Children of Fire (17 page)

The sound of Keegan's scream woke Gerrit immediately. Pulling on his robe, he slipped quickly from his bed and into the hall. The moonlight through the window cast just enough light for him to find his way without a lantern. He knocked once on the door of his son's room. “Kee, are you all right?”

Keegan had always had nightmares, ever since he was a little boy. Two or three times a month he would wake from a dream so terrifying it would leave him trembling and crying, afraid to go back to sleep. There were many explanations, of course: the anxiety of growing up without a mother, the stress of having to move every few years, the difficulty Keegan had making friends with others his age. Plausible explanations, all of them, though deep down Gerrit knew none of them was the real truth.

But things had seemed to get better when they had settled here in Tollhurst just over five years ago. Since then the terrible dreams had become less frequent. His son was fifteen now—a young man—and it had been over a year since his last nightmare. Gerrit had even allowed himself to believe the nightmares were gone for good.

“Keegan?” he called out again, not hearing an answer. He gently pushed the door open and came into his son's room. The young man was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing only his breeches. His naked body, pale and thin, was bathed in sweat despite the chill of the night.

He looked up at his father with his dark eyes—eyes that seemed to grab you and hold in their gaze. “We have to leave,” he said, his voice a choked whisper.

Moving slowly, Gerrit crossed the room and sat next to Keegan on the bed. He draped a strong, comforting arm across his son's bare shoulders. “Another dream, Kee?”

The only response was a slight nod.

“Tell me about it. Maybe it will help.”

For several moments there was only silence as Keegan stared down at the ground. Gerrit said nothing, knowing it was better to let the lad tell things in his own time. At last, he began to speak.

“They're going to destroy the village. All of it. Burn it to the ground.”

“Who? Who's going to destroy the village?”

“Raiders. Everybody dies. Nobody gets away.”

Gerrit hesitated, not sure what to say. He knew his son's dreams were special; he knew they were more than just dreams. But he didn't know what to make of them.

The young man turned his head to face his father, his cheeks stained with desperate tears. “We have to leave, Father. If we don't, they'll kill us, too.”

It wouldn't be the first time they had fled a town in the night, though each time Gerrit prayed to the Gods that it would be the last. But this time they wouldn't be running to keep their secret hidden, or to escape angry and frightened neighbors, or to keep the Order from finding them. This was different.

“We can't go, Keegan. We have to warn them.”

“They'll never believe me,” Keegan replied. “Nobody ever does.”

“Maybe this time they will. Maybe this time it will be different.”

“It won't be.”

“These people are our friends, Keegan. We have to tell them what's going to happen so we can try and stop it.”

“We can't stop it. No one can. My dreams always come true.”

His son's words, delivered with such simple finality, sent a shiver down Gerrit's spine. It was a statement of inevitable fact, utterly devoid of all hope.

“Listen to me, son,” he said with a sudden urgency, “I admit I don't understand this … this power you have. I'm a simple man, such things are beyond me.

“But I believe these dreams are more than just visions of the future. There has to be some purpose behind them. There has to be a reason you see the things you do.”

“What reason? What purpose?”

He wanted to be able to give him an answer. More than anything, the father wanted to say something that would ease his son's suffering, give him some hope. But the truth was he didn't know what to say.

“I can't answer that, Keegan. All I know is that you have been shown something terrible. I don't know why you've seen it and I don't know if there's anything we can do to prevent it. But I know we have to try.”

He gave his son a reassuring squeeze with the arm draped around his shoulders, and felt him shiver from the perspiration on his bare skin.

“Get under the covers,” Gerrit said, rising to his feet. “Tomorrow I'll call the town council and we'll tell them what you've seen.”

“So we're not going to leave?” Keegan asked as he tucked himself back in. Gerrit wasn't sure, but he thought he sensed relief in his son's voice.

“No, we're not leaving. There are times in a man's life when he has to take a stand.”

“There haven't been Raiders this far into the Southlands since before the Purge! Long before that, even. Fifty years ago, at least. This is preposterous!”

Gerrit Wareman, general store owner and recently elected mayor of the town of Tollhurst, replied to the angry outburst in a calm and level voice. “Maybe so, Willan, but there have been Raiders here in the past.”

As he spoke, Gerrit let his eyes drift over the ten men and women who made up the village council. They had come to the local inn that served as the town hall in time of need to hear him speak. They watched him with curious eyes from their seats around the tavern's tables, looking very much like a crowd of hungry customers. It wasn't unusual for a village council meeting to end with a good meal, strong drink, and boisterous song. But this meeting was different. There would be no singing tonight.

“Adrax fought the Raiders when he was a young man, Willan,” Gerrit noted. “Perhaps he can make you understand the danger.”

A stooped, gray-haired old man rose slowly to his feet. Adrax was nearly eighty now, the oldest council member, the oldest man in the village. He seldom spoke at the meetings, and his voice was thin and nervous on this night.

“Gerrit speaks the truth. If Raiders come to Tollhurst our houses will be burned and our livestock slaughtered. Everything of value will be seized, the men will be killed, and the women will be taken for purposes too vile to mention. Raiders are not men—they are inhuman monsters. They have no remorse, and no conscience. If Raiders are coming, we need to prepare for war.”

Willan Coburd, owner of the Smiling Drake Tavern and long-serving mayor of Tollhurst before Gerrit had run against and defeated him last spring, renewed his protests.

“I do not doubt the savagery of the Raiders—I doubt their very existence! A full generation has passed since they were last seen in this province. Raiders are a threat to those who live in the borderlands, not us. If the barbarians of the Frozen East had entered the Southlands we would know!”

“Raiders do not necessarily have to be barbarians from the East,” Gerrit pointed out, trying not to let his exasperation show. Ever since he'd become mayor, Willan Coburd had opposed every idea he had put forth on mere principle. “Outlaws—men of no conscience and no honor banding together to prey upon the weak: The Southlands breeds such animals as readily as the Frozen East.”

“Save your scary tales for the children,” Willan scoffed. “The patrols scour the province regularly for brigands and highwaymen. They keep the roads safe. Everyone knows Raiders no longer dare venture within three days' ride of any of the Seven Capitals. But you would have us disregard all this?

“You would have us believe that after fifty years Raiders are about to return, Gerrit? We are supposed to believe this because a
boy
has had a bad dream?”

“I told you they wouldn't believe us,” Keegan muttered from his chair in the corner.

Normally only the council was permitted to attend town meetings. Given the circumstances, however, Gerrit had insisted his son be present. Despite Willan's strong objection.

“Nobody ever believes,” he continued. “Not until it's too late.”

Gerrit held up a hand to silence his son. He would make them understand. He had to, no matter what the cost.

“My son …,” he began uncertainly, staring at the floor, “… my son knows things. Things he shouldn't—couldn't—possibly know. Sometimes he has dreams. Dreams that come true. We have kept this secret, my son and I.”

The mayor of Tollhurst raised his eyes to the other councilors. His neighbors and friends were staring intently at him, trying to weigh the merit of his words.

“Dunkirk,” Gerrit said, addressing the village smith, “Keegan told me your daughter would marry a minstrel. He told me this two seasons ago. A week later Pellin first arrived in our town, a kind stranger with his lute slung across his back. And now in less than a fortnight you will celebrate his union with your daughter.” Gerrit spoke softly, yet the silence in the room carried his words clearly to every ear.

“And Lassinda,” he said, addressing the matronly woman who served as the village midwife. “Last High Season he told me Juliana would have twins. He knew she would have twins before anyone even knew she was with child, including you.”

Turning his attention back to Willan, Gerrit continued to plead his son's case. “And he told me of Lord Selkirk's visit. Did I not suggest to you that we stock up on the most expensive wines? I told you we should always be prepared, just in case. Do you remember, Willan?

“What would have happened if such an important noblemen had graced your tavern's door and found nothing worthy to refresh his thirst? Do you think it was simple good fortune that prompted my suggestion?”

Uncertain what more he could say, Gerrit paused before concluding. “If my son tells me Raiders are coming to the village in two nights, I know it to be true.”

There was silence from the council, until Elimee, oldest of the female councilors, spoke up. “Keegan has the Sight. He's a Seer!”

“I always made him hide it,” Gerrit admitted softly. “I was afraid. Afraid of losing him. Afraid the Order would come to take him from me. My wife is dead and Keegan is all I have left of her. I could not bear to lose him.”

Willan's voice cut through the awkward silence. “How do we know you speak the truth, Gerrit?”

Keegan looked up from his chair, his dark eyes burning with the fire of a fifteen-year-old youth called to a challenge. “Are you calling my father a liar, Willan?”

Willan ignored Keegan and addressed himself to the council instead. “Our mayor is a fine, upstanding man; he is an important part of our community. But the same cannot be said of his son.”

“Watch what you say about my boy,” Gerrit warned ominously.

“Forgive me, Mayor,” Willan apologized without sincerity. “I'm sure Keegan's a good boy deep down, but the fact is he doesn't fit in. He's too quiet, too withdrawn. The other children never took to him.”

“Willan!” Elimee shouted. “How can you say such a thing? The boy is right here!”

“I'm only saying what we all know to be true. I don't begrudge a father for wanting to believe his son is special, that he has some gift. But to the rest of us it should be obvious that this so-called dream is nothing but a frustrated boy's desire for attention.”

“You go too far, Willan!” Gerrit snapped. “You have no idea what is at stake here.”

“No? Then let the boy speak for himself, Mayor. Let him tell us of his horrible dream in his own words.”

“I've seen fire and blood as our village burns and our men are slain,” Keegan said in response. He spoke slowly and without emotion as he recounted the most vivid details of his dream. “I've heard the screams of the women as they are ravished while the corpses of their husbands and fathers lie beside them.

“I've even seen your death, Willan. Cut down like a dog in the street by a Raider's scimitar, the blade biting into your back as you run in terror, leaving your wife and daughter behind.”

“Damn you, boy!” Willan shouted; his fists clenching as he leapt to his feet. “Nobody threatens me!”

“Enough!” Gerrit ordered in a loud voice. “Keegan, no more. Willan, sit down!” Reluctantly Willan did as he was told. “My son isn't threatening you, you fool! He's trying to warn you. He's trying to save your life!”

Face twisted into a contemptuous sneer, Willan shot back, “So you say. But we have no proof of his talent but your own claims. I hardly think that is enough to act on.”

It was Elimee who brought reason back to the meeting. “In the years since Gerrit arrived I've never known him to lie to anyone about anything. He's a good man, we all know that. That's why we chose him as our mayor.

“I see that same character in Keegan,” the old woman continued. “If what they say is true we cannot afford to ignore them. If they are wrong we will know in two nights and we can deal with them then. But if they are right we must begin our preparations tonight.”

Murmurs of assent greeted the old woman's words.

“Very well,” Willan conceded as he took his seat, “we will make preparations. But if your son is wrong …”

“I truly hope that he is,” Gerrit somberly replied.

Keegan's voice was calm and cold. “I'm not.”

The rumble of horses' hooves filled Herrod's ears, making his heart race and his blood boil. The village was just ahead; in the moonlight he could see the outlines of the buildings. He raised his hand, his wicked scimitar glinting in the moonlight. Behind him a score of torches were lit and raised in answer as his band of followers—violent and depraved men like himself—prepared to burn out the unsuspecting citizens as they slept.

They charged into the silent village, mounts swooping and dashing among the homes and buildings as they threw their burning brands onto the dry, thatched roofs. Smoke curled up and the flames began to catch. Soon the fire would devour the buildings and the shrieking townspeople would pour out of their blazing homes. Confused and panicked, they would be cut down in the streets by his men. Only the young women would be taken alive, for their later use. After the slaughter, they would loot the charred remnants of the buildings. It would be as it had been in half a dozen villages in the past month: They would take what they could, destroy the rest, and gallop off into the night, leaving the patrol dispatched from the Seven Capitals to stumble onto the grisly scene days later.

Herrod wheeled his horse around, his long black cape billowing behind him like an inky cloud, and galloped to the open square in the center of the village. Bloodlust filled his head, but he could sense something wasn't right. He could hear the shouts and cries of his own men—but where were the screams of the villagers?

He pulled his horse up short and surveyed the scene. The buildings smoldered but did not blaze up in flame. It was as if the roofs and walls had been drenched with water. And the town was empty; only his own men on their horses could be seen, rushing through the streets among the buildings.

Was the town deserted? Had something else driven the people away? Disease, maybe? Or famine? From his belt Herrod pulled a curled, twisted horn and blew three staccato blasts on it.

Within a minute his men had gathered with him in the central square, their horses standing impatiently, hooves stamping uneasily on the ground. Herrod quickly counted: sixteen riders. Four were unaccounted for.

“Who's missing?” he demanded gruffly, already made uneasy by the ghost town they had stumbled into. “Who's missing and where in the fires of Chaos have they gone?”

A single voice answered him from the far end of the square. “They are dead, killed by archers. As you will be if you do not throw down your weapons and dismount.”

The Raiders all turned to face the speaker. A lone man stood at the far end of the square, unmounted, and unarmed.

Gerrit had insisted he face the bandits alone; the rest of the townspeople either had been evacuated or were strategically placed about the village. Some had wanted to kill the Raiders with no warning, no offer of surrender. Just kill them all. But the mayor had vetoed the idea. He would bring these men to justice alive if he could.

The Raiders had as yet made no reply. “You are surrounded,” Gerrit told them. “Our archers will shoot you where you sit if you do not surrender immediately. This is your last warning.”

He doubted they would accept, but if he could Gerrit wanted to capture them without more bloodshed. Resistance by the Raiders could lead to one of the villagers getting hurt.

There was no reply from the Raiders, though he could tell the leader was studying the surrounding buildings intently, trying to locate the ambush.

Herrod couldn't see the archers, but he didn't doubt they were there. Yet he refused to be captured by a bunch of common villagers. The night was dark, his armor strong, and he could see they had not thought to barricade the roads leading from the square out of the town.

The Raider made his choice. Without a word he spurred his horse forward. The sound of arrows filled the air; he heard the cries of his men as they were plucked from their seats behind him. An arrow ricocheted off his mailed shoulder, deflecting harmlessly away. He could hear the battle cries of the villagers as they poured out from their hiding places, lining the four edges of the town square.

A second later a dozen flaming arrows struck the ground around the horses. The earth, which had been soaked with oil, erupted into a wall of flame. Herrod's horse reared and he was thrown to the ground amid the flames.

Gerrit watched wordlessly as the Raiders were consumed by the inferno. A few were lucky enough to escape the burning trap, spurring their horses through the wall of flames. But as they emerged from the conflagration they were met by the men of the village wielding homemade pikes. Just as Adrax had shown them they braced their ten-foot spears into the ground while they met the charge of the panicked horses. The beasts were impaled on the pikes, the riders thrown from their mounts. Even as the Raiders struck the ground they were set upon by the villagers, now brandishing picks and scythes, shovels and axes. Kill or be killed—the men of the village knew it had come to that. They fought for themselves, for their homes, for their families, using their weapons with a grim determination on a merciless foe.

Gerrit turned his attention back to the flames. So far the trap had been perfect—not a single Raider had escaped. He could hear their screams, the shrieks of men and horses as they were consumed by the fire. The perfect trap, perfectly executed, but it brought him no pleasure.

Deep within the blaze Herrod rose to his feet. All around him his men were dying: choking on the smoke; cooking in the fires; being hacked down by the makeshift weapons of the townsmen. But the Raiders' leader was not so easily beaten.

As the strongest of the band, he had his choice of treasures. On one of their raids he had claimed a cape of magnificent properties: a cape woven from the hair of a giant; a cape that now protected him from the flames. The fire licked at the garment, but it did not catch. Yet he knew the protection was not absolute. Even now he could feel his armor searing his skin, could feel his breath being choked from his lungs.

Wrapping the saving cloth tightly around his body, Herrod marched directly through the blazing wall of flame and into the cool night beyond. He emerged singed but unharmed, and found himself facing two startled young men brandishing long spears.

The townsmen hesitated, unsure how to attack. They had been trained only to meet a charging horse, yet now they faced an armored opponent on foot. Herrod had no such hesitation. Two strides and he was too close for them to effectively use their spears. The first man was dead even before he could drop his now useless pike, his head nearly severed by a single chop of Herrod's deadly scimitar.

The second dropped his pike and fumbled for the axe at his belt, too surprised even to scream as his companion dropped lifeless beside him. He managed a single off-balance swipe at his foe, which Herrod easily parried. A forward slash across the chest and a back slash across the stomach and the melee was over. The man slumped beside his friend; his warning cries to his fellows a silent bubbling of blood in his throat.

The Raider moved quickly now, heading toward the shadows of a nearby building. No one else had noticed his escape; they were too concerned with finishing off his followers. He slipped into the darkness and crept along the edge of the building, heading for the outskirts of town. Now that he had left the battle scene undetected he could sneak into the surrounding farmlands, steal a horse, and ride off into the night. But even as he planned his escape Herrod vowed he would return to seek vengeance.

Gerrit had seen Herrod emerge from the fire, had watched in horror as the Raider had cut down the two young men—men with families, one with a newborn child not a year old. He had screamed a warning, but his voice could not be heard above the roaring flames and the screams of the dying bandits. He watched the butcher vanish into the shadows, and he knew what he had to do. None of the Raiders could escape alive, not if the town was to be safe again. Moving quickly but silently he followed his enemy into the darkness of the fields beyond the town, armed only with the half-sized ceremonial mace the town mayor always wore at his belt.

The nightmare woke Keegan with a scream; his scream woke many of the other sleepers in the evacuation camp. Elimee was at his side almost instantly, cradling him in her frail arms.

“Hush, my young Seer,” she whispered in his ear.

Since the town meeting only Elimee had spoken to him. Everyone else at the evacuation camp—all the women and old men who had known him since he had arrived in the town, the girls and boys he had grown up with, all the young children he had looked after and played with during festivals and feasts—kept their distance, shunning him because of his dream.

Only Elimee, wise old woman of the village, still treated him the same. Only she could meet his gaze, only she looked at him without fear.

Keegan gently worked himself free of her protecting arms. “Something is wrong,” he told her in hushed but urgent tones.

“Have you had another dream?” she asked.

Keegan nodded. “This one wasn't clear. I can't remember it. But I know something is wrong. I have to go back to the town.”

He thought she would object, but instead Elimee was silent for several seconds, lost in her own thoughts. Then she gently stroked his cheek.

“My young prophet, you have done so much for these people, though they know it not. You have risked much by revealing your secret; you have sacrificed more for the people of this town than they can possibly know.”

“I … I did what I had to. Father said it was the right thing to do. We had to warn you.”

The old woman smiled at him. “You are a fine young man, Keegan. You truly are your father's son. But your dream has taxed your power. You are tired. I can see the weariness in your eyes.

“I do not know much about the Sight, but I know it comes from the power of Chaos that flows within your veins. Every vision, every dream saps your strength. You need time to rest before you will dream clearly again. Right now you are exhausted. Your talent is drained. I do not know if you can trust your dreams as you normally would.”

“Something is wrong,” Keegan repeated. “I know it. I have to go.”

Elimee cast a quick glance around the makeshift camp. Everyone was either sleeping or pointedly ignoring her conversation with Keegan.

“I believe in your power, Keegan. I believe in you. Now you must believe in me.”

She pulled him close, her gnarled hands clenching his shoulders as she stared deep into his eyes.

“You are not the only one is this town who dreams, Keegan” she whispered, “though my Sight was weak to begin, and has weakened further with age and neglect.” The old woman smiled gently. “Like your father, my parents also feared the Order would come to take me away.”

Keegan did not react to the confession. He had long suspected the old woman of having Chaos in her veins—sometimes he could feel it calling to him from within her, like calling to like. His father had forbidden him from ever mentioning it. Now she merely confirmed his suspicions.

The old woman released his shoulders and reached down inside her blouse to withdraw a small pendant of gleaming white. It was carved in the shape of an eye.

“Unicorn horn, a gift from my aunt. She was a witch-woman. I suppose the Chaos in my veins came from her.”

Elimee took his hand in her own and wrapped his fingers around the charm.

“There is power in this,” she whispered. “The Chaos Spawn are gone, but their magic lingers. Draw strength from it, feel its power fill your mind and heart. We will know the truth of your nightmare.”

Keegan hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. Gently he reached out with his mind. Reached out with his spirit. Reached out to the charm carved from the horn of a beast that had been extinct for centuries, and to the frail old woman before him.

At first there was nothing. And then he felt it. A faint ember of flickering power. Instinctively, without even knowing how, Keegan began to fan the flame.

The ember he saw with his mind's eye flared to life, bursting into a blazing blue fire. Keegan drew the fire into himself, his starving talent devouring the power of the old woman's charm.

The dream exploded in his mind; the image dim and faint, but discernible. It lasted the briefest of moments, the images crystallizing in Keegan's mind almost instantaneously. His father in a field, leaping onto the back of a man in a black cape. They fall to the ground and wrestle briefly. The man breaks free, and draws his scimitar. Gerrit tries to protect himself with the pitiful little mace on his belt but the scimitar slashes down …

“No!” he screamed, tearing the charm from its cord around Elimee's neck.

The carved eye slipped from Keegan's fist and clattered on the floor as he leapt to his feet. The old woman stiffened, her fingers clenching Keegan's own. Then she slumped weakly onto the floor, her withered hand sliding from his grasp. Others nearby turned to look, their faces a mix of confusion and fear. None dared to interfere.

Keegan hesitated, torn between the vision of his father and the plight of Elimee on the ground at his feet. The old woman raised her head.

“Go, Keegan,” she whispered, “I will be fine. Go to your father.”

Keegan sprinted across the moonlit fields, stumbling over the furrows in the near darkness. Guided by the memory of his vision he raced to where he knew his father faced certain death.

He crested a hill on the outskirts of the town and saw his dream unfolding less than a hundred yards away. Two dark figures grappled on the ground, silhouettes wrestling in the silver moonlight.

Engrossed by the scene before him, Keegan tripped on the uneven ground and tumbled down the hill. He flipped and bounced down the steep mound, the fall knocking the wind from him. For several seconds he lay on his back at the bottom gasping for air, trying to regain his breath and clear his head.

When he rose unsteadily to his feet he saw only one figure standing; the other lay writhing on the ground at its feet. Keegan staggered toward the pair, his warning cries lost in his still-gasping lungs.