Haliden's Fire Read online

  Haliden’s Fire

  Chris R. Sendrowski

  Edited by

  Philip Athens

  Cover and Map by

  David Leahey

  Haliden’s Fire

  A Pine Fire Book

  1st Edition March 2019

  Published by Christopher R. Sendrowski

  www.chrissendrowski.com

  Haliden’s Fire is a work of fiction.

  Names, character, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or

  are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Christopher R. Sendrowski

  All rights reserved.

  Cover/Map Illustration: David Leahey

  For mom and dad… you helped me finish my run.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About the Author

  Also by Chris R. Sendrowski

  1

  Fire danced across the western horizon, orange and red tendrils illuminating a strand of low lying clouds.

  A week, Haliden Stroke thought as he scanned the burning sky. Then we’re dead. All of us.

  A warm breeze blew into the clearing, knocking rivulets of ash from the surrounding pines. The larger flakes drifted down like dead moths, coating Haliden’s shoulders and hair.

  A scraggly-looking boy stood a few footfalls away, a crossbow trembling in his hands.

  A refugee, Haliden thought. Perhaps from one of the empty villages he passed a few days earlier.

  “You should be far from here,” Haliden said.

  The boy made eye contact, but quickly looked away. “And go where?”

  “I hear there’re valleys in the east filled with caves. You might find sanctuary there.”

  “Piss on that!” a deep voice spat behind them.

  Haliden turned. An enormous man sat atop an old tree stump, a great brown beard hanging over curtains of bulging fat. Like some macabre jester, he wore filth-stained pants checkered black and white and a skintight vest covered in vertical green and yellow stripes.

  But what really caught Haliden’s attention was the blood-encrusted hole over his left breast. No doubt from the bolt that killed the previous owner, he thought.

  Haliden raised a bottle of Hupra gin to his lips and took a deep pull. The priceless liquor slid down his throat like honey, warming his upset stomach. It had been a gift from the steward of Carcoon, one of the most powerful men in southern Alimane. And now it’ll be piss in twenty calls, he thought.

  Haliden finished the last sip and stared at the worthless bottle. The blown glass flickered with the Breath’s distant light. Always brighter, he reminded himself. Always whispering of what’s to come.

  And what had been.

  Her face materialized in his mind. The bitch. The harpy.

  Milane.

  Even here at the end of all things, he thought, I still love you.

  “What am I to do with this dreck?” the fat man said, gesturing at the pile of bric-a-brac strewn before them.

  Haliden stared at the remnants of his former life: a set of lavish oak chairs, a guilt Tritanese table, silver cutlery forged in Alg, bronze candlesticks smithed in the distant merchant city of Izon, dozens of rare leather-bound books from the library of Ether. There was even the Tritanese chest gifted to him by Fromin Dow, Tritan’s head engineer.

  And of course there were his paintings. Most were framed in polished oak, ready to be sold off at the great exhibition in Yorn. Landscapes, shattered castles, serene villages, portraits, and obscurities from his experimental period. There was even a pile of incomplete sketches on water stained canvas, mere ghosts of what might have been.

  Like my life.

  Haliden’s eyes played across his works as a stony weight pressed on his chest. Most were of her, of course. The slim strokes and gentle shadows coiling into the nightmare she had become.

  The fat man scratched his ash-covered beard. “Not worth more than a hundred coinage,” he grumbled. “And them paintings… kindling at best.”

  Haliden lit up an adreena stick, the smooth, lethal fumes numbing his anger. “One fifty and it’s yours. The lot… the pile… everything.”

  The fat man gestured at the twelve paintings at Haliden’s feet. “Everything?”

  “Everything but those.”

  The fat man turned to his young companion. The boy lowered the bow and withdrew a small sack from his breast pocket.

  “One hundred forty you say?”

  Haliden crushed the adreena stick beneath his boot heel. “One hundred fifty. Not a coin less.”

  The fat man laughed as he plucked coins from the purse with his sausage-like fingers. “Here stands the famous Haliden Stroke,” he crooned, “riding before the Breath with pockets heavy with coinage!”

  Haliden frowned. He had hoped he would go unnoticed here.

  The fat man extended the purse to him. “Here Stroke… buy yourself a pleasure barge for the trip down the nether.”

  Haliden took it and quickly counted its contents. “And the bow you promised?”

  The fat man laughed. “What use will it be to the likes of you? I’ve got a bottle of Algian Red that would suit you far bet—”

  “No games. The bow or no deal.”

  The fat man laughed. “We’re well past that point, artist. But if it makes you happy…” He snapped a finger at the boy, who quickly withdrew a beautiful brown recurve bow and leather quiver from the wagon.

  “It’s a seventy pound draw,” the fat man said as the boy handed Haliden the bow. “You think you can handle it?”

  Haliden held it up and examined it. The finely crafted wood was stained a deep brown and polished like metal, the well used string waxed and unfrayed.

  “So what do you plan to do with all of this?” Haliden asked the fat man as he shouldered the quiver.

  The lout grinned. “There are roots and burrows even the fire can’t touch. But those are tales for lesser folk. Your kind run for Pelimen’s Block. With all that gold you might just find a way in. Pray you do, though. Else you’ll be clawing at the slopes with the rest of the rabble when the fires come.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Haliden said as he turned back to his home. It was a fine manor: two floors, four bedrooms, three fireplaces. He’d built it over many turns, every brick, every scrap of wood paid for by his art. A monument to his well-traveled, fruitful life.

  But like everything else in Alimane, it belonged to the Breath now.

  Haliden shouldered the bow and quiver and turned to the road.

  “Hey artist,” the fat man said. “You don’t plan to ride that nag to the Block, do you?”

  Haliden turned to his garron, who was tethered to a small maple beside the road. She was nine turns past her prime, her mane graying and natty. But you’re mine, he thought. Instar. My only friend now.

 
“She’s not for sale.”

  “A shame,” the fat man replied. “Such a fine beast could serve twenty men of my girth. Are you sure?”

  Haliden mounted Instar and turned her north. “Very much so.”

  The fat man bowed again. “Well good luck, Stroke. May the gods watch over your run.”

  Haliden glanced one last time at his home and then vanished silently into the ashen night.

  He awoke at dawn, Instar’s warm breath blasting across his cheek.

  “Morning, old buddy,” Haliden said as the garron playfully nipped his ear.

  Yawning, Haliden stretched and tossed some twigs onto the previous night’s fire. As the coals slowly crackled back to life, he turned and took in his surroundings.

  The entire forest was coated in a fine layer of gray ash. Fire’s probably only sixty or seventy leagues off, he told himself as a large flake drifted past his nose.

  The summer winds had arrived early, gusting in off the Acid and feeding the Breath’s unbridled fury. Soon all of southern Alimane would be nothing more than an ashen waste. And then it will be our turn to burn.

  He turned back to the fire and stared at the crackling flames. We ride harder, that’s all. There’s nothing more to it than that.

  The Breath had belched forth from Dracon’s Wound not more than three weeks ago, wiping out much of southern Alimane’s abandoned, toxic shores. Ten turns earlier than the Circle’s original prediction, Haliden thought. He sighed as he watched the horizon’s distant, orange glow. Why do you torment us? he wondered. Was it punishment for the collected sins of a continent? Or were the rumors true? Had Tritanese miners mistakenly unleashed it while drilling in the seven league wide canyon known as the Scar?

  Whatever the case, Haliden knew one thing: it was unstoppable. And after a four hundred turn slumber, it had returned to cleanse all of Alimane.

  Behind him, Instar whickered gently, oblivious to the approaching inferno. For this, Haliden was thankful; he would worry enough for both of them in the coming days.

  “Shall we dance, my lady?” he said, rising onto popping bones.

  Instar replied with a nay. She was a gentle creature, loyal and proud. And like so many things in his life, she had been gifted to him for his talents.

  Haliden smiled at the memory. The pirate, Red Bartle, had taken him prisoner off the Gnarled Coast while he and several ladies of the night were pleasure boating aboard his skiff, The Wailing Harpy. Bartle’s crew had intended to feed him to the sharks and keep the women for themselves. But Haliden had convinced them to spare his life in exchange for one of his greatest works.

  The Pomp of the Citadel, he thought. A landscape of the famed ruins of Alithanen. Few had ever seen the actual city; it had been located near a volcano whose poisonous fumes masked the land in toxic gas.

  But Haliden had. And luckily for him, Red Bartle as well. In fact, the pirate had been so impressed with the piece, he not only freed Haliden and his party, he also gifted him one of his strongest garrons: Instar.

  Haliden grinned. Stranger things had happened since. But never has my payment been so grand.

  “We ride north, Instar. As always. What do you say?”

  Instar tossed her head from side to side, her excited eyes reflecting the approaching fire.

  The road was sodden and gray, covered in a layer of undisturbed ash. Instar plodded along indifferently, her hooves kicking up little gray clouds as wind tickled the branches above. Haliden rode quietly, scanning the forest around him.

  “Looks like another village, my friend,” he said as several structures materialized in the distance. They had already passed three since their meeting with the fat man. But all had been empty save for the elderly and infirm.

  Haliden edged Instar off the road toward the lonely structures. Most were nothing more than log cabins bound in mud and clay, their rooftops sagging patchworks of pine and thatch.

  When he was confident the village was abandoned, he climbed off Instar and peeked into the closest cabin.

  The single room was bare, save for some moldering hay and a large bed. His heart brightened at the sight of the bed. But when he approached it, he realized two rotting corpses lay side by side beneath its moldering sheets. Suicides, he thought. They were everywhere now, rotting within dark, forlorn huts or hanging from ash-covered trees. He’d even seen dozens weighted down with rocks just beneath the surface of Delmar Lake.

  The sky slowly darkened as rain clouds moved in from the west. Haliden quickly gathered wood and lit a small fire just outside the cabin’s door. As the flames crackled to life, he heard her voice again:

  “If you want me, I’ll be at world’s end. But if you love me, you’ll die alone.”

  He sighed as a familiar weight pressed against his chest. I always loved you, Milane. No matter the past, I always will.

  Instar quietly nickered beside him, her ash covered mane flickering in the firelight. You are my only friend now, Haliden thought as he smiled at the aging garron. At times he feared she wouldn’t last the journey. But there is no other way now. Either they rode north or died.

  “We’ll get there,” he whispered as he drifted off to sleep.

  Somehow, they would find salvation.

  Dawn came gray and gloomy, the sun muted by the thickest ash Haliden had ever seen. Is this how ghosts see the world? he wondered as he gripped the recurve bow and drew back the string.

  His fingers and elbow trembled as the weight of the draw taxed his unused muscles.

  “Come on,” he whispered, sighting down the shaft. He took in a quick breath, held it and released.

  Thwackkkk

  The arrow splintered against a tree twenty footfalls from its target.

  Haliden sighed. “This is not going well.”

  Instar huffed beside him as if in agreement.

  “Talking to that horse won’t steady your draw, painter.”

  Haliden spun around and quickly nocked another arrow.

  An ancient scarecrow of a man stood a few footfalls away, leaning on a gnarled staff. “You won’t need that here,” the coot said, gesturing to the bow. “My days of bloodying others have long since set.”

  Haliden stepped back, the bow still drawn. “Who are you?”

  The coot sat down on an overturned barrel, his bones creaking and popping as he let out a sigh. He had a thin tuft of white hair wavering gently in the morning breeze, and his skin was wrinkled and liver spotted.

  “Been too long since I knew that, friend. Me woman said I had the mindrot before she coughed herself into the ground three weeks past.”

  “Yet you knew my name?”

  The old man laughed. “It’s queer, I admit. I couldn’t tell you what I ate this morning, or if I shit water or rocks. But I remember my days at the Isle thirty turns ago. Every moment and every face.” He smiled as he looked at Haliden. “And you, Haliden Stroke. I’ve always remembered you.”

  2

  They sat together most of the day, two strangers enjoying the warmth of fire and companionship as ash drifted onto their shoulders.

  The coot gulped down a long, healthy swallow from one of Haliden’s bottles. “Ahhhh,” he gasped. “Not even the Breath can warm the blood like firewater.” He handed it to Haliden and nodded his thanks. “Can’t remember the last time I tasted berry rum.”

  Haliden took a swig. When he was done, he leaned back against his pack and stared at the man. He said his first name was Warden, but that the mindrot had long since wiped away his last name.

  “I spent most of my life on the Isle,” Warden said as he warmed his hands over the fire. “Bending the knee as befit my rank. I was even an acolyte to Menutee himself. Warmed his wine and kept his quarters clean for almost five turns. Of course, those were the days before Overwatch rule. The turns of gold and happiness for young Warden.”

  “You really knew Menutee?” Haliden asked, unconvinced.

  “Knew him as much as any acolyte could.”

  Haliden huffed. Nart
hax Menutee was the most notorious Circle charger, the root of the Meridium War that ravaged the Culver thirty turns past. And that wasn’t Warden’s only claim. Throughout the night, he spun tales of dining with princes and thieves. He even claimed to have been present in the Culver, when the Brighthorse Brigade finally stormed Menutee’s bunker at the end of the Meridium War.

  But even after conjuring tales thirty turns past, the man still couldn’t explain the villagers’ whereabouts, or how he even arrived in Alimane. “I awoke one day and I was here in this village,” he told Haliden, his voice sullen. “A man turning gray and old, the past turns all but lost to me, save for those spun long ago.”

  By noon the two were good and drunk. Haliden sighed as he sniffed the ashy air. He had to move on soon; the Breath would be on them any day now.

  “So tell me, artist,” the old man said. “Where do you hope to hide? Beneath Saladin Watch? Or perhaps with the water worshipers of Yxulian Stretch?”

  “The Block,” Haliden replied. “With enough coinage, any man can find quarter there. Or so the rumors say.”

  “It’s been four hundred turns since the last Breath came forth,” Warden said. “Four hundred turns to crack and crumble the Block’s granite walls. What makes you think it will withstand it?”

  “Hope,” Haliden replied. “That’s all I have now. But tell me something: How did we meet upon the Isle?”

  “I told you but you don’t listen. I was acolyte to Menutee, cleaned and prepared his bed chambers for five turns. But when he embarked upon his atuan, I fell beneath the hand of Commander Howl and his vile Overwatch dregs.”