The Heir to Light and Fire: Pyrelight

By Joel Rousculp

The Great Pyre was dead, killed by the tyrant king. All who followed the Pyre were forced into hiding or put to death. As an infant, Milo only just escaped that fate.

For seventeen years he and his family survived, hidden beyond the edge of civilization, safe and content. But the king's reach had grown. Soon nowhere would be safe.

Af

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joel Rousculp
• Release date: Jun 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218441883

Book preview

Prologue

He could not outrun the fire. He ran faster than he ever had before, but it pursued him. Its light danced on the buildings in front of him and gave him the odd sensation of running toward a sunlit city, but looking back and seeing only darkness, save for a bright light over the rooftops, the last light of the Great Pyre. More unsettling was the roar of the crowd gathered around the fire. The clamor seemed to rise and fall in tune with the flickering flames like the roar of a wildfire.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine with a drop of cold sweat. He felt ill but could not stop. As he ran, he looked up into the empty windows around him. Most would normally have been illuminated by candlelight, but all the inhabitants had gathered at the temple. He knew this. But he could also feel eyes on him. How many eyes he did not know. This spurred him on faster.

His legs burned. His chest ached. As the city became less dense and the buildings less oppressive, he became less worried about being watched. But he knew that if he slowed down, the fatigue would take him. So on he ran.

He passed through the city gates unimpeded. The gates had not been closed since the war was won. What have we really won?, he thought. Outside the gates were vast fields and orchards divided by hedges and cypress trees. As soon as he could leave the road, he did, cutting through the fields. The moon lit the way, but he could have found his way by starlight alone. He knew his land. He loved every inch of every acre of his sprawling estate, though as he gasped for air and struggled with every step, he regretted having so much of it.

One solitary light shone through a window of the mansion in the middle of the orchard. He rolled over a short stone wall and ran through the rows of fruit trees toward the light. Home. He nearly fell through the front door, face dripping with sweat and tears. He stumbled over to a water basin to take a drink, but was still breathing too hard and inhaled some. Coughing and sputtering, he settled for splashing his face with some water and collapsing on a stool next to the table.

Eli, came a soft, sad, questioning voice.

Only then did he see his wife, standing in a doorway with dried tears and fresh concern on her face. He did not know what to say or how to answer, mouth parched as it was.

What happened at the trial?

Pausing only briefly, he said, It was no trial. It was an execution. He's gone. We have to leave, he rasped. It surprised him how calmly he spoke. He realized he was too tired to show how truly terrified he was.

Leave? Where? When?

Now. Pack two bags. He swallowed, trying to wet his tongue. Clothes, some food and coin. Lots of coin. I'll saddle the horses. Be ready when I get back.

You're exhausted! Sit down. You're about to collapse.

THERE'S NO TIME! His voice was so gravelly that it sounded foreign to him, and when he saw her eyes widen in fear, he forced himself to calm for her sake. Gemma, I'm sorry. There's no time. We have to leave now. People are coming for us. They will arrest us or kill us. Pack up. He knew she would have more questions, but they would have to wait. He got back on his feet and walked out the door toward the stables.

The stable hands had gone home, and the horses were asleep. He calmed himself enough to gently wake the animals without startling them. He fed his two favorite horses some oats to appease and distract them as he saddled them as fast as he could in the near darkness. As he tightened a few straps on the second saddle, his horse shook her head. Easy, Alta, he said, patting her neck. Eli checked the saddle, thinking it had pinched the horse when she began stamping her feet on the ground and whinnied. Easy, girl! he said, a little more urgently.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye. As he looked, it leaped at him, striking downward. Before he could do more than take one step back, he felt the blade. It sliced deeply into the side of his right knee. It seemed the one step was enough to prevent the blade striking his head, but he was nearly helpless now. He struck at the shadow, not knowing where he was aiming in the dark, and hit nothing. He tried to flee but collapsed in pain, stepping with his injured leg. The agony of the cut on his leg and the exhaustion from running several miles kept him from standing. He knew he would not be finishing this fight on his feet.

The dark figure approached him slowly. It seemed to grow taller, then Eli realized he was raising his sword over his head, ready to strike. Without warning, Alta kicked the shadow. He flew over Eli and cracked into the wooden post of the stall. Eli rolled over, took the man's sword and stabbed him in the stomach, leaning heavily on the hilt. He used the sword to rise to his feet, limping heavily. Balancing on one foot, he held the blade in front of him as he looked around the dark stable for more shadows. After several seconds of silence, he decided that, though he was alone, the dead man on the ground likely was not. Gemma, he thought. He crawled up onto the horse and rode her the short distance to the house. He fell off at the front door and used the door handle to pull himself back up.

The door opened to the sound of metal on metal. A man lie dead on the overturned table. Gemma, with nothing but two kitchen knives, was fighting three men. It looked like a well-rehearsed dance, but only she knew the steps. One man lunged at her. She side stepped easily, slicing the man on the lower back and then stabbing upward under his ribs. He fell instantly. She was swift and precise. Each motion had been burned into her muscles over years of training with the Livviah.

The other two men looked on and seemed to agree to attack together. She threw one of her knives at the face of the one on the right, piercing the hand he raised to defend himself. She feigned left, then spun around the other, larger man to dispatch the injured man with a slice to the neck as he clutched his bleeding hand. She rolled away and took up the dead man's sword in one motion, standing to face her last opponent.

The last man towered over her, stone faced and calculating. He raised the hilt of his sword to his face and looked down the blade at his prey. Stubbornly, he lunged at Gemma, already having seen this tactic fail. He swung his sword at a downward angle. She parried it, but his speed with the sword surprised her. He rushed forward and his blows struck at her as fast as she could block them. His last strike was so hard and so close to her grip that her sword flew from her hands. He kicked her back and advanced on her so quickly that as soon as her back hit the wall, his hand was already on her throat, squeezing.

Unarmed and powerless against the man's strength, she grabbed at his hand, more afraid of her throat being crushed than simply being strangled. His hand clasped her neck with an iron grip. She could not fight it. So she dug both her thumbs into the man's eyes. He growled in agony, blinded, but tightened his grip. She kicked him in the groin. He did not double over, but his grip loosened just enough for her to twist free and strike his throat with her fist. He dropped his sword to hold his throat with both hands. Just as the tip of his sword hit the floor, before it fell over, she snatched it up and chopped him down.

Eli had barely hobbled over to her by the time the last man fell. He rushed over intending to help, but arrived in time for her to catch him and keep him from falling over again.

You're injured, she wheezed, throat sore from being crushed.

Are you?

I'll be fine. You're bleeding. Let me wrap you up, she said, walking toward a cabinet on the far side of the room.

There may be more. I fought one in the...

There was a loud, deep, rushing sound, like a gust of wind from a room down the hall behind Eli, followed by agonized screaming.

MILO! they said together, rushing toward the sound.

Eli reached the door first, being closer, injury and fatigue forgotten in his desperation to reach his son.

He opened the door and did not know what to make of the scene. Fire. Two men flailing around in some grotesque dance, doused in flame, their screams sounding inhuman. They were completely unaware that anyone had entered the room. Eli hardly took notice of the macabre spectacle. He fixed his eyes on the crib that was engulfed in flames and the burning bundle inside. With no regard for his own safety, he ran toward it, not registering the pain of his knee. He reached inside and picked up his screaming baby. He tore away the burning blankets, burning his own hands in the process. I will not lose my son this day.

By the time he had cleared the burning fabric away from his son's tiny body, Gemma had rushed through the door and snatched the baby away. She rushed him out of the room, which was filling with smoke, and took him to the water basin in the kitchen.

Is he... does he? He grasped for the words, not daring to finish the questions.

He's fine. Not a burn on him. Then, in a whisper of disbelief said, His hair is not even singed. Comforted by his mother, Milo's screams had reduced to whimpers, but his clothes and blankets had burned away completely. She held him tightly against her.

Smoke was filling the house now. Eli grabbed one of his Gemma's coats off a hook by the door and gave it to her. Wrap him. We're leaving. Coins?

On the bed. Four satchels.

He managed to loop the satchels together and flung them over his shoulder despite the burns on his hands. He hobbled out of the room, dipped his hands twice in the water basin for at least some relief and limped out the door where he had left the Alta. Gemma had apparently taken her to the stable to get the other horse because when he came out the door she was galloping up with both horses, Milo secure on her chest in a tight sling. Eli threw himself onto his horse and they rode away.

They galloped through the orchard as fast as their horses could carry them. With his hands burned Eli could not grip his reins, so he simply wrapped them around his wrists. Neither could he grip the horse with his injured leg, so he leaned forward, grasping her neck. He looked up at the great city he had called home for so many years. The fire had gone out, but he felt it still. He looked back at his home, with its flames burning high and bright. That's twice, he thought. That's twice tonight I've fled from the fire that has changed my life forever.

Chapter 1

Milo

Milo moved through the woods with determination. He could see his destination appear and disappear as his path rose and fell at a gradual incline. The rumble of the waterfall rose as he approached. It did not seem to get much louder, rather it muffled all other sounds and replaced them with a comforting feeling, like a thick blanket. The further he went, the greener the world became. The smells were more earthy and clean. Moss clung to nearly every rock and tree until it felt like walking on a thick fur rug. And at the end of the path lay a sheer rock wall.

The wall stood massive and imposing. Milo could not help feeling that it was leaning over him, about to fall. He smiled at the thought and touched the wall with his palm, partly to reassure himself that it was, in fact, not falling, but mostly because he did that every time. There was a comfort in repeating simple, unnecessary, yet methodical actions. Especially when performing a dangerous task. Perhaps it's superstition. Perhaps it's simply taking control of the little things before giving up that control to chance. Milo would never admit it, but the real reason was the former. With one hand on the wall, he looked up and exhaled through his mouth, resolving himself for what was to come.

A breeze carried the spray from the waterfall toward Milo. It made him shiver as it touched his neck and saturated his light brown hair. The sensation reminded him he was only going to get colder the longer he was there, so he had better get started. He tested a few handholds and began his climb. Although the rock was smooth and wet, his grip never failed. Milo was an average height for his age, but skinnier than the average eighteen-year-old. He knew he would never be a warrior, like so many wished to become, but he was made for this. He had made the climb dozens of times before, sometimes simply for fun. But this time, he climbed with purpose. He quickly and carefully made his way up twenty-five feet to the first ledge with little effort.

As he pulled his head up over the ledge, he grinned with excitement. The ledge was covered with dark green plants. Their soft woolly leaves grew straight out sideways, rather that upward, fanning out over the ledge. The water seemed to bead off of the leaves without touching them. He hooked his belt to the ledge with a spring powered device of his father's design. The mechanics of it were complex, but elegant. He understood the principles that made it work and knew it would easily hold his weight should he fall. But more importantly, his father made it, and Milo could trust in that. So he went to work.

With both hands free, he began looking under each leaf. Occasionally, he would find a small purple pod, pick it, and put it in his bag. These small pods were what brought Milo up the cliff. The constant spray from the waterfall and the perennial shade on the wall provided prime conditions for this rare plant. Once dried and crushed, these pods would produce the most delicious spice that, despite its cold and wet origins, would give any food a warming sensation. People in distant lands would pay in gold for a handful of the pods. At least, that is what Milo's father had told him.

After gathering all the pods on one ledge, Milo unhooked himself and climbed to another ledge. Each time, he would release and reset the hook where he needed it to be. To say that Milo trusted his father would be an understatement. A fall from the lowest ledge could be fatal, and yet Milo set his father's hook on the ledge and went about his work like a man tending a garden, without the slightest fear of falling.

It took all morning and part of the afternoon for Milo to gather enough pods to fill his sack. Once he was done, he sat up on the highest ledge and ate a small lunch he had prepared; some biscuits, dried venison, and tart red berries. He looked out over his valley and was filled with peace. He said a silent prayer and thanked the gods that he could live in such a marvelous place.

The view from atop Milo's perch on the cliff spanned the entire valley. He could see for miles, and yet there was no sign of people. No houses, no roads, no farms. Just the natural beauty of an untouched world. He loved the thick green forests that filled the land between jagged, shimmering mountain peaks. He loved the Cat's Eye Moon, which hung in the air just over the mountains, up in the aether. It was a pale green that morning. Almost imperceptible in the morning sunshine it drifted lazily across the sky like clouds. But at times, the aether shone like a bright, billowing curtain of green, pink, blue or magenta across the whole sky. Those events were rare, though the aether itself was ever-present.

The moon was a darker blue than the sky that day, but for the almond-shaped streak of green, black and gold which spanned nearly from top to bottom, which gave it it's name. He wondered what other peoples could see it at that moment, and where it would be going next. Other cultures from his own world had their own beliefs and traditions regarding the moon, most of which were nonsense. Milo had seen enough maps of the known world to know the streak was an island on the face of a world, perhaps very similar to their own. It encircled the world once a week, looking down on them, visiting places Milo could only dream of. I wish I could see what you see. He could understand why some believed it to be the Eye of God.

Milo had never been far from home. He had not seen the ocean or crossed the desert or even been to an actual city. Of course, he had read about them. He had read about everything. When the sun went down and he could not work, he would light a candle and read. During the winter, when everyone dreams of summer and laments the cold weather, Milo would read and escape. He read of all the different peoples of their continent, and beyond. He read of their histories, legends, languages, customs, and geography. He read so much about those far-off lands he could close his eyes and travel anywhere in his mind. But he longed to see it all for himself. He knew he never would, however. A person trapped by their life circumstances could wallow and become bitter, but not Milo. He would not allow himself. He was comforted by the fact that, no matter what wonders the world held, this place was unquestionably where he wanted to be. And so he sat and ate, perched on a high ledge and observed the landscape before him and was content with imagining what lay beyond.

Milo always ate his lunch after finishing the harvest, and at the top for two reasons. First, it was less to carry down, and second, he needed the energy. The descent felt much more difficult for him than the climb, having used so much energy on the way up. With his muscles fatigued he found himself hugging the cliff face a little closer as he struggled to find a foothold. Whereas on the ascent he could simply see a hand hold and reach for it. He much preferred to see where he was going. Slowly but surely, however, he made his way down.

Brimming with confidence after a remarkable harvest, and knowing that few people in the world could make the climb he just had, he jumped the last few feet onto the ground. He rolled his ankle and fell on the soft moss. After a sharp intake of breath, he laughed at himself. His father always said that Milo climbed like a squirrel and walked like a drunken moose. Even though he thought they were exaggerations, Milo had to admit they he had a point. Milo was fairly clumsy, and he knew it. He would have to tell his father that, after a day on the cliff face, the second he stepped on flat ground, he fell down.

His ankle hurt, but not badly. So he brushed the water from the wet ground off his pants and set off towards home, limping only slightly. The roar of the waterfall faded and sounds of the forest rose. He could hear the wind again, and the leaves rustling and the quiet trickle of the stream getting more and more quiet as the land flattened. While he was walking and listening, he heard something he did not expect. His stomach dropped.

A yelp echoed across the gully. Milo had barely turned in the sound's direction when half a dozen wolves shot out of the trees toward him, leaping over the river with ease. Without hesitation, he sprinted for the nearest tree and shot up it on pure adrenaline, clinging to a large branch ten feet up. He breathed a sigh of relief.

An enormous black wolf with thick, blue-gray hackles leaped up and latched onto Milo's pack. Luckily his pack tore slightly and the wolf lost his grip before Milo lost his own. Ten feet is not high enough, he thought. He quickly shot up another fifteen feet and only stopped when the trunk became too small to bear his weight. His heart pounded. He looked down and realized that in his panic he had climbed higher than necessary. He slowly climbed down several branches until they were strong enough to hold him without bending. That's better. Actually... He pulled a rope out of his pack and tied himself securely to the trunk. THAT's better.

Confident that the wolves would have to chop the tree down to get to him, he found himself studying them. Three of them, including the big one that tore his pack, sat under the tree, staring up at Milo, like dogs begging for a treat. I'm the treat. That is unsettling. Another wolf trotted through the woods, reappearing every few minutes. Another paced around the bottom of the tree, making halfhearted attempts to reach Milo.

Heart still pounding and limbs shaking with adrenaline, he tried to laugh out of relief, but it came out as an exhausted and desperate yell. The smaller wolf's attempts to climb the tree would have been comical, but for the fear Milo felt. The larger wolf simply sat and stared at him, completely still. It looked through him, chilling him through to the bone. The other wolves would have eaten Milo without hesitation, he knew, but he couldn't help but see them as dogs. They played, sniffed, yelped, and howled. They were alive. But the big one, he was hungry and nothing more. And it frightened Milo.

The black and blue-gray wolf clearly did not belong to the pack. His hind legs were slightly shorter than the others. His head was much wider than any wolf Milo had ever seen. The enormous size of the animal certainly set him apart, though Milo had seen wolves nearly as big. It was his clearly defined ridge of thicker, blue-gray hair that stretched from the top of his head to the tip of his tail that really gave Milo pause. It cannot be a giant ash wolf, he thought in dread. Giant ash wolves were known to be vicious man-eaters, though not one person Milo knew had ever seen one in person. They all had stories they had heard, but nothing credible in Milo's opinion. No, this wolf did not belong to this pack. They belonged to him.

Its unnaturally black, hollow eyes drew him in. Milo could not break free of them. He did not want to. Something told him that if he looked away, the animal would win some victory. So he stared into the void. His green eyes watered as he struggled to keep them open. Why doesn't this beast blink? Minutes passed. The animal remained unmoving and unaffected by Milo's desperate attempt to show dominance. I will not lose.

Thankfully, and seemingly out of boredom rather than being bested, the enormous wolf stood and lazily sauntered off into the woods. The other wolves stood and trotted after him, leaving Milo alone, lashed to the top of a tree.

The next few hours limped by. Milo's heart slowed, but his mind raced. He repeated the same three thoughts in his mind over and over. Are they really gone? Is it safe? What was that sound? He doubted the ordeal could have ended so easily.

Leaves rustled, just out of sight. What was that? he said aloud this time.

A deer slowly and cautiously made its way into the clearing by the tree.

Oh, thank the gods! Seeing the deer, he felt silly. The wolves had probably forgotten him hours before while he was cowering in a tree.

On hearing Milo's voice, the deer looked up at him and froze.

Hello, there.

Seconds later, the buck darted into the woods, disappearing in two leaps.

Cautiously optimistic that the wolves had left, Milo decided it was time to come down, but not empty-handed. Milo found the longest straightest branch he could and broke it free from the tree. He trimmed the smaller twigs off with his knife and carved a sharp point on one end. That'll do. It'll make the wolves good and angry before they eat me. Seeing no point in delaying any longer, he threw his makeshift spear to the ground and climbed down.

Just as he reached the first large branch where the wolf bit his pack, a bird swooped at him, causing him to lose his grip, and he fell. Time seemed to slow as he fell. Not again. Looking to his right, he saw a nest. The likely cause of the uncharacteristic bird attack. Unfortunate, he thought, still hanging in the air. In the nest was a tiny, bald baby bird, watching him blankly as he fell. It looked as though it were made of wax. It was so sad and pathetic looking that Milo felt bad for it. And then he hit the ground and felt worse for himself. The thick moss padded his landing somewhat, but not enough. He had the wind knocked out of him, but he managed to get to his feet as he struggled to regain his breath.

He immediately picked up his spear and scanned his surroundings, listening for the slightest sound in the forest, which proved impossible due to his wheezing and pounding heartbeat. There's nothing there, he told himself. Just start walking. After a minute or two, his breath returned to him and he started downstream. The water was fairly calm and quiet, but Milo needed to hear the wolves if they returned, so he limped along through the trees a stone's throw from the stream. Panic gripped him briefly every time a bird or squirrel jumped from one branch to the other. He even frightened himself when a stick snapped under his foot. This is ridiculous. I'm being paranoid, he thought.

Milo!, called a familiar voice from across the stream.

Ah! he yelled, jumping and raising his spear. Iris! Oh, hi. How are you? he said awkwardly. He lowered his spear as she slung her bow over her shoulder and they both moved closer to their respective sides of the stream so they would not have to yell at each other.

What's that for? she asked, referencing Milo's spear.

Wolves. They treed me for hours. I'm not sure where they went.

Oh good, they're back. Her frost-blue eyes widened.

That's it? Seems so.

You're limping, she said, furrowing her brow. You didn't fall, did you? Though her tone showed no signs of concern, Milo could sense her worry. She was one of the few people that knew where Milo went to find his spice.

Milo had to laugh again at himself when he admitted, Once or twice, and shrugged.

Iris' only response was to raise one eyebrow and look at him as if he were an idiot. Milo's laugh faded into a sheepish grin. Iris could not help but let slip one of her rare smiles that only Milo had the privilege of seeing. He admired the sight for a moment. There was no denying her beauty, though she tried in vain to hide it. She knew how far a pretty face could get you, but she'd rather earn what she was given. At least as far as Milo could tell. It was one of many topics she avoided and Milo knew better than to pry. Regardless, the rarity of her smile made it that much more precious. Her dark brown hair, which was always kept straight or in a ponytail, her light blue eyes and fair skin gave her a cold appearance, which wasn't helped by her less than friendly demeanor toward most. But her smile warmed Milo to the core.

After a brief moment of silent smiles, Milo pulled himself from his stupor and broke the silence by asking, What brings you this far south? Come to see me fall? Or eaten?

Not being one for humor while on the hunt, even around Milo, Iris said, Of course not! I was tracking a buck. Looks like it crossed into your land.

I saw one pass through here. The water is not that deep or fast. You couldn't just wade through?

I could. But it's cold. Besides, Erich would be furious if I got his gear wet. And it's your land. It's your buck.

Milo did not respond to the comment about her father, Erich. He knew her father's hunting gear would be in no danger of being damaged from a little water, but he knew he would be furious, anyway. He always was, and the slightest thing could insight a purple-faced tirade or worse. I saw a fallen tree about a half mile up. You're welcome to the buck. You know I'm no hunter.

Iris paused, always surprised by Milo's kindness. Thanks. I'll bring you some venison if I get him.

Good luck, and watch out for those wolves, especially the big black and gray one. It's...evil. Iris' left eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly. Milo knew she had no interest in religion or the supernatural, so he quickly changed the subject. I better get home. I have to get these pods dried tonight. I'm headed to town tomorrow.

Maybe I'll see you there. I've got a cart full of pelts to sell. I'll be a day behind you, she said, tucking her dark brown hair into her jacket.

See you there. Milo waved. Iris nodded and darted up the stream before Milo even turned away. He was happy to see her, and even happier to hear that she was doing well. He doubted Erich would be particularly overjoyed about the money Iris would get for the pelts. In fact, Milo doubted the man was capable of happiness. But he hoped a little extra coin in his pocket would make him just a bit less terrible toward Iris.

Milo was raised to see the good in others and not to hate. He sometimes made an exception for Iris' father. When he thought of how that man treated his only daughter, and Milo's only real friend, his blood boiled. She deserves better,