To Cut Flames from the Air

Prologue

The throne room was almost silent, though Rydin could still hear his king's breath. The trail he left behind him as he dragged himself before the throne was a crude cursive in crimson ink that trailed between soldiers on the marble floor. It curved from where he stood when the arrows had shattered the windows to where he had pulled himself at the foot of the throne.

"Your Highness," Rydin said, his voice thin. "Are you alright?"

King Alrin chuckled, his laugh like a handful of pebbles under a millstone, a hand pressed over where an arrow rested in his side. "I will admit, I've seen better days."

"Have we..." Rydin winced as he held himself up to see his king's face. "Have we truly lost?"

"Well, the shrine is burning and we're both bleeding out," Alrin replied. "So I suppose, to some, it may seem that way."

Rydin fell once more, no longer able to support his own weight, no longer able to move his own head, left to stare at the floor near his king's feet. "I've had an awful thought," he said. "For the first time, I've felt the Gods can't hear me."

The door to the room opened with a hollow groan and a man's sharp footsteps made their way across the marble floor to stop before the king as well. From where Rydin lay, the man's shadow seemed to stick to the ground a bit too long as it followed behind him.

"Ah, Sir Vardafange," the man said. "What a pleasure to see you again."

"The pleasure is mine, Hyndil," King Alrin said. "It's always nice to see an old friend."

"I do apologize for the mess, my men tend to get carried away for the sake of efficiency," Hyndil said.

"No need to apologize, what's done is done," Alrin said. "I suppose my wife will be joining me?"

"Her soul waits for you in another realm," Hyndil replied.

"And my daughter?" 

Hyndil paused before answering, as though the question had surprised him. "But of course," he replied.

Alrin chuckled again, this time weaker than before, the millstone slowing down. "You know, that reminds me of a joke I've heard once."

"Really?" Hyndil asked. "How does it go?"

There was no response from the king, his last breath having just departed. Rydin actually managed to crack a smile as he followed suite, as his king always did have a way of leaving one wanting more.

Hyndil could hardly complain, as much as it irked him to be left out of the joke. Still, he couldn't let himself leave the king with such a grin on his face. With a well-practiced wave of his hand, a ribbon of flame wove through the air, settling on the remains of a joyful Vardafange. At last, Hungascelge had fallen.

∘∘∘

Calder knew something was wrong when he saw smoke on the evening horizon, and was faced with a dilemma. He could turn his wagon around now and return to the Agaskolten Clearing, having failed to make a single trade, or he could continue toward Hungascelge, where he could sell his grain and ale should the town still be standing by the time he arrived, else he'd have wasted several days of travel.

He clenched the cart's reigns until his knuckles turned white as he weighed his options, eventually settling on a third option he hadn't initially considered. He'd head north until he reached a nearby hunter's outpost. The Woodborn fellows there had helped him before, keeping the chimeric beasts along this trade route at bay and taking more kindly to Plainspeople than those further southeast. He could spend the night there, probably make a decent enough amount from his wares, and be back home in no time at all.

Calder pulled the reigns, readjusting the course of his two pack deer northward. They kept a steady gait, and by the time the sun had slid fully behind the trees of the Beoralheome Forest, he arrived at the outpost gates.

His deer noticed something was wrong before he did, refusing to move forward at the outpost's entrance, digging their hooves into the ground and leaving him no choice but to tie their lead around a nearby fir and enter alone on foot. It was only after he passed the gates that he saw what the deer had sensed before him, the dark streaks of blood strewn about the outpost being enough to make his heart sink into his stomach.

As far as Calder could recognize, this was not the work of man, though nothing short of an army of beasts could have cleared an outpost of trained hunters. Calder wiped his brow with a shaking hand and decided that this was far from the best place to spend the night. He'd have returned to his cart right then had he not heard a sharp cry pierce the air from one of the bungalows within the outpost's walls. It was the painful, fully voiced cry of an infant left alone.

Calder knew the noise well, as this wasn't the first time he'd have found a babe abandoned. The last and only previous instance was not half a year ago, though the circumstances couldn't have been more different. Perhaps the Gods were determined to make him the caretaker of all the forest's children.

He found the child swaddled and left in a trunk at the base of a small bed, perhaps a parent's last attempt at protecting their child, and miraculously a successful one. Knowing the routine by this point, he unwrapped the baby and checked it up and down for any horns or hooves. The miracles were beginning to pile up, as the child was born of Plainspeople. The people of the Agaskolten Clearing were far less willing to house a child of any other descent, which meant that certain circumstances had to be 'taken care of' the last time he'd brought a child back instead of coin.

Calder returned to his cart and prepared himself for an overnight return trip. At the very least, he wouldn't be coming back empty-handed.