Burning Night: A Tale of the Everburning City

Prologue: The Siege (Part 2)

As the minutes wore on - their passage marked only by navigating the irrigation trenches - Gerald had more and more trouble keeping up. His progress would falter in spurts, stumbling steps as he struggled to lift his feet over the mounts of dusty dirt and clumps of clay. Then Gloam seemed to lick at his son's heels, surging and churning the moment Gerald fell more than a couple of steps behind.

Carver took a deep breath, and looked back at Gerald. With a smile on his lips, he raised his voice and sang. "This is our war, the siege is all. The life we'll know until we fall."

At the callback cue, Gerald ran forward until he reached Carver's side. His voice was tired, quiet, but he still sang. "Keep on the mark, we fight the dark."

"So we work answering the call," Carver finished, just before he skidded down another trench. When he struck the bottom, the torch in his hand flickered wildly, its flame jittering sickly.

The nearly black mists seemed to surge at the sight, nipping at Gerald's heels just before he slid down the trench. The sight felt like a cold hand had squeezed Carver's heart, and despite the sweat soaked through his shirt collar and his sides, Carver shivered.

"Up the other side," Carver said, and he helped his son climb up the other side of the trench. "I'll have to light the next torch soon."

Carver smiled at his son, as he pushed himself up the side. "Wish we had a Crafter with us. Worst we'd have to worry about is listening to them complain about the hike."

"Could a Crafter really save us from this?" Gerald asked, as he gestured to the mists reluctantly shying away from the failing torchlight.

"With ease," Carver insisted. "Crafters command fire, which is the only thing the Gloam is afraid of. Your grandfather used to tell us stories of the last invasion, the Fifth. Talked about being there when Crafter Garland Kohl fought a Golem. Fire and pounding stone like thunder, so bright and loud you could see and hear all the way from Barleybarrel, ten miles away. A Crafter could have held the wall when those torches went dark, and wouldn't have broken a sweat."

"Wow," Gerald said breathlessly. "He fought a Golem? By himself?"

"Not by himself, at least not at first. But by the end, he was the only one who stood as the Golem's fists started striking the walls. And he was the one to strike last," Carver said, relieved to have something else to talk about. He looked at the torch in his hand for a moment, then asked, "Gerald, how much time do you think the torch has left?"

Gerald didn't look up a the torch. He didn't even look away from the ground as he kept walking, but his answer was as confident as it he were asked about the fingers on his own hand. "Eleven minutes."

"That's very specific," Carver said. He looked at Gerald again, studying him as if seeing his own son for the first time, and found himself hoping for something despite the impossibly long odds.

Crafters were the City's greatest weapon against the Gloam and the creatures that came out of it. Crafters could wield the flame as a part of themselves, could stand unscathed through heat that could turn a man into smoke, and made many of the City's wonders.

They could also, strangely, walk through the Gloam unscathed.

That last thought had Carver reaching with one hand for his belt, just to reassure himself that his knife was still there.

"At the very end of the torch they coated it in a chemical that burns blue," Gerald said, pulling Carver out of his dark thoughts and back into the moment. "That lasts for two minutes until the fire goes out."

"I had forgotten," Carver admitted.

"Good thing I'm here, then," Gerald said proudly.

"No. All things being equal, I'd never wish you here. Especially not today." Carver spoke in an angry rasp, his discipline fraying for a moment. The rage, the disgust at the situation his son was now in, slipped out before he could bottle it back in.