every band, watching silently from in front of their homes and shops. Haliden stared back at them, searching for familiar faces. But there were none. Only pale and frightened ghosts.
This is not my home, he thought. Not anymore.
“Haliden Stroke,” Wend shouted. “You’ve been accosted for your father’s crime, murder of Trenner Fren, cut down unarmed on the fifth of Strayweather. The shame has touched us all and the name must be cleansed. This is the law here. What say you of this charge?”
Haliden turned so he could see the axman. “I say you’re all fucking fools! I had nothing to do with my father’s so-called crime, if that’s what you’re all even calling it. I came here willingly, a son returning home to say farewell. A son who chose to make his run. And this is my fucking welcome?” He spat at Wend’s feet. “Get on with it and end my sorrow. Just don’t harm my horse.”
Silence fell upon the platform. Haliden closed his eyes and pressed his chin against the cold stone. Cut me well, fool, else I’ll haunt you till the end of time.
“For the love of the gods, be merciful!” someone cried.
This triggered a murmur amongst the villagers. Soon more voices joined in.
“Mercy! Mercy for his run!” another voice shouted.
“Let him take up the charge!”
“Mercy!”
Haliden looked up at the surrounding bands. Women were pleading with their men to intervene, as children and the elderly shouted for mercy.
Wend raised the ax.
Some of the villagers stepped forward, their eyes whispering of violence.
“Do it Wend!” Haliden shouted. “Send me ahead so I can prepare for you!”
The sky transformed from a dull gray into a sea of glowing crimson. Waves of heat and ash blasted into the basin, bringing with it whispers of what was to come.
“What do you say, Wend?” Haliden shouted. “Shall we dance your bloody step or will you let me make a final run?
The headsman hesitated, the ax trembling above his shoulder. Several men approached, various weapons dangling at their sides
“Get on with it!” Haliden shouted.
Wend turned to an armor-clad man standing beside him.
The haggard knight raised his hand. “Silence! All of you!”
The approaching men halted as a hush fell upon the basin.
“Get him up,” the armored man shouted.
Wend lowered his ax and lifted Haliden to his feet.
The armored man
stared at him for a time. He was clad in rusted, mismatched Algian plate mail, an enormous black beard hanging down over his dented chest plate. “You wish to finish your run?”
“It’s my right,” Haliden replied. “As it was for runners of old.”
The knight approached Haliden. He was taller than the most of the villagers, and his brown eyes betrayed the power and confidence of the high-born.
“You don’t remember me, do you Stroke?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure,” Haliden replied. But as he looked deep into the knight’s eyes, past the many hard turns that had prematurely aged his hard, suntanned flesh, a strange familiarity began to arise. “Who are you?”
The knight laughed. “Come now, Stroke… we ran together about the basin as children, dreamt of climbing the Tower, plucked connes from the forest floor. None of this you remember?”
Haliden stared deeper into his eyes. I played with Joseph Seft, he thought. But that boy had been far shorter, nearly a dwarf, and pox scarred from head to toe. And there was Ramaden Woodcutter. But he walked with a gimp and had eyes as green as oak leaves.
Then it hit him. The eyes. They pierced the soul. By the gods, how did I not see?
“Proust? Proust Aswan? But you… you were lost. Fishing the Acid with your father.”
Memories came rushing back, laughter and adventure long since faded by time. He saw the boy clearly now: tall and gangly, the oldest and most mature of Haliden’s childhood friends. He had also been the first to apprentice with Denway Calman, first shipmate aboard the famous whaler, Cardac Gamble.
“Indeed, that boy was lost,” Proust said. “But he rose again, plucked from the sea by those of fin and flesh and brought home in the belly of a laxore
“But you, Stroke… come home atop a garron strider prattling on about your innocence even as your father’s victim cools beneath the soil.” He stepped closer. “Why did you really come here, when you know a son must answer for his father’s crimes?”
Haliden's Fire Page 3