Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

And he’d done nothing to stop them. That was why he was still alive.

There were plenty of tales these days, and while many were true-Bron had seen firsthand that Tarsis was land-locked now-many more rang false. But Bron had heard of the red waters again and again. In Palanthas, now Ansalon’s grandest port, every inn buzzed with talk of it. And so, after lingering in the west for two whole years, Bron had resolved at last to see for himself.

It had been a hard journey, for flesh and spirit alike. The world had become a dangerous place since the Cataclysm. Maps were all but useless; most of the old cities were gone, much of the terrain changed. Folk were suspicious of outsiders, and offered no hospitality. Bandits waited to prey on lone travelers, and goblins and ogres and even worse things had returned to the land. The winter, in particular, had been horrendous: Bron had been forced to hole up in a cave in the Khalkists for nearly four months, before emerging half-starved in the spring, into a homeland he no longer knew-an empire that was dead. He’d passed the bones of Micah-a city of ghosts now, its fabled glass towers nothing more than glittering dust-and found the Tears of Mishakal pounded flat. He’d crossed the Sea of Shifting Sands, now a morass of muck from near-constant rain and hail. And finally, this morning, he’d heard it for the first time: the distant roar of the ocean.

It was a strange sound in a place where farms and vineyards had once stretched for countless leagues, and horror gnawed deeper into his belly the closer he got. When he first saw gulls wheeling overhead, the truth hit him fully for the first time: the land of his birth, the land he’d sworn to protect from evil, was gone forever. The empire, the church, the knighthood-all vanished in one terrible day. He’d stopped, standing very still with his head bowed, and hadn’t moved for more than an hour.

He’d come this far, though, and in the end he’d had to go farther. His heart filled with dread, he’d walked the last mile, climbed a grassy hill… and stopped when it ended, suddenly, in a jagged cliff overlooking the sea.

The water that stretched out before him was the usual gray-blue near the shore, and for a long way out. But the cliff was high, and Bron’s eyes were still sharp with youth. The change in color, a league or so out, was obvious. The water wasn’t rusty, or the ruddy brown of clay, as he’d expected to see; it was bright, ghastly crimson. It was the Blood Sea of Istar.

Looking out upon it, Bron thought of the other tales he’d heard, in Palanthas and elsewhere. The crimson waters were unquiet, the mariners said, heaving and foaming as if stirred by some leviathan below. The skies above were darkened a sickly brown-dust still choked Ansalon’s skies, and there hadn’t been a blue sky in years-and dotted with the seething green-black of stormclouds. The tempest had hung over the Sea ever since the Cataclysm, and beneath it a great maelstrom swirled. No ship could escape the maelstrom, once caught in its pull. Demons danced in the waves, waiting to swallow the souls of those who drowned there.

Bron had seen many things in the last three years. He’d watched Xak Tsaroth collapse into the earth from the safe distance of only a mile away. He’d found whole towns laid waste by disease, bodies lying black in the streets. He’d watched men murder each other for a scrap of food, or for no reason at all. But none of it compared to this. He sank to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.

“Paladine,” he wept “Oh, my god, forgive us for what we have done…”

He didn’t sense the three men stealing up behind him… didn’t hear the scuff of their footsteps on the dusty ground … didn’t see the cudgels in their hands. By the time he noticed, it was too late; they swarmed in his tear-blurred vision, already on top of him. He turned, reaching for Ebonbane-the sword was the one thing he’d kept from before the Cataclysm-and started to rise. But they were too close: he’d only half-drawn the blade when the leader, a scraggly youth whose blue eyes were dark with hate, brought his club down on Bron’s wrist.

Bone snapped. Pain bloomed. Bron fell, screaming. He never saw the second man’s face; only the club as it caught him under the chin, driving his teeth through his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth as his head snapped back, then darkness swarmed over his vision. He slumped, stunned, onto his side.

He felt a tug as one of them took Ebonbane from him, then another stole his purse. Dimly, he saw legs moving, and heard voices that sounded like they were coming from the bottom of a pit. Something wet and sticky hit his face. Spit.

“Bloody god-lover,” snarled one. “You heard him praying, didn’t you, Tarlo?”

A foot struck his side, bringing new pain. “Damn sure I did. Knew he was one o’ them the moment I saw the bastard.”

Bron understood, then, dimly. He’d passed by a small village early this morning-the sort of place where desperate men gathered to protect themselves from other desperate men. These three had followed him, probably hoping to rob him, and he’d been so intent on what lay ahead, he hadn’t noticed them. He cursed himself for not noticing them. He was a trained knight-or had been, anyway-and a gaggle of peasants had gotten the best of him.

“Only a few silvers and coppers,” said a third voice, thick with disgust. Bron guessed it was the boy who’d broken his arm. “What do we do with him now?”

“Toss him over the cliff,” growled the first. “Damned god-lovers don’t deserve any better.”

Rough hands seized his shoulders, shoved him forward. Panic flared in his mind, and he struggled to fight back, but his body refused to respond. The pain paralyzed him, and consciousness was draining away.

“Hold on,” said the one named Tarlo. “Look at this.”

They stopped, and dropped him on the ground again, on his back. His wrist-bones ground together, nearly making him pass out, but he fought through the pain. Bile burned in his throat as he fought to keep his eyes in focus.

They were gathered in a knot. In the middle, a scar-faced balding man-Tarlo-held Ebonbane. “This ain’t no ordinary Scata’s blade, Uvar,” he said.

“It’s a fine weapon,” agreed the leader, a huge Dravinish brute who smelled like ripe cheese. He took it from Tarlo, turned it to catch the dim sunlight “A nobleman’s weapon.”

“Or a knight’s,” said Tarlo.

The youngest of the three raised his club. “A Hammer? Gods’ fists! We ain’t seen none o’ them for near six months. I thought they were mostly all dead.”

“So did I,” agreed Uvar. Then he peered down and laughed, one of the unfriendliest sounds Bron had ever heard. “He must be one, though. Look at how scared he is, Tarlo.”

The scarred man crouched down, cupped Bron’s cheek with his hand. “Hah! No doubt, Uvar. He’s one of them. Stupid of you to come here, Sir Knight,” he snarled, then let go, and cracked the back of his hand across Bron’s face. Stars exploded.

“We ain’t dumping him now, are we?” whined the boy.

The others laughed. “No, lad, we’re not,” said Tarlo.

“Dumping’s too easy for him,” Uvar agreed. Now he bent down over Bron, his breath reeking. “Hear that, Hammer-lad? You’re gonna be sorry you came here. You’re gonna be sorry you were born .”

Bron tried to answer, to show defiance, but the only thing that got past his thick lips and bleeding tongue was a stream of bloody drool. Then Uvar’s meaty fist slammed into his eye, and that was all.

Later, the pain came rushing back: The peasants had trussed Bron like an animal. Heedless of his broken arm, they’d dragged him all the way back to their village-a squalid, grimy cluster of thatch huts, the charred skeleton of a Mishakite hospice looking down upon it from a hilltop. It was drizzling and cold, but a crowd had gathered anyway, jeering and hissing as the three peasants hauled him into the patch of mud that served as the town square. There was a post in its midst, with a rusty iron hook pounded into the top. Bron guessed its purpose well before they looped a rope through his bonds, then flung the other end up and over.