Fire Within: Book Two of Fire and Stone (Stories of Fire and Stone 2) (3 page)

“You don’t look it,” Beow challenged him.

“Don’t test me. My control seems to be terrible right now, but I still have the power.” That he knew, and Beow wavered for a moment at the look in Esset’s eyes. Fortunately, Teheba intervened.

“Beow, give him the book,” she said quietly but firmly. To Esset she continued, “We had hoped for some kind of recompense for our help in reviving you and recovering the tome.”

“As you can see, I have no money on me,” Esset replied. “And after two years… I don’t know what has become of any money I had.” That wasn’t entirely true—he knew his and Toman’s earnings would have found its way to their parents. But after that, it was difficult to say; it could easily have been spent by now.

“Not much incentive,” Teheba said, displeased.

“If I can, I will find you and pay you back. But I can make no promises,” Esset said. His eyes were still on Beow, who hadn’t returned the tome yet.

“
Beow
,” Teheba said sharply. “Give it back.” It was an order, not a request, and Beow clearly knew it. He stepped forward and held out the book. Esset reached out and took it.

“Thank you,” Esset said.

Beow sneered and turned away, muttering under his breath. “At least we made money off those stupid magical instruments last time.”

Esset figured trying to make a friend out of that one was a waste of time. He glanced down at the book, not needing to open it to know it was his—the cover, even just the feel of it in his hand, was too familiar to mistake.

“I need to go now,” he told them. No one tried to help him as he rose rather shakily.

“And I suppose you want us to take you somewhere?” Beow said.

“No, not at all,” Esset replied without taking offense. He found that while he felt very weak, there was still some kind of reserve of strength to call on.

“Are you sure you should be working magic?” Teheba asked. Skepticism was written all over her face.

“No,” Esset replied with a ghost of a smile—even the ghost didn’t last long; his purpose was too grim. “That’s why I’m moving away from you first. If something goes wrong, you shouldn’t be close.”

Teheba just gave him a nod. “Well, we’re moving out. Beow, pack up.”

Beow picked up the blankets, glaring at Esset all the while. Esset turned to put space between them, but paused at the last moment.

“Wait, how can I find you again? To thank you, if I survive,” he asked.

“When we’re not on a job, we regroup at the Rusty Compass Alehouse in Omineca,” Raf replied.

“You’re Ominecan?” Esset asked. They didn’t have the darker skin of most inhabitants of that region.

“It’s a good place for a base of operations. We’re not
from
anywhere.” Raf looked amused. “But I’m surprised you’ve been there. Not many I’ve met this far north have been so far south.”

“I’ve…traveled a lot. Still, that’s a long way.” Esset stopped himself from adding “on foot.” Not everyone had the advantage of magical transportation.

“We’re resourceful,” Raf said. And so it seemed.

Esset inclined his head. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. Thank you for helping me anyways.”

Raf nodded.

“Good luck, mage. We'd like to be paid someday, so try not to die.” Raf’s words were the only goodbye he’d get, which was fine with Esset. He hoped he’d be able to pay them back someday too. He didn’t wait for them to leave completely. Book tucked under his arm, he murmured a quick prayer to Bright Hyrishal before beginning.

Esset was a summoner. Under the right conditions and with the proper incantation, he could call on various fiery creatures to command. He’d done it hundreds—thousands—of times before. He could have called a flaming horse to bear him where he needed to go, but even that was too slow; he chose to call on a giant bird to carry him aloft instead. He was slightly concerned that something might go wrong, given his new, fiery instability, but summoning was second nature to him. He had to try.

He began to speak the brief, alien string of syllables that called the fiery bird, but halfway through, the symbols of another summon flashed in front of his eyes, and he stumbled. The pounding in his head redoubled, staggering him and almost causing him to fall to his knees. He caught himself just in time and breathed heavily as his mind reeled. He knew that summon—it was the summon for the phoenix. In exchange for his life, a summoner could call on the phoenix, putting an immense degree of power at the summoner’s disposal until his imminent death. Esset had called on the phoenix, but somehow he was still alive. In the battle—an impossible two years ago now—he’d failed to stop Moloch from escaping with Toman as his captive. Could that be why he was still alive? Esset didn’t know what to think.

Seeing the summon flash before his eyes brought another unwelcome thought, or rather, question: how much time did he have? Maybe this was only a brief respite to allow goodbyes—could the Contract he’d forged as a summoner, the one that allowed him to summon the fire-creatures, force him to summon the phoenix again, because he hadn’t died? Now, more than ever, Esset knew he had to hurry.

He concentrated harder this time and uttered the full incantation for his flying mount without interruption. With a flood of heat and flame, the great bird burst into existence beside him. Its body was a massive, cracked black coal, and each feather was a flame—the small body feathers barely gave off heat, but the long wing and tail feathers were flowing streamers of fire. Its eyes were bright orbs of pure white fire, and when its wickedly curved black beak opened, a furnace was revealed within. A screeching crack, like the sound of heat pressure squeezing against air to be released, issued forth with the open beak; sounds of fire were the only ones the beasts of fire could make, yet it sounded similar to the cry of an eagle.

The bird seemed slightly bigger and brighter than Esset remembered, but he didn’t let the thought distract him. He climbed on the bird’s back and silently bade it to take off. Ashy scores were left on the rocks as it obeyed and soared aloft. Esset directed the bird to circle once so he could get his bearings. All he had to do was remain conscious and alert enough to ensure the bird didn’t rebel against him on the way. He knew it was probably unwise to fly straight to his destination without stopping, but there was little alternative—time was of the essence, and he had no money to stop and buy food with anyways. He had to pray that his strength would hold out long enough for him to reach home.

Esset set the bird on its course and let it fly as it would. The fiery bird steadily accelerated until it reached its maximum speed. The heat from its fiery body kept Esset warm even in the cold air high above, even despite the wind whipping past him. That wind would help him stay awake.

He kept an eye on the ground below, but even so, it took him several moments to realize that they were still accelerating. He looked out over the bird’s wings and saw that they’d extended—the trailing fire was far broader and brighter than he’d ever seen it before. Esset’s aerial summons had never been terribly stealthy, but now they were like a blazing comet shooting across the sky. The ground whipped past beneath them, covering distances in moments that would have taken days on foot or horseback. They were too high and moving too quickly for Esset to be able to pick out people below, but he knew the reverse wasn’t true—there would likely be many, many witnesses to their passing.

Toman stared sightlessly at the ceiling. He could have lain on the bed, but he didn’t; instead, he was stretched out on the stone floor. There was little light in the cell, just what came from the torch down the corridor—certainly there was no daylight. Toman hadn’t seen daylight in two years, as demonstrated by the pale, waxy state of his skin. No, his world consisted of the four feet allowed by the chain that hooked to the manacle around one wrist.

In the cell adjacent to his, Toman could hear the rhythmic clink of chain as its inhabitant paced. Toman knew that would eventually stop. Days, weeks, months…it was only a matter of time. The captive would stop thinking of the chains as binding, stop thinking of the iron bars and the guards and the walls as a cage. Eventually, the prisoner, whoever he was, would realize that all of those things were just symbolic.

Moloch could have held each of them captive without any walls at all. The true chains were far stronger than iron links and bars. First, magic held them; no prisoner of Moloch’s was without a geas spell twisted around his mind. And second, each prisoner, deep down, had already given up, for Moloch broke every soul he touched.

Toman even wore his gloves, the gloves that granted him his animating ability. He could touch the chains and the bars and animate them into letting him go, and even have them fight for him against the guards until he broke free. But he had no will to do so. Not anymore. He didn’t have the will to live…nor did he have the will to die. He did, once: he’d had the will to die. The jagged scar on his throat testified to that. But no more.

The creak of the dungeon door hinges cut through Toman’s indifference. He jolted upright and scrambled back against the wall, shaking. He recognized the soft scuff of Moloch’s stride headed towards him.

Toman forced himself still and held his breath, willing to take any measure, however futile, to avoid Moloch’s notice. It almost felt like his heart stopped when Moloch came into view, but the mage didn’t even glance at him. Toman exhaled as slowly and quietly as possible when he heard Moloch stop in front of the adjacent cell.

“It never ceases to amaze me when my underlings think they have a choice in their service to me.” Moloch’s smooth, cultured voice was unmistakable.

“Please, no, I’m sorry, please don’t—” The prisoner’s voice cut off voluntarily. Toman could easily imagine the man cringing when Moloch’s smooth hand lifted to incite that silence.

“I take what is mine, if it is not given willingly. At least your timing was excellent. A day or two in the torture chamber should bolster my magical reserves considerably.” Moloch would be smiling, Toman knew, smiling like a simple man sitting down to a good dinner, with satisfaction and anticipation.

Toman could hear the man whimper, but there was no resistance when the guards accompanying Moloch stepped forward and dragged the prisoner out and down the corridor. A second door shut with a bang, but the silence was short-lived. It was only moments before the screams began.

When Moloch had first captured Toman, Toman had thought he was lucky to be alive. Now he wished he were dead. He didn’t fight Moloch’s commands anymore. He just did what he was told and hoped the blood mage’s attention would remain elsewhere as much as possible.

Toman knew he was only alive because it would be inconvenient and possibly dangerous to train someone else in the use of the Animator’s gloves. That, and Moloch liked it that Toman was suffering. Moloch had always known that the gloves blocked off the use of other magics, which was why he hadn’t pursued them for his own use before, even after Toman’s predecessor had been such a nuisance. Still, even as they were being used now, through Toman, they were a powerful weapon.

No, there was no chance Toman’s miserable existence would end. Maybe not ever. Toman sat in his cell and winced at every scream that echoed through the iron door. Moloch only emerged when the screams had stopped.

Once again, Toman went still. He could hear the soft scuff of Moloch’s footsteps, but not the steps of the guards; they would still be extracting the unconscious prisoner from his bonds to return him to his cell.

Toman marked every step closer to his cell. When Moloch stopped in front of the bars, Toman’s eyes fixed on the mage’s feet and the hem of his deep red mage robes.

“I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I, Animator?” Moloch was happy; Toman could hear it in the silky-smooth tone of his voice. There was no way he would dare to look his master in the eye, those piercing green eyes that saw everything.

Toman didn’t answer. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t believe Moloch wanted him to.

“Hm…yes,” Moloch murmured, and he turned away again. Toman shook in relief, even though he heard Moloch’s voice murmuring to the guard.

A moment later, the guard unlocked Toman’s cell and entered.

“Gloves,” the guard ordered. Toman pulled off his gloves and held them out to the guard, who took them, not even bothering to lock the door again.