The Pyromancer

The parose snorted, a pair of thin steam plumes streaming backwards along its razor beak. Mud splashed upward with each heavy footfall, splattering against and staining the biped’s feathered thighs and Corwyn’s thick leather boots. The pyromancer’s amber cloak billowed in the wind, his good hand clutching tight the parose’s reins, his offhand thumbing the cork of a bottle of ghost’s flame that was hooked to his hip. Emerald light shone dimly through the thick translucent glass.

Steady, thought Corwyn, steady now. Not ‘til we’re near enough for the charge to count.

“Bounty spotted,” the parose cawed in its imitation man voice, “bounty spotted!” It chirped out a flurry of upbeat notes and repeated its mantra over again; “Bounty spotted!”

Corwyn responded with a sharp whistle and a gentle tug on the parose’s reins, guiding it off to the shoulder of the wending forest path. Rain fell perpetually from the thick foliage overhead, and only the flameflies and a sparse scattering of arcane lanterns offered anything in the way of light. The parose slowed to a crawl, its weight shifting awkwardly from side to side with each step.

The pyromancer squinted and spotted his bounty then; it lay along the path a few meters ahead, its ankle twisted. It was a vermillion parose, absent its rider. He slipped from his own saddle and patted the rental parose’s head, then smacked its thick thigh. Anywhere else on the body might have shocked it into attacking him, but all domesticated parose were trained to respond well to a handful of stimuli. There were whistles, rein pulls, and thigh slaps; the slap told it to return from whence it came. It was a universal signal mandated by the Board of Animal Ethics, meant to prevent incidents such as what lay up ahead.

“Best of luck! Crrrraw! Best of luck!”

With those parting words, the parose turned heel and sprinted back off the way they’d come. Corwyn started forward, one hand still glued to the bottle of ghost’s flame, the other settling on the shaft of his axe, just below the blade. He pulled it free of its sheath and adjusted his grip for comfort. His cloak dragged in the mud, but he paid it no mind; it was layered with a waxy film meant to deter rain from drenching the thick fur and cloth. This prevented mildew and made the cloak versatile for nearly all environments.

The vermillion parose was wounded. It wasn’t dead, but the way its neck lay limp in the road, it was evident the creature had little time left.

Corwyn stood over it, a few paces out of range of its talons, in case it got the itch to lash out. Animals did that when they were afraid, and parose were no exception. This one was scarred along its beak and thighs, had bald patches all down its wings and back. That happened when a parose was lonely and stressed.

“What was your name?” The pyromancer asked.

The bird had no answer. It turned its eyes toward him and kicked at the mud, trying to propel itself to safety. It was a fruitless action that only served to push its head toward a puddle. It would drown if left to its own devices, Corwyn realized. Frowning, he uncorked the ghost’s flame and doused his axe head in the liquid fire. Green flames danced along the edge of the axe, casting strange, gangling shadows out over the trail. Corwyn sealed the bottle and returned it to its place at his hip. He brought the axe over his head as he stepped into range, gripped the shaft with both hands, and brought it down.

One clean swing severed the bird’s head, ending its life as painlessly as the pyromancer could manage. It made no sound. It did not convulse. One second it lived, and in the next, it was poultry, leaking blood and spinal fluid out into the wet forest floor.

Corwyn doused the ghost’s flame in a nearby puddle and returned his axe to its sheath. He drew forward, knelt, and started rummaging through the parose’s saddlebags. He came away with a pouch of copper coins, a stale half-loaf of bread, and a few lockpicks. The rest was not worth his consideration.

“Now,” he murmured, “where’d your master get off to?”

The trail, filling with water as it was, yielded no clues. It was no matter. Corwyn reached into the pack that hung against his thigh and produced another translucent bottle, this one emitting a dim yellow glow. He popped the cork and took a swig. A pleasant burn spread up from his throat and into his eyes, dripped to his nose and tastebuds. His senses sharpened, a dull golden light washing over his irises. Flame of the Seers, named for the oracle crones who sat near the top of the pyromantic hierarchy.

Traces of heat peppered the forest for a few kilometers in every direction. One, and only one, burned above the rest. That was his quarry; the thief hid only a short walk into the thick of the woods. His face tightening into a grim and wary expression, Corwyn pushed into the deep woods. He moved silently, his familiarity with the region serving him well.

As Corwyn drew near the source of the immense heat, he found that it had burrowed into the earth. Or, rather, the thief had crawled into a coyote’s den. Dull warmth pooled into the dirt in the surrounding woods, the rapidly cooling bodies of the pack butchered and scattered for the worms and vultures.

“Fierce fighter, this one,” he whispered to himself.

The pyromancer knelt in the mouth of the den and stared into it, expressionless. His eyes burned, a pair of golden embers glowering from the deep green shade. The rain intensified.

“You’d best come out,” he called into the hole. “With this rain, you’ll be drowned before long. Better to die on your feet, lass.”

The heat drew nearer, worming its way back toward the surface. Corwyn stood and retreated a few paces, drew his axe. The thief was moving quickly, scrambling out of the burrow. The pyromancer braced himself, and realized his folly seconds too late.

A torrent of flame erupted from the burrow. The rain and wet ground evaporated instantly, a billowing plume of steam enveloping the area. Fire danced over Corwyn, and he had only enough time to draw his cloak over his body and turn away. His fingers were singed, and he caught burns along half of his face, but it didn’t matter; the cloak absorbed the brunt of the flame, converting it to mana and storing it into a line of rubies hidden beneath the white wolf-fur mantle.

By the time the flame cleared, the thief had escaped, booking it deeper into the woods. It was impossible to track their direction through the steam; Corwyn was forced to burn off what remained of the Flame of the Seers, reverting his senses to their natural baseline. Even then, it took precious minutes to feel his way free of the cloud.

He stumbled free of the steam ten minutes later, threw back a swig of the Seer’s Flames, and studied the darkness. It was too late. The thief was too far off to be differentiated from the surrounding wildlife.

“Fine,” the pyromancer grumbled. He would make camp, and resume the hunt come sunrise.