The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1) (37 page)

Taran collapsed to the crumpled bed, shaking his head. He didn’t disturb her, wouldn’t trespass upon her rest with no better reason than the effects of a bad dream. Once again he stilled his racing heart, and stood to gather the bedding he had dropped.

He glanced to his window, trying to gauge the hour. It was dark and silent outside. Not even the sounds of the garrison preparing to ride out for their punitive sweeps reached his ears. It must still be early. So why, he thought, was there a sullen red glow in the sky?

Taran hadn’t gone early to his bed. His luck at cards had changed and he had enjoyed a run of good hands. Only once had he been deceived by Denny’s bluffing tactics; otherwise he’d called the Major on his bets and had reaped the benefits. He had even beaten Ardoch, which was more of a rarity than triumphing over Denny. The talk, the game, and the comradeship had kept the Adept long from his bed.

When he had finally succumbed to weariness he’d fallen instantly asleep. Yet his slumber hadn’t been deepened by alcohol. With dawn patrols to lead and the dreadful murder of the Arch Patrio uppermost in their minds, none had partaken of intoxicating liquor. General Blaine’s views on strong drink were well known, and should a swordsman under the King’s Oath, whatever his rank, commit transgressions of a drunken nature, he was instantly punished by dismissal with no appeal.

So Taran knew that whatever he had experienced during the night and whatever his eyes were telling him now, his senses were not dulled by drink. There was only one thing that could possibly cast such a ruddy-red glow on the underbelly of the snow-laden clouds.

Fire!

He flung off his night robe and struggled into breeches and shirt, tugging his sheepskin-lined jacket on and stamping into his boots. He ran to the window, which looked north-eastwards, trying to pinpoint the fire’s location. But the glow was widespread, distributed by the cloud cover, and he couldn’t tell the source of the flames.

He would have to rouse both castle and garrison. Fire was the city’s most feared danger. Many of the buildings were of timber or half-timbered; if fire got hold it could decimate large areas of the city very quickly. Water they had in abundance—the port wharves gave easy access to the sea—but carrying large quantities of water to the seat of a fire would take time they might not have. The little Loxton stream ran through the castle parklands, but it was too small to be much use for quenching fires. Their main defense was speed, alerting the city and preventing the fire from getting out of control.

Taran ran from his room, pounding on doors as he went, crying “Fire!” as loudly as he could. People streamed from their rest in his wake, and Colonel Vassa heard the commotion before Taran reached his quarters.

The Colonel appeared at his door, pulling on his clothes. Taran heard a sleepy voice calling anxiously from the bedchamber. Astounded, he caught a glimpse of Madam Delinna, Elias’s chatelaine, wrapping a silken robe about her statuesque figure. He raised his brows at Vassa, but there was no time for questions or amazement. Taran dismissed the incident and tersely told Vassa what he’d seen.

The Colonel wasted no time. He brushed past the Adept and headed down the hallway toward the stairs.

“Wake Levant, will you, Taran? And anyone else you can think of. I’ll turn out the garrison.”

Taran sped for Levant’s chambers, but the First Minister had already heard the alarm. Taran gave his information and left Levant to organize the castle. The Adept hurried after Vassa, clattering down the stairway to the lower floor, shouldering through the castle’s milling inhabitants, some of whom tried to waylay him with questions or pleas for information. Taran referred them all to Levant and forged his way outside.

He emerged into the castle courtyard, from where he could hear the Colonel’s stentorian roar alerting the garrison and yelling orders. Running beneath the archway that led to the garrison compound, his breath streaming white in the freezing air, Taran made for the stables. Grooms and swordsmen were everywhere. Taran had to fight to reach the barn where the harness was stored. He snatched up Bucyrus’s saddle and bridle and made his way to his mount’s stall.

Bucyrus, like the other horses, had caught the pervading sense of urgency and snorted in alarm. Taran spared him a gentle word and a soothing hand before flinging on the saddle and slipping the bridle over the stallion’s ears. He led the beast from his stall and vaulted to his back before they had even cleared the door.

Emerging into the compound, Taran was assailed by the shouts of men, the calls of fretting horses, and the press of bodies. He touched heels to Bucyrus’s sides and sent the horse out into the castle parklands, heading, like so many others, for the gates to the city. He heard Denny’s yell close behind him and turned, seeing the Major leading a band of around forty mounted men, all running hard on Taran’s heels. They clattered through the opened gates and into the city streets.

Taran ignored the tumult, the freezing air, the falling snow, and also the cries of the men around him. Reaching within himself for his psyche, Taran attuned himself to the element of Fire. He wrapped its signature about his consciousness, made himself part of it, sensitized his spirit to its nature. Then he cast his awareness out over the city, trying to shut out Denny’s voice demanding he do what he was already doing.

The city was quiet, save for the districts nearest the castle where the inhabitants had heard the yells and were beginning to come to their doors. Puzzled, Taran pulled back his senses, turning questioning eyes to the red-hued sky. Denny sent one of his men to tell Vassa the city was safe, and turned to yell at Taran.

“Seems to be coming from the north!”

Taran looked that way. The night was still. No scent of smoke reached their nostrils; no floating soot marred the pristine white snow. What movement of air there was carried the faint tang of brine, as usual. The castle was to the north and west of the city. Beyond it were the cliffs dropping down to the sea, and the erstwhile Baron’s estate.

Taran’s blood froze. His whole body shuddered and a cold hand of panic gripped a heart that labored under the pang of shock. His face drained and his sight blurred. Now he knew why he had startled awake, sweat-ridden, lungs burning. He knew the name of the nightmare that had jolted him from sleep. He once again felt sick and dizzy and swayed in his saddle.

Denny noted his reaction, even in the gloom. He reached out to steady his friend. “What, Taran? What is it?”

Taran turned fearful eyes on him. “Oh, gods! It’s not the city, Denny, it’s the estate! It’s Jinny’s estate! Quickly, Denny, hurry! Oh, dear gods!
Jinny
!”

Taran dug his heels into Bucyrus’s sides. The mettlesome stallion, unused to such harsh treatment, squealed as he surged forward, leaping into a flat-out gallop as Taran laid the reins across his neck, urging the great beast faster and faster through the narrow, twisting streets, Denny’s men right behind him.

He dimly heard a yell from Denny—whether warning or command, he couldn’t say. He didn’t hear the words, had no thought for his safety. All he knew was that Jinny had called to him in her terror and, miraculously, he’d heard her. The one thing he had been hoping for during their three years together had finally happened. They’d achieved a pair-bonding, a true merging of spirit and soul—the one irrefutable indication they were meant to be together. All their passionate coupling, their enjoyment of each other’s company, their ease together, had broken down the barrier of Jinella’s lack of talent and allowed this incredible link to be forged. It had taken panic to release it.

And he hadn’t recognized it.

+ + + + +

T
hey labored long and hard into the dawn. Straining together, gasping for breath in the smoke-laden air, they struggled to fight the flames. Finding water wherever they could—the well, the horses’ buckets, the dew-pond—their existence merged into one long chain of passing heavy buckets down the line to be thrown, hissing and steaming, into the all-consuming maw of flame.

The servants had been spared. Wakened by the roar as the fire attacked the main building, they escaped their rooms just before the inferno burst the door separating their wing from the mansion. Leaving all their possessions, fleeing in night robes and blankets, they spilled into the freezing night, screaming for help, milling frantically until someone ran to the chapel and tolled the bell. The estate’s inhabitants poured from their houses to help.

Taran, Denny, and the men from the garrison arrived in the midst of this chaos. So swift had been their flight through the city that the guard at the gate hadn’t been able to get the ponderous portal open fast enough. Taran, desperate to reach Jinny, had spurred his mount through an opening too small to accommodate horse and rider, resulting in his leg and the horse’s flank being crushed against the stout wood. He had not stopped to assess the damage and was one of the first off his horse when at last they reached the inferno.

They soon saw it was hopeless. The mansion was completely alight. Flames roared from every window, spat from the roof beams, leaped feet into the air as internal walls collapsed. The servants’ wing went the same way. There simply wasn’t enough water to combat such a ferocious conflagration.

It was Matty who saved the horses. Disobeying his father’s orders, he sprinted across the fields and opened the stable doors. Yelling at the frightened horses, he chased them into the yard where their own terror goaded them past the flames and out into the cold safety of the night. They would suffer in the cold, but better to shiver in the darkness than roast alive in their stalls.

Taran fought his own private battle with terror and panic as he strained his powers beyond their limits. The agony of his crushed leg was forgotten in the urgency of the moment. He wanted to run into the flames, throw himself up the charred stairs, and batter his way to Jinny’s door in the desperate hope he’d find her safe and well. But the heat was too fierce and the building too damaged. The stairs were gone anyway, long since collapsed, along with most of the second floor. The flames exulted high above his head, leaping maniacally through the burned-out roof trusses, mocking him with his impotence as he strove to damp them down. As Adept-elite he could influence Fire, but he doubted even Sullyan could have banished this ravening monster.

He fought on, turning all the love in his heart, the panic in his veins, and the valor in his soul into strength of will as he pitted his inadequate skills against the unstoppable fire.

He never noticed the faint flush of dawn staining the east. He didn’t realize the chain of buckets had ceased to move, didn’t know the space around the mansion was now cleared of people. Denny had long since realized the task was hopeless and the best they could hope for was containment. He cleared an area around the burning buildings and removed everything that could catch alight, forming a fire-break. The mansion and the servants’ wing were lost. Better to sacrifice what couldn’t be saved in order to redeem the rest.

Now it was over. The fire still raged, but it was running out of fuel and could be left to consume itself. The still winter air was a blessing; no wind would blow the flames to claim further victims. Denny sent the exhausted villagers back to their homes and organized temporary care for the displaced servants. Any with wounds or burns too serious to treat in the village were transported back to the city. Denny had to return also. He was due out on patrol at dawn. Vassa wouldn’t appreciate his being late, not even for this. So Denny approached Taran, who had fallen to his knees with exhaustion, but was still trying to quell the flames.

He nearly cried out when Denny touched his arm. His eyes snapped open as Denny crouched down beside him.

“It’s over, Taran. You can do no more. Let it go, man, you’ll kill yourself.”

Taran turned brimming eyes on the Major. “It’s over?” he whispered. “It’s gone? The whole house?”

“See for yourself.” Denny directed Taran’s gaze to the ravaged building.

The Adept stood painfully, leaning on Denny’s arm. Tears streamed down his sweat-soaked face as he stared at the dreadful mess the fire had made of Jinny’s home. He covered his face with his hands and stood there shaking.

Denny glanced at his men, who waited awkwardly, unsure what to do. They weren’t the ones picked by him to patrol Loxton Forest today—he’d left those behind with orders to report to Colonel Vassa. He would have sent the men back to their rest until dawn. Denny was needed there to lead them. He turned once more to the distraught Adept.

“Taran, I’m so sorry, but I have to go now. I have patrols to lead. I’ll leave my men here with you. They’ll help you look through the house once it’s cooled down a bit, see if they can find … you know … what’s left. But I have to go. I have my orders. I’ll make sure Vassa knows what’s happened, if he doesn’t already; he won’t expect you at the castle this morning.”

He got no response. Taran simply stared at the smoldering mess.

“Taran—oh gods, man, I’m so sorry. None of this was your fault; you could have done nothing to prevent it. It was an accident, by the looks of things—a spilt lamp, probably. You know what these old houses are like, tinder-dry, most of them. And you tried the hardest of anyone to stop the fire. Don’t make yourself ill with blame. Jinny wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Denny’s words finally seemed to register. Taran turned red-rimmed, guilt-ridden eyes on his friend, his tortured soul naked and burning. A terrible rage seemed to well inside him, and for one awful moment Denny thought Taran might strike him, might even try to kill him. The insane despair smothering his senses threatened to overwhelm all other concerns. But then he turned, faced once more the savage pyre of his love, his hopes, and his dreams, and screamed his loss to the sky. He threw back his head, fists beating at the frozen air, throat clawing harshly at the tatters of his life, and then he collapsed to his knees once again, tearing sobs muffled under futile hands—hands that had failed to save his love.