Act of Will

SCENE XXIII



Glimpses by Firelight

Careful,” said Lisha, taking up her helm and adjusting the chin strap, “it can’t be more than half a mile around the edge of the wood.”

She moved, and we followed.

It was a fire.

At first the trees and buildings were smothered in a heavy black smoke, but as we got closer we caught flashes of amber breaking through as the wind shifted. There was a village out there, and it was burning. All of it.

We tied the horses to trees and edged closer. It took me a moment to realize that we had stopped talking, that there was something over-careful about the way the others were moving. When Orgos drew his sword, I knew what was going through his mind. This was no mere forest fire. It was the work of the enemy. I wrestled awkwardly with my crossbow till it was cocked, then tugged a quarrel from its case and, with unsteady fingers, fitted it into the groove.

We saw nothing at first, since the night was upon us now and the only light came from the flames. Mithos and Lisha consulted, then divided us into threes with a wordless gesture. I moved through the smoldering bracken with Orgos in front of me and Mithos behind. When we reached the first blackened building, we paused in silence to consider our next step. I flattened myself up against the brick of the house, and it was hot. The place had obviously been ablaze for some time. Beyond the house I could see little through the smoke, and my eyes were prickling at the dry air. I was sweating, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to get out of there.

The houses were arranged on either side of a central road. In another few seconds the three of us were huddled at the corner straining our eyes to see through the black haze that filled the street. As Orgos and Mithos tried to talk over the roar of the fire, I peered out. At the same moment, there was an explosive crack and an ominous tearing sound as half the wall above us shifted and leaned out. It was falling.

I ran forward into the road as the brickwork hurtled to the ground with a roar and a rush of sparks. Getting away from it took me across the street to a large plastered building that might have been a tavern. Its thatch smoldered and thick, greasy smoke curled from the cracks in the hot walls, suddenly enveloping me. My throat burned and I started to cough desperately as the skin of my arms pricked from the burning tinder falling from the roof. I stumbled about, rubbing my eyes, and somehow blundered out of the acrid fog and back into the burning street.

And suddenly, thirty yards in front of me, was a horseman.

He wore a helm that covered his face, and it glowed orange and yellow in the firelight. I saw the crimson cloak and the axlike scyax that hung in a leather case at his horse’s neck, and then I felt his invisible eyes meet mine. The horse turned fractionally, and the head of the rider’s lance dropped until it pointed at me.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. Then the rider’s heels tapped his horse’s flanks and he was coming towards me out of the smoke and flame.

I raised my crossbow so suddenly that the bolt fell out and landed on the ground a few feet away. Pointlessly I pulled the trigger anyway and the bow twanged and kicked as I flashed my eyes up and down the row of burning houses in search of the others. They were nowhere to be seen. Horrified, I turned back to the rider.

His horse had been walking, but now he spurred it, and it leapt towards me, surging like he was riding a wave of fire. He leaned in the saddle, extending his lance arm, braced and ready for the hit. The dirt leapt up from the horse’s hooves in dusty clods and the rider rocked low, scarlet cloak billowing, lance leveled at my heart.

Without taking my eyes from him and with my feet rooted to the ground I cried out, “Orgos! Mithos!”

Other riders were coming through the smoke towards me, a dozen or more of them, with their red cloaks flaring out behind them. My legs wouldn’t move. Around us the flames leapt and the lancer bore down on me.

And then he stopped as if shot. He reined his horse and brought it to a stuttering halt, almost rocking out of his saddle with the effort. The horse rose and kicked the air as the first two of the other riders drew alongside and a muffled voice called out, “What did he say?”

“Mithos,” shouted another.

Then I was aware of Orgos at my side, his swords drawn. As he pulled me back into the shadows of the burning tavern, I shook off the freezing terror that had struck me and ran towards Mithos, who was standing at the corner with an arrow in his bow. He shifted as we approached, as if I was blocking his shot, and then he became very still, as if he couldn’t see me at all. He drew back his bow and held it level as we ran past.

I was dashing back into the trees behind the buildings when I realized that there was no sound of pursuit. I looked back to the street and saw Mithos where we had left him, bow taut and immobile. There was no sign of the riders who had been charging me, and when I doubled back a little to look for them, I caught only a glimpse of crimson movement way over at the other end of the street before the smoke engulfed them. Then they were gone.