Haliden threw himself down as they snapped and splintered against the crenellations. Several bowmen fell from the wall screaming, steel and flame protruding from arms and chests.
Florin laughed as more streams of fiery death flew overhead. “Still want to run, artist?”
Haliden turned to the tower, where Aldridge Thren continued to stand his watch.
Four days, he thought as a flock of pigeons raced past the man’s tiny silhouette. Toward safety. Toward freedom.
Toward the Block.
He glanced at the base of the tower. Hidden in its massive shadow, the garna-barra sat useless and unguarded.
The old man followed his gaze and huffed. “A shame, really. It might have made it, with the right lad at the helm.”
Haliden sighed. “Is there a way out, old man? If I take your venermin, is there still a way to the Block?”
Florin smiled. “Talk to Ember, sonny. She holds the answer… down there beneath the basin.”
Haliden laughed. “Then you know?”
Florin chuckled. “Not been a generation through here when at least one pup didn’t stumble across that bone.”
“So why not tell the others?”
Florin’s grin widened. “Some secrets are just that, artist. Secrets. This godsforsaken world owes us at least one that remains sacred. Right?” And with that, he stood and loosed another arrow into the forest. When he crouched down, though, Haliden noticed something familiar about his weapon. A metallic sheen he’d only seen in one other bow. A Tritan bow.
The old man followed his gaze and broke into laughter. “Like I said, artist. We all need our secrets, right?”
Ember was crouched down on the western side of the basin wall, a bow and quiver at her side.
Haliden ducked behind the crenellations and sat down beside her.
“Still alive, I see,” Ember said. She looked much older now. Her eyes were set in pits of wrinkled shadow, and her fingers were wrapped in bloodstained cheesecloth.
“Perhaps the gods favor me,” Haliden replied.
“Your gods are worthless,” Ember said. “Look what they’ve brought to our
door.”
Haliden peeked over a crenellation. The forest was still and silent, a few wisps of smoke rising above the canopy. But he had no doubt eyes were watching him.
“Get your head down,” Ember hissed. “I won’t see another Stroke off to the afterlife.”
Haliden slid down beside her. “Does this mean you’re speaking to me again?”
“It’s either that or endure Groodmen’s pathetic prattle.”
The burly, fur wrapped man beside her grunted. “A fine woman you have here, artist. Too bad her shit comes out both ends.”
The bowmen within earshot laughed.
Haliden grinned. “I like these men. Their aim is as true with words as it is with arrows.” He leaned in close to her ear. “Which reminds me… your secret is not as secret as you think.”
She turned to him. “What are you talking about?”
“The old one they call Florin,” he whispered. “He wields a Tritan bow twin to your treasure. And he knows of the vault.”
Ember’s eyes widened. “He told you this?”
Haliden nodded. “And he knows how to use that thing. Felled a man for every arrow I saw him loose.”
Ember sat silent for a moment, staring at the tower. She began to laugh. “That sly old codger.”
“I thought you’d be angry.”
“He’s been Moss Town’s best hunter for as long as I can remember. Trained half the boys and girls here. Everyone always wondered how he could take a buck clean at double the length of the basin.”
Haliden glanced at the bowmen standing watch on either side. “You know, with more of those in the right hands we just might drive off your pious neighbors.”
Ember looked at him incredulously. “What are you saying?”
Haliden shrugged. “There’s hundreds of chests down there. That’s a lot of possibilities. You let Proust and his men in there and I’ll take the venermin. And anyone who wants to join me. But I need help.”
“So help yourself. You know where it is. What’s keeping you from ratting to Proust?”
“I won’t betray you. Offer your secret freely, else it dies with me.”
Her eyes trembled as she stared at him. “You were mine once,” she said. “I lost you, and a piece of my heart. And now you want me to help you leave again?”
Haliden took her hand into his. “So leave with me.”
She looked deep into his eyes. For an instant, Haliden saw a glimmer of hope, of possibilities. But it quickly vanished.
“I can’t.”
Silence fell between them for a few heartbeats. Haliden was about to plead with her when she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
And like that they were kids again, the same forbidden fire burning in their hearts. Only now there were no barriers, save for the ones awaiting them outside.
We’re in the tower again, Haliden thought as she cupped his cheek in her calloused hand. Just us and the sky above. Her lips parted, her tongue dancing across his own. How I loved you then, he thought as she emitted a gentle moan. More than Milane, perhaps. More than anyone.
“Get a chamber, you two,” Groodmen spat. “My cock hardens and I haven’t a free hand to set it right.”
They kissed for a few more moments, indifferent to the laughter erupting around them. When they were through, Haliden sat back and stared at the sky. The ash was returning, thicker and darker than ever before.
Proust crouched before them. “I see you’re still standing, artist. Have you painted my masterpiece yet?”
Haliden’s chest tightened. He could still hear the dying man’s cry, see the arrow protruding from his throat. I’m a killer now, he thought.
“I stood by your men, if that’s what you mean.”
Proust turned to Ember and nodded. “You’ve done well, girl. Better than most of my guard.”
“Most of your guard are pups,” she said. “You’d do better with the wives below.”
Proust laughed. “It may just come to that. The louts are preparing a ram.”
“Maybe we should submit,” Groodmen said. “I know Brenam. He’s a good man. Righteous. He’ll let us Gift once he sees we’re not running.”
“He’ll burn us all, you craven fool,” Ember spat. “Can’t you see the madness is on them?”
Proust nodded. “If we open those gates we burn by nightfall. No. We hold them off.”
“And what of me?” Haliden asked.
“You stay and help… or you take our venermin north to the Block.”
“Let me see Instar,” Haliden said.
“Will you take it then?”
Haliden turned to Ember. ”Will you come with me?”
She shook her head. “Just go, Haliden. It’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?”
Haliden reached out to touch her shoulder, but she pushed him away. “Piss off, Stroke.” She stood and marched off toward Rinker’s Band.
Proust watched her go. “She’s brave. And a believer, artist. You won’t win her over easily.”
Haliden sighed. “Just take me to Instar.”
The old garron nickered happily as Haliden approached.
“There, there girl,” he said. To his relief, the stable was situated inside a shallow cave, shielded from the constant hail of arrows outside.
A gnarled, hunchbacked man approached Haliden. “She don’t like me much,” he said, smiling. He had a toothless grin and a nest of matted gray hair.
He reached out to pet Instar, but the garron snapped at his fingers. “See?” he cried. “Just like every other bitch in my life!”
Haliden approached his friend. “Come, Instar,” he said, his hand outstretched.
Instar turned to him, tossing her head from side to side.
“Come.”
The garron leaned over the railing and nuzzled his neck.
�
��Ah! I’ve missed you too, friend,” Haliden whispered.
Proust watched them with cold indifference. “The Breath is three days out, artist. Can she make the run or not?”
Haliden sighed as he scratched behind Instar’s ear. “She can make it. She’s a strider.”
A young man in his early twenties entered the stables. Tall and stout, he was an exact copy of Proust.
So the knight has sired a son, Haliden thought. Like his father, the boy had dark brown hair and penetrating blue eyes. But there was something different about his expression. Fear, perhaps. Or frustration.
As the young man approached, he locked eyes with Haliden and nodded.
“Ah, Evetner,” Proust said. “My son and squire. Not a man in the basin can best him with blade or bow.”
Haliden watched as Evetner approached Instar. “She is beautiful,” the young man said. He reached out and stroked the garron’s mane. Haliden stood shocked as Instar brayed playfully.
“You should be honored,” Haliden said. “Aside from me, you’re the first man she’s ever allowed to touch her.”
Evetner smiled. “I never thought I’d see an actual strider. How old is she?”
“Twenty turns if the Red Bartle spoke true.”
Evetner turned to Haliden. “You met the Red Bartle of Way?”
“Unfortunately. He commissioned my work in exchange for Instar here.”
“That is quite a payment.”
“It was quite a piece of work,” Haliden replied.
At that, Evetner grinned. “I’ve heard of you, you know. The Stroke name is well known, even beyond our meager walls.”
“That is truly a surprise then. I dare say my hands have not touched a brush in quite some time.” Instar nickered as the man scratched her under the chin. “You have a way with her, friend. Most she just chomps at.”
“Evetner worked the stables for five turns,” Proust interjected. “Like every other basin boy.”
“Accept most do nothing but piss and moan,” the stable master commented. “Not this one, though. He’s the best I’ve ever trained.”
Evetner stepped back, admiring Instar. He appeared unfazed by the praise, distant even. He turned to Haliden. “Is it true you’re making a run to the Block?”
Haliden nodded.
“By the gods, you’re lucky. To see such a place… And atop a strider no less. I truly envy you, artist.”
Proust frowned. “Go back to your post, Evet. We’ll talk later.”
Without another word, the man turned and left. But not before glancing one last time at Instar.
“Seems like a good lad,” Haliden said.
“Good… but his priorities need reevaluating,” Proust said. “His faith is not as strong as it should be.”
Haliden huffed. “Sounds like I should share a tankard with him sometime.”
“I’m glad you’re amused, artist. But I am the Watkarian here. I cannot protect those who see doubt in my own blood.”
“What you call doubt I call common sense.”
Proust glared at him. “Just make your run tomorrow, Stroke. The venermin is prepared. Are you?”
“Since the first sign of the Breath,” Haliden replied. “But answer me this: How do I get past your pious neighbors out there?”
“Don’t worry about that, artist. Just focus on your run. The rest is in Dracon’s hands now.”
Haliden turned to Instar and sighed. “That’s exactly what I fear.”
7
The ash rained down heavier than ever, a lifeless hail storm that cut visibility to just a few footfalls.
The dour bowmen looked on in silence. They knew what was coming and had accepted their fate long ago.
Haliden stood beneath them on Rinker’s Band, watching as the last odds and ends were stowed beside the venermin.
The lives of five generations. All crammed inside a steel egg atop a rickety jalopy, he thought. He shook his head. He doubted they would get far. The roads were unforgiving and the wagon looked as if it might rattle apart at any moment.
“I know, I know. She ain’t much to look at, I give you that,” a voice said behind him.
Haliden turned. A short ball of a man stood smiling up at him. “My name’s Krike. But everyone here just calls me the Tinkerer.” He extended his calloused hand.
Haliden accepted it with a nod.
“You’ll be okay on her, though, artist. I’ve installed a little toy I bought off a Tritanese some turns back.”
Haliden glanced at the wagon again. It was a forlorn and ancient piece of wooden junk, with nothing remotely remarkable about it. “I see nothing.”
The Tinkerer bent down and pointed at several long pieces of flat iron running the length of the wagon’s undercarriage. “The gob who traded ’em to me called ’em ‘suspensions.’ Said it would absorb even the roughest of a road’s unpleasantries.” He chuckled at this. “I’ll tell you, if not for the Breath, this little wonder would have made my fortune on the markets.”
Haliden nodded approvingly. “So what did you trade for it?”
The little man rose to his feet and laughed. “My wife. Caught the cheating bitch with the basin smithy. That is, before the lout fled for the Block without her. After that I figured she was only fit for a gob, so I shipped her out under the assumption she was going to Alg.”
Haliden nodded. “Fair enough.”
The Tinkerer’s smile suddenly faded. “You will get there, artist, won’t you?”
Haliden looked at the wagon and its immense burden. “I will try.”
“Don’t just try,” the Tinkerer said. “Our lives are in your hands. Our memories and knowledge.” He looked past Haliden’s shoulder. When he was sure they were alone, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small jar. “This here is Carvilax,” he whispered. “You know what it can do?”
Haliden’s heart skipped a beat. Carvilax was one of the rarest drugs in all of Alimane. Pure adrenaline extracted from a garron strider. With it, a man could run farther and faster than any other land animal, could lift more weight than the strongest Culver brute.
“Judging by your reaction, you know,” the Tinkerer said. “And you know how priceless it is.” He took Haliden’s hand and placed the tiny jar in it. “I give you this, my most prized possession. Use it and get this venermin to the Block.”
Haliden closed his fingers around it and nodded.
“A shame, really. To miss the Breath…” The Tinkerer shook his head. “Well, I guess we can’t all meet our gods. Right?”
Haliden shrugged. “It might be for the best. They might not like what they see.”
The Tinkerer laughed. “I wish you all the luck I have to give, artist.”
Haliden turned to the wagon and sighed. “And I thank you. Lets just hope it’s enough.”
The ram hit the gates with a rhythmic thud, shaking the basin to its core.
Ember sat silent beside Haliden, her head against his shoulder. The clank of falling arrows had finally ceased, only to be replaced by the shouts of basin archers as they tried to take down the ram’s operators.
“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?” she said.
Haliden turned to her. They were her first words in three calls.
“Proust says tonight.”
In the distance, the ram drummed its doomsday call as basin men scrambled to take it down.
“The fire is only days away, Am.”
“I know.”
“So what would you have me do?”
“I would have you stay. Here. With me.”
Atop the tower, Thren continued to stand his watch. Only now the lonely figure wielded a bow. And like every other able-bodied man in the basin, he loosed a steady stream of arrows into the invaders below.
There’s desperation here now, Haliden thought.
A loud crack filled the air, followed by frantic shouting.
“Breach!” someone shouted. “They’ve breached!”
Villagers poured onto Rinker�
��s Band with planks and barrels in hand. As they struggled to shore up the gate, a voice cried out: “They’re coming! All of them!”
Every bowman on the southern wall turned to the forest.
Flames danced beneath the dense canopy. When the intruders broke into the open, Haliden’s heart stopped.
They were men and women. And some were on fire.
Several wielded ladders with barbed hooks nailed onto the ends, while others waved burning swords above their heads, screaming like the madmen they had become.
When the first ladder hit the wall, a basin man pushed it back, but not before taking a crossbow bolt through his throat.
“They’re mad!” someone cried.
“Not mad,” the man beside Haliden shouted, “high on coxil root.”
A volley of flaming arrows erupted from the forest. The basin archers flattened themselves against the parapet, shielding their faces as the wooden shafts splintered around them.
A fire raged atop one of the smaller inns beneath the wall on Calamane Way. Men and women frantically tossed buckets onto the burning thatch, but the flames continued to grow brighter, spiraling into the sky like jubilant demons.
“We’re running out of arrows,” someone blurted a few yards to Haliden’s left.
“We should submit!” another voice cried.
“Piss on that!” the man beside Ember spat.
Evetner appeared atop the band, running to Haliden and Ember with his sword drawn. He fell to his knees when he reached them, gasping as several arrows whipped overhead. “Father… he needs you! On Rinker’s.”
Haliden scanned the basin. Every level was a swirl of chaos: men and women attempting to extinguishing fires, boys dragging barrels and furniture to the blockade, and archers struggling to gather spent arrows as they raced back to their positions atop the wall.
And the bodies. They were everywhere now, some crackling as fire devoured clothes and flesh.
“This way!” Evetner shouted, gesturing toward the stable.
Haliden turned to Ember. “Come. We can do no more good up here.”
So they ran. Past twanging bowstrings, corpses, and weeping bowmen. When they reached Rinker’s Band they found Proust and Florin hunched over an ancient laptane map.
Haliden's Fire Page 6