Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

“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.