Ash Fell from the Sky

  Twenty years had passed to the day since the Life-tree had lost its golden glow.

  The host was a half a hundred or so miles off Widow's Keep. They had been riding hard all morning, nearly killing their horses.

  Bon rode second in line, right behind the brotherhood's master, Lord Morgan Dragon of Dragonsbirth–a short, whirly man with an aged face yet a black beard. Nothing like Bon. Bon was twenty, all long arms, long fingers, long face. The kind of boy who looked like he'd been stretched.

  Behind them rode the five dozen brothers of the brotherhood. A colourful collection of men and boys.

  As they rode, the cherry forest begun to wither around them. Trees folded over like sick men. Glowbirds fell from the branches, their blue light gone like a fire mid-flight.

  The brothers had been quiet since they set out–usually they were bickering, trading insults and bad jokes, but today they rode like sheep who heard a wolf. Even Arlong and Johnny had kept their mouths shut for the better part of an hour.

  Finally some quiet, Bon thought.

  They drew closer by the minute, and a pit of dread opened in Bon's stomach, deep and cold. He sweated despite the evening chill, and Wolf felt it too–the horse's white coat was slick with sweat, its breathing laboured.

  The evening was unnaturally cold this time of year; it was summer after all, but the crispness of cold hinted at a winter yet to come.

  It must be the armor, he told himself. But then he glanced at Johnny riding beside him–soaked through enough to fill a bucket. Johnny was a tough-colored fool from the slums of Solocar who had seen worse things than this before his breakfast. And yet there it was. The sweat.

  Why am I feeling like this? This. This dread?

  Bon's breathing quickened as he slowed his horse slightly, letting Johnny pull alongside him.

  "You feeling alright?" Bon asked.

  "Aye. The armour's really doing a number. These feathered seams don't make it easier."

  Bon hesitated. "You're not scared, are you?"

  Johnny stiffened. "Are you mad, Bun?"

  "Calm it. I'm joking."

  On Bon's right, Arlong spurred his horse to catch up to them. "What are you talking about? Finally breaking the silence here?"

  Bon ignored his words. "Why are we all sweating?" Bon said. "The night is cold, and hints of the winter to come."

  "You forget," said Arlong. "The blood of the dragons runs through us, brother." His voice was theatrical, his arms sweeping wide. "We are the sword of the fire, the light in the darkness. You'd have us shiver in the cold?"

  "Stop it." Bon gestured toward the charred trees–bark gray and turning grayer, their branches curling inward like dead hands. "We are still approaching Widow's Keep, the trees are charred, and the animals are dead. Why?"

  A moment passed. "They could've breached the forest by now, snuck past us." Johnny replied.

  "No, the Glorans sent word with the blue-raven that they still fought."

  "How many hours ago was the letter?" Bon asked. He already knew the answer.

  "Six. We've been riding for five." Johnny said.

  "It isn't enough time for the Mongrals to breach Widow's Keep as well as march on Dragonsbirth." Arlong said. "Nothing to worry of."

  It isn't enough time, aye. Bon thought. "I'll ask the master."

  As he spurred forward on Wolf, Arlong's voice cut through the cool air. "Aye!"

  The brotherhood looked up almost as one. A blue-raven crossed the sky, flying north. It seemed to come from Dragonsbirth.

  "A blue-raven," said Arlong.

  "Do we get it down?" Johnny asked.

  Bon said nothing. He waited on Lord Morgan. It could be a trap–something sent to slow them. Or it could be a warning, or a guide. The master studied the raven for a long moment, his aged face unreadable.

  "Arlong," he said at last. "Get it down."

  "Alright, boys, with me!" Arlong wheeled his horse and rode like a bolt toward the blue-raven, his black horse White barely keeping its hooves under him.

  The lesser brothers under his command–boys of twelve to twenty–followed hard behind.

  The blue-raven landed on a branch and stared at them, still as a carved thing.

  Bon and the rest rode toward it at a slower pace, the pit in his stomach growing worse with every stride. He watched the back of the master's head and felt a tense unease coming from the old man too. Neither of them said it aloud.

  A brother of seventeen–only three years younger than Bon, whose name he couldn't quite place–reached the tree second behind Arlong. He went up the charred thing with quick footwork, aided by the brothers below.

  When he reached the branch, the raven planted its feet and tried to fly. The brother leapt off the branch to catch it–landing face-first in the dirt.

  A few brothers laughed, Arlong among them.

  The brother handed the letter from the raven's feet to Arlong and let the blue-raven fly off. It landed on a different branch and begun to watch them.

  "A blue rose with a mighty duck," Arlong said, squinting at the seal.

  "No man's sigil I recall," said Johnny. "Or a woman's."

  "Could be personal." Arlong opened the letter and fell quiet.

  Lord Morgan took it from him. Bon caught a glimpse of writing from behind–it was no tongue he knew, definitely not the Good tongue. More like symbols of old gods. The master said so himself.

  "A waste of time. Put the letter in a purse. We'll see what it says later."

  As the letter passed through the chain of brothers, Bon noticed it: a faint blue glow. Dust. Bluerose.

  The others saw it too–but it was already too late. The brother who had climbed the tree tried throwing it away. The letter burnt in his hands, charring his long fingers.

  It didn't stop there. The blue flame ran up his long arms and into his young face in less than a breath. The horse he was on, a gray beauty, fell with him.

  Three more brothers were ignited where they stood in less than a breath. Chaos broke over the company like a wave. The blue-raven lifted from its branch and begun to fly again.

  A flame danced on Arlong's arm, crawling fast through his chest–he unsheathed his sword and cut off his arm at the shoulder. Clean, in one stroke.

  "Arlong!" The master, Bon, and Johnny yelled in unison.

  Bon had the fire patched out before the others reached him–the bean-and-water dressing pressed hard against the wound.

  "You're alright, you're alright." Lord Morgan said.

  "I'm fine." Arlong's voice was through his teeth, but it held. "I'm fine. Calm it down, you."

  The master got up to see the corpses, aided by the remaining brothers.

  The blue flame had stripped them bare–great red armor gone, nothing remaining but ash.

  "They were our brothers," said a lesser brother, his voice small and cracked.

  "They were." A few more brothers chimed in.

  The master put his fist up, ordering them to stop talking.

  "Why was there Bluerose on the letter?" Bon demanded.

  "A ploy to kill whoever received it, I bet." Johnny said. "We must've got in its way."

  "And all the better for it." Bon looked toward the ash of the brothers. Jason, he recalled. He remembered. The boy's name was Jason. Still, the others he could not place.

  He looked at the master. You commanded us to get that raven, you–. He stopped himself. A treasonous thought.

  The master looked up into the gray sky. "We keep going. When we are done we come back for these boys. We bury them in the Goodwood back at Dragonsbirth. We have a battle to fight first. Duty. War. Peace."

  Arlong tried to rise. His legs betrayed him and he sat back hard into the dirt.

  "What of him?" Johnny asked.

  "I said I'm fine! I can still fight."

  "No," said the master. "What's to be done with you?" He looked toward Johnny.

  "You can't fight," Johnny said flatly. "You won't be any help for anyone but the Mongrals."

  "Go back to Dragonsbirth," Bon said, cutting off Johnny. "If you're lucky the master can heal it using flame. White survived. Ride her. We'll see you after."

  He knew what Arlong would say next.

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  "Honor. I've fought in every battle you've–"

  "Now I'm asking you not to fight." Lord Morgan said. "Your arm will be fine. Go back to Dragonsbirth, the dragons ride with me."

  The brotherhood mounted up. Arlong's voice chased them as they rode, until it didn't. Until the trees swallowed it.

  The pit in Bon did not leave with him.

  The rest of the ride was hollow. You could have heard a cricket, if any were still alive this close to the keep.

  Then the clearing broke open ahead–and above the tree line, the white marble towers of Widow's Keep rose against the gray sky.

  They climbed the large hill of mud left by the rain that had fallen hours before. Each step of the horses churned the earth.

  The mud before the gold, Bon thought. They were House Gloran's words. Perhaps we will win this battle.

  Lord Morgan reached the hilltop first, then Bon, then Johnny. Below them lay the craters left by cannon fire, and beyond the craters, in the sea–two hundred ships sitting heavy in the water, hurling more iron at the castle's walls and at the surrounding Geetown. He saw a little child cut down, barely four, then a woman.

  Savages. The thought came quickly, and with it an uninvited memory of Solocar. He shoved it down.

  "They haven't sacked the castle yet," Johnny said, pointing at the black hooded woman's sigil of House Gloran. "Let's go down."

  "Wait," said the master.

  Johnny opened his mouth, but closed it again.

  "The Glorans are still holding, master." Bon pointed at the back of the castle, where a Gloran boy–Gilling Gloran–was tipping a cauldron of steaming water down on Mongrals trying to climb.

  "They hold," said the master.

  Why is the forest burnt then?

  "The river Crosser runs through the castle," said the master. "We split, go over the bridges and attack the front with flame."

  Bon felt an itch on his sword. He had been waiting.

  "Should we light now?" He asked.

  "No. Wait for me. When we cross–we feed them flame. Unmount. Take the seals from your packs and follow me."

  The brotherhood obeyed. Bon slapped Wolf away without looking back.

  They crept through the tall grass, not yet burnt, moving low, staying quiet. Ahead, the sack of Geetown continued on. Women and men alike dying like flies. Once a town of thousands, now only Mongrals remained pillaging.

  "Master," Johnny said quietly. "We charge with sword now?"

  After a breath, Lord Morgan nodded.

  The master stood and let out a war cry–and the Sword of Dragonsbirth, Baron, came out of its scabbard singing. Behind them, all fifty brothers rose from the tall grass like fire itself.

  By the time the nearest Mongrals turned to see them, they were already dead.

  The rest tried to back away–and backed into the charred wall of the castle, where Gilling Gloran poured another cauldron of boiling water onto them.

  Glory, and honor. Bon took it from Arlong. He grinned. The fire in his blood was singing.

  "Bon–with me!" The master yelled above the din. "Half with me, and half go with Johnny to the northern way!"

  The brotherhood split like the roots of a tree. They crossed the river, and the Mongrals pillaging Geetown went to meet them at the bridge, but they crossed it first.

  Bon caught sight of Johnny and the others crossing the northern way.

  Then Lord Morgan raised Baron. "Flame, grant me strength!"

  Baron erupted into Whitefire with a black glow. The brothers lit their swords together, the roar of it rising above the screaming and the cannons.

  The seals in their left hands crumbled to dust.

  "Charge!" Bon screamed.

  The Mongrals saw the whitefire coming and tried to fight. What fools, Bon thought. He cut an arm off a boy–fourteen perhaps–and before the blood could fall, the wound closed and burned the boy from the inside. The white flame came out of the boy's eyes and mouth, same with every other hole.

  The larger Mongrals fell back toward their camps. Bon noticed as they ran.

  They had time to build camps? Good camps? Why haven't they rushed the sacking–they've been stalling here.

  "Flame, bring the fire!" The master slammed Baron into the ground.

  A line of magma split the field, killing hundreds of Mongrals and reaching the ships, beginning to burn them.

  "They're falling back to the ships, master. They're retreating!" Johnny said, finally reaching the southern rear with Bon and Lord Morgan.

  The master ignored him. They broke the camps; the remaining archers got up from hiding on Widow's Keep and brought arrows down on the archers on the ships. They can reach the ships from the keep? Bon mused. But then, a brother–a boy of fourteen–caught an arrow through his throat and crumpled into the mud without a sound.

  He had red hair, fiery was he.

  Bon snapped back. Coat ourselves. We haven't coated!

  "Coat!" Bon roared.

  As one, the brothers wove flame around their skin–a wall against claws and teeth, but not against iron. Not against blades.

  As they ran toward the ships, trench after trench opened before them.

  Then a cannon bolt struck a brother–a man of twenty, same as Bon–through the chest. He screamed, but all that came was blood, and flame that shook the battlefield.

  "Cannons! Into the trenches!" A lesser brother yelled.

  The brothers and the master dove into a wide trench, littering it with bodies as they dove. The brown water came up to Bon's shins, and the copper smell had gotten old.

  The cannon fire shrieked overhead, close enough that he felt the air separate against his face. He pressed his back into the mud wall and breathed through his mouth. Mud, rot, iron–the smell of everything in one ditch.

  Nobody spoke yet. There was nothing to say.

  Another cannon. The ground shook and Bon's vision went blurry.

  Bon looked at the faces around him. Boys. Most were boys, their coat-flames guttered low, losing their strength, eyes wide in the dim. One of them–he couldn't have been older than nine–was gripping his sword with both hands to stop them shaking. Bon had been that exact boy, outside Solocar.

  He pushed it down once more.

  Another bolt came. The trench wall to Bon's left exploded in a shower of dirt and a brother disappeared in it. Two brothers clawed at the mud to find him. Bon pulled them back.

  "Leave him, stay low."

  He hated the words as they left his mouth.

  The walls of the trench were close. They'd seemed wide enough when they first jumped in but now they pressed inward, tighter with each volley, the mud smell thickening, the dead Mongrals beneath their boots shifting and settling with each concussion. The coat-flames gave just enough light to see the faces of the men nearest to him.

  We're going to die in this ditch if we stay. Bon thought he'd die this way, in a battle, alongside his brothers.

  Johnny rose to look at the ships.

  A cannon took him on the right side of his face.

  The sound was wrong. Heavy. Johnny flew backward into the mud, his silky red cloak black with it. The brothers reached him, yelling his name. Bon was behind them.

  "Master–he's still alive." A lesser brother urged. Let's go back to Dragonsbirth, please. Tears burned at Bon's eyes. Live. Live, you fool. Live.

  The right half of Johnny's face was gone. But he was breathing. His lips moved.

  "Wars.." He said.

  "Wars? War? What is it?" Lord Morgan said, his voice cracked.

  Nothing else was said from Johnny. His breathing slowed and stopped.

  Bon wept into the sky, loosening his grip on his sword before gripping harder. The blood in his veins begun to boil with fire. The flames climbed his arms, burning through his skin, through his blood–

  Lord Morgan gripped his arm.

  He had coated his palms in flame. His face–that ancient, hard face that had not cracked even at Solocar–was wet. He was crying.

  Tears. Real.

  The mud before the gold. He'd believed that once.

  He hadn't said anything, nor did Bon have time to understand. The Mongrals came over the trench like a tide–thousands of them, clawing and snarling and pressing in. The brothers made walls against the claws, but the walls didn't stop the blades, and some claws got in either way. Brother after brother went down as they tried to climb out of the trench.

  Then Bon saw him. A boy of fourteen–young, unnamed, one of the brothers close to Jason. He couldn't remember. The boy was shaking. And then he wasn't. He begun to glow.

  "No!" Bon yelled, same with the master and the lesser brothers.

  He'll kill us all, that bastard. Bon thought.

  The boy let out a blast of fire in all directions.

  The blast of magma was like a sun. It burnt thousands of Mongrals in a breath. It killed tens of brothers too close or too weak to withstand it.

  Their screaming was brief.

  What remained of the brotherhood climbed quickly out of the trench, avoiding the cannons. Their blades lit with everything they had remaining, loosening the coat on themselves. The air itself begun boiling. The howling Mongrals fell back. They climbed clear.

  Still, thousands more waited on the ships. Soldiers, horses–reserves never committed.

  We've taken over a city with just us, and we can't kill a few dogs.

  Bon let out a war cry, replicated by his brothers in arms.

  A Mongral boy–barely four–ran at Bon. Screaming. Not a battle cry. Just screaming, the way children scream when they're lost.

  Bon's sword was already moving.

  He felt the weight of it after. Not the strike itself–that was reflex, muscle, years of Dragonsbirth mornings in the yard. But the weight after, when the screaming stopped and there was just mud and quiet and his own breathing.

  He kept moving. You have to keep moving.

  The thought of it left his ears ringing. The world begun to grow distant and thin–the spoils of war, the screaming, the iron, the mud, the smell of copper. He raised his sword, and with Lord Morgan, he struck the ground and lit it on fire. The magma burnt the closest ships.

  The brothers split like the roots of a tree toward the ships–one dozen going this way, another dozen that way.

  He cut down Mongral after Mongral.

  Then he saw them. Hooded figures at the corner of his eye. They carried a flame too. Then another, then a dozen.

  The brothers nearest the ships went weak all at once, their fires gone.

  Bon felt it before he understood it–a cold hand reaching into his chest, pressing outward against his ribs, and then closing. The fire in his blood died. Like a torch being covered. Like a man holding a pillow over his face. His flames guttered low, then lower, the warmth that had lived in him since he was nine drained through the soles of his feet into the mud.

  His knees buckled.

  He caught himself on one hand and looked at his sword. The white flame was barely a flicker. He could feel the coldness of the air now–actually feel it, for the first time in a decade. The cold of men who didn't burn.

  Around him, brothers started buckling to their knees, the master among them.

  Wargs. He recalled Johnny's warning. Wargs.. We killed you.. We killed all of you.

  The hooded figures moved along the ships' edges without hurry, feeding a fire that was wrong–purple, not red.

  Bon pressed his sword into the ground, using it to hold himself upright, breathing through his teeth, trying to pull the flame back. As he pulled, there was less to reach for.

  "Wargs!" He screamed, though they all knew by now.

  Four brothers–boys Bon couldn't name–were behind him, still upright and their flames not disappearing.

  They launched themselves toward the ships, using their fires. The first ship caught. The fire warg died trying to absorb their fire, but failing.

  The cold in Bon's chest eased a bit. Enough to breathe.

  Three more wargs fell. So did a brother named Joris–fifteen. He knew his name at least.

  Five more wargs. Two more brothers gone. Kaeron, he remembered. Jacob.

  The final warg fell when the last brother drove his blade into its chest.

  He fell a moment later.

  The cold did not go away. Even with the wargs dead, whatever they had taken did not return. Bon felt it like a bruise.

  He tried to rise. He couldn't.

  Get up. Get up. He begged.

  "Kill them!" A Mongral commander roared somewhere above him. "Leave one! Feed the rest steel!"

  Bon raised his head to see the charge of thousands of Mongrals. A boy of twelve stood. The only brother who still could. He was cut down before he could speak or do anything–his blood scattered across Bon's face. The Mongrals came down on them like a fall of stone.

  One of them grabbed Bon by the collar and hauled him up. The world went gray as the last fire left him.

  He didn't feel the dagger go into his stomach.

  Only the fire.