Followed by Fire Read online

  Followed by Fire

  Book One of ‘The Incineration Saga’

  McKenzie Austin

  Followed by Fire by McKenzie Austin. Published by KDP.

  www.treethatgrewthroughiron.com

  © 2019 McKenzie Austin

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact McKenzie Austin.

  Edited by Andrea Raymaker

  Cover by McKenzie Austin, with stock photos licensed from DepositPhotos.com

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7329723-1-5

  Map by McKenzie Austin

  Chapter One

  Broken bones made little sound. Hushed by the flesh and blood padding of the body that surrounded them, there was no deafening crack. Not like one might expect. Not like when a twig snapped under the weight of an unforgiving boot. Or when the sap in firewood boiled and popped inside its air pocket.

  No. Broken bones were quiet.

  The facial expressions that the victim’s wore, though… those were deafening.

  Esven’s mother stifled a shriek when her arm was forcibly bent behind her.

  Broken at the elbow. No doubt about that.

  They had come so quickly. Out of nowhere. Invaders from the darkness.

  Esven pressed her spine to the wall of her home. A simple structure of wood, stone, and mud. The natural implements had never felt cold against her skin before. Not in the twenty years she had spent there.

  They felt cold today.

  It was not the night that brought the chill. Not the lack of fire. No, there was plenty of fire to go around.

  The suppliers of the unforgiving frost were the very things that Esven Greenbriar had been encouraged to love and respect for the whole of her life.

  The people.

  People had not always brought coldness with them. Esven’s mother told her as much. From her earliest memories, when she was nothing more than a bouncy-haired child, running wild through the meadows outside their home, Esven recalled her mother’s teachings.

  “People want to be good. They want to do the right thing. It is only when terror grips them, that they undergo a change. Fear feeds the demon that grows in all men. It is only the demon which you need to fear. Never the man.”

  Esven’s thoughts shifted. In the moment, she did not know whether it was demons, or men, who invaded their isolated woodland home. The burning torches they carried highlighted the sweat dripping down the sides of their faces. It cast a sickly orange glow over the malice in their eyes.

  They looked of men.

  They smelled of men.

  But as they kicked down the door, spilled into her space, and dragged her mother out of the house by her hair, caring little for when her scalp bled into her open mouth, she wasn’t so sure.

  Several sets of hands gripped Esven’s wrists. She, too, was hauled from her childhood home. It was hard to recognize their invaders. The firelight only illuminated them in bursts.

  Blinded by surprise, Esven stumbled as one flung her onto the grass. She caught herself before she fell, spinning on her heels. Several men approached. Armored. They all bore symbols on their chests, but she did not bother to identify them. It didn’t matter what organization they fought for: they had already made their intentions clear.

  An insurgence of ire rose inside the young woman, as the high moon brought more light to her fury. Her red hair swallowed the scent of billowing smoke as it tumbled off of their home. The sheer volume of it should have choked each curled strand.

  She glanced to her mother, who somehow managed to maintain shreds of peaceful control as soon the men released her. They exchanged quiet glances with one other, before gazing once more at their uninvited guests.

  Esven wished to be calm. She wished to reflect her mother’s grace in the heat of the moment. She only ever wanted to lay claim to the same dignity that the great Amadeia Greenbriar had perfected.

  But Amadeia had lifetimes to perfect her composure.

  Esven did not.

  Her indignation spiked when the invaders lowered their torches to more of the already burning homestead’s walls. The flammable wood stood no chance against the heat.

  Such disrespect. An affront to their existence. To the wood that the forest had sacrificed to build that home. Esven dug her fingernails into her palm. Her jaw tightened. The grace she’d learned from her mother seeped out of her feet and into the earth, abandoning her.

  They did not need to stand for this. The Greenbriars had ways of protecting themselves.

  Moments away from summoning a retaliation, her mother’s voice pierced through her head:

  ‘No, Esven. Be still.’

  Esven’s heart thundered. A sting came from repressing her instincts. Every word of caution her mother had ingrained in her flowed through her head.

  ‘Do no harm.’

  ‘The rule of three.’

  These teachings had guided Esven Greenbriar down the path of perfect karma for twenty years. She knew she was to repress her magic; to keep it from the eyes of the people, who were easily scared by such things. Staring at this injustice now, though… her mother’s teachings did not seem to have as much power as they once did. They did not appear to resonate with the same monumental volume that they had before.

  The unfairness screamed louder than her morals.

  Still, one did not question the wisdom of Esven’s mother. Amadeia Greenbriar held perception in droves. She’d earned every sliver of it in her century of living. Wisdom did not live in her appearance; Amadeia did not shy away from using her supernatural abilities to disguise her true age. But in her head, and her heart, the elder Greenbriar woman held the insight of lifetimes.

  Fire absorbed the home in minutes. The ginger arms of violent flames threatened nearby trees. Well-timed gusts of wind corralled the heat, to keep it from infecting the rest of the forest.

  Subtle.

  Esven knew it was her mother’s doing. The wind bowed to the great witch’s command. Amadeia loved the forest, and she would allow no harm to come to it. Not if she could help it. The forest loved her for it, too.

  Smoke climbed high enough to comingle with the bleeding colors of the setting sun. The invaders had retreated far enough from the wreckage of the home to spare themselves from the insufferable heat.

  The structure was nearly gone. All of it. Years of memories, reduced to nothing.

  Esven searched the ground for the family cat, Amadeia’s familiar: Maritimus. It was a big name for a small creature, but his size never stopped him from commanding an army’s attention. She found no evidence of him anywhere. She hoped he had escaped the flames.

  Amadeia clutched her skull with her unbroken arm. The men who had hurled her into the leaves outside, circled around her. Tight fingers stopped her blood from leaking into her eyes. Though it required immense focus, she forced herself into a standing position. She drew her shoulders back. A dozen men surrounded her. Amadeia knew who they were. The crest they wore was unmistakable. She eyed them as a caged tiger might.

  “Amadeia Greenbriar,” a man shouted, waving his torch before his face, as if it fueled him with additional power, “for your act of treason against the church, and the great men and women of Brigovia, you are hereby sentenced to burn at the town square’s stake in a baptism by fire.”

  The ravaged woman inclined her chin. They knew her name. How? Her heart skipped a beat, but she did not show the short stab of panic on her face. She didn’t even blink. There was no sense in questioning the circumstances. She had run on borrowed time for years. The past had caught up with her.

  Though the smoldering rubble of her burning home strangled her lungs, Amadeia u
ttered, “Hardly ever have I set foot on the cobbled stones of your town square. Six long months have come and gone since last I so much as gazed upon Pinesguard.” There was nothing left for her there. They had already taken it away. Amadeia knew the answer to her inquiry before she asked it; but she wanted to hear them say it. Hear them verify it out loud. “What have I done to aggrieve the citizens of your township so?”

  A snarl followed her indignant speech. The man peeled his lips back in disgust. “You know your sins, heathen. You stand charged of Brigovia’s highest treachery: witchcraft.”

  Esven’s eyes shot to her mother. They knew. Though wounded and disheveled, Amadeia played the part of a tireless goddess. The matriarch held her ground, her tongue running over her ashen lips. She did not advance. She did not wish to frighten him. “Have you any idea what treason is, young man?”

  His facial expression led Esven to believe the query struck him as odd. With a torch in one hand, and a dagger in the other, he huffed. “Witchcraft is an affront to the Angel Lord. We pray to no demons in Brigovia, Miss Greenbriar. Particularly ones with a history such as yours. We are good, god-fearing people.”

  The woman’s eyes softened. “I see.” She bowed her head to the earth, raising only her gaze. “My brother, it is not your god who makes you fall so far from grace,” Amadeia whispered, her voice calm in the crackling fires that surrounded them, “but the fear. Let it go, and you shall see that I am no longer a threat. I bring, and will only ever bring love where I go, for the rest of my natural life.”

  “Your serpentine tongue falls on deaf ears.” He glowered, pounding a clenched fist into the armored chest plate that he wore. “We are the shield, the sword, and the word of the Angel Lord. So long as the Brotherhood stands, we will fight to keep evil from this place.”

  Amadeia tilted her head. A small, disappointed frown crossed over her lips. She was grace personified, standing in the glow of her burning home, with nary a spark of hatred in her. “What is evil, young man? It often wears the cloak of righteousness, but when everything is stripped away, is your justice not just the skin of a sheep wrapped around the bloodthirsty jaws of a wolf?”

  The crusader snorted. He waved an arm before him. “I’ve heard enough.” He turned to his men. “Restrain her. Take her to the town center, before her magic turns our hearts.”

  “What of this one?” a raider asked, reaching out to seize Esven’s arm. His strength allowed him to lift her, to the point where only her toes touched the earth.

  Esven dangled, trying to dissect the words her mother had exchanged. There seemed to be more to it than she knew. Of course there was. There always was. How had they become entangled in the dealings of the Angel and Demon Lords? They did not even pray to the Twin Gods. Fate was their religion.

  With a wrinkled nose, the leader glanced at Esven. He analyzed her. He judged every inch of her smoke-scented body. The man approached, leaves shuffling under his feet, until his face loomed inches from Esven’s. With a hand on his chin, he continued to assess the maiden, who was suspended before him with smothered emotion. He grabbed her soot-covered chin, ripping her head to the left, then to the right. “What are you, young lady? Do you also lay claim to the title of witch?”

  His breath smelled of salted meats. Esven’s heart thundered inside her chest. The nerve of him, to utter her title as if it was a disease requiring eradication. She ran her tongue over her teeth as she collected a mouthful of saliva. If she timed it just right, she could strike him with spit right between the eyes…

  “A useless pet,” Amadeia hissed, taking a step forward. “A pathetic truthsayer, come unto my property years ago to bring the word of the Angel Lord with her. Should you burn her, too, you would discover by the scent that she is nothing more than human garbage.”

  The words brought no hurt with them. Esven wasn’t a fool. Her mother could say no words more loving, for they were the words that spared her life.

  A brow sprung up on the crusader’s face. How quickly the witch’s words of love shifted to vile hatred. That was the Amadeia Greenbriar that he knew. The Amadeia that he had read about in the history books. He knew it was only a matter of time before her true, abhorrent self rose to the surface of her human persona.

  It was the way of witches. It was the way of all evil things.

  He glanced once more at Esven. He mistook the sadness in her eyes over the death of her home for fear. He misidentified her quivering. Thinking it was brought on by fright, he was wrong. It was brought on by anger. She looked pathetic in the light of the moon, he thought. Nothing more than a timid, shivering rabbit, knowing it was about to fall into the stomach of a predator. “Release her,” the crusader ordered, after a short internal debate.

  It felt good to play the role of a hero. The town would praise him for his good deeds when he returned. If he was lucky, the Angel Lord would shine His light on him, as well.

  He caught Esven in his arms as his soldier let her fall free. His hands cupped her waist. Esven stared into his eyes with spite. The man was blind to its source. He smiled, stroking her cheek. “It’s all right, young lady. You can let that hate for your captor go now. You are no longer a prisoner to this witch. ”

  It was his touch that sickened her the most. Esven felt her stomach recoil as she found her footing and took timely steps away from him. She said nothing, fearing her voice would undo her mother’s sacrifice.

  “You may join us in the town square,” he said, stepping aside and issuing a gentleman’s bow. “You can watch as the life drains from her on the pyre, and know that the Angel Lord rejoices twice: first, that she is no longer here to bring the Demon Lord’s work to the surface, and second, that one of His lost sheep will return to the flock.”

  Esven only received one last look of her mother’s face before a burlap sack was wrapped over her head. A forceful kick thrust Amadeia forward. Chains found their way around her wrists, weighing them down. Iron shackles latched over her ankles. The raiders ripped at her clothes, stripping them from her, laughing all the while.

  Every mistreatment they could make upon the woman, they performed it. They did not stop until they were confident that the last of the Angel Lord’s wishes flowed through their own hands.

  They stripped her of every basic human right. When there was nothing left of Amadeia to take away, nothing left that they could do to put her in any state more vulnerable, the men began to haul her away.

  They pushed her toward the town center. Beyond the towering trees that shielded their ashen home. Over the small brook that brought fresh water for their teas. All toward the pyre that awaited Amadeia. Only a mile and a half separated them from her fate.

  The walk did not dampen the men’s spirits. Instead, they delighted. Their elation soared until they reached the densest part of the forest’s thicket, where the barbs waited in the undergrowth. There, nature turned on them, and their joyous sounds of pride were cut short.

  “By God’s blood!” A howling raider’s agonized screech filled the skies.

  Birds flew from their perches, startled by the sound. All eyes turned. They drew back in horror.

  Attached to the man’s face, a black beast clung. It whipped around with every wild thrash his head made. The murky body muffled his cries, but the noise of his pain bled through.

  One brave soul approached, trying in vain to pry the small creature off of his comrade’s face. His attempts were largely unsuccessful. Dodging the victim’s flailing arms was trying enough; but when he managed to snag a hold on the creature, every pull on its little body only earned the target more torture.

  Esven knew by the identifiable yowling that joined the man’s shrieks of agony, that the feline Maritimus had escaped the fire’s wrath. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was with some fortune that the shadows cast by the trees hid her amused smirk.

  By the time the soldier freed his face from Maritimus’ merciless claws, the cat slithered out of his grip and darted away.

  The invaders’ s
enses were heightened. Their leader cut through the pack, seizing his raider by the cloth on his arms. Though his comrade’s wounds bled freely, and the whites of one of his eyes had turned entirely red, the frontrunner did not shy away from pressing his face inches from the wailing man’s. “I will pretend I did not just hear you take the Angel Lord’s name in vain,” he muttered in a heated whisper.

  “Forgive me, De’Savaria—” The panicked soldier held his draining face in his hands. Though the ghost of Martimus’ claws burned with a coldhearted sting, the judgmental expression of his superior brought the man a greater pain. “It is the presence of this witch and her creatures of darkness which brings these foul words from my tongue. You know I would never speak ill of the Angel Lord under any other circumstances.”

  A long stillness followed. A weight lingered with it, as if two lives hung in the balance of De’Savaria’s thought. With a hardened stare, De’Savaria patted his brother-in-arms on the shoulder. It was rougher than it should have been. “You are forgiven.” The words relieved the sins, but De’Savaria’s tone did not back up his statement. Regardless, he tightened his jaw. “This circumstance which plagues us shall be remedied soon enough. Come.”

  They pressed on toward the town. Small, hushed curses followed. Every step the men took through the forest’s undergrowth netted them deep cuts from the thorns that hid there. Through the thickness of their clothing, every prickly spike found a way in, as if no protection layered over their skins at all.

  Plagued by the unforgiving fingers of the woodland ground, the men scowled and winced their way through the breadth of the forest. It seemed far denser than it had been on their way to the Greenbriar homestead. Denser, and more vicious.

  When the wind howled just right through the leaves, it sounded as if the forest hissed a disapproving curse into their ears. The men did well to hide their shudders. They had nothing to fear, they thought. They acted on the Angel Lord’s will. He would keep them safe.

  The Greenbriar women walked alongside them, unharmed by the natural elements that haunted the invaders. The spurs and thorns turned away from their flesh, bending in an unnatural way.