Chris Evans - The Light of Burning Shadows

“Ally, can you put him out like you did Kester?” Yimt asked.

Alwyn nodded. “I think so. This isn’t the white fire, Zwitty’s just not in control of the magic.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Zwitty said, even as the black flames grew higher. “I just…it’s so cold…” He staggered, then stood upright again.

“Ally, put him out. Now!” Yimt ordered.

Alwyn strode forward and grabbed Zwitty’s wrists in his hands. Immediately the frost fire sprang to life in Alwyn’s hands, and he felt the cold flow of the magic coursing through him. “Easy, Zwitty, easy.”

“…help me…” Zwitty said, his eyes shut tight. His lips were quivering and black frost was forming on his face.

Shadows appeared, their spectral shapes forming a ring around the group of soldiers. The air temperature dropped to freezing. Someone screamed, and running feet were heard disappearing down an alleyway.

“People are watching, Sergeant,” Hrem said, pointing to a gathering crowd several yards away.

Dead hands reached out to Alwyn and Zwitty. Alwyn gritted his teeth and focused. The black flame roared higher, bathing everything in a cold, dark light, then went out without a sound. Zwitty collapsed to a knee and Alwyn blew out his breath, releasing Zwitty’s wrists.

The shades wavered, then they, too, disappeared. The air immediately felt warmer.

“Nothing to see here, folks, just a little trickery by a jokester,” Yimt said, his metal teeth glinting as he smiled broadly. “Get him up and get moving,” Yimt whispered under his breath.

Alwyn and Scolly helped Zwitty to his feet and they all started walking down an alley.

“You okay, Zwitty?” Scolly asked.

Zwitty coughed and shook off their grip. “Course I’m okay. I just about had it when Ally here stepped in to play hero.”

Yimt led them down an alley, then through a couple of turns until there didn’t appear to be anyone following them. “He saved your arse is what he did,” Yimt said, finally bringing them to a halt.

“I-” Zwitty started to say, but Yimt cut him off.

“You were a heartbeat away from joining the Darkly Departed is what you were,” Yimt said, jabbing a finger in Zwitty’s chest. “Personally, I don’t give a rat-dragon’s scaly little hide if you do join them, but you ain’t going to ruin our night.” He looked at the rest of them. “Lads, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in it up to our necks already. The last thing we need,” he said, turning his gaze back to Zwitty, “is to make matters worse on our own.”

Alwyn looked down at his own hands.

“Now,” Yimt said, his voice sounding jovial again, “follow me, stay close, and try, try not to do anything stupid. Again.” Yimt set off at a quick pace, motioning for Hrem to walk beside him. Alwyn was momentarily hurt by this, then realized the reason why. It sometimes took a moment for people to recognize the danger Yimt presented. Hrem’s hulking frame, on the other hand, made it immediately obvious, and their route through the crowded alleyways quickly cleared.

Yimt kept up a running commentary on the joys of Nazalla as they passed by market stands. There were bolts of shimmering cloth in colors that, until that moment, Alwyn never knew existed, intricately woven wicker baskets, perfectly shaped pyramids of spices, nuts, and fruits. One sign written in several languages promised the shopper the finest in magic potions, amulets, and assorted accoutrements for the discerning witch or wizard, while another was nothing more than an oval of beaten and polished brass.

Alwyn started to make a mental note of several shops with the intent to come back and visit sometime when things were safer, but then stopped. What did it matter? How many more times would he face death before it finally claimed him? The pain in his stump became more noticeable and he was about to tell Yimt he was going back to the camp when the group came to a sudden halt. He worked his way to the front and found Yimt breathing deeply and smiling.

“Ahh, now this is what I’m talking about. Lads, first thing you learn in the soldiering business is you don’t pick a pub on the way it looks. You pick it by the way it smells. Now all of you, take a whiff.” The coming night and cooling temperature had not yet had a dampening effect on the aroma that was the Nazalla market and Alwyn took a deep breath slowly and with reservations.

At first, all he could smell was manure. Several kinds of manure. He waded through the many variations and then suddenly found a trace of something not entirely repulsive. Stale beer, harsh tobacco smoke, the charred tang of roasting meat, and sweat were clearly coming from a doorway off to their left. His mouth began to salivate and suddenly his throat was parched and his stomach rumbling. He could always go back to camp after he’d had something to eat.

He saw Yimt looking at him and smiling.

“That, my lads, is the smell of nerve-anna,” Yimt said.

“She’s a pungent tart,” Teeter offered.

Yimt seemed to be counting under his breath for a few seconds. “Not a she, an it. Ain’t you ever read a book of words? Nerve-anna-it means a place of special wonderfulness, and in this place, that’s called the Blue Scorpion.” He turned and motioned for them to follow, stepping through the darkened doorway and disappearing. Alwyn followed suit, watching the ground carefully so as not to trip up on his wooden leg. He passed through two sets of hanging beads after untangling them from his musket, then down a narrow hall and through another set of beads. He emerged in what up to that point he had only ever read about-a den of iniquity.

It was hard to tell where the ceiling was because a layer of dense, blue-tinged smoke hovered about six feet above the floor. Alwyn took a step and looked down. Carpets covered every inch of the floor. Each was a work of art with intricate designs of flowers and fruits that looked almost as real as paintings.

“Where do we sit?” Scolly asked.

Alwyn started to say chairs, then realized there was no furniture. Fat, wide pillows replaced chairs, and an array of silver, brass, and wood platters substituted for tables.

The patrons of the Blue Scorpion studied them closely as they entered, and though the buzz of conversation quieted, it did not stop. It took Alwyn a moment to realize there were only men here. Each brown face looked as if it had spent a lifetime in the sun, which Alwyn figured they probably had. The men wore the native garb of layered cloth wraps that flowed loosely about them. The colors were not nearly as bright as the cloth Alwyn had seen in the market, though. To a man they wore small, white cylindrical hats on their heads and everyone was clean-shaven. Yimt’s beard didn’t seem to bother them, or perhaps the muskets over their shoulders stopped their tongues.

A short, stocky man wearing an apron over his robes came bustling up to them and bowed. Yimt returned the bow and the two began conversing in what Alywn assumed must be the local language. At one point Yimt pointed to Hrem, then at Alwyn’s leg, and finally began gesturing with his shatterbow. The hum in the pub quieted, then grew in volume as the weapon traced an arc about the room. After that there was more bowing and the conversation between Yimt and the man was clearly concluded.

“Welcome, most honored guests, to the Blue Scorpion,” the man said. His smile appeared genuine and he sounded friendly, but Alwyn noticed Yimt’s shatterbow was not yet slung. “Please, I have room for you in the back.” They followed and found a large area partially secluded from the rest of the room by hanging curtains of fine, green-colored mesh. Dark blue pillows with gold tassels at each corner formed a circle around a large brass and glass contraption that Alywn had noticed at the center of other groups in the pub. Apparently it was for smoking, though just how it worked he couldn’t yet tell.