Sword of Flames

3 Strange Havens

Emmie was almost walking in her sleep as she entered the kitchen cavern. The empty chamber was wrapped in shadows, for most of the lamps in the smugglers’ network of caves had been extinguished long ago. Emmie didn’t mind. The slumberous red glow from the banked fires provided enough illumination for her needs. She crossed to the long, knife-scarred table, pulled out one end of the sturdy bench that was tucked beneath it, and sat down heavily. She was ravenously hungry, but lacked the energy to find herself something to eat. It was well after nightfall, and the kitchen helpers had long since gone to their beds. Everyone had worked so hard without rest these last two days that Emmie didn’t want to wake them now. It wouldn’t be fair. Instead, she propped her elbows on the table, ran her fingers through the tangles in her disheveled blond curls, and lost herself in worried thought.

As though it could sense her weariness, the white dog, now christened Storm, laid its head on her lap and whined, looking up at her with an uncannily intelligent expression in its dark eyes. Emmie swallowed hard as her vision blurred with unexpected tears. She muttered a curse and brushed an impatient hand across her face. My, but you’ve sunk low, she chided herself. Bawling like a babe over sympathy from a dog!

“Gracious, girl, you look worn to a shadow! Here—get some of this inside you.”

Emmie jumped. She must truly have been lost in her thoughts, for she’d heard no one come in. A rough, sturdy, work-reddened hand appeared, bearing a mug of soup that was plunked down unceremoniously on the table in front of Emmie. She looked up to see Remana, the mother of Yanis, the Nightrunner leader. The woman pulled out the opposite bench and lowered herself wearily onto the hard wooden seat. Though she must also have been ready to drop from fatigue, she still managed a bracing smile for the younger girl. “Did you get it sorted, then?” she asked, taking a cautious sip from her own steaming mug. “And why wasn’t Jarvas dealing with it?”

Emmie shrugged. “It was just another squabble over accommodation,” she sighed. “Jarvas was asleep—I finally found him in a corner, but it looked as though he had just fallen over where he sat. I hadn’t the heart to wake him—the loss of his sanctuary has hit him very hard. I managed to settle the ungrateful fools myself, without further bloodshed.” From somewhere she found the ghost of a smile. “Luckily, they are all very much in awe of Storm, here.”

Hearing its name, the dog whined, and Remana reached out to stroke the broad white head. The dog looked up sharply at the touch of the strange hand, but had already decided that, as a friend to her mistress, the Nightrunner woman was acceptable. Slowly, the white-plumed tail began to wag—then a large black nose came up over the edge of the table to sniff hopefully at Remana’s mug. “You should be so lucky!” Remana chuckled, removing her soup to a safe distance. “This is the first thing I’ve had to eat all day!” She turned back to Emmie. “My word, she’s going to be a beauty. All she needs is fattening up…”

Emmie saw the shadow of a frown cross Remana’s broad forehead. “The problem is, there won’t be enough food to go round, will there?” she prompted the Nightrunner woman.

“Oh, we’ll manage—don’t you worry.”

Remana’s cheerful front did not fool Emmie in the least. “How?” she asked bluntly. Since the arrival, two nights ago, of the ragged band of fugitives from Nexis, matters had been going from bad to worse in the smugglers’ lair. The secret network of caverns had seemed such a haven at first to the hungry, exhausted refugees, after the horror of the attack on their compound, the hellish journey to freedom through the sewers beneath the city, and the cold, cramped, perilous voyage back to the Nightrunner hideout on a ship so overloaded that the gunwales threatened to dip beneath the surface with every passing wave. For the Nexians, however, relief at their salvation had been short-lived.

Some sixty folk had escaped the city with their lives, and the smugglers’ caverns were far from capable of accommodating such an influx. The result had been chaos. Emmie, Remana, and Jarvas—the leader of the refugees—had been hard-pressed indeed to find sufficient space to cram the Nexians into, while the poor, unsuspecting smuggler families had been aghast at the invasion. To be honest, Emmie could hardly blame them. The fugitives had nothing but the rags they stood up in, and each and every one of them reeked from their journey through the sewers. Arrangements had to be made for bathing and feeding them, and the overworked sanitation arrangements in the cavern network, which depended on the twice-daily rise of the tide through channels beneath the stone, were fast becoming unbearable. And worst of all was the disease.

Emmie sighed, regretting for the thousandth time that they had been forced to make their escape through the sewers. It had been inevitable, she supposed, given their chilled, half-famished state, that her people would fall easy prey to the diseases that proliferated in those narrow, stinking tunnels. Most of the Nexians were already worn down with grief and hardship—for there was not a family present who had not lost loved ones to the dreadful slaughter that the city guards had carried out in their compound. And so many of Jarvas’s refugees were among the vulnerable groups who had been unable to support themselves in the city: the old, the very young, those who were crippled or unfit to work, and those already suffering from illness in the first place.

“Damn it!” Emmie hit the table with her fist and bit her lip to keep from shedding tears of weariness and frustration. Since the loss of the physician, Benziorn, in the attack on the refugees’ sanctuary, Emmie had been the only remaming Nexian with any knowledge of healing. All the responsibility rested on her shoulders now. Assisted by Remana’s herbwives, she had been on her feet for the last thirty-six hours, tending the sick, advising the others on what few precautions they could take to prevent the further spread of disease—and arranging for the disposal of the dead. The fourteen corpses, three of them pathetically small, that had been shipped out that evening for burial at sea, were the ultimate evidence of her failure—and that was what hurt Emmie the most.

“Don’t.” Remana’s strong hand closed over her own. “You can’t take everyone’s burdens on your shoulders, lass. We’ll get through this crisis in the end.”

“The ones that survive it.” Emmie barely recognized the dull, defeated voice as her own.

“And most of them will—you’ll see,” Remana retorted briskly. “Most of those that died were old, lovey, and already near the end of their days. And the little ones—well, what chance would they have had to grow up in Nexis, the way things are these days? At least you’d given them that chance in the first place, Emmie—you and Jarvas. As for the rest-well, it looks as though they’ve turned the corner now, thanks to your nursing. Don’t dwell on the few you lost. Think instead of the many you’ve saved.”

“Thank you, Remana.” Emmie squeezed the older woman’s hand gratefully. “That helps a little. But what are we going to do for the survivors? You’ll never manage to feed and clothe them all, and I know your own people are giving you trouble about the allocation of living space…”

“I’ve dealt with my own people already, thank you,” Remana said darkly, “and that’s the last we’ll hear on that subject, I expect I have extra fishing boats going out to help ease the food shortage—” For a moment, her face brightened. “What a blessing this sudden change in the weather is! By the gods, but it put new heart into me, to see the sun again!”

“Weather?” Emmie frowned, perplexed.

“What? You mean you haven’t even put your nose outside for the last two days? You haven’t seen it?” Remana cried. “Why, a miracle has happened, lass. It’s spring again!”

Emmie shook her head in disbelief. It had seemed so long… After so many months of snow and cold and dismal darkness, she could barely remember what spring was like.

“Just wait until tomorrow,” Remana told her. “Wait until you see it for yourself. I’ll take you out for a sail—it’ll do you good.”

“But I can’t!” Emmie cried. “I have to…”

“You have to do nothing of the sort,” Remana snorted. “Tomorrow you’ll rest, my girl. Everything’s under control,” she went on in quieter tones, “or it will be soon. You leave it to me. Tomorrow I’m sending messengers to my sister Dulsina, who is with the rebels in Lady Eilin’s Valley. They are much better supplied there than we are; they can help us out with extra food. I had thought to send your able-bodied Nexians—those still capable of wielding a weapon, and anyone else who wants to go—to join them. That should give us enough space here to cope with the remainder. What do you think?”

“Oh, Remana—thank you!” Emmie cried. The weight of worry that had suddenly lifted from her shoulders made her feel light-headed. “What would we have done without you?”

“I don’t know what you’d have done without me—but I know what you’re going to do for me,” the Nightrunner woman replied briskly. “First of all, you’re going to have something more solid to eat than soup, then you’re going to bathe—and then you’re going to my room, where you’ll sleep undisturbed until you’ve slept yourself out. Is that clear?”

Emmie nodded gratefully. “Yes, I think I could sleep now,” she said.

But despite her optimistic words, Emmie found that sleep was hard to come by once she was settled beneath thick quilts in Remana’s warm bed, with her white dog curled by her side. Now that her mind was no longer preoccupied with the practicalities of settling her folk, she found her thoughts straying helplessly to those who had not survived. So many had been lost—people she had known and cared about. Poor Benziorn, her mentor and teacher in the healing skills, was missing, and unlikely to be alive. And poor Tilda… With a shudder Emmie remembered the sword that had pierced the streetwalker’s belly, spilling her guts out onto the bloodstained ground. And what of Tilda’s young son, Grince? He had rushed back into the burning warehouse to rescue Storm’s litter, not knowing that the pups were already dead.

… Emmie choked back a sob. In a short time she had become so fond of the boy, but there seemed little hope that he was still alive. Even if he had survived the inferno in the warehouse, it seemed unlikely that a ten-year-old child would come unscathed through the carnage outside.

Emmie had lost so many loved ones already—her husband and her own two children had been slain months ago, during the depredations of the Archmage. By now she should have no more tears left to shed. But as she lay alone in the darkness, Emmie clung to the white dog for comfort and wept for the ragged young boy who had never stood a chance.

Not for one minute did she believe that she would ever see him alive again.

After nightfall, the Grand Arcade in Nexis was an eerie place. The vast pillared halls, once the beating heart of Nexian commerce, now held barely an echo of their former glory. Many of the myriad shops and stalls were shuttered and empty in the black days of Miathan’s reign; the endless rows of crystal globes that had once been filled with golden light were guttering or already dark. The aisles and alleyways, trodden in happier days by a multitude of feet, were silent now, and shadow-stalked. Spiders spun their silken tapestries undisturbed, and the stillness was broken only by the pattering, rustling footfalls of cockroach and rat, who had pursued their nightly rounds without competition or hindrance—until now. For a new scavenger had begun to haunt the Grand Arcade; a new form, silent as the shadows, flitted through the deserted aisles, rattling a shutter here, trying a door latch there, alarming the vermin with its human scent and noise. They scattered for cover as the newcomer approached, unable to understand that the disturbance of their existence was far less of a threat than it seemed—for their competitor was only a child.

The puppy must be saved—this was the only thought that had kept Grince going throughout the last day or two, or three—he couldn’t remember how long he had been running and hiding, in fear of his life, cradling the small dog that was tucked into the scorched tatters of his shirt. He had fled in terror after the soldiers had stormed the sanctuary owned by gruff, ugly Jarvas—searching for Emmie, his best friend in the world, who had given him all five of the puppies from her huge white dog to be his very own. Four of those little scraps of life now lay dead in the burned-out shell of the warehouse that had been a home to so many poor families. Grince was desperate to save this one remaining survivor—for as far as he was aware, the puppy was the only living creature that he still knew. Emmie, if she lived, was nowhere to be found.

The boy’s first clear memory after the swords and the blood and the flames was daylight, an open kitchen doorway, a small loaf cooling on a table—and hunger: terrible, gnawing hunger and thirst. He had been in and out of that house before the goodwife had time to turn round from the fire she was tending, with his booty clutched tightly in one dirty fist. The woman had been too stout to catch him, though he remembered the sound of her wails and curses pursuing him all the way down the street, until he’d rounded a corner and found a chink of an opening in a cellar grating through which his skinny form could slide.

Grince remembered how-difficult it had been to feed his dog, that first time. The little creature was scarcely ready to progress beyond its mother’s milk, and already it was limp and weak with hunger, showing no interest in the morsel of bread that he held up to its mouth. The boy shuddered, remembering how close he had come to losing his precious pet. If he hadn’t remembered what Emmie had told him about mother dogs chewing up the food for their youngsters… When he’d tried it, Grince’s mouth had been almost too dry with apprehension to chew the bread, but somehow he had managed. Once he had forced one or two of the resulting pellets between its tiny jaws, the puppy seemed to get the idea. Like the child, it was a survivor.

That evening in the cellar marked the turning point for both of them. Grince, though still deep in shock at seeing his mother’s disemboweled corpse in the ruins of Jarvas’s compound, found new purpose to his life in caring for the tiny dog. Puppies ought to have milk, he knew—but milk was scarce indeed in Nexis, and though he searched long and desperately, he could find none. Then he thought of cheese—would that do, instead? By now his search was taking him toward the less poverty-stricken homes in the north of the city. Cheese he found in an unguarded pantry, having slipped like a shadow through an open kitchen window. There was also a pot of porridge, simmering at the edge of the fire, ready for the morning. Grince stole that, too, wrapping the hot handle in a scrap of rag before picking it up. He had been astonished at how easy it was.

Seeking a lair to enjoy his spoils, the boy had discovered a high window at the rear of the arcade that had its wooden shutter swinging slightly ajar. It had been difficult to climb with the puppy still tucked into the scorched rags of his shirt—and even more difficult to get the porridge pot up there without spilling the contents—but Grince, goaded by his need, had managed it in the end and, grunting and swearing, had pulled himself up over the sill. The opening was protected by a row of metal bars, but the spaces between were just wide enough for a small, skinny boy to squeeze between.

Grince had dropped down hard on the other side of the wall, falling awkwardly because he was trying to protect both his precious dog and the contents of the porridge pot. Luckily, the floor’s stone flags were covered in a layer of dusty, prickly straw that cushioned the bump a bit. For all his care, though, the landing still knocked the breath from his body and slopped a little of the congealing cereal over the edge of the pot. Grince swore and, with a grubby finger, scooped up a lump of the porridge that was still clinging to the rim. He popped it into his mouth, and it suddenly made him realize how hungry he was. He could have eaten the lot, but restrained himself with difficulty. The porridge would have to be saved for his puppy.

The puppy! Was it all right after his fall? With shaking hands Grince opened his shirt and checked on the little creature, facing into the faint glimmer of light that came through the window above and squinting his eyes in an attempt to pierce the shadowy gloom that filled the interior of the building. The little dog whimpered plaintively as it felt the cold air against its body, but apart from that, it seemed fine. Grince was willing to bet that it was hungry, too. He must find somewhere safe for the two of them to hide…

The boy had already heard the small rustlings and scrabblings in the straw that betrayed the presence of lurking rats. Grince could imagine their shiny little eyes in the darkness, watching him. He was not afraid of them, he told himself stoutly. After all, there had always been rats at home. But the puppy was in deadly danger, and they would make short work of his meager supply of food. Grince abandoned his plan to leave the porridge pot in a corner while he explored.

Awkward as it was, he would have to take it with him. What he really needed, to start with, would be a stub of candle—and a good, stout stick wouldn’t go amiss either! “Come on, puppy,” the boy told his small companion. Taking a firm grip on the handle of the porridge pot, he set off into the darkness.

The inside of the building was too dark for exploring. Grince had not taken three steps before he ran bang up against a wooden wall. Moving to his left, he came near to tripping over the pile of casks and crates that had been stored beneath. Grince bit down on a curse, then suddenly brightened, as an idea came to him. Stooping, he began to burrow his way into the haphazard pile. And mere, right in the center, he found his lair at last—in an old flour barrel where the rats could come at him from only one direction, and be deterred by a slat of wood that he had pulled from a broken crate. For the first time in ages, Grince had a shelter in which he could almost feel safe and secure—somewhere from which he could begin to make his plans for survival.

“Don’t be scared, little one. I’ll look after you.” Though Grince’s words had been addressed to the tiny puppy tucked snugly into the rags of his shirt, the child had spoken in a desperate attempt to comfort himself. Once his initial relief had worn off, the boy’s newfound feeling of security had not lasted long. He was exhausted and hungry; he was all alone in the cold and dark of this enormous, creepy building, and there was no one left in the whole of his small world that he could turn to for help.

They were all dead. Grince closed his eyes and shuddered. His mind still tried to writhe away from the brutal truth. Once more, he wanted to run—to run as he had been running ever since his young life had fallen apart in blood and flames. But the boy had already been running from the truth too long. He had found a good hiding place now, and he had enough sense to know he ought to stay there. The arcade was a haven away from the dangers and violence of the squalid dockside area. It would shield him from the weather and hide him from the brutal guardsmen whose swords had drunk the blood of his only protectors. Here, with luck, there might be a little food to scavenge, and comparative peace in which to take care of his only companion.

Grince decided that the best way to fight his encroaching tears was tending to his puppy, which was shivering beneath his shirt and whimpering with hunger. It was a terrible business, trying to get porridge into the tiny mouth in the darkness, and by the time he had finished, the boy felt that most of the sticky stuff was all over himself, and matted into the little dog’s white fur. Still, at least the puppy seemed satisfied now. He could hear the soft, even sigh of its breathing as it fell asleep. Grince tucked it back into his shirt, where it would stay warm against his body, and pushed the porridge pot behind him, right at the back of the barrel where the rats couldn’t reach it without going through him first. Remembering his own hunger now, he fished a squashed and battered morsel of cheese out of his pocket, to keep himself going. Then, squirming awkwardly to find a comfortable position within the cramped, curving space of the barrel, he took his stick in hand and curled himself protectively round the furry little body of his puppy. This was as safe a place as any, and in the morning, once it was daylight, he’d be able to explore a little… But for now, exhaution was taking its toll. In the midst of his planning the boy’s eyes closed at last, and before he was aware of it, he had joined his dog in sleep.

Grince woke, screaming, from a nightmare. The compound gate had been broken down, and the warehouse was consumed by a roaring wall of fire. Folk were running, screaming… The soldiers were everywhere, their long, sharp blades gleaming crimson in the light of the flames, drinking thirstily of blood—more blood. Bodies were everywhere, littering the mud like broken toys, and Grince’s mother lay sprawled where she had fallen, sliced open like a slaughtered animal, while the grim-faced soldiers with their swords swept on and on…

Grince whimpered, tears running down his face, his inner eye filled with swords and fire and death… He scrunched up within his barrel, as if to hide from the guardsmen with their sharp blades—and from within his shirt the puppy yelped sharply, in pain.

The sound brought Grince out of his nightmare with a jerk. The puppy—he had almost hurt it! Cursing himself for a fool, the boy slipped a trembling hand into his shirt. A soft, furry shape wriggled beneath his fingers with a joyful whine, and a tiny tongue licked his hand. Deep within himself, Grince felt a warm glow of pleasure that helped dispel the last chilling dregs of his nightmare. Why, it knew him! Really, he thought, it ought to have a name… Crouched in the darkness, his hand still stroking the warm, comforting fur of the little dog, Grince considered the possibilities. It had to be a special name, somehow. This was his dog, and it deserved no less. Huddled alone in the darkness, the boy racked his brains for a suitable name—a perfect name—but without success. One possibility after another he discarded as not being quite good enough. Still, it helped take his mind off the cold, off his hunger and loneliness and midnight terrors…

Deep in thought, Grince stroked the wiry body of the pup. It wasn’t really so very small, he reflected. It only seemed that way when he compared it to its mother’s vast size. It had been the biggest of the litter, too, he thought proudly, and it had enormous ears and feet. Emmie had told him they were big so that the puppy could grow into them. One day, she had said, it would be as big as her own white dog.

Where was Emmie now? Without realizing what was happening, the boy slipped back into the hideous visions from the compound. The soldiers were there again, with their brutal swords—only this time, Grince was not alone. At his side was an enormous white dog—his white dog, all grown-up. With a snarl it leapt at the soldiers, tearing at them with its great teeth that were more than a match for any sword. Shrieking with terror, the soldiers ran away…

And Grince came back to himself, curled uncomfortably in the musty barrel, the great white dog a tiny helpless puppy snuggled in his ragged shirt. But he won’t stay small forever, the boy thought delightedly. If I take care of him now, he’ll grow up to be big like his mother—then he’ll look after me! And he’ll be a better fighter than any of those rotten soldiers…

Grince shot bolt upright, banging his head on the curving top of the barrel. The pain of the bump did nothing to quench his delighted grin. Of course. That was it! It was perfect! The small boy hugged his puppy. “Guess what,” he told it. “I’m going to call you Warrior.” Still smiling, Grince fell asleep at last, secure in the knowledge that his own white dog would protect him from his dreams.

Far above sleeping Nexis, high on the promontory that overlooked the remains of that once fair city, the white walls of the Academy trapped the moonlight in an eerie glow. From a distance, had anyone been looking up from the lesser dwellings of the city, the home of the Magefolk still seemed unsullied and perfect—save where the massive weather-dome had been shattered into shards like a broken eggshell. From within the walls, however, things looked very different.

Is it always so? Miathan wondered, as he shuffled carefully across the stained, cracked flagstones of the courtyard. Is everything different when viewed from the other side? The Archmage still wearied easily from the strain of spending so long, lately, in the occupation of another body, not to mention the superhuman effort it had taken to wrench himself back to his own form when his pawn Harihn, whose shape he had borrowed, had been slain. Partway across the moon-silvered courtyard he stopped to rest, seating himself on the cold stone rim of the central fountain whose springing waters and laughing, bubbling song had long since been stilled. A bitter laugh sprang to Miathan’s lips. This was a fitting throne, indeed! At last he had achieved his ambition—his rule over the city’s Mortals was absolute, as he had always wished it to be—and his victory was as hollow, empty, and ruined as the cracked shell of the once mighty weather-dome.

It used to be so beautiful here, the Archmage thought. The Academy had once been filled with life and movement as Magefolk hurried to and fro, their minds bent on perfecting the use of their powers. Servants had bustled about, cleaning and repairing under Elewin’s stern gaze, maintaining the place in all its splendor. There had been a sense of pride and purpose in those days, Miathan reflected. Not just the purpose and pride of one ambitious Mage, but of many folk, all going about their allotted business. All the work, the personalities, the hopes and dreams of those folk, had combined to give the Academy a life and a spirit that was unique—and in reaching out to possess the greater world, he, the Archmage, had destroyed the place he had rightfully ruled. It was as though he had reached out toward a rainbow—and come back with a handful of rain, that trickled through his fingers and vanished without trace.

The Archmage scanned the Academy courtyard with the multiple, prismatic vision of the gems that had replaced his eyes. The pearl-white buildings, that had once been so pristine and spotless, were now mottled with dark patches of moss and slimy mold. The glass and iron lacework structure of the plant room had melted and buckled in the heat of the exploding weather-dome, and coarse weeds had sprung up between the cracks in the courtyard’s flags. The windows of the Great Hall and the Mages’ Tower were cracked and smeared with grime, and tiles had slipped from the library roof, leaving gaping holes that exposed the priceless works within to all the depredations of dirt and damp.

Miathan shuddered. “I never meant it to turn out like this,” he whispered. Then his expression hardened. He had sacrificed so much for the sake of power that now he must keep it, whatever the cost. Nonetheless, he was unable to bear the sight of the desolate, memory-haunted courtyard a moment longer. Pulling the hood of his cloak about his face as if to hide the sight, he stood abruptly and headed for the sanctuary of his garden.

From her window in the Mages’ Tower, Eliseth watched the stooped figure hobble across the courtyard like the old man that he was, and smiled. Miathan’s grip on the reins of power was weakening at last. Soon—very soon now—it would be her turn, and it was time to put some of her plans into action. As soon as Miathan had vanished into his garden, she turned back into her chambers and took up her scrying crystal. This new, diminished Miathan, the Weather-Mage could deal with. Aurian had done most of her work for her already. First and foremost, however, Eliseth wanted to know what her true enemy was up to.

The Weather-Mage paused in the center of the room, balancing the glittering crystal on her palm, her brows creased in thought. Scrying was not among her natural skills, and it would therefore require a great amount of concentration and effort on her part if she was to succeed in spying on Aurian without the other Mage—not to mention that meddling Anvar—detecting her presence. Also, there was the matter of her own safety. Miathan had already lost his eyes when Aurian had struck back at him through a scrying crystal, and the Weather-Mage had taken that lesson to heart. “I need more power,” Eliseth muttered to herself. “Sufficient power to find and reach Aurian in the first place—and sufficient power to protect myself when I do. “Her lips stretched back in a feral smile. “How very fortunate that there is just such a source of magical energy right here in the Mages’ Tower.” Striding briskly, she left her lair and headed upstairs, toward Vannor’s chambers.