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  Trial by Fire

  Fire Chronicles 2

  Chief Melik of the Scythian Paralatae tribe is dead, horribly mutilated. Evil Zohak leads the warriors in accusing Atar, who must now run for his life. Atar decides to go to the great One Hundred Year Festival with his lover, the werewolf Bulliwuf. Arriving at the festival with no money, Atar joins several competitions, which have significant prizes. Atar's quest for money brings him to the attention of the evil wizard Dahaka, who first mistakes him for his long lost son. The Summons will be heard by all qualified mages at the end of the festival, but only one can be awarded the title and power of the Firestarter. Zohak and his father Dahaka plan to see to it that Atar never hears the Summons.

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  Trial by Fire

  Copyright © 2012 KB Forrest

  ISBN: 978-1-77111-097-6

  Cover art by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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  Trial by Fire

  The Fire Chronicles Book Two

  By

  KB Forrest

  Chapter One

  The sounds of the pursuing warriors had long since faded. The idea that he could never return to his tribe was sinking into Atar’s mind. How could a man without a tribe survive? Approaching a town or village was no answer either. He would be killed immediately. He’d be suspected of being a murderer or a madman. After all, those were the only kind of people ever exiled from their tribe.

  Bulliwuf, why don’t you ever tell me about your life before you came here? You always have an excuse. At least I might get some hint as to how to survive. Atar spoke to Bulliwuf mentally, as was his habit after all their years together.

  Bulliwuf stopped in his tracks and looked at Atar. He pulled up his muzzle in a snarl and kept running. Soon he reached a clearing and led the way to a copse of trees. It was shady and the surrounding grass was a rich green. His warhorse Ishria would be satisfied.

  Suddenly Bulliwuf took his human form. As usual, he had no clothing on, but Atar was quite used to this. Bulliwuf motioned for him to come and sit. As soon as Atar was close, Bulliwuf grabbed him by the hand and tugged him to the ground. He fell upon him, kissing and touching him so that Atar was inflamed.

  Stop it! That’s not going to work this time, hear me?

  “I hear you, especially since you are screaming mentally. I suppose you are old enough now to hear my story.”

  What! I’m almost nineteen years old. I was old enough a long time ago. All the men my age are married and have kids. The warriors my age have already collected many scalps for their robes. At least you should respect me, Bulliwuf.

  “Enough! You are a mere baby. I am seven hundred and twenty-two years old. I will indulge your childish desire, but only because it will distract you.

  “I was a prince in a tribe in Germania before any of the tribes we know of today ever existed. I was proud and boastful.”

  You still are, Bulliwuf.

  “Can a werewolf talk without interruptions? I am telling a tragic tale of long ago. Anyway, my father, Wolfheart the Ravenous, was victorious over all other tribes. Many small kings gave tribute to him. One day, while on the conquest, he subdued a mighty tribe. This tribe had not been easy to overcome, because of the many strong young men defending it. My father spotted a young princess, the daughter of the chief, and he demanded the girl as a tribute. She was to be my wife.

  “The problem was that she was the favorite of the chief, who did not want to lose her. He argued for hours, but my father would not be dissuaded. Finally, with much weeping and wailing, the tribe agreed. Amid the pomp and celebrations, I never got to see the face of the girl I married. She kept herself veiled, as was the custom just before and during the marriage ceremony.

  “In those days, newly married couples were left in the wilderness, with an ample amount of supplies, that is. The idea was that they could fully explore themselves without the rest of the tribe leering and listening. I was very excited. My father had described her as lovely as any woman he’d ever seen, and my father did love women.

  “When we were alone finally, I tried to remove her veil to look upon her beauty, but she refused and fought me off. She was quite strong, I thought. But never mind. She was shy. I would take her at night. But that night, as I lay with her, she was still frozen with fear.

  “I pulled her closer and began to kiss her. She was exquisite, although she refused to return my kisses, and would have pushed me away, had she not been weaker than me. I forced her legs apart. I was no longer able to contain myself, but she cried hot, silent tears. I felt like an animal. So I released her.

  “The next day, and for many days after that, she kept herself veiled. I hunted and together we cooked and ate large quantities of meat. She ate a lot. Although she never spoke, I loved her. When the tribe sent a man to get us, I told him that we needed more time alone. He leered lasciviously and left.

  “Then it one day came to pass that a bear smelled the meat we had hung from a tree limb. I was preparing for sleep and didn’t see the thing. It attacked me. I had no weapon and had been taken by surprise. Suddenly I heard the battle roar of a man, and my wife struck the bear with an axe. With one blow, she had cracked its head open.

  “I then finally saw the face of my wife. It was an elegant and lovely face, but it was that of a man. He looked resigned to his fate. He handed over the axe to me and knelt, ready for me to dispatch him. I did nothing. He spoke.

  “Oh, Bulliwuf, he said, I know you must kill me. Please forgive us. The girl you were to wed is my dear sister. She is our favorite, and the crown jewel of our tribe. When your father demanded her as tribute, her heart was broken. She cried and cried until we, her brothers, came up with this plan to save her. She didn’t know, of course, that one of us would die for this. The rest of the tribe has fled by now, so that you and your father will never find them. I gladly give up my life for the happiness of my sweet sister.

  “This speech touched me so. I saw him as noble and kind. We had come to love each other. How could I kill him? Yet, what would my father do if he found out? I told him all of this. That night, although we were fully aware now, we lay together and shared our grief. We eventually made love, thinking that it would be our last chance.

  “I resolved the next day that we would run away and live without the protection of a tribe. We would spend our lives hunting, fishing, and loving each other. It was a good life, Atar. A very good life.

  “One night, as we slept, we awoke to the sounds of snuffling. There was a large animal right outside of the hut. I grabbed a club and he took up his axe. We stood motionless for what seemed hours, and then the beast attacked. It was a giant wolf. It leapt upon me, biting me in the neck. My lover Grenolof reared back and struck the wolf in the head. The wolf’s head split open, but it did n
ot die. Even with its brains pouring down its face, it struck at Grenolof, tearing his chest and neck open. As he fell, the monster looked at me. He grinned at me and sent me a mental message. He said that he had gotten revenge against my father for killing his mate. Then he was gone.

  “I wept over my wife and friend for two days. I wailed and cursed the world for its cruelty. Finally, I buried him. I decided to die with him. Taking a knife, I savagely cut my own throat and lay over his grave weeping somehow as my blood seeped into the earth. I finally lost consciousness.

  “That night I ran through the forest howling piteously for my beloved. I ran and howled, never even realizing that I had become a wolf. A wolf-man. For years, I ran every night, killing anything that crossed my path and never resuming my human form.

  “Finally one night I dreamed of him. He held me once again and we loved each other with a passion born of tragedy and desperation. When I woke, I was a man again, but as you see me now. My hair and eyes became silvery as was my wolf form. I never again approached humans, but for to eat them, as I hated them. It was the laws of the humans that had kept us without tribe and alone to be preyed upon. Now I preyed on men and ate them.”

  Atar sat listening breathlessly. Finally he asked ‘why did you come here’? Why did you not eat me?

  “That, little one, is a story for another day.” Bulliwuf stood and shook. He was again a wolf.

  Atar sensed that he would not be getting anything out of the sad wolf for now.

  They emerged from the meadow and reached a stream. Then they traveled along ground that gradually became rocky. Atar gave thanks to the goddess Api when he spotted a deer standing in their path. Bulliwuf killed the deer with one swift strike and they ate. Then they traveled on for several more miles, carrying whatever meat they could. The wind had picked up, so they built a fire under a rocky outcropping that afforded a modicum of protection.

  With heavy hearts, they made camp. Bulliwuf was deep in remembrance of his lost one, and Atar was mourning the loss of his old life. It had been an awful life, but it was all he knew. Atar decided to cook some of the meat. The raw meat had been good, especially for Bulliwuf, who had devoured at least half of it. Atar wasn’t too fond of raw meat.

  “I saw the huge gathering further south of here. If that’s the Great Fair, you could easily lose yourself in the throng,” Bulliwuf suggested.

  Atar considered this silently. When he looked up, he was not at all surprised to see his friend gone. He probably needed to cry, and he’d never seen him do that. Thinking of Bulliwuf’s tragic tale made Atar appreciate his life. He could never go on living if someone killed Bulliwuf.

  Things would be work out. He’d think of something, of some plan for the rest of his life. The meat was now on a spit. The luscious aroma was wafting up from it and was being taken up and carried far by the winds.

  Bulliwuf had described the Great Fair as a throng. Atar thought about that, watching the juices drip and sizzle into the modest fire. What could so many people be doing? The actual Hundred Year Ceremony, everyone knew, was notoriously secret, so what attracted the rest of the people? He wondered how many people were there and regretted not asking.

  The calm was shattered by a shrill whinny from Ishria, who had been peacefully grazing on the hardy weeds peering up from in cracks in the sandy soil. The rhythm of his thundering hooves faded.

  A chill ran down his spine, as the padded feet of something very large gritted against the rocky ledge above him. He froze, paralyzed with fear. Slowly, ever so slowly he turned his head.

  With its long fangs bared in a mask of fury, a wild cat, the like of which Atar had only heard of in legends, glowered above him against the blue vault, like death personified. His feral face could have haunted the dreams of a grown man for months. Naked fear registered on Atar’s face even as his right hand groped sightlessly for his mace.

  The man-eating tiger glared down at Atar with primitive malevolence, tail lashing with anticipation. A tendril of saliva oozed, glistening from its mouth as it briefly contemplated the frozen prey below it.

  Atar saw the creature tense for a spring just as his fingers closed around the blessed firmness of his ancient weapon. He dove forward and to the side, avoiding his attack, as the creature hurled himself down from its vantage point with a mighty snarling roar.

  He gasped, losing his footing, feeling the impact of the mighty creature’s landing shake the ground next to him. For a fraction of a second, he got a close view of the arched paws, as big as a dinner plate, as they landed inches from his eyes.

  He scrambled to his feet, barely missing a swat that would have crushed his brains. He smelled the sharp, catty stench of it as it whooshed by.

  The tiger made another lazy, playful swipe at him, rumbling with pleasure deep in his chest.

  The blow connected this time, sending Atar flying into the wall of the ledge. He landed heavily on his shoulder and sucked in huge breaths as the tiger advanced. Scrambling to his feet, Atar looked directly into the creature’s eyes.

  He was now unafraid, so occupied was he with the business of staying alive. His own lips were pulled back, his face a taut mask of untamed rage similar to the tiger’s.

  Atar deliberately stepped away from the wall of the outcropping hoping the slight angle of the late morning sun would shine into the monster’s eyes and give him whatever advantage it could.

  The beast did not seem overly anxious to kill this new, amusing prey. Perhaps he’d already eaten a few men. It watched Atar’s movements with contemptuous curiosity, a growl of pleasure and menace rolling intermittently in his throat.

  His raised his massive paw to bat at him, but Atar leapt back, feeling the sting of claws as they raked across his chest in a near miss. Infuriated, the tiger dove for him. Roaring, the tiger came at Atar in a blur of speed so quick that he never saw it coming until he felt the blow. He saw bright specks of light and fought the warm darkness that threatened to overwhelm him.

  Tottering drunkenly to his feet while backing away from the enormous monster, he shook his head and violently gathered his wits for a final stand. He would not be able to fight back if he sustained another blow. Atar felt coldness run down his spine. He knew death was very, very close. The double image of the tiger finally merged, to his relief.

  In a rush, the years of Bulliwuf’s intense training flashed through his mind, accompanied by a surge of confidence. He regarded the advancing beast through calm, narrowed eyes, swinging his mace hypnotically to and fro.

  With a motion as quick as thought, Atar vaulted himself into the air, executing a stunning midair flip that landed him on the back of the enraged tiger.

  He dug his powerful fist into the creature’s neck, as the tiger bellowed and bucked. It threw itself to the ground, intending to smother his tormentor, just as Atar’s mace came crashing down with terrible, fatal force, into the side of the tiger’s neck.

  It roared with rage one final time, making Atar’s ears ring. Blood spurted from the wound in rhythmic crimson gushes against the blue of the calm sky.

  Atar watched the riot of colors in paralyzed fascination, unable to move because one of his legs was trapped under the massive chest of the tiger. His heart was still racing, but his mind did not seem to register the magnitude of what he had just accomplished.

  Darkness hazed the edges of his vision then he looked up at the ledge where the tiger had leapt off. The dark shape of a giant boar watched him. The massive tusks curved away from its face. It turned away as Atar watched and he felt himself slip into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Two

  Jahi the Lovely slanted a sidelong glance through her dark lashes at the men thronged around the makeshift fence that separated the eager buyers from the horses. They had come to view the famous Paralatae horses, but she fancied she had caught some eyes as well. She was brushing her hair outside of her tent in the sun, her back half turned from the spectators in mock modesty. The rest of the tribe was up and about.

 
Jahi’s face was serene, but she gritted her teeth in impotent rage. The Paralatae camp was set up late last night, after two days of crossing horses over the treacherous swollen river. She remembered her own, not entirely feigned, hysterics when her turn to cross came. Of course, she had a surplus of eager volunteers who gladly assisted her for the chance to cradle that voluptuous, yet dainty body of hers.

  The camp was, of course, in an uproar with the shocking murder of Melik of the Stout Ribs, but near starvation and the threat of another hungry winter spurred the tribe on. It infuriated Zohak the Manly, her husband, that they could not waste any time in pursuit of Atar the Idiot. They had abandoned the chase after they had lost the trail. Zohak had come back to punish her with his brutal lovemaking. She still had some bruises, but he too, would have to hide where she’d bitten him on the neck viciously. She was not any man’s bitch.

  Zohak was now the chieftain, but he could not go against the wishes of so many, so early in his reign as Chief, unless he wanted to gain a bad reputation and lose the respect of the tribe. Instead of foolishly pursuing Atar the Idiot, he’d been forced to move on to the fairgrounds. He had been in a foul mood ever since. Not that Jahi the Lovely gave a shit. Maybe he’d find some other barbarian to tussle with. Maybe he’d die. Maybe someone would break that proud nose of his. Or maybe he’d get drunk, slip into a latrine, and drown in liquid shit. She smiled at the thought.

  And his mother, that saintly cow Devayani the Kind, was beginning to get on her nerves too. The benevolent fat bitch did not seem to know when to quit. She went caterwauling through the tribe, day and night, tearing her clothes and beating her chest until her limbs could no longer support her and her voice was no more than a dry, harsh croak. Who would have thought the old man’s death could mean so much to her. Jahi thought that she’d be glad to rid herself of her ugly husband, Melik of the Stout Ribs. Anyway, her histrionics served to keep her in the eye of the tribe, to Jahi’s annoyance. Instead of talking about Jahi’s new position as wife of the chief, the women talked of Devayani’s noble grief. She was quite a canny actress.