Into the Fire Read online

  Into the Fire

  Book One of

  The Chronicle of the Blue Flame

  by Tamara Vincent

  Into the Fire & The Chronicle of the Blue Flame © 2018 Tamara Vincent

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction, and all characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination.

  Dedicated to my old D&D team.

  Part One

  Chapter One - Bellegarde

  The smoke rising over the hills had dissipated, and the flames of the burning villages did not cast red and sulfur light on the low clouds of the autumn. A light wind was stripping the trees of their last leaves and the smell of ashes in the air was a faint remainder of what was beyond the passes.

  What was beyond the passes, Liane thought, and was about to come through.

  Her steps took her through the great gate of Bellegarde, down the tunnel-like entrance hall and into the forecourt. The gates to the stables had been smashed, the straw scattered on the polished cobblestones of the courtyard.

  Scared of the incoming menace, and missing the strong hand of her father, the Guard had rebelled ten days before. The most honest among the men had picked up their things and left in the night, seeking the safety in the woods and up the mountains.

  Hugh, a dour but honest man that had served as Sargent ever since Liane had been a baby, had come to the Duchess’ chambers, and offered Liane’s mother to take them with him and his band of soldiers. Countess Adele had refused the offer, and Hugh had then suggested she and her daughter, and her servants, barricade themselves in the west tower, with weapons and provisions.

  “The others won’t be as kind as I am,” he had said.

  It was thanks to his advice if Adele, Liane and her sisters and a handful of servants had gone through the looting untouched. The traitors had ransacked the castle, stealing everything that could be stolen, and smashing what they could not take away.

  Liane crossed the dance hall, with the ripped brocade curtains at the windows, the great crystal chandelier crashed in the middle of the chequered floor.

  She went up a flight of stairs, and entered her mother’s private chambers.

  “The fires have died,” she said, and that was all the greeting she gave, or she received.

  Adele was sitting on her throne-like chair, her grey hair in a long braid falling on her shoulder, stark against the black velvet of her gown.

  “The snow—” she said.

  “We can’t hope for the snow,” Liane snapped back.

  She was wearing riding boots and britches, and she held her mother’s disapproving stare. Ladies should dress lady-like, the Duchess often repeated to her daughters. And indeed, she would have preferred had Liane followed the example of her two sisters, Coline and Bélise. The two girls sat on the dais on which the throne rested, Coline in a dark green gown, Bélise in a maroon one. At twenty, Coline was considered a woman, and wore her hair up in a silver net, not dissimilar from the one over which her mother’s tiara rested. Béline would soon be eighteen, and if her body betrayed her fresh womanhood, she still wore her hair in two braids falling on her shoulders.

  “The snow will block the passes,” Adele repeated, her tone the kind that does not contemplate objection.

  Liane glanced at Rose, her mother’s personal maid. The young woman was scared stiff, her face as pale as a ghost, more so framed as it was by her black hair. She stood by the private chambers’ door, wriggling her hands.

  Was it because of the servants and the girls, Liane wondered, that her mother was being so unreasonable? To stem their horror with the impression of authority.

  Stiff in her black dress, her greying hair pulled up in a bum, her expression like ice carved with a steel blade, Madame Simone, her governess, and the girl’s, did not seem to need any reassuring. Emotionless like a lizard, was Madame Simone. She stood behind the throne

  “We need to look for a way out,” Liane said. “We won’t be as lucky as we were the last time, when the Dark Crusade reaches us.”

  Her mother’s lips were pressed together, thin and bloodless.

  “The Bellegarde does not flee its enemies,” she said

  “And so much good it did to us.”

  Bélise gasped, and her sister circled her shoulders with her arm, and gave a hard look at Liane.

  It had been three weeks before, that an emissary of the Hierophant had come to Bellegarde, riding a tall black horse. The man, if really a man hid underneath the black cloak and hood, had been brought to the presence of the Duchess.

  He carried, he said, a message from the Hierophant, in the certainty that the Duchess would accept it in good grace, and consider the option of recanting and joining the Hierophant and his Dark Crusade.

  The message came in a bundle of rags.

  It was the Duke’s head.

  “He died a craven’s death,” the emissary had said, his voice like the croak of a crow. “But my master is sure, you are made of different stuff.”

  Adele had had him thrown out.

  “We should have heeded Hugh’s suggestion,” Liane said.

  She was the older daughter, and she burned with the craving for revenge.

  “And flee to the woods?” asked Coline, with a smirk.

  “Better alive in the woods than dead, or worse, in Bellegarde,” Liane snapped back. Again she turned to her mother. “What can we do? We are a handful of women. We have no soldiers, no guards. The villages in the valley are emptying of people. They know Bellegarde can’t defend them, and are seeking a way out. Some already have lifted the sign of the Five Stars, and are making ready to greet the Hierophant as their savior.”

  Adele’s face contorted in anger and disgust.

  “There could be a way out,” said a voice.

  It was Gisla, the late Duke’s half-sister, that served as librarian and chief book-keeper for Bellegarde. She walked in, carrying one of the big books she had saved in the tower from the rampage of the rebels. Like the Duchess, she was in her late forties, with pale hair and a precociously lined face. She was wearing a shapeless gown of grey, and her fingers were stained with ink and dust.

  “You have found something?” Liane asked, a spark of hope burning in her chest.

  Gisla glanced at her and gave her the briefest of smiles.

  “What have you found, sister?” the Duchess asked in turn. “Speak!”

  Gisla sighed and looked for a place where to put her book. Then she shrugged, and opened it, licking the tip of her thumb, turning the pages. It was an old book, bound in leather, the pages illuminated with garish designs.

  “There is an old story—” she said.

  “It will not be stories that save us,” snapped Madame Simone. Then she caught the Duchess’ stare, and whispered an apology.

  Gisla glanced at the governess and kept browsing, until she came to the page she was looking for.

  “In the past,” she said, “the Lords of Bellegarde have faced greater odds and strange enemies. Of these, none was worst than Black Blaise, the Warlock.”

  “Children’s bedtime stories,” Coline said.

  “Not so,” Gisla retorted. “The chronicles attest at the truth of that story.”

  Adele leaned forward and placed a hand on Coline’s shoulder. “Blaise was real enough,” she whispered. And then at Gisla, “So, what of Blaise?”

  Gisla took a deep breath.

  “How Blaise was defeated—”

  “That was never known,” Liane said. She took a step closer, to try and read over her half-aunt’s shoulder.

  “Not so. We know that Duke Romuald had access to some secret weapon, that vanquished the Black Warlock and his demons.”

  “More fables,” Coline smirked.

 
“Not so,” Gisla said again. “Truth. But buried so deep into the ancient chronicles, that to unearth it took me days and nights, and no little luck.”

  “What then?” asked Liane, impatiently.

  “The Blue Flame,” Gisla said. She turned the book, so that they all could see a full page depiction of a column of blue fire, its tongues wrapped around a warrior in full armor, swinging a big sword and carrying a shield that looked a lot like the crest of Bellegarde. “This,” she said, “was the weapon Romuald used. A weapon not even Black Blaise could withstand, nor could his demons.”

  Celine squinted. “What is this Blue Flame you speak of?”

  Gisla sighed. “The chronicles are rather obscure on the subject. It seems clear that it has an affinity for the blood of Romuald’s descendants, the House of Bellegarde—”

  Coline snorted. Madame Simone allowed herself a glacial smirk.

  “But whatever it is, and no matter how it works,” the Duke’s half-sister said, hastily, “two things are known to us for sure.”

  She raised a hand and one finger. “First, the Blue Flame works, as witness the fate of Black Blaise and his horde.”

  She lifted a second ink-stained finger. “Second, we know where it is.”

  “Where?!” blurted Liane.

  Adele nodded. “Go on,” she whispered.

  Gisla turned two pages, and followed the script with her finger as she read.

  “Where the Dimort joins the Maret stands the tower of Beaubois. Here the Flame awaits.”

  Liane frowned. “Beaubois? It’s two days to the east of here—”

  “It’s an old ruin where ravens and badgers nest,” Gisla said.

  “Yes,” Coline said in turn, “and where the beast-men roam. Two days away, but could be two thousand. Who is going there to find this Flame of yours? Who of us could brave the wild and the aberrations that haunt those woods? Who’s going to fetch this fabled weapon of yours, and learn it, and use it against the Hierophant?”

  “I am,” said Liane.

  The Duchess opened her mouth to speak, but she cut her short.

  “Do you have a better idea, mother?” Liane asked. “Or a better candidate?”

  Chapter Two - beast-men

  A cold wind blew along the narrow valley through which the Maret flew. The stream was full for the late summer rains, and the trees were black and skeletal against the dark grey of the rocks and the pale grey of the sky.

  “At least we don’t smell the ashed,” Liane said.

  She was sitting on a flat rock. She handed her water skin to Gisla, that nodded a thank you, too out of breath to speak. She took a long drink of water, and sighed.

  “Had not the bastards taken our horses,” she said.

  They had been on the march since early that morning, leaving Bellegarde before the dawn. Five hours later, they had just left the fields and orchards of the Bellegarde province, and entered the wilds of the Upper Maret valley.

  “Look on the bright side,” Liane said. “On foot we are harder to spot.”

  “You fear the beast-men?” Gisla said, her eyes wide.

  “Who doesn’t? And we know some tribes are hiding in the woods. Back in my father’s youth, I am told, they sometimes attacked our people, during the long winters.”

  Gisla looked around, squinting at the shadows among the trees, and Liane laughed.

  “We are still too close to the castle for the beast-men to be a true menace,” the young woman laughed. “And with the Hierophant and his Crusade so close, they are likely to have gone to ground.”

  “It is said the beast-men serve Chaos,” Gisla said. “They should welcome the Hierophant. Maybe even join his forces.”

  She leaned heavily on her staff as they started up the narrow path again.

  “That is a thing I have often wondered,” Liane replied. “Whether the Hierophant is in the end a servant of Chaos, or rather a servant of perverted Order.”

  Gisla stopped, stretching her back. “You might have a point, you know.” She sighed. “As most men, I think in the end he only serves himself.”

  They were travelling light. Each carried a satchel with provisions, and a thick cloak over their travel clothes to keep the cold wind away. Gisla leaned on a simple straight staff, and carried a purse on her belt, with herbs and salves in case of accident. The big book was in her bag, its weight the reason of her aching back. Liane had buckled a belt holding a long dagger and her father’s estoc. She seriously doubted she would be able to use it against a horde of rabid beast-men, but the steel on her hip made her feel more secure.

  “Come,” she said. “We will rest again for lunch.”

  Gisla looked up at the sky, shielding her eyes with her hand. Crows were milling in the distance, high above the naked branches of the trees. “Unless we ourselves become somebody’s lunch,” she said.

  Liane laughed, and started up the path again.

  * * *

  Night fell quickly in the mountains, and they found an old shack, the partly burned-out husk of a hunter’s retreat, sitting by the side of the path. The doorway was a gaping black hole, and inside was a jumble of wreckage. Part of the roof had collapsed in the fire, and through the gap they could see the stars that shone brightly in a strip of blue-black sky.

  They found the remains of a previous camp.

  “Maybe Hugh and his men,” Liane said.

  Gisla sighed as she sat on the ground. “Why come up here?”

  Liane shrugged. “These places are wild and forlorn. Maybe the Crusaders will overlook them.”

  The librarian shook her head. “Come winter, these valleys will be buried in snow.”

  “Right, a good hideaway.”

  “But one in which you’d starve or die for the cold.”

  “Maybe they were still in time to cross the high passes.”

  Gisla shook her head. She took a piece of bread from her satchel.

  “And then, the beast-men do live here, winter and summer and spring, and they don’t seem to have any difficulty.”

  “Because they are creatures of Chaos,” Gisla said.

  Liane munched on a piece of cheese. “Did you ever see one? A beast-man, I mean.”

  “No,” Gisla said. “But I read about them in my books.”

  They ate in silence and in the cold, not daring to light a fire.

  The moon was rising in the gorge when the sound of voices chanting, and dogs barking, sounded in the valley.

  * * *

  “What is this racket?”

  Liane shushed her companion and advanced cautiously, softly pushing the bushes out of her way. She crouched on top of a spur of rock, and gestured for Gisla to join her.

  They looked down into the gorge that the Dimort had excavated into the stratified rocks. Beneath their position, the stream took a wide curve, and had created a small stretch of gravel on which a camp had been set. A dozen of rough lean-tos crowded on the bank of the Dimort, around a large fire. Stones had been placed to contain the flames, and the carcass of a large beast, probably a boar, was impaled over the fire. The fat dripped and sizzled on the embers, and the creatures around were feasting on the early bits.

  “Those,” Liane said in a breath, “Are your beast-men.”

  They were about two scores, both male and female. They sat in a circle around the fire, sharing roasted meat, stolen wine and each other’s attentions. As they watched, a male and a female left the assembly, and staggered uncertainly to one of the sheds, groping each other with wild fury. A little farther along the circle, two females were having a go at each other, their tongues intertwined while the males around them clapped and cheered.

  “This is disgusting,” Gisla said.

  The largest of the creatures leaned forward, and with a big hand pulled off a chunk of cooked meat. E brought it to his mouth and chomped on it, grease running down its chin. It was big, tall and broad-shouldered, his head shaven clean and his corded arms covered with swirls of black tattoos. His yellow skin was thick
and glistening in the firelight, and a rough loincloth of animal hide did little to cover his bulging manhood.

  “Horrid brutes,” Gisla whispered.

  A large female stood and took the meat from the male’s hand, and ripped off a mouthful. She had long white eye-teeth and her black-bluish hair was shaven at the sides of her skull, and stood in a high crest over her head. Like the male she was powerfully muscled, and wore only a loincloth. Heavy nipple rings adorned her big breasts.

  The male grunted, and tried to take his meat back. She gave a barking laugh and retreated, keeping the meat out of his reach. Many of the creatures around them started barking and howling. Such mirth made the big male furious. He took two steps forward, and slapped the female hard on the face.

  The bawling and roaring grew. Some beast-men clapped, others barked incitements.

  The female dropped the half-chewed meat in the fire and with a speed that surprised both Liane and the big male beast-man, slammed her fist in the face of her adversary.

  The beast-man staggered back, but the female kept going at him. Two, three more fists landed on the male’s face, and when he lifted his arms to protect his face, she pushed close to him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and rammed her knee in his crotch. The beast-man gurgled, and fell to the ground. The tribe went wild, shouting and cheering.

  “What is this?”

  The speaker had come out from one of the lean-tos. He was not as large as the fallen beast-man, but wider of shoulder, and more heavily muscled. He was wearing a rust-spotted cuirass and knee-high swashbuckler boots, and his arms were scarred and tattooed. Two females came after him, nasty-looking and covered in barbaric jewels. Their hair falling on the shaven side of their skulls, and were interlaced with bird’s feathers and crystal beads.

  “I took Uraias’ meat,” the female said.

  Their voices were low in tone but carried over the crackling of the fire and the rushing of the stream.

  The female looked down at the fallen beast-man, that was massaging his crotch. One of the males sitting nearby prodded him with his foot, and laughed.