CALL OF THE FLAME
James R. Sanford
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by James R. Sanford
All Rights Reserved
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To Todd, for the times we burned.
THE WEST
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE: The Stone
CHAPTER 1: The Madman
CHAPTER 2: Poison and Dreams
CHAPTER 3: The Moment
CHAPTER 4: Dragon’s Blood
CHAPTER 5: The Knights of the Pyxidium
CHAPTER 6: The Sundering
CHAPTER 7: The Way of the Flame
CHAPTER 8: A Magic Arrow
CHAPTER 9: Rumors and Resolve
CHAPTER 10: The Dance
CHAPTER 11: Handfuls of Straw
CHAPTER 12: Commitments
CHAPTER 13: Cinnamon upon a Pillow
CHAPTER 14: The Flesh of the Innocent
CHAPTER 15: That Which Lies Beneath
CHAPTER 16: Redemption
CHAPTER 17: Esaiya
PROLOGUE: The Stone
High Priestess Nistra had the groundskeeper carry the boy to his room. There was no sense in waking any of the sisters. It would only throw the whole convent into a tither if any of them knew. The very idea — a servant boy handling the sacred dreamstone. She also told the groundskeeper to trim the tree next to the temple, for that was certainly how the boy had got in. But first she had to return the stone to the altar, and quickly. The eastern stars had begun to fade with the first light of morning.
She couldn’t simply pick it up with her hands. She hurried to the wardrobe at the back of the temple. The capes worn by the sisters of the chorus were made of cloth of gold, and she tied one around her waist like an apron. She sang the rune of purity ever so softly as she knelt before the stone and gently rolled it into the cloth. No need to ask the Powers for humility, she thought — at that moment she couldn’t feel more humble.
She carried it to the altar in her makeshift apron, so that she would not have to hold it, much like she had carried fruit from the orchard when she was a novice. She took slow, careful steps, as if she walked on ice. To get the stone into its place, she would have to touch it, if only for the slightest moment. There was no way around it.
She reached for it. It felt rough and sharp. And in that moment the waking dream was thrust upon her, and she was in the presence of the Unknowable.
She stood on a cliff above a stormy sea, the eldest firebird above her, its wings spread wide to hold itself still on the raging wind.
Its silent whisper sounded in her inner ear. We accept the one who is offered.
Nistra fell to her knees. It had never been like this before. Never so strong as this.
“We made no offer,” she said, feeling that her voice was lost in the wind. “He’s a boy. It was an accident.”
Yet he has been accepted. It is the will of the Powers.
“I understand. Would you have me teach him of the weird, of the Way of Runes?”
No. There is another Way that awaits him. In matters of the spirit, let him be empty. He will come to us again in his own time.
CHAPTER 1: The Madman
Kyric awoke with a start. His campfire still burned low, and he knew that he hadn't been asleep long. He had been having one of those dreams, but he couldn’t remember it. The forest stood silent, moonlight filtering through the canopy of leaves. Had he heard something? Throwing a handful of kindling onto the coals, he fanned the fire to life, but it wasn't enough light to see past the nearest tree.
The highroad had been crowded that day, the wealthy families in private carriages, a few covered wagons, most everyone else afoot, the overland coaches not running at all in this last week before summer, and no post horses available anywhere. They were all going south for the games, and little comraderies formed with but a few friendly words — safety in numbers with all the pickpockets and thieves coming out for the Games of Aeva. Kyric had walked and talked a short way with some of his fellow travelers, but he had nothing in common with them, not even the local boys his own age. Of course not — how could he? He had wanted to join in their gossip and jests, but he didn‘t know how. They would sooner or later see that he was strange and stop speaking to him.
Kyric had camped alone, far from the road, and now he wished he hadn't done so. Silence lurked expectantly in the shadows, and the slow night breeze felt eerie, like the breath of some unseen creature.
It was only a fox or an owl, he said to himself, tossing a few more sticks onto the fire. Then he saw that his bow was missing. The canvas sleeve he carried it in lay crumpled on the ground next to his knapsack. His quiver of arrows had been knocked over and spilled, but all his other things were still in place.
He leapt to his feet, as if he could strike off into the darkness and run the thief down, even as he realized the futility of it.
Then a voice, "Hello in the camp," and two men dressed for hunting stepped into the circle of light. Neither of them carried a lantern.
Kyric had seen them before. They were gentlemen who served Senator Lekon. The tall fellow — Kyric couldn’t remember his name — carried a blunderbuss at the ready. The thin-faced one, Joff they called him, said quietly, “Don’t be alarmed, lad, we’re tracking a criminal. A madman. Perhaps you’ve seen someone tonight?”
“Yes,” Kyric blurted out, “I mean no, but— “
A soft whirr, then a feathered shaft protruding from the tall man’s chest. He looked at it stupidly as he sank to his knees.
Kyric froze in horror, vaguely aware that the arrow, fletched with blue feathers, was one of his own, but Joff sprang aside instantly, drawing a pistol from his sash, cocking and firing it with one fluid motion at a man rushing in from the shadows, a man with a longsword gripped in two hands.
The swordsman’s head snapped to the side, as if he had been hit, and he staggered for a step before regaining the flow of his attack. Then Joff had his sabre out, impossibly fast. As they met, blades clashed, the two men moving strangely, delicate steps as in a dance, then Joff lay on the ground, a foot-long gash in his torso spewing blood and breath. He died within moments.
Dragging the two bodies close to the fire, the swordsman looked closely at their wounds. “So your blood was still red,” he muttered. He glanced up at Kyric. “They were very good. I thought it likely that they were men of the dragon’s blood.” He shook his head. “Their master may have held dominion over them, but so many young ones join them willingly now.”
He rose and looked Kyric in the eye. With a touch of surprise, Kyric realized that he was broad-shouldered and burly, with thick arms and legs — a body that belied its shocking quickness.
“My deepest apology for using you to snare those two,” he said, “but they were skilled enough that I couldn’t ambush them with only my sword.” He spoke softly, the sort of thing a madman might do after committing a horrible crime.
He fetched Kyric’s bow from behind a tree, tossing it to him as he retrieved the tall man’s blu
nderbuss. He quickly checked the flint and the pan.
“Heading to Aeva for the games?” he asked.
A criminal. A madman. Kyric nodded, unable to speak. Two men lay dead before him.
“The archery contest?”
He nodded again.
“Good for you. It’s almost a lost art these days.”
The tall one stared up at him, the eyes fixed with surprise. A dark stain spread across the forest floor as Kyric watched, the stench of blood and bile rising with it. Those who had never seen human slaughter were supposed to be sickened by it, but Kyric felt nothing, just numbness.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. The swordsman was there saying gently, “I am terribly sorry. This is something no one should have to witness.”
Kyric stood frozen with terror. Witness. He was a witness to murder and by all rights the criminal should kill him now so that none may tell of his crime. But a madman might not think that way. Who knows what he thought? A madman might even want to befriend him. “It’s alright,” he managed to say.
The swordsman shook his head. “But it isn’t. Other hunters search for me along the highroad, and that pistol shot will bring someone around sooner not later. All of this will not look good for you. It is the moment of the winter dragon. If you want to make it to the games you’ll have to come with me.” He raised the blunderbuss for emphasis.
Kyric looked into his eyes. Even in the darkness they seemed glazed and faraway. The moment of the winter dragon. Yes, certainly the man was mad. Kyric would play along and look for a chance to slip away. That seemed best.
“What do I call you?”
The madman smiled. “Aiyan. My name is Aiyan. Now quickly, gather your things and douse the fire.”
When Kyric had done so, Aiyan asked him, “Do you see well in the dark?”
“Well enough.”
“Then you take the lead. I’ll walk in your footsteps and cover your tracks. Just keep going that way.” He pointed to the northwest.
“That will take us through the forest. We should come out somewhere near Liora.”
The swordsman nodded. “Beyond Liora there’s a path that runs along the coast all the way to the narrows.”
Kyric plunged ahead, moving quickly as he could, hoping the madman would simply fall behind and be lost, but the undergrowth slowed him and Aiyan shadowed him easily, matching his stride in a way that made Kyric think he was actually walking in his footsteps.
“How do you do that in the dark?” he whispered over his shoulder.
The answer came after a long silence. “Let’s say that it is something you can practice. Many things are possible.”
They found a game trail dappled with moonlight and followed it for a while, the chirping of crickets a rhythm for the distant calls of night birds. When it turned away from their path they plunged into a thicket, walking through huge spider webs that sent shivers down Kyric’s back. After what seemed like hours, the moon at last set and Kyric could no longer pick his way among the trees.
“We’ll rest now,” said Aiyan. “Sunrise will come soon enough.”
While Kyric rummaged in his knapsack for biscuits, the swordsman knelt down and was still, as if listening, or perhaps making a silent prayer. At length he said to Kyric, “You haven’t asked me why I killed those men.”
Kyric said nothing.
“I heard what they said to you, but it isn’t true.”
Whatever the man wanted to talk about, Kyric would let him. “Then I would like to know the truth, Aiyan.”
A low chuckle escaped the man’s throat. “You’re different. Most people don’t want to know. And I do not blame them.”
The night had at last reached full dark, the insects and creatures of the forest falling silent. Kyric could see nothing before him. He was alone with the blackness and the madman’s voice.
“The Long Winter changed everything, of course,” said Aiyan. “It made the world into a place where they could flourish — the Aessian kingdoms fragmenting into dozens of squabbling city-states, government becoming nothing more than a contest among the most ruthless of the power-seekers. And he went among them sowing the seed of his black blood.
“But they — to mock us he calls them his knights — they are not immortal as he is. His first spawn are long dead and much of what they did has been corrected by the order.”
He made a sound, a sigh of exasperation perhaps. “This is not what I wanted to tell you.
“I killed those two because that is what we do, us and them. Had they caught me unawares I would be the one lying dead. We are warriors, and we are at war. So we kill and we die.
“Their society is a secret one, as is my order. It could not be otherwise in this age of invention and reason, for they use reason as a weapon, decrying us as lunatics should we openly warn any of their powers. Do you know what those two young men were promised? The power to dominate another’s will completely, to make anyone their willing slave — they gain this power when they complete their apprenticeship and take the black blood.”
He paused, struck by a sudden pain, his breath coming fast and shallow.
“So now I know. Not Senator Lekon, of course — no, they seldom take on the lead role — it was the business partner, the one they call Morae.”
He had begun to labor at speaking, his voice tightening.
“Can you remember that name, boy? Take it to Esaiya if I fall, for Morae has poisoned me. Shout it across the narrows and they will hear. And tell them . . . I hid the rudders in the ruins of Karta. Can you do that?”
This is a test, thought Kyric. A test to see if I believe in the fantasy that his madness tells him is real. “I don’t know where Esaiya is,” he said.
“The castle,” said Aiyan, his voice thick now. “Across the narrows . . . the castle.”
The world soon sharpened into focus with the first grey light of morning. Aiyan lay unconscious, and Kyric studied him as dawn broke over the woodlands. His attire was bizarre, almost random. He had no hat, and kept his hair back with a simple braid. Beneath a plain leather vest sporting a dozen crudely-repaired rents, he wore a cheap peasant shirt, yet his breeches were simply absurd: huge pantaloons, striped red and yellow, tucked into fine napped forester boots. But what truly frightened Kyric was the man’s face. It was smeared with the remains of powder and rouge — heavy makeup hastily wiped away, leaving only black paint around the eyes, an insane clown beneath a human mask.
His breathing didn‘t sound right. Was he really poisoned as he had said? Kyric went to him and carefully pried the blunderbuss from his grip, surprised at how cold his fingers felt. Then he saw the matted blood just above the man’s temple. The ball Joff had fired had indeed grazed him. Nothing mortal. But enough to knock anyone flat out. He had heard of the inhuman strength of madmen.
Kyric wanted to pity him, but couldn’t. The night had been a nightmare, and he had seen the man take two lives. He crept away, continuing west toward Liora, the cries of morning birds covering the sound of his footfalls.
When he reached the town, he considered going on his way and telling no one of what passed last night. They would find the man soon enough. But a group of armed horsemen lead by Irren Parfas, the town constable, came trotting down the lane and he hailed them. He told them of the madman.
“Last night we received word from Senator Lekon that the lunatic could be coming this way,” Parfas said.
“Can you tell me who he is,” asked Kyric, “and what he’s done?”
“He’s a cousin to Senator Lekon. Been mad all his life. They’ve always kept him locked-up, but he killed a servant and ran away.”
This was not the answer Kyric expected. How could an imprisoned lunatic learn to swordfight like a master?
Parfas made him lead them back to where he had left the madman. The forest looked different in the full daylight. It took an hour to find the clearing again, but when at last they
did, and Aiyan still lay there unconscious, Kyric realized that he expected him to be gone.
“It was dark and we walked a long way,” Kyric told Constable Parfas. “I don’t think I could find the place where the two bodies are.”
Parfas nodded grimly. “I understand, lad. No need for that. I’ll send a few of the men to look.”
Parfas searched the madman’s clothing, feeling under his vest and looking in his boots, saying, “He stole a valuable book as well.” But all he found was a big silver locket. “Did you see it? Maybe he dropped it on the way.”
Kyric shook his head. “I never saw anything like a book.”
The constable tried to open the locket, but it held fast. He turned it over and found the other side embossed with the design of a sword suspended in fire. He felt and pressed all over, and even tried to twist it apart, but could find no way to open it.
They carried Aiyan to Liora and put him in the jail, a small stone house with a room for a stove and three cells, two with cage doors for the prisoners and one with a window and a solid oak door for the jailer.
Parfas took Kyric aside. “I can’t hold trial for a madman, even one guilty of murder, so I’m going to ride to the Lekon estate and tell the Senator that we have his mad cousin. I’ll be back tomorrow morning with someone who can take custody of the man. Could you possibly stay here and keep an eye on the prisoner until then? My regular jailer, along with half the town, has already gone off to Aeva for the games. You look strong enough to handle that fellow should he wake up. Tell you what — I’ll have my wife bring you some roasted hens for dinner. I’m sure that Senator Lekon’s agent will offer you some sort of reward.”
Kyric hadn’t thought of that. Only a few kandars lay in his purse; he had been planning to sleep under a hedge in Aeva.
So he agreed. And when Constable Parfas had given him the keys and had ridden away, Kyric found the jailer’s cot and fell asleep thinking of roasted hens.