A Trail of Embers Read online

  “A fitting rodent’s nest for thieves. Bring a torch. We will smoke this scrawny rat out!” Zarnache shouted.

  Feet splashed in answer to his demand.

  Of all the fates, Meara cursed. Why must Zarnache have been within sniffing distance when she stole the apple? He would have her tossed outside the gates of the town before charges were even read. Zarnache hated her. He wouldn’t rest until he whipped the skin from her back and hurled her out the southern gate.

  The captain had a burr under his cloak when it came to Meara. To be fair, she’d earned his enmity. It was she who’d suggested the theft of his wooden leg. How was she to know that Zarnache would hold a grudge? Meara had come up with the plan, but she hadn’t carried it out. That hadn’t mattered. The thieves caught carrying the booted leg, had been quick to squeal her role to the watch.

  Now, such childish pranks were behind her. The punishment for theft might be banishment, not just a few strokes of Zarnache’s cane. The thought of the forest outside the gates sent a chill up her spine. Everyone knew—those cast out of Vendonne vanished, leaving only bones to litter the forest floor.

  The thought spurred her on through the ankle-deep muck. The thick pungent mud slowed her feet and threw her off balance. Two more turns—was it three? Her heart hammered in her ears. Which way? Which way? Don’t let me pick a dead end. Please don’t let me . . .”

  Blindly she groped along the wall of the alley seeking an end to the rough-hewn wood. There. Her fingers curled around the edge of the boards. She fell around the corner. The ground grew firmer. One more turn and . . . Her toe snagged the end of a broken plank. She hurtled forward, falling against the wall of the alley. Her teeth snapped together so hard that her eyes watered. Behind her, she could hear Zarnache cursing the thick muck. The soupy mud made tough going for a big man with a wooden leg. Meara muttered a blessing for his infirmity and scrambling to her feet, swiped a trail of mud from her face. Another right turn brought her into a larger alley. The stink of horse burned her nose. Holding her breath, she circled past the manure pile. Relief overwhelmed her. She’d picked right.

  The sound of pursuit faded. Zarnache would be in an evil mood after chasing her through the labyrinth. Goose bumps prickled up her arms. Make sure he doesn’t find you. Move your feet. Don’t stop until you’ve left him behind. If he catches you, he will toss you into his gaol. Then he’ll have time to plan an extra-nasty punishment. She shivered. Maybe he wouldn’t wait for a trial. Maybe he’d give her to the forest. Cold sweat bathed her forehead.

  She chose a narrow alley branching to the left and wiggled through a break in the wall. From there she crossed to the next alley and climbed a broken stairwell into a maze of twisting covered walkways.

  Almost free. The alley stretching in front of her, offered safe haven. She loped over the ground. Somewhere ahead music was playing—beautiful music. She smiled. Her gray eyes sparkled in delight as her steps stuttered to a stop, escape forgotten. Where was the sound coming from? She had to find it.

  Rooted in place with one foot hovering above the ground, she turned her head, tracking the mournful melody. A wave of loneliness shook her leaving a billowing ache in its wake. Tears blurred her vision. She stumbled into the next alley. The song changed. It wrapped its feathery wings around her heart and called her. Spellbound she wavered, awash in its beauty. The song was playing for her alone. She had to find its source. The music called again, making her want to weep, to dance. She took a step. The song pulsed through her—its haunting harmony waltzing with the steady thump of her heart.

  Trapped in the magic, she crept towards the cocoon of darkness at the end of the alley. She stopped. Wavering at the edge of the light and the shadows, her doubts warred with the need to find the root of the song. Gently pulsing lights flared around her—colors dipping and swirling in a mesmerizing rainbow maddeningly out of reach. Fear forgotten, she rushed forward. The ground dropped from under her. She clawed at empty space, twisting violently to regain her balance. Her head struck the ground as her fingers touched warmth. Peace enveloped her. Darkness devoured her.

  Chapter 2

  This journey

  bouncing, falling.

  Cold hate gnawing in the dark.

  What is this place?

  Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg

  Thunder growled on the heels of a lightning strike so bright that it left an image of the walled town floating in front of Kieran’s eyes. Blinking and cursing, he stumbled back against the trunk of the ancient elm he’d picked for shelter. That was close, too close.

  He shook his head against the ringing in his ears and frowned up at the scattered branches over his head. The stink of ozone hung heavily over the glade—fire and brimstone. He shivered. The elders said that an elm tree’s spirit provided protection from lightning. Kieran shook his head again, more slowly. He’d seen the damage a strike left. It would be better if the tree’s spirit gave him a stronger roof over his head. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes. He’d have to trust in the wisdom of the elders and hope he and the tree were spared a roasting.

  The storm had gathered fast—fat gray clouds scudding across the sky, warping and darkening into towering black thunderheads. It was another example of the vicious winter tempests that assaulted the land.

  By now, the fat purple berries of the rumor bushes should cover the ground, and the vibrant reds and yellows of the flowering shrubs outshine the trees. The great forest should be waking under spring’s kiss; instead, wind slashed the stunted foliage, bending twigs and sending blighted leaves snapping in a ripple of silver. Kieran hunched his shoulders as a gust rocked him back on his heels. He wrapped a callused hand around a low-lying branch and pulled himself up.

  “Enough,” he muttered. “The gates of the town won’t magically open while you gawk at the walls. Find a way in.”

  He scowled. Easy to say, harder to do. The flat, empty land stretching to the edge of the town was littered with rotting stumps and tufted yellow grass—none taller than a toddler’s head. Anything or anyone moving over it would be easy pickings for the guards pacing the palisades. He eyed the height of the town’s broad wooden ramparts and shook his head. Why build such a thing? Why leave the safety of the forest to live within its walls?

  A slither of dread skittered up his spine and his hand stole to the amulet at his throat. So many trees hacked from the earth and left to rot were proof that the people of the town cared little about waste. For the great forest, the devastation was a fatal wound. The First and the entire Council couldn’t heal the hurt. There was nothing Kieran could do about it but offer a quick blessing. He closed his eyes and lifted his hands.

  “Great Lord, forgive the waste. Let the life of the trees flower over the land. Let the forest floor rise up and reclaim the spirits of her brothers. Let . . .” He stopped and opened his eyes. Let what? Let the walls of the town tumble to the ground so he could find what he was looking for? Then he could run back to the forest with his tail tucked between his legs. He shifted restlessly.

  “Get on with it, Kieran,” he muttered. “You’ll find nothing this way.”

  He looked past the rotting stumps to the row of soldiers perched above. Their irregular line of conical helmets made them look like pinecones set for target practice. With a few well-notched arrows, it would be like picking melons off a log.

  He shook his head in disgust, scrubbed his hands across his face and blinked against the dry grittiness burning his eyes. Too much tracking and not enough sleep. Too bad he couldn’t step into the open and let the rain wash away his exhaustion . . . but the pointy-headed soldiers were expert bowmen. If one guard raised the alarm he’d be skewered before he figured out a way past the walls. He sighed and rubbed his chin, feeling the rough growth of whiskers beneath his palm. The ragged stubble represented the hours he had spent on the trail—too many hours. He pressed his cool hands to his hot eyes.

  The council said that the Dark One was moving—that his pawn, the Mage of Rema
rne now had the power to tamper with the seasons. If that were true, had Kieran’s mistake given the Mage the strength to challenge the Great One’s work? The First of Helligon—head of the council—insisted the Mage had torn the lifecycle of the sun. The First was the greatest wizard Kieran’s people had. Surely, he if any, knew the depth of the Mage’s evil. Some whispered that the First looked for trouble, that his hatred of the Mage colored his thinking. Kieran snorted softly. Too bad the cause of that hatred was such a deeply guarded secret.

  Enough already. Pondering ancient history was getting him nowhere. He needed a plan, preferably one that got him moving, but the first step in whatever he decided meant dealing with those walls. He sighed again and reached down to pick up his long bow. So far, the only plan he had come up with was marching up and banging on the gate. Right, that was a fine plan, and a good way to get his butt shot full of arrows.

  The ground at his feet twitched. Instantly alert, he watched a tendril of vine float lazily over the forest floor. The vine sighed softly. Kieran carefully adjusted his grasp on the long bow. Steady. Wait. Now! He swung the bow, blocking the lightning fast strike of the plant. The vine hissed and retreated, sending a wave of movement shivering through the foliage as other tentacles withdrew to seek easier prey. Carefully, Kieran touched the severed stalk with his boot.

  Heartvine. The deadly plant shouldn’t grow this far south. The endless winter had forced even it to find new growing grounds. Did the townspeople see the danger in the plant’s beauty? Heartvine was a predator. Its lush red blossoms released a heady scent that drew the unwary close enough that a strike from the blood-red flower could send its venom deep. Without a healer, the blow was fatal. The best the stricken could hope for was a speedy end. Kieran swallowed. Every forest child knew the dangers of the graceful twirling vine—did the townspeople?

  He crushed the flapping remnant beneath his boot, mashing it into the soggy earth. The fat red blossom at the end of the feeler imploded with a sucking splat, draining sticky black poison into the earth.

  Kieran looked up into a gust of raindrop-laden wind. He blinked away the wetness and stared out at the dripping foliage. The rain had cursed him from the start, washing away the tracks he followed and leaving him aching with cold. Now and then, the solid curtain rose, revealing a hint of what lay before him. He’d managed to follow the trail until now, where it magically vanished. He leaned on his bow and squinted up at the great walls.

  No, not vanished. It entered the town. As he lingered outside the walls, his enemies made their plans. He shifted restlessly, and the toes of his boots sunk deeper into the mud. Move, he jeered. Do something. Put one foot in front of the other and cross the cleared land. His feet remained firmly planted. What was the point? Even if he found a way over the plain, the soldiers wouldn’t open the gate for one man on foot, especially one whose black hair and gray eyes screamed outsider to the blonde, blue-eyed inhabitants of the town. The only outsiders granted entry were those travelling with the trade caravans, like the two he followed. Those two were likely in the pay of the merchants.

  Squinting against the wind, he continued his study of the town. Too bad that everything he knew about Vendonne would fit on the head of a pin. He should have spent more time learning about the town’s true history than listening to campfire tales. As it was, all he knew was that the city was older than the beginnings of the people of the forest, older than the fall of the cities. Kieran’s skin rippled under a wave of goose bumps. Vendonne was hacked from heavily wooded land, its mighty walls erected to keep its people apart from life outside its gates. When the cities fell, the people of Vendonne retreated behind those walls, refusing aid or trade until the last of the dark days.

  Even now, the town’s infamy spread far beyond its gates. Kieran’s people said, “It is better to cuddle a corbin than bargain with a townsman.” You expected a cuddly corbin runt to grow into a vicious killer with nasty teeth. Town people hid their teeth, until they could use them in the sneakiest way possible. Many a wise man had been cheated by a Vendonne trader. Kieran’s stomach churned. If he found a way into the town, what would he face?

  Crack! The sound of a heavy whip spun Kieran to face the forest.

  “Move, you forest jackal!” a hard voice bellowed.

  A wagon broke the scrubby brush. Cursing, Kieran dropped to the ground, freeing his bow with one hand and yanking the hood of his cloak higher with the other. Hunched under the camouflage of his gray cloak, he watched as the first of a long line of wagons rolled through the trees—a supply train and a big one at that. A twittering cloud of black and white birds exploded from the canopy of trees above. Their protests mingled with the curses of the wagon masters.

  “Get ’em moving, Daimer par Esson. The light waits for no man. We best reach the town before they be barring the gate for the night,” an outrider shouted over the groaning of the wheels.

  “Gee up,” the tardy Daimer called, leaning forward in his seat as if that would speed his oxen.

  Whips beat the air as raw shouts exhorted the heaving teams forward. Heavy hooves sank deeply into the oozing mud, tipping the wagons, bringing them perilously close to toppling. The drivers cursed and fought to keep the teams from tangling their broad horns.

  “Watch out!” shouted an outrider.

  An unwieldy wagon rolled, touched the ground and lurched upright as its lead ox stumbled, its feet caught up in the sucking mud. The ox’s wild eyes rolled, a gleam of white in a shaggy black face. Its lethal horns flashed past its yoke mate’s ear.

  The shadows etched deeps creases into the bearded faces of the drivers, leaving their features set and hard.

  “Here, Weimar par Ente, watch the forest. We’re not home free yet. I won’t be taking no risks till we put the trees behind us.” The speaker—an armed outrider—had his eyes locked on the surrounding trees.

  “Come on, lads. Tonight, the trail will be a memory to drown in a pint of ale,” called a wagon master.

  Kieran scowled. The last of the caravan was rolling towards the forest edge. Nothing would come of hiding and watching as the ungainly wagons swayed past. This might be his only chance to enter the town. He had to move now. Reluctantly, he scrambled to his feet and leaned his long bow against the trunk of the elm.

  “This had better work,” he growled. “If it doesn’t, I will find Orlan and nail his hide to this tree!”

  Thinking of his twin brother Orlan and the magic he was about to try, sharpened Kieran’s senses. The simple hide and find trick was common enough amongst the forest people, but Kieran wasn’t comfortable working the magic. Orlan, a wizard in his own right, had taught him a variation that he swore was quicker. Kieran rarely trusted the word of his twin. Orlan was likely to teach him something that would turn his bow into a snake. Mentally crossing his fingers, Kieran closed his eyes and touched the rough bark of the tree.

  “Adameo,” he said and opened his eyes. The bow was gone. Kieran knew that the vanishing was an illusion, a simple mind trick, but his fingers tingled as if they’d brushed the nettles of a skinsore bush. In reality, the bow had melded with the trunk of the elm, awaiting his return. He itched to call it back, but even a townsman would notice someone carrying a six-foot longbow. Dropping his pack, he bent to slip the knots free. He would leave the pack as well.

  “Travel light, travel swift,” he said, muttering a favorite proverb of the forest scouts. Reaching into the pack, he filled his pockets with anything he thought might be useful. His fingers touched a leather bag of fine white crystals. Pulling it free, he weighed it thoughtfully in the palm of one hand. Orlan scoffed at the flash powder. He said it was the false magic of charlatans. Kieran shoved the bag into his pocket. False magic maybe, but the smoke and light conjured by a warm breath might be a distraction if he found trouble.

  Trouble. Kieran knew that word well. Orlan worked magic, but trouble followed Kieran like a well-trained dog. If, or when trouble found him, the bag would be a weapon.

  Out of ha
bit, he touched his amulet and muttered a luck charm. The birthing day amulet hanging from his neck had been placed there on his naming day. It helped him focus his tracking skills. Orlan’s amulet stored magic for later use. Kieran snorted. There was a thought to lift the fine hairs at the back of his neck—Orlan capable of working spells. He grinned. Safer to fight your way through the darkest part of the forest than trust Orlan with a spell.

  Both he and Orlan had tested for apprentice wizard, but where Orlan soared, Kieran failed dismally. Secretly, Kieran was pleased with the results. Strangely, Orlan hadn’t laughed; instead, he insisted Kieran’s gifts lay in other directions, that Kieran’s amulet held a small well of magic, enough to do simple tricks.

  But how much magic? Enough to protect him while he searched the town? Too bad Orlan wasn’t here. He might know what lay behind the walls. If not, he might have found a clue in one of the books he dragged about with him.

  Kieran lifted his head and checked the progress of the caravan. A steady parade of wagons rocked across the stunted saplings at the forest’s edge. With luck, by the time the last of the caravan entered the open space, all eyes would be set on the front wagon. That meant his wagon of choice would be the last to leave the forest.

  He yanked a satchel of bleached white leather from the pack and rolled it open, exposing a battery of knives. The sight made him smile. This was better than magic. A blade in the hand was much more trustworthy than an amulet that produced butterflies instead of fire on demand. He slid one knife into a sheath in his boot and squirreled two more into the pockets of his cloak. That done he placed his quiver of arrows beside the pack and muttered a blending spell. The quiver disappeared from sight, leaving a faint blue light hanging over the space. His skin crawled.

  Standing, he pulled his hood higher around his face. Best to cover his black hair. Amongst the blonde Southerners, he’d stand out like a man with three arms. It was bad enough he was taller and more muscular than many of the town’s people.