Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

With reluctance, Yanis shook himself back to the present. What was he thinking of, standing here gawping and daydreaming like a moonstruck fool when the shelter that he needed was so close? There was no longer any need to find the gate of the stockade—the scorched timbers of the once-high fence had been pulled down in ruins. Though the warehouse was a burned-out shell, the fulling mill was still intact—and it also contained a water supply and a safe escape route. Blessing the gods for his good fortune, Yanis staggered with weaving steps toward the tall old building.

The wan light of the gray morning did not pass beyond the doors of rotting wood that sagged ajar. It was so dark within the mill that Yanis wondered, with a chill of fear, if his vision was starting to fail him as he succumbed to blood loss at last. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, however, he thought he could discern a faint glimmer of brightness, like the warm amber flicker of firelight, far down the length of the dusty, echoing chamber. If his mind was not playing tricks on him, the light seemed to be coining from behind the row of great dye vats at the farther end. As he was about to start forward, the Nightrunner found himself hesitating. If that was a fire, then who had made it? And would they prove to be friend or foe? At that moment, a slurred and wavering voice broke into song—and Yanis made up his mind to go on. Whoever was down there, they sounded far too drunk to do him any harm. Indeed, if they had wine or strong spirits with them, he only hoped they would be in a mood to share. Nonetheless, a certain amount of caution seemed a good idea. Creeping down the long, narrow chamber as quietly as he could on uncertain feet, Yanis slunk around the edge of the dye vat and peered around the corner.

The singer, clad in a disreputable collection of filthy rags with a threadbare, tattered old blanket draped around his shoulders, sat with the curving wall of the massive stone vat at his back, and a small fire before him. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings, beating time to his song with the near-empty flask clutched tightly in his hand. He was a man of indeterminate years, and to Yanis the deeply graven lines on his gaunt face seemed more to do with sorrow than the depredations of age, though glints of silver frosted the dulled gold of his lank and greasy hair. His face seemed vaguely and annoyingly familiar—but Yanis had no chance to pursue the thought further. Having reached the end of his endurance at last, he swayed dizzily, clutching vainly at the smooth stone side of the vat—and toppled like a felled tree, almost landing in the stranger’s fire.

“Though she could have been younger, I had to admit,

I only had eyes for the size of her—”

Benziorn’s song broke off suddenly as someone fell into his fireplace. “What in perdition!” He scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding wildly, and stood swaying uncertainly, squinting down at the apparition that had suddenly plummeted out of the sky. “But there is no sky, Benziorn, you fool,” he muttered to himself with impeccable drunken logic. “Only a roof. So he couldn’t have fallen out of it…” This was all getting too complicated. Anyway, he decided, I suppose I’d better help him, before he starts to singe…

Benziorn pulled the inert figure farther away from the threatening flames and squatted down beside his mysterious visitant. As he turned the body over, he let out a muttered oath of surprise. Why, wasn’t this the smuggler lad? And in dire trouble, by the looks of it. Someone had made a fair old mess of his face, but more worrying was the wounded arm, where a knife had slashed down through flesh and muscle, and torn its way out of the other side. Frowning, the physician picked with unsteady fingers at the knot in the makeshift tourniquet that had been tied above the wound. That would have to come off, for a start. It had been left on far too long—the arm below it was already white, with an unhealthy bluish tinge, and the flesh had swollen up around the strip of rag, tightening it and making it hard to untie with stumbling, drunken fingers.

“Emmie?” Benziorn cried instinctively, as he continued to worry at the stubborn knot. “Come and help me here, and bring my…” His voice trailed away into silence as the memories that he had been drowning in wine came thrusting back like a knife blade twisted in his heart. Emmie was gone. Jarvas was gone. And all the old folk, and the little children… For a moment his vision was obscured by the sight of the burned and dismembered corpses that had littered the bloodstained yard outside.

“Damn you,” Benziorn muttered savagely at the unconscious man. “Why did you have to come back here, reminding me? I’m not a physician anymore—what’s the point? I’ve given up healing, I tell you—”

“Well you’d better take it up again—and fast”

Benziorn whirled to find himself face-to-face with the point of a sword. His eyes tracked the blade up its gleaming length—up and up, until he met the cold gaze of the other young smuggler—the shorter, blond one that he also remembered from that dreadful night when Pendral had attacked.

Tarnal looked down with mounting irritation at the physician’s swaying figure and owlish gaze. What the blazes was wrong with the man? Then he smelled the alcohol on Benziorn’s breath, and his annoyance turned to alarm. “Don’t just sit there gaping, you drunken fool. Do something. Help him.” The sharpness of his voice also stemmed from guilt, he knew.

The young smuggler had been awake all night, regretting his fight with Yanis and worrying about the Nightrunner leader who was wandering the town alone in the storm and darkness, without even his cloak. Besides, if only he had tried to persuade his companion to stay, instead of losing his temper like that… Tarnal couldn’t bear the memory of Yanis’s last angry words. Surely, now that his temper had had time to cool, he would see things differently. As soon as it was light enough to see, Tarnal had set off to find him—suspecting, rightly, that his erstwhile friend would have made his way down to the wharves, and shelter. Once he’d reached the waterfront, he had soon discovered the distinctive prints of the soft-soled boots that the smugglers used to keep their footing on slippery decks, and a trail of darker blood in the drying mud, which had sent his heart into his mouth and had finally led him to this place.

“All right, all right.” Benizorn’s voice snapped Tarnal back to the present. “Put that blasted lump of steel away, then, young man, and get down here and help me.”

Tarnal hastily sheathed his sword and dropped to his knees at the physician’s side. “What do you want me to do?”

“See this?” Benziorn pointed at the bloodstained strip of rag. The smuggler felt nausea rise in his throat at the sight of the gaping knife wound that was surrounded by red and swollen flesh. He swallowed hard and tore his eyes away from the ghastly sight. He had never been too good with that kind of thing. “Yes,” he said faintly.

“Well, get your knife out and cut it off.”

“What—the arm?”

“No, you bloody dimwit. The tourniquet!” roared the physician.

“Oh. Well, how was I to know?” Tarnal muttered sheepishly. He was blushing as he fumbled for his blade.

“Did you actually think you could saw the poor bugger’s arm off with a belt knife? Melisanda save us!” Benziorn cast his eyes skyward. “Hurry it up, there. Now—just slide the blade very carefully under the binding—and don’t cut him in the process! I’d do it myself if my hands were steadier. A touch of ague, I think…”

Ague my behind, thought Tarnal sourly. Gripping the tip of his tongue between his teeth, he maneuvered his knife point beneath the bloodstained rag, trying not to look at the torn flesh beyond. Holding his breath, he turned the blade very slightly to angle the sharp edge upward—and gasped with relief as the fabric parted and the tourniquet fell away.