Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 36

In the early morning the evidence of the destruction of the northern quarter could be smelt and seen in every corner of the city. Smoke hung heavy in the air, not only over the surrounding streets but throughout the inner courtyards of the castle. A thin layer of fine grey ash lay on every sill, every roof-tile, every exposed surface.

Even inside the Scriptorium the air smelt of smoke – a worrying odour in such a place. At dawn Tamu sat up in the makeshift bed amongst piles of papers behind his desk, and stretched and coughed. He had slept little.

After being awoken late the previous night by the smell of smoke, he had ventured out of his cell-like quarters and tried to work out what was happening. Both lords and servants were running around in consternation, but it seemed to be nothing to do with that day’s earlier disruption. That had been about some sudden death, apparently, at the Tell Tower, so probably a suicide. Or a supposed suicide. People had spoken of it only in whispers.

But now, there were shouts, not whispers: warnings were yelled and soldiers summoned. When Tamu spoke to various bewildered servants, it seemed that rumours already abounded as to this new disturbance – the only point of agreement being that the northern quarter was on fire. Tamu at once hurried to his place of work to make sure that it could not be endangered by the ingress of any spark or glowing ash.

Having closed all the Scriptorium’s shutters he ran up the narrow stairs to the gently sloping roof, ready with a broom to sweep off any embers that might land there. The roof was mostly tiled in slate, with only a few repaired areas of wooden shingles, but you could not be too careful. Nobody else would bother to protect it if he did not.

And as he perched up there in the twilight he saw below the men – both nobles and officials – hastening to various towers from which they could look out to the north. He himself was not high up enough to see the fire: but the heaving, shifting glow in the sky told him exactly where it was.

Well, he reflected, it was always going to happen some day amongst those ramshackle wood-built streets. Small fires had always broken out from time to time. It was just surprising that a big one hadn’t happened sooner. Tamu often frequented a bookseller in the northern quarter – a shop crammed with dusty old parchments, some fake, mostly rubbish, but a few delights – and he thought of that place now with concern. All those potential treasures lost...

And the people, he scolded himself, don’t forget the people. But people will generally escape. Books won’t.

He leant on his broom and down below him saw the Riders of the Vonn run across the courtyard, all seven of them, although his eyes fixed only on the tallest. They were hurrying to the stables, calling for their horses. His heart swelled, thinking of the heroic rescues that Parthenal might carry out that night.

Then he himself kept sweeping until the tide of sparks and ash seemed to abate, and the glow in the northern sky to dim: and at last he made his bed in the Scriptorium behind his desk and slept with his broom and two buckets of water beside him, just in case.

When he awoke at daybreak to the silent, smoky Scriptorium his first thought was of the Riders and how they had fared. How everyone had fared, of course. Not just them. He tried to feel pity for all those who might have been made destitute by the flames. But in the northern quarter people were so poor and badly housed already that perhaps a fire would hardly make their lives much worse.

The Scriptorium was, thankfully, intact; so after an inspection of the building he went out, locked the door and put a sign on it: Open at noon. The copyists would be glad of the morning off, if any of them turned up at all. They would more likely be setting off in the other direction, across the city to view the damage, just as he was himself.

When Tamu made his exit from the castle, he found that half the population of the city seemed to be heading along with him to the northern quarter. He was just one of a steadily moving crowd that rippled through the streets and markets, all hurrying and anxious, apart from a few lordlings on horseback who evidently regarded the whole thing as an entertainment.

He spoke to no-one, but caught a few snatches of talk from those around him. Which of their acquaintances were safe: who wasn’t? Which buildings had gone? Had all the fire been put out?

“Where did it start? Was it the bakery?” one woman asked another, as she gathered up her skirts to walk the faster.

“Could have been anywhere, in that quarter. They’re always setting fires in doorways there.”

“I heard it was vagrants who started a fire in the woollen hall,” said a third.

“It wasn’t,” a man said on his other side, with assurance. “It was some demon they’ve been keeping in the bath-house. A soldier told me.”

“Ooh,” said all the women together; and after the mention of soldiers, they said not a word more.

“What sort of demon?” asked Tamu boldly.

“Some fire demon. Something they were fighting against up north. Those Vonn brought it back here with them, that’s what I heard. They should have kept it safer.”

“They should,” said Tamu, slightly aghast, and then he too stayed quiet until they reached the fire-ravaged area. But his mind was busy. A fire demon? That had to mean a darkburn. He had no idea that any had been brought back to the city – let alone kept underneath its walls. Knowing the geography of the city, he understood immediately why the northern bath-house might be employed to house the thing.

But how had it got loose? Although he had never seen a darkburn, his researches into the lore around them told him that it would be an extremely dangerous thing to attempt to keep imprisoned. And an even more dangerous thing to let escape.

But somebody had done so. He felt a little sick, and assured himself that it could not be the Vonn. It was far likelier to be the Kelvhan army, since they had control over everything and everyone that came in through the city gates. Not the Vonn.

By now they had reached the border of the burnt part of the city. And a border it was: the fire seemed to have created a new land within the city, a land of desolate streets of ash and smoking, skeletal remains of buildings. Outside them forlorn women crouched weeping, while old men were sitting slumped amidst the ashes. One sifted them through his fingers: and Tamu’s theoretical pity grew real.

This was a horror, and it made him shiver in sympathy. How many had died here? How many were homeless? His idea that things could not have been much worse for people here was very wrong. The castle would have to step in and offer help; he wondered what form it would take. They would need shelters, food, clean water, eventually a rebuilding on a giant scale. The castle lords would not pay readily for such a massive effort, not in this quarter.

Walking on, however, he found the buildings further north again were not so thoroughly destroyed. Many buildings still stood here, some almost intact: and the ground was wet, thick with sodden ash which surprised him by its quantity. How had people managed to get so much water on to the fires? Perhaps they had siphoned it from the river.

The crowd of onlookers had thinned a little, many having turned aside to help the inhabitants. Tamu hurried along the ashy sludge of Old Tanneries Street to find his favourite bookshop down at the far end.

When he arrived he was saddened to see that the shop had not fared well. Although the frontage stood, the inside had largely been burnt out. The old man who kept the shop was in there, stooping amongst piles of blackened books, picking over the charred and shrivelled remnants of his stock.

“Here,” said Tamu, going up to him. “Let me help you.”

The old man looked up with a glance of dazed recognition, and nodded. He was moving books automatically, without purpose, stunned by his losses. Where the books were not burnt they were largely sodden. Tamu began to go through a box of wet but unburnt volumes, standing them up to dry upon any surface he could find.

“There’s no point,” said the bookseller. He was almost in tears. Tamu found the little kettle – sooty but still with spiced tea inside it – and made him sit down upon a pile of books to drink some. He patted the man’s shoulder but could think of nothing to say. Then he resumed his sorting, although the books he rescued were, he knew well, next to worthless in their wet condition. Even once dry the pages that had not stuck together would be crinkled, their ink blurred.

Nevertheless he emptied the box and started on another crate which had been stored on a higher shelf and had escaped the mysterious influx of water. He sighed as he went through the pile. Not much there worth saving, either, although a parcel of old manuscripts tied up in string caught his eye when he unfolded them. They were in an early Kelvhan hand – probably genuine, since they appeared to be only old inventories and accounts, which would not have been worth the trouble of forging.

Tamu picked them up and went over to the listless shopkeeper.

“I’ll give you thirty drebs for this bundle,” he said. It was most of what he had in his purse, and far more than the manuscripts were worth; but thirty drebs would keep the shopkeeper fed for a few days.

He could do no more. So after a little while he left the shop with the papers tucked into his tunic, and wandered back up the street. He saw that a crowd of a couple of hundred people, mainly men, some beggarly, had gathered outside one of the few unburnt buildings: its plain stone frontage stood out from the charred wooden frames of those on either side. Its tiled roof was still in place. Its closed door was blackened but intact.

“Borgun! Borgun! Help us!” came a call from one ragged man in the waiting crowd; and other voices joined in, pleading. “Borgun! Speak to us! Show us your face!”

So this must be the Temple of Borgun, of which Tamu had often heard, although he had never realised that it stood exactly here. Nothing about the unadorned building announced its status.

Nearer to him a man began shouting furiously against the pleas: “They did this! It’s their demon did this! They’re demon-worshippers in there!”

Then more of those around him took up the same cry.

“Demon-worshippers!”

“Come out, you deformed devils! This is all your fault!”

And with that the crowd began to surge towards the building. Tamu tried to detach himself, but he was carried along by the mass of people. To his alarm, for a few seconds his feet were lifted from the ground as if by a great wave. He battled to get free, without success – for he was trapped.

To his relief, the surge soon halted amidst more shouts and yells. Peering between the heads, Tamu saw a bearded man in long, blue, priestly robes being dragged out of the temple.

“Kill him! Kill him!” yelled the angry man in front of him. “He’s the one who worships the demon! He’s the one who did this! He’s got it hidden inside there. This is the only building that’s not been touched by fire – that proves it’s sorcery.”

“We ought to rip the place down!” yelled another voice. But there were answering shouts of protest too.

“It wasn’t that priest! He gave us shelter from the flames. It was those foreigners – those Vonn – they brought the fire demon here from the barbarian lands up north.”

And with another frightening surge the crowd, roaring its agreement or otherwise, moved forward again. Tamu renewed his struggles against the tide, but it was inexorable. Those around him seemed ready to attack – somebody, anybody, whom they could blame for the destruction.

“Stand back.”

That was a voice of command. As it spoke the crowd hesitated: those behind him were still pushing forward, while those at the front were now trying to push back. As his view past the throng of heads opened up, Tamu saw the scarred chief of the Vonn facing the struggling crowd. Huldarion. He did not look afraid. He looked as stern and cold as always.

On either side of him stood a Rider with drawn sword. Tamu realised with a tremendous flutter of fear and joy that one of them was Parthenal. He did not raise his sword in threat but merely stood with it poised and ready in both hands like an avenging angel. The older man on the other side – less angel-like – now did the same.

“Borgun! Borgun!” came the chant from the far side of the crowd.

“I am not Borgun,” said the scarred man, unmoved and unmoving. “I am Huldarion, the chieftain of the Vonn. I have nothing to do with this temple, nor this priest, yet I believe him to be innocent of any fire-raising.”

“Prove it!” yelled the man in front of Tamu once again, pushing forward and trying to start another surge all on his own. But this time the crowd resisted.

“Stand back, I beg you,” said Huldarion more gently but still with authority. “I understand your fear and horror at the devastation that this fire has caused. But if it was indeed started by the thing you call a demon – and which I call a darkburn – I can assure that it was not by our doing, nor by this priest’s. This is not my land, nor are you my people, yet I never would endanger you by bringing a darkburn within your city walls. I have fought the things too often – and have seen too many of my soldiers killed and burnt by them – for me to contemplate such an act.”

“Who did, then?” yelled out a voice from the crowd.

“That you would have to ask your own commanders. But this temple has nothing to do with darkburns or such demons. It survived the fire because it’s built of stone: as did your city walls.”

“You’re in league with that priest, that devil-worshipper!”

“I have never seen the priest before today,” said Huldarion calmly. “But as I understand, the Borgun whom he reveres was merely an ordinary man, and not a burning creature made of fire.” As the crowd murmured he raised his voice. “The darkburns are bred and used by Kelvha’s enemies to the east. They are my enemies too, for they gave me these scars. And they have long threatened my own city of Caervonn and the realm of which I am the rightful king.”

They all fell silent now. Tamu thought that the word king had an almost magical effect upon them. He suspected that Huldarion made use of that effect, just as he knew the effect of his scars: they made people stop, and look, and listen, and maybe fear. Now, in the silence, Huldarion spoke out strongly.

“I have made it my mission to destroy the darkburns that menace all our lands, and to defeat those who use them as cruel weapons of war. That is a main part of my purpose in being here in your great city: for the Vonn are few, and only with the help of your own valiant soldiers can we hope to succeed. But by the grace of your High Prince, and the High Lord Post-Regent, together we will rid the land of darkburns.”

There was a ragged cheer.

“Speaks well, don’t he?” said one man behind Tamu.

“Ask our own commanders how it happened, he says,” muttered another. “When could we ever trust them to tell us the truth?”

“My Lord,” said Huldarion, “I owe you the deepest gratitude for your support.” And now Tamu saw between the heads filling his view the bulky figure of Nerogun striding up with a small retinue of soldiers. Anxiety and foreboding filled Tamu although he could not have spelt out why. He only knew that Nerogun had meant ill to Parthenal, and feared lest he meant ill to all the Vonn.

Huldarion bowed to the approaching Post-Regent, a bow low enough to be respectful, yet slight enough to show he was no lackey. Nerogun merely nodded in his turn.

“No doubt the Captain of the Vonn speaks truth,” he said in his ponderous, resonant voice. “This lowly priest is ignorant of the high matters of war. In the battles which we lately fought, and won, against our enemies in the north, one of their fire-demons was indeed taken captive. It was kept for study – not within the city, but underneath the walls, encased in stone. There it should have been secure. The only ones with access to it were myself, the High Lord Marshall Shargun, and the Keeper of the Keys.”

He paused, while Tamu – and probably others – assessed the omission of The High Lord from that title.

“I am extremely angry,” Nerogun said levelly, “that such damage has been inflicted on my loyal citizens. There will be a full investigation. Meanwhile, bread rations will be immediately supplied to all those who have lost their homes.”

There was another murmur through the audience, part appreciative, part disgruntled. But the disgruntled part was careful not to be too loud. In any case Nerogun took no notice as he continued.

“The Lord Huldarion is right in saying that this threat wielded by our enemies will not be stopped without the force and courage of the Kelvhan army. Decisive action cannot come too swiftly. I know I speak with the assent of the High Prince when I tell you we should ride out to fight these foreign monsters as soon as possible.”

The soldiers around raised their swords in unison: the more astute members of the crowd shouted a Hurrah! Tamu, watching Parthenal, saw how his lips curved in a faintly sardonic smile as he raised his own sword in the air for a moment before he gracefully sheathed it.

Nerogun nodded to his soldiers, who led a horse over to him. Once he had mounted and departed with his retinue, Huldarion too strode away with his men. Parthenal was soon out of sight, and the scene lost its vividness for Tamu.

The crowd began to break up, talking about Huldarion’s scars and how soon the bread would be delivered. Tamu moved reluctantly along with them until he was able to push his way free.

Then he wandered home towards the castle, caught in a dream in which he rode out to distant battle alongside the Vonn – somehow acquiring great skills with a sword and saving Parthenal’s life along the way. He knew it was ridiculous. It was a poor attempt to fill the yawning gap within his life: the gap that could never be admitted to another person.

When he returned to the Scriptorium at noon only two of the scribes had turned up and were waiting by the door. Unlocking it, Tamu reflected as he entered that nobody cared for the Scriptorium and its archives as he did. This was his home, his centre, his chief comfort, his own realm: this desk surrounded by the dusty laden shelves. The smell of gall-ink and old parchments. This was where he belonged.

Soon the Vonn would leave, riding out into their own bright, wild, perilous world; and Parthenal would disappear for ever from the castle, to leave only the diminishing wash of a golden memory as a boat leaves its fading trace across the sea.

There was nothing to be done about it. This was his life, and the best one that he could hope for. With a sigh Tamu took the smoky-smelling roll of manuscript from underneath his tunic, laid it out across his desk, and set himself to study.