Firestone Key Read online

  Harlin pruned a dead leaf from a weary plant to avoid looking at her eyes. “Bringed soil from outside. Like plants?”

  “Don’t know,” Elaine replied, truthfully. “Never had time.”

  “I know be not much. Too cold here. Always cold in whole realm since Queen used Firestone…” His voice trailed off as he turned to stare at her. For the first time, his hard expression softened into something approaching concern. “Place where ye come from, be not telling others. They not understand. Be fearly of ye.”

  Elaine was stunned by the implication of his words. “You know where I’m from?”

  Harlin shuffled on the spot, suddenly uncomfortable. “No...Maybes…No...Ye talking oddly.”

  The last was added as an explanation. Elaine wasn’t buying it.

  “Do you know if I can go home?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice from trembling.

  That concerned expression returned to Harlin’s burned face. “No. Sorry. Think not, ‘cause… No. Not having way to send ye.”

  That was an extraordinary thing to say, Elaine thought, but Harlin changed the subject before she could respond.

  Gesturing at her scar, he asked, “Man?”

  “Maybe,” Elaine replied, surprising herself by adding “… my father.” She had never discussed the origin of her scar with anyone except Leila.

  “Ah. Why?”

  “He didn’t like me.” The truth was out of her mouth before she realised she had spoken.

  “Could be worse,” was Harlin’s annoyingly unsympathetic comment.

  “Could it? This should be good.”

  “Could be like me, or Drevel.”

  “What’s wrong with Drevel?” Elaine snapped, leaping to her flatulent friend’s defence. “I like Drevel.”

  Harlin smiled. It was grotesque, but strangely compelling. “And he like ye. He been goodly man.” Elaine’s face must have registered confusion because he continued, “They not telling? Drevel been man. Harpy maked him dog. She not like him.”

  “Should have made you a lizard,” Elaine quipped, believing that Harlin was joking or ridiculously superstitious.

  Harlin laughed and staggered, grimacing at the pain in his leg.

  “Hurts?” Elaine asked.

  “Aye, thank ye. Serve to remind me what I deserve.”

  Elaine felt a mild degree of regret, now that she knew a little of her assailant. “Sorry I kicked you,” she admitted, “but you did deserve it.”

  “Not what I meaned,” Harlin told her, turning back to his plants. “I betrayed me people. They telling ye why they call me Magiker?”

  “No, but there’s no such thing as magic,” Elaine stated, with closed minded certainty.

  Harlin peered back at her. “Cause ye say so? And if ye see with own eyes?”

  “Tricks. That’s what magicians do.”

  “Be wrong,” said Harlin, a tinge of sadness amid the vehemence. “Wish ye weren’t though… Not place for ye, here.”

  Elaine would have been angry at the sudden dismissal, if she hadn’t already realised from whence it came. “You need to be alone,” she stated, having been in that condition her entire life. “How’s that working for you?”

  Harlin scowled. “Ye not understand.”

  Elaine snorted with derision. “You’re hiding up here. I understand that well enough. How long have you been here, playing with your garden?”

  “Ten year,” Harlin admitted.

  Elaine took a step towards him, conscious that she was in the middle of the longest conversation she had ever had with anyone, bar Leila and Neil. She had always been too nervous to say much to Caleb, no matter how much she fantasised about him. Somehow, in this mutilated young man, she recognised a little of herself.

  “If guilt hasn’t worked in ten years, it won’t,” she told Harlin, her fingers wavering close to his arm. “Try another way.”

  “Not able go back,” Harlin murmured, giving Elaine the impression that he had often considered it. “Always be Magiker to all.”

  An ear-piercing howl echoed down the tunnel, ending the moment and giving Harlin time to control his spiralling emotions. He was surprised at himself. He normally held his feelings on a tight leash. Who was this woman that she could have such an effect?

  Deep beneath the folds of Elaine’s borrowed clothing, a small, warm stone stayed silent, far from the memory of its bewildered owner.

  * * *

  Myrrdinus removed the slumbering Gwyneth from his grasp and sat up, experiencing an overwhelming desire for fresh air.

  “Be last time feeding ye fish,” he said, accusingly, staring at an amused mangy beast. Drevel responded with a high-pitched howl, waking everyone else.

  Unseen by the others, Myrrdinus tried to persuade Harlin to keep Elaine in the mountains. He was unsuccessful. He was then forced to stoically endure Gwyneth’s protestations at her friend’s treatment, albeit with an air of martyrdom. Working herself into a fit, Gwyneth was loudly sounding forth her opinion of Harlin when the man, himself, appeared behind her. “…and if he half man his father been,” she proclaimed, “would try to help us. Yet be hiding here and...”

  “Gwyneth!” Myrrdinus growled between gritted teeth.

  Gwyneth was sorry to have hurt Harlin’s feelings, but everyone knew she spoke the truth, even Harlin…especially Harlin. He guided them back out into the morning air in silence.

  Not far from their first camp, Drevel leapt to attention, ears fully extended and teeth bared. Growling ominously, he disappeared into foliage. Harlin instinctively drew his knife in response to the dog’s alarm. Drevel must have located his prey because a short cry of surprise was followed by, “Drevel, let go!”

  The canine sentry returned, towing a dishevelled resident of Gwyneth’s village.

  “Be one of us,” Myrrdinus informed Harlin, who slowly sheathed his knife.

  “What be matterly? What happening?” This from Gwyneth, already showing signs of panic.

  “Sworder comed with soldiers,” the villager explained, between gasps of breath, “…and Asher…”

  Gwyneth shouted, “What happen to him?”

  “Sworder beat him.”

  “No!” Gwyneth wailed and raced in the general direction of downhill.

  Myrrdinus intercepted and lifted her clean off her feet, extra poundage notwithstanding.

  “We go together,” he told her, while she kicked in his arms. “Be calmly.”

  She was too distressed and angry to notice that she was currently residing where she had always longed to be.

  “Ye be calmly! Be me dad!”

  “I love him too, but not helping like this.”

  Gwyneth realised that, for once, Myrrdinus was right and ceased struggling. He gingerly set her back on her feet, poised to grab her again, should she be faking. She adjusted her clothing and shuffled, but stayed where she’d been put.

  “What Sworder want?” asked Harlin, correctly deducing that there must be more to the story.

  “Harpy want Elaine,” the villager murmured, avoiding looking at the owner of that name.

  “So,” began Elaine, after an awkward silence threatened to lengthen, “she must really want to see me. I suppose I should go.”

  Drevel scrambled in front of Elaine, forming a barrier between her and the others.

  Harlin glared at him. “What ye doing? No-one giving her up.” Everyone gazed at him with surprise, which Harlin couldn’t help but find insulting. “What? Not staying here though.”

  “Silly me,” said Gwyneth. “Thinked ye might have finded backbone.”

  Harlin stared her down. “If village telled Sworder ye sended her here, Harpy coming. Here.”

  “If Harpy knowing ye here, be coming for ye long ago,” Myrrdinus pointed out.

  Harlin’s one unburnt eyebrow rose. “Never matter to her before. Been only me. Now…”

  “None in our village tell,” Gwyneth insisted. “Trusting them more than ye.”

  “That be shame, as I com
ing with ye,” said Harlin, shocking everyone, including himself. “Unless Myrrdinus say no.”

  “No. Mean, no I not say no. Mean aye, want ye coming,” stuttered Myrrdinus.

  “Ye sure?” quipped Gwyneth.

  Ignoring her, Myrrdinus added, “Melith not seen ye in long time. She be…”

  “Not going in village,” said Harlin, emphatically. “Be taking Elaine away to place nobone know of. She be safe there.”

  Myrrdinus’s open expression couldn’t hide the disappointment. He caught Gwyneth’s eye as the tiny woman snorted with cynicism.

  “Hello,” said Elaine, waving at the group. “Do I get a say in…?

  “No!” shouted Harlin and Myrrdinus simultaneously. Drevel added a ‘woof’ for good measure.

  * * *

  Being huge, muscular and fond of slashing at things with his sword, Myrrdinus led the trek back downhill, punching his way through water-logged foliage. The villager followed, silently lamenting his lot in having to march straight back down, having only just come up. Behind the two men laboured a puffing Gwyneth, alongside Elaine and the trotting Drevel. Trailing last, limped Harlin. He was struggling under the weight of his backpack from which protruded a bow, arrows and a sword.

  “Myrr…dinus… ye going… bit faster…” panted Gwyneth, “heart not stop…yet.”

  Myrrdinus didn’t so much as twitch, let alone break stride. “Telled ye not coming. Not be shape for it.”

  “Calling me portly, dumbwit?” snarled Gwyneth, ominously.

  Elaine glanced back at Harlin and caught a grimace crossing his features. Peering down at Drevel, she gestured, with a nod, for him to walk with Gwyneth. He grumbled, but tagged along with the breathless woman. Elaine waited for Harlin to catch up, ignoring the strident voice inside her skull warning her not to get involved.

  “Not need talking,” said Harlin, never having been able to receive any sympathy, even if it was offered – which it usually wasn’t.

  “I wouldn’t waste my breath or my considerable intellect,” remarked a nervous Elaine, thinking since when do I use words like ‘considerable intellect’?

  “Humble, ye,” quipped Harlin, taking a few more painful steps. Trudge. Limp.

  “Could try carrying you,” said Elaine, surprising herself. She wasn’t known for her humour.

  Harlin laughed, despite his pain. It was a pleasant sound, this time.

  “Can’t you magic us there?” she asked.

  Harlin’s laugh immediately died away. “No,” he stated, taking her question seriously. “Gived up ten year ago. Though not matter none to people. Be Magiker always. Til I die.”

  On they went; trudge, limp, trudge, limp, until Elaine could stand it no longer. “Know any good songs?”

  Harlin’s gentle laugh rumbled again. “I be throttling ye in sunlight?” he offered.

  “You made that up.”

  “No, be very old tune.”

  “Off you go. I’ll pick it up.”

  Harlin cleared his throat and began to sing, appallingly off key.

  “I be throttling ye in sunlight.

  Mangling yer ugly face.

  I be burying ye in moonlight.

  Never to be no trace.”

  Elaine couldn’t suppress a giggle. Harlin chuckled along with her, without ever realising how rare an event he had just witnessed. The moment was interrupted by the sound of neighing. Somewhere a horse was clearly in great distress.

  “Not hurting him. Please. Not.” It was the voice of a small boy.

  A much older male voice responded, “He not getting out, son. Sorry.”

  “No. Evening. No. Please. Somebone help,” cried the child, sounding in as much misery as the horse.

  Driven by the boy’s cries, they pushed their way through foliage in the direction of the noise, emerging to a scene of chaos. A rather old and ragged grey gelding had fallen into a swamp and struggled to get out. It was covered in mud, neighing and thrashing in terror. Equally splattered with flying slime was a scrawny boy, not more than seven years old, who wailed and fought to join his beloved horse, only to be held back by his heartbroken father.

  “Be too old and deep in mud, lad,” the father tried to explain. “Too tired getting out now. Not let him suffer no more. Be not right.”

  “No. Not killing him. Please,” wailed the boy.

  Myrrdinus, Gwyneth and Harlin were joined by a few saddened villagers, but none moved to intervene. Elaine, whose upbringing made her feel most empathy with the horse, stared at her friends with incredulity, stunned that they were not going to do anything.

  “Aren’t you going to help?” she asked Myrrdinus, since he was the strongest of them.

  “Man be right,” Myrrdinus replied in a sad, but matter of fact tone. “Horse tiring. Best ending quick.” He drew his sword and approached the horse, nodding to the father.

  “Doing fast. For boy,” the man told him, hugging his son’s face to his heart, so he couldn’t witness what must follow.

  Elaine rounded on Harlin, glaring at him.

  “What? How be me fault?” responded Harlin, but he couldn’t meet her eyes.

  Myrrdinus advanced on the horse, whose flailing was abating.

  For some reason, all the horrors of the past descended on the usually reticent woman and forced a single word to the surface as an explosion of sound and rage. “ENOUGH!” hollered Elaine, the authority in her voice freezing Myrrdinus in his tracks and scaring the assembly. Even Drevel decided not to intervene.

  Marching towards the bog as though heading into battle, she slid into the mud near the thrashing horse. Drevel growled, unhappy at her proximity to flying hooves. He wasn’t the only one bothered by her dangerous actions.

  “What ye doing?” Harlin demanded, limping closer. “Be getting hurt. Come out. Elaine. Do as I say. Now. Elaine.”

  “Elaine?” repeated the father, still clutching his small son. “One Harpy look…”

  “Not now,” snapped Harlin, cutting him off.

  Ignoring them all, Elaine crept closer to the horse, humming a lullaby and interspersing the melody with whispers. Amazingly, the horse gradually calmed down; thrashing ceased and the neighing faded into puffed breaths as though the animal was hypnotised.

  “What’s his name?” Elaine asked.

  The boy’s tear streaked face emerged from his father’s embrace. “Evening,” he told her.

  “Evening. SShh. Evening,” Elaine murmured to the traumatised horse. Her voice was so low that the listening crowd had to strain to hear it. “I know you’re tired. If you tell me that you’ve had enough and don’t want to fight any more, then that’s alright. But if you can try just once more, would you do it? Would you get up one last time?”

  Harlin, who was closest to her, watched her face and eyes as she spoke. He had experienced enough of the tortures of life to understand that her words were as much for herself as for the weary horse. A hidden part of his heart wished that someone had spoken to him in that manner, long ago. It suddenly became of extreme importance to save the animal, if only as a token of hope.

  Calling for rope, he made a loop which, with his clawed hand, was no easy feat. Enduring the pain from his shattered leg, he struggled down into the mud on the other side of the horse. Harlin slid the rope over the horse’s head and handed the end up to Myrrdinus. Gwyneth and the villagers laid sacking in the horse’s path, for better traction.

  Peering over the horse’s back, Harlin gazed into Elaine’s eyes. “Ready? Not get catched under him.”

  Elaine smiled at the scarred young man - eliciting a strange blip in his heart rate - but her attention immediately returned to the horse.

  “Evening. You’re not finished, no matter what they say.” She slapped the horse on the rear and cried, “Go. Go!”

  Myrrdinus, Gwyneth and the villagers hauled on the rope, with Drevel gripping the end in his teeth. Evening fired into life, neighing furiously. Spraying mud over Elaine and Harlin, the old horse thundered up the slope
, scrambled over the sacking and blasted up into freedom with a glorious back kick.

  Everyone cheered as the weeping boy embraced his beloved horse. Gwyneth moved to hug Myrrdinus, but he swiftly sidestepped her open arms and reached down to offer a hand to the muddy pair in the bog. Overcome by the moment, Elaine gave Harlin a swift hug, only to drop him in favour of grabbing Myrrdinus’s hand. She was easily levered out, oblivious to the stunned reaction of the wide-eyed Harlin.

  The ecstatic boy dashed over to Elaine and flung his arms around her legs. After a surprised moment, similar to that of Harlin, Elaine gently patted the child on the head. She was unsure of herself or how to react, never having had much contact with children or, indeed, anyone who was that pleased to see her.

  Myrrdinus peered down at the mud-locked Harlin. “Coming out?”

  Ignoring Myrrdinus’s outstretched hand, a proud Harlin attempted to scramble out on his own, but slipped in the mud and landed heavily on his distorted leg. He gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes tight shut to avoid crying out. Watching villagers cringed, but said nothing.

  “Be trying some help sometime,” said Gwyneth in a surprisingly gentle tone.

  With a deep sigh, Harlin gripped Myrrdinus’s wrist, allowing the stronger man to partly lever him out.

  “Ye all dirty,” Myrrdinus remarked to his mud coated former friend.

  It was innocently said, but Harlin turned his back, perceiving judgement in the words. Gwyneth slapped Myrrdinus.

  “What I do?” he whined. “Not one calling him Magiker all time.”

  A sudden silence descended like a thick curtain. Drevel’s whine sounded remarkably like an ‘uh oh.’

  “Ye be Magiker?” the father asked, yanking his son behind him.

  “Not anymore,” interjected Elaine, with forced cheeriness, somehow feeling beholden to protect a man she barely knew.

  “And ye be Elaine?” The father’s tone was growing more aggressive with every word.

  Elaine had experienced more than enough of this reaction to her name. “Here we go,” she snarled, “Pitchforks at the ready. Can we at least have a head start? I’m tired and he’s a cripple. No offence.”

  “Nought taked,” Harlin replied, touched by her zany defence of him.