“I’m no coward!” Evetner cried. “You’re all fools! Fools to think anything but burning death awaits you here.” He pointed at the gate. “You might as well let them finish what they started. Either way this will end the same.”
“Just leave us, boy,” Proust said. “I haven’t the time or strength for you anymore.”
“I’m… I’m sorry you feel that way, Father.” And with that, he turned and vanished into the basin.
Proust stood silent, his fists clenched at his side.
“Let the boy go,” Florin whispered. “He wants his own path, let him take
it. At least he’ll die with some dignity.”
Proust scowled at the old archer. “Get back to your post. All of you!”
At first Florin hesitated. But when Proust glared at him, he thought better of it and marched back to his crenellation.
Haliden stood silent as the group dispersed. When the last man had gone, Proust turned to him.
“Get him to the Block, artist. Else I’ll haunt you till your dying day.”
Haliden took a deep, nervous breath. “I’ll try.”
Proust grabbed his tunic, his eyes reflecting the distant fires. “You’ll live, artist! For my son’s sake, if no one else’s, you’ll live.”
10
Moss Town’s great hall was large by Alimane standards, a remnant built after the last Breath.
But on this night less than half of its worn wooden benches were filled.
Haliden sighed nervously as fighting echoed outside. For the past three calls, the firewalkers had been attacking the wall, whittling away at the few townspeople brave enough to remain at their posts.
But even as they closed in around the town, Proust insisted all council members gather to celebrate the venermin’s run.
“This is madness,” Haliden whispered to Ember, who sat beside him staring out one of the hall’s windows.
Outside, women were running back and forth across Rinker’s Band, arrow quills strapped to their sweat soaked backs. They had been resupplying the archers for the better part of the day. Suiciders were rushing the ramparts with ladders and hooks, willingly sacrificing themselves so their companions might continue the attack.
A sense of dread tugged at Haliden’s gut. The air inside the hall had become smoky and acrid, and the majority of guests ate in silence, their eyes distant and lost.
This is a funeral, Haliden thought. One last meal before the fire.
“What’s the point of this?” he whispered, poking disinterestedly at his plate. The first course had been strips of venison marinated in huckleberry wine with braised sweet potato fingers and ears of salted sweet corn. The second course, which now cooled before him, had been roast duck and salt-encrusted salmon garnished with lightly fried potatoes, almonds, and dill. A rare delicacy by Moss Town standards. But it did little to ignite his appetite.
Evetner sat opposite Haliden, his dinner also untouched. Since his confrontation with Proust, he had grown sullen and detached, insisting they sit as far from his father as possible.
Ember pushed her plate across the table and sighed. “Why do they wait?”
Proust and his men had been feasting for almost two calls. A fake celebration for a false hero, Haliden thought as their drunken laughter filled the hall.
Proust stood with cup in hand.
The hall fell silent as every head turned in his direction.
“A toast… to Moss Town’s runner,” he slurred. “May the gods guide your flight.”
Haliden reluctantly nodded. “I thank you for the honor.”
Proust emptied his cup and tossed it onto the floor with a clatter.
Evetner eyed him cautiously. “I’ve never known him to lose himself in his cups,” he whispered.
“He mourns you,” Ember said. She glanced at Haliden. “I understand such sadness.”
Haliden huffed. The wine was quickly going to his head and he was in no mood for arguments. “Better to die with me,” he slurred. “It won’t be long coming… not with that Tritanese piece of junk in tow. But at least we’ll have the wind in our hair.” He raised his cup, the contents splashing across the table. “And perhaps a cask or two of this sludge.”
Ember shot him a sour look. “Best not speak till you’ve sobered. You accepted the venermin and you’ll live. Or I’ll haunt you for all eternity.”
Haliden laughed. “And where have I heard that before?”
A scuffle erupted on the far side of the hall. Tables and plates crashed to the floor as Proust grappled with one of his men.
“Stop!” someone screamed.
Steel glinted in the hall’s dim light, followed by sudden silence as Proust’s men retreated from the table.
“Leave me, damn it!” the knight cried. His face and tunic were soaked in blood, as was his sword.
His confidants slowly backed away. A man lay slumped before them atop an overturned table, blood flowing from his slashed throat.
Proust collapsed onto a bench, the bloodied blade trembling at his side. “Who else speaks such of my blood?” he cried, his eyes wide and feral. “Go on then… take up sword against me! And die like him!”
Haliden rose from his bench. He was drunker than normal and before he knew it, his tongue moved of its own accord.
“Here stands the Knight of Wine!” he shouted. “A fine sight indeed in these desperate times.”
The entire room turned toward him.
Ember grabbed his arm. “Sit down!”
He broke from her grip and approached the knight. “He who loses his wits before the fire! What kind of man are you, Proust? Not a Watkarian; this is evidence to that.”
The knight picked up a cup and drank down its contents. “And what are you, artist? A yellow, godless bitch who runs to the Block?” He stood and staggered forward, the tip of his blade scraping the floor. “A talentless lout whose wife chose a shriveled old cock rather than spend one more night beside you. And you question me? A Watkarian?”
Ember pulled Haliden back. “Just leave it be!” she hissed.
Haliden shrugged her off. His heart was in his throat, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
He’s a fool just like that cocksucker Jenner Nosivrah, he thought. The face of his wife’s lover materialized in his mind. He remembered how the knight had laughed at him as he rode off down Harin’s Road with Milane at his back. He remembered the dust and smoke settling around him as Milane’s belongings burned in front of their manor.
This one’s no different, he told himself. He’s just another arrogant knight who thinks the world is his to command.
Haliden stepped forward. The rage was on him now. The same fury that had stilled his brush and silenced his heart these past two turns.
Proust raised his blade and pointed it at Haliden’s throat. “Your arrival is a curse upon us. A plague that needs to be carved out and tossed into the fire.”
Haliden stared into the drunken knight’s eyes. “End me then. Lift the curse and drag the venermin to the Block yourself.”
The knight wavered for a moment, his bloodshot eyes trembling. “He’s… he’s my son! You think you can just take him away?”
“It’s his choice, not mine.”
Proust pressed the tip of the blade against Haliden’s throat. “I only wanted us to be together… in the end. He’s all I have left now. And… you’re taking that away.”
Haliden felt a pinprick as the steel pierced his flesh. “He’s his own man. Let him make his own choice.”
The townsfolk stood silent in the shadows, too afraid to interfere.
“This wasn’t the way I saw it,” Proust said. He lowered the sword and slumped onto the bench. His face was pale and tears trickled from the corners of his eyes. “I was supposed to be the town’s savior. But I can’t even save my own son.” He let his sword clatter to the floor.
Haliden took a deep breath as his hands trembled at his side. He’s too blinded by honor to see reason, he told himself. The k
night could run with them. Leave death to another day and join his son. The townsfolk need only fend for themselves for two or three more days. And then the Breath would give them what they wanted.
“We could use you,” Haliden said.
Proust looked up at him. “What could I offer you, artist? Another coward to run by your side?”
“Cowards don’t run before the fire. Cowards kneel and wait for it.”
Proust shook his head. “How I pity your father. To have sired such a worthless dreg—”
Haliden drove his fist into the knight’s face.
Proust tumbled back off the bench, blood gushing from his nose.
“You don’t know me! You don’t know what I’ve been through to get here. To come home and find my father has been exiled.”
Proust slowly sat up. His nose was a swollen ruin and blood soaked his tangled beard. “Perhaps there’s basin blood in you yet, artist.”
Evetner knelt before his father. “I won’t stay. I can’t. But I won’t part like this.” He reached out a hand.
Proust looked up at him. The knight’s eyes and nose had already begun swelling, giving him a sad, masked expression.
“Why now?” he asked.
“I need to do more. Like you did,” Evetner replied. “Let me keep this place alive, if only in memory. Let me be the man you raised me to be.”
Proust wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Is it the fire you’re running from? Or me?”
“Neither,” Evetner replied. “But you had your time, your chance to prove your worth here. Let me have mine.” He picked up Proust’s sword and examined its razor-sharp edge. “I need to do this, Father. I need to prove to myself that I am the same man as you.”
Proust stared at his son for some time. He had never thought the boy would leave, his little knight, his little shadow. But as he sat humbled before him, blood running down his nose and beard, it all became clear: Evetner was a man now. And like all men, he wanted to take his own path through life.
Proust sighed. “How does it feel?”
“If you think I relish this, you’re wrong, Father.”
“No, damn it. I mean the blade. How does it feel?”
Evetner raised it and sliced at the air. A few onlookers gasped; to wield a Watkarian blade was punishable by death. But the young man held it firm before him.
“It’s a few grams off toward the hilt.”
Proust betrayed a dim smile. “The balance will grow on you… in time. As it did with me.”
Feet shuffled in the distance as angered voices pressed into the hall. Moments later a voice cried out:
“Lyle!”
A woman broke through the circle of onlookers, her eyes wide and trembling.
“My love!”
She knelt down and clutched the dead man’s bloody head.
The onlookers stood silent as her sobs echoed throughout the hall. When she finally looked up, her eyes boiled with rage. “What did you do, you bastard?”
Proust knelt before his son. “You know the law.” He lowered his head, exposing the back of his neck. “Finish it… clean.”
Evetner shook his head. “This is madness!”
“Do it! It has to be you!”
Evetner tossed the sword at his father’s feet. “Keep your justice, then. I’m no Watkarian… and I don’t abide by their rules.”
Proust fell to the floor, sobbing as voices cried out in protest.
“Take his head!”
“Life for a life!”
“He knows the law! Justice!”
Evetner turned to Haliden. “Are you ready, artist?”
Haliden glanced at the gaggle of onlookers. Many were still frozen with shock. But others wielded daggers behind their backs, their eyes searching for the right moment to strike.
Where is Ember? he thought as he searched the crowd. He hadn’t seen her since the scuffle began and it made him uneasy.
“There’s something I have to take care of first,” he told Evetner.
The dull thud of wood slamming against wood suddenly echoed through the hall.
“They’ve broken through the gate!” someone cried.
Florin stepped into the circle. “Anyone who can wield a bow or blade, get to the wall now!”
Evetner placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “There’s still time to redeem yourself. I’ll stand by you… if you wish.”
Proust looked at the weeping woman. “I am sorry,” he whispered.
She glared at him, murderous rage trembling in her eyes. “Go to the hells!”
“Come, Father,” Evetner said.
Proust stood, a pale, bloodied shadow of the man he once was.
“He’s forfeit his blade,” Evetner shouted to those still gathered around them. “I won’t take his life. Let him stand beside you on the wall and redeem his crime. We’ll need every blade we can get now.”
The widow spat at his feet. “You’re a bastard, Evetner! He’s a murderer. Kill him the same as he killed my Lyle. You know the law!”
“He stands with us,” Florin said. “I reckon the Breath’ll judge him soon enough, anyhow.”
The sound of splintering wood filled the basin.
“They’re coming!”
Evetner looked at Haliden. “Are you ready, artist?”
Haliden shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
And with that, they left the hall behind and entered the fray.
11
Evetner led them around the base of the wall until they stood a few hundred footfalls from the shattered gate. What remained of the two massive, wooden doors now lay splintered and burning, blocking the already narrow passage.
Evetner turned to Haliden and smiled. “They abandoned it.”
Haliden peered over his shoulder. Bodies lay entangled beneath the burning ram, arrows protruding from flesh and bone like porcupine quills. “Your man did well,” he said. “But is it enough?”
Evetner turned to Proust, who stood forlorn behind them. “What say you, Father?”
Proust shook his head. “I have no more authority here. It’s your choice now.”
Evetner scanned their surroundings. Townspeople were running in every direction, extinguishing fires or resupplying archers on the wall. But the fires were too many and the villagers too few. Soon they would be overrun. And then their fates would be sealed.
Evetner turned to Haliden. “Are you any good with a bow?”
Haliden huffed. “Not really.”
“Best get good then. And quick.” Evetner pointed to the tower, where Aldridge Thren lay sprawled over the crenellations with two arrows in his head. “That Tritan bow should help. You up to it?”
Haliden stared at the tower. It was taller than it appeared, eight hundred crumbling steps to the top. “I can try. But what about you?”
“The basin holds one more secret,” Evetner replied. “If all is lost, wait for Ember and do exactly as she says. She knows what I speak of. In the meantime, kill anyone who comes through this gate.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Not your best, artist. What was it my father said? Paint us your masterpiece… in blood.”
Haliden took the stairs three at a time, his heart pounding in his throat. Shoot straight, shoot straight, shoot straight, he told himself as mortar and rock crumbled beneath his feet. And kill whoever passes through the gate. Simple enough instructions. But when the time came, could he do it?
As he rounded the spiraling stairs heated wind blasted into his face. By the gods, it’s close, he thought. Ten, maybe twenty leagues at best. Soon no one would be able to outrun it. Not even Instar.
Several inches of ash covered the top of the tower, a reminder of what was to come. Haliden ducked behind the closest crenellation and crept toward Aldridge’s body.
Four hundred footfalls below, Moss Town men ran back and forth atop the upper band, rising from cover just long enough to loose arrows into the forest below.
Haliden grabbed
the bow and slid the dead man’s arrows back into the quiver as bolts splintered against a nearby crenellation. “Gods!” he hissed. With no one to keep them at bay, the firewalkers had grown braver, targeting the tower with relentless precision.
Haliden crawled back through ash and broken arrow shafts until he was facing the direction of the main gate. Draw their fire, he thought. It was the only way to get their archers out in the open.
Trembling, he raised his hand above the crenellations and cried, “Come on, you bastards!”
A hailstorm of arrows exploded against the tower. When it ceased, Haliden stood and drew back the bowstring.
The Tritan scope quickly pressed to his eye, twisting the chaotic world into focus. Haliden swallowed. At any moment he expected an iron bolt to plunge through his chest or skull. But I can’t back down. This was his home. And whether he liked it or not, he had a duty to protect it.
The scope’s optics clicked as they zoomed in on his first target: a slender man crouched behind the burning ram. Haliden could see the whites of his eyes, as well as the bow clutched in his trembling hands.
He’ll burn us, he told himself. Every soul will die here if he and his comrades get through.
But wouldn’t they die anyway, when the Breath swept across the town?
No matter, Haliden told himself. If the townspeople wish to die, let it be in a way they choose.
He pulled the string back until it was flush against the side of his nose. His arms trembled and his heart pounded. It would be a wild shot if he loosed now—worthless. Focus! he told himself. He took a deep breath, steadying his resolve.
And that was when it happened.
His body froze as a tickling sensation danced up his arms. What in the hells? he thought, horrified. He tried to lower the weapon, but his arm wouldn’t move.
The bow! he suddenly realized. By the gods, it’s been enchanted!
Beneath him, the firewalker drew back an arrow, his burnt face crinkling as he sighted down the shaft. He was younger than Haliden had first guessed, probably no more than fifteen turns. But it was too late to have a conscience; the bow was in control now and he could already feel his fingers slipping.
Haliden's Fire Page 8