by Will Bly
They burst into flames. It’s a funny thing, the way flame rips through flesh. Flailing limbs tried patting the unquenchable fire. Bursts of fire spewed from their mouths, fueled by the air of their screams. They crumbled into tinder as the fire began to spread.
Ithial stood over his brother. “Halfur. I need you to wake up now. Time for you to die.” He shook him.
Halfur’s eyes stirred under their lids, but remained closed.
Ithial leaned in closer, bringing them face to face. He wanted his brother to feel his breath. “No time for playing possum, Halfur. I have no time.” Ithial drove the dagger into Halfur’s eye. He delighted in his brother’s screams one last time as he scrambled his victim’s brains. “Ha, ha! That’s right. You’re the victim now. How does it feel?” Ithial stood up and presided over his brother’s convulsing body. He threw his head back and laughed with his arms outstretched.
A meek voice spoke from behind him. “Ithial…” Elythia stood wringing her hands with terror written across her eyes. “Ith—Ithial pl—please. What’d—what’d you do?”
“What did I do? You did this,” he said and pointed at the others. “They did this! Not me! How dare you say I did this! My brother did this because he’s evil. You and the others were just weak.” He walked up to her and took her petrified body into his arms. “You… almost caused my death… I trusted you…”
“I’m… I’m sorry,” Elythia whimpered. He grabbed her arms and squeezed her tight, so tightly that her reflexes offered resistance. “Please,” she begged. “Please!”
Ithial stared straight ahead while clutching the dagger. “I actually thought you liked me. I thought you were my friend. I thought you were kind.”
“I—I do like you. I… always wanted to be with you. But they were strong… They hated you…”
“Would you run away with me now?” he asked.
“I would. Yes.”
“Come here,” he said.
She approached him as a sheep would its master, head low. He took her into his arms. She shook with fear. He reveled in it before speaking softly into her ear. “You loved me, I’m sure. But you are too weak to be with me. And there is no room for weakness in this world.” He pulled back, looked her in the eyes, and put the dagger up to her face, pressing the blade into her cheek. Blood trickled from the light puncture. “Pain is not to be feared,” he said as he pulled the metal across her fair skin.
To his surprise, she didn’t scream. She held her hand to the cut and pulled it away to examine the blood.
A bell sounded in the distance. The spreading fire had caught the attention of the village.
A choice had to be made.
◆◆◆
Three days of tough travel had passed. The time had come to sit down and die. They would catch up to him soon anyway. Underclothed and underfed, Ithial knew all along the odds were stacked against him. Not that he relished the idea of hard cloth grating against the cut meat of his back, but he held out hope for some kind of protection for his upper torso. He had but rags, and while the weather wasn’t terribly cold this time of year, there lingered a distinct chill in the air. Winter was on its way, and the iciness of it had somehow found its way into his veins. At this point, he couldn’t stop shaking. For the first night, he declined to start a fire for warmth—fearing it might give away his position. He expected at any moment to be overtaken by his father accompanied by a mob of angry townsfolk. On the second night, he decided the comfort was worth the risk.
What surprised him, though, was how difficult it proved for him to find his flame. What seemed so available just a few days ago seemed scattered and somehow lost. He had to search the coffers of his soul, blundering around the darkness within himself, and finally found a glint of the fire-magic. The fire sparked and warmth flowed.
He slept soundly that night.
◆◆◆
The next day, Ithial found himself in the midst of a different challenge. He hadn’t eaten. His body and mind, worn from torture and hard travel, felt weak and desperate. His jaw hung loose as he sat to the side of the road. Elbows on knees, he buried his face in his hands and mouthed his thoughts in silence—a habit his brother especially hated. He wondered why they haven’t caught him yet. He hadn’t even seen anyone searching. They had to know by now. Even if the fire swallowed the corpes, Elythia would have told them what happened—he shouldn’t have let her go. Weak—it was weak of me. Hunger scratched at his stomach. Should he go back? No. Should he just end himself out there in the woods? Maybe. Should he move on? To where? His magic... he felt weak when he searched inside for it.
He found a large, moss-covered stone off to the side of the path and sat with his feet in a drainage ditch he himself ploughed. By his reckoning, he had run an ox through this spot not even a month ago. He spit at the ground and instantly regretted wasting the moisture. With no rain in the past few days, not even a drop of muddy water was there to quench his thirst.
Time passed. He couldn’t be sure how much, exactly, but it seemed to be quite a while.
A voice called out to him, sounding elderly and eloquent. Comforting like the previous night’s fire, but forceful like the base of a tree splitting and splintering in the woods after a strong wind. “What are you doing out here, boy? What’s happened to you?”
For a moment, Ithial thought his father had found him, but to his relief he did not know the stranger who addressed him. An old man sat atop a cart of goods with a young-looking mule harnessed at the forefront. The mule cocked its head at him. What a strange beast. Ithial wondered why he didn’t hear the cart as it approached. He didn’t know how long he sat there being deaf and dumb to the world.
“Are you well?” The old man swung down from his perch and walked over.
Are you well? Ithial found no words to answer the man. He shook his head with the slightest of shakes.
“Do you have anywhere to go? Help nearby?”
Again, Ithial shook his head.
The old man hovered and waited, pulling at his own beard. Ithial couldn’t imagine the wretch the man saw sitting before him. “You are in pretty poor condition, young lad,” he said, his arms straightened. “Who did this to you?”
“Fa… Family.”
“Oh my, my… my…” The old man sucked through his teeth. “Tssk tssk. Terrible. Well, we can’t go back to them, can we?”
“No.”
“Which way are you escaping from?”
Ithial pointed.
“Well, I was going to go that way for another few days, but I suppose I can turn around at this point. There was a crossroads some way back. Best part of my job, eh, the flexibility!” He laughed. The gesture sounded jolly and true. Words danced around the air. “I sold much of my wares recently. There’s space in the back. And a stack of deerskins—we can make a bed for you. You must be hungry. Rest and food for you, son. We’ll get you right as rain.”
Ithial stood with what energy he had left and walked. The man led him to the back of the cart and helped him up inside. Ithial fell forward onto his stomach and closed his eyes.
Darkness came and then silence.
Chapter 2: Taking Care
Farah sighed into the black pit of the stone well. Her eyes traced the frazzled, makeshift rope as it snaked its way into the deep darkness. She gave it a test-pull. The bucket felt especially heavy. The rigging for the rope squeaked when she tugged, the water below sucking at her efforts, and squeaked again when the rope slipped from her grip. Son of a demon!
She turned from the well, sat against the cool stone, and wiped her brow.
So this is what it’s like to be a mother!
Her hands clenched at the fabric of her skirts. Not long ago she just had herself to look after—a simple life in a sleepy town in the far northern reaches. Now she had two sons: Irulen who had turned into an irresponsible man-child, and Merek, the cloudwalker.
She often found Irulen squirreled away somewhere or another, save for drunken binges and other late ni
ght disappearances. Like some kind of depraved hermit. Farah even made sure to feed his raven-partner Max from time to time lest the bird become neglected.
Then there was Merek, a problem she never asked for and one that wouldn’t go away. He was always around her, mute and confused. Merek couldn’t converse, interact, or cooperate the way other people did. He made for terrible company. As being a cloudwalker would suggest, his head floated anywhere but the present. He attached to her like glue, looked to her for sustenance, but offered little in return, aside from his skillfully crafted drawings.
Kay acted as the other parent in all this, at least for a little while, until she left them high and dry. To be fair, she caught a raw deal—Irulen held the bounty hunter largely responsible for Quinn’s abduction and likely demise. Not that he ever framed his discontent into proper words, but he treated her with the coldest of shoulders. It was about a fortnight ago, when the troop had traveled a few days south of Riverfall, that Farah remembered waking to find Kay gone. Irulen emerged from his tent, deaf to the world, and hardly offered a shrug when notified of her departure. That morning, Farah became a single mother.
Max perched on the roof over the well, pacing to and fro, cawing bird-speak. He made a sound that represented human mumblings, like he talked to himself. Farah couldn’t help but feel slightly offended, as if the bird knowingly mocked her internal musings. But for everything she regretted and loathed, she appreciated Max’s company most of all.
Pulling herself from her thoughts, Farah looked across at Merek. He sat on a stump from a large tree, one of many that had been spread around the town square for the public. He scribbled with his graphite at a scrap of parchment on a thin wooden board resting upon his lap. The youth seldom looked at her, offering quick, flickering glances, but the truth of the matter was she held the distinct honor of being his favorite subject to draw. Farah thought back to her room, to the ever-growing pile of portraits Merek drew of her. They were far too intricate and flattering to dispose of, but she remained a bit uneasy over being his muse. He always drew her, and would likely be drawing her now—even if his gaze lingered for less than a moment. It’s as if Merek captured mere glances and preserved them for eternity. She had to admit, however, that his drawings were fast becoming a solid source of income for them all. If only Irulen would stop spending so much of it at the taverns.
Feeling dejected, Farah moved from the well even as she knew she’d find herself once again standing there frozen within the confines of Merek’s drawing. She stretched her arms out wide as she walked around the square, eyes closed, inhaling the cool air, and absorbing the quiet.
Down the road, the front door of a tavern swung open with a dull thud and vomited a tumbling black-cloaked mass onto the muddy road. An exceptionally large and bald man—the tavern-keeper, if she remembered right—followed the unruly patron outside, his fist raised in anger. The bald man looked around as if counting the possible witnesses should he decide to pummel the ejected man into a pulp right then and there.
Farah thought to turn away as the man’s gaze scanned the square, but it was too late. Eye contact froze her in place. The tavern-keeper scowled in recognition as he grabbed at the scruff of Irulen’s neck, half dragging, half carrying the wizard toward Farah’s direction. Farah sighed again, feeling the strain in her shoulders.
The tavern-keeper approached and shoved her charge toward her.
Irulen stumbled forth. A light of familiarity gleamed in his eyes as he slurred, “Dare’s mah girl!” His hands opened as if to hug his reunited companion. Farah put her hands up and braced for slovenly impact. His hug fell short, however. Farah winced as his face hit the dirt in front of her.
The keeper flung an accusatory finger in Irulen’s direction. “Do you know what this man did?”
“No, sir, but I suppose I shall soon find out.” She forced a fake smile.
The man squinted at her. “This… deviant slapped my serving girl’s backside. Then, after she slapped him across the face, a sudden gust of wind blew through the bar, raising her skirts up well near her nethers…”
Irulen laughed as he raised to a knee. The man put his foot on the wizard and pressed him against the ground. That did not stop the laughing, however.
The keeper raised his fist. “I swear I’ll break his mangy back if he doesn’t stop!”
Farah shook out her hands to get the keeper’s attention and moved to intervene. “Good sir, I’m sorry, and he will be too when he sobers.” She stepped between Irulen and the keeper and walked the man back. “But as you can see, he’s just a simpleton who’s had too much to drink.”
The keeper snorted. “That’s fair enough, but I’ve never met a drunkard that claimed to be a great wizard.” His voice wavered with contempt. “And good luck getting this miscreant sober, he’s like an icy breeze blowing through on a solemn autumn day!” He spat on the ground, turned, and stomped away.
“Does… that even make sense?” Irulen asked before he fell silent.
Farah moved around him to the well. Max, still perched above, watched her, head cocked. There was something in his eyes, a sparkle. She could swear that bird had a human soul. He always knew what was happening.
Farah pulled at a rope. Water. Irulen needs water. The bucket raised slowly from the murky depths. Her determination matched the burn of her muscles.
Irulen made a sound that bordered on a groan and a laugh. He smiled, even as a small trickle of blood ran from his mouth. “I don’t know what the big deal is. We were just having a little fun.”
Farah gave the rope a heavy tug and reached up again. “Right, it’s evident that they were clearly having just as much fun as you were.”
“I didn’t touch her, at least I didn’t mean to. Sheesh, I don’t... remember.” Irulen rubbed his chin.
“Mmhmm.” Farah pulled a little harder at the well-rope.
He turned toward her. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you some water.”
His head turned back toward the sky, and his eyes closed. “Ah, water, nectar of the gods. Never really miss it until you’ve drunk yourself into a proper headache.”
“Or if you’re thirsty.”
“Alcohol... is how I prefer to make mashelf thirsty, thank you very much.” Irulen’s arms laid loose on the ground at his sides like overcooked noodles.
Farah’s lips tightened as she pulled at the rope one final time. She hated when Irulen tripped on his own words. The water in the bucket swished in front of her. “Heavy work, but worth it.”
Irulen spoke through a placid face. “Anything to help... a friend, am I right?” He yawned, his eyes fluttered and blinked as if fighting an oncoming rush of sleep.
“You got that right,” she said as she hoisted the bucket from the well. She smiled even as she felt wrinkles of strain form around her eyes. She stopped at where he laid.
His eyes strained to stay open as he spoke. “You know, you could have just scooped water out of the bucket with a mug, instead of carrying the entire bucket hither.”
“I know.” She poured the frigid water onto him.
Irulen howled in displeasure and scrambled to his feet as the water sloshed around him. He was soaked through from head to toe. He reminded her of a wet sheep dog. For a fleeting moment, genuine threat tightened his face, but it passed, giving way to a jovial grin. His voice cleared and he took a deep breath. “I can always count on you, can’t I? To keep me grounded.”
“I guess you have no choice; you’ve chased everyone else away.”
Irulen’s head lowered subtly. “But yet here you are... Why?”
“One, Merek draws many nice pictures of me. Two, you saved my life, so I intend to do the same.”
“I see no threat to my person at present.” He grinned.
“You are the threat to your own person. Look at yourself, you are lost. It’s high time we start finding you again.”
Irulen sighed as his shoulders slouched. “What would you have of me?”
“There’s a sign on the inn you’ve just been thrown from. It’s a bounty posting.”
Irulen groaned.
“It’s for a robber, last seen heading east, possibly to the towns of Fox Hollow or Treehaven.”
Irulen scoffed. “Town names, so creative, aren’t they?”
Farah ignored him. “Kay has to be there, or at least there’s a good chance she is. We’re going to need her. You have to get her back. Back with us, if not with you.”
Irulen winced with pain from an unseen cause.
Farah softened her tone. “Are you all right?”
Merek, who Farah had all but forgotten about, jumped up excitedly. “Done!” He threw the drawing and sat back down, relaxed. Farah walked near his bench, stooped over, and picked up his latest work.
Irulen came behind her and peered over her shoulder. “Oh my, that’s just… disturbing.”
Farah turned upon him and lifted her hand as if to strike.
Irulen threw his hands up in a defensive posture. “Hey, hey. Not me! I’m not the one who just drew you naked near a well. Hit him!”
Farah’s cheeks flushed. She scoffed at Merek, who hummed to himself. He’s incurably pleased with himself.
Irulen was once again at her shoulder. “I couldn’t have imagined it any better, let alone drawn it.” He laughed as she turned. She gave him a shove, but couldn’t fight a smile.
“Come.” She walked toward the inn. Max flew to her shoulder. “Let’s gather our things and head out while the day’s young.”
“I’m going to have to dry my clothes first, at least the outer garments. It isn’t that warm out yet, you know.”
She redirected him back toward the well. “You can keep warm by pulling us up some more water. I’m thirsty, and you need to drown that fermented breath of yours.”