Memories tumble, like stones down a mountain.

“Come on, get moving.”

“H- hey, come on. Wait a bit. Please?”

“I don’t have all night.”

He feels the hand on his back.

“Please, just- wait, what are you?”

“Goodnight, brother.”

Airborne. Weightless.

He tumbles, like stones down a mountain.

###

Wind whipped across the plains, sand and grit swirling in the morning sun. The traveling man pulled his dirty white cloak close in reflex- the wind and what it played with was not strong enough to hurt him, nor sly enough to steal the slouched, wide-brimmed hat from his head, let alone the tattered mess over his shoulders. But the sound of it set his nerves moving, and the motion made him remember he was human.

To his frustration it brought back the aches and pains that being human entailed. His legs felt weary, his arms weak, his bones stiff. He needed a place to be, or to lose himself again.

Ahead, a small town- a sign in the ground read in flowing, hand-painted Trestarian script; Dehali is just steps away.

He took those steps.

###

Dehali was a simple place. Mud-brick homes smoothed by weather and age, painted decorations refusing to fully fade into the dirt and dust. Curtain covered windows made up for the worn-down paint, giving a kaleidoscope scream of reds and blues and blacks and golds, flower patterns and stylized sunlight, swirling sands and such.

He’d call it beautiful, but it’d shame his cloak.

The people held that common beauty too- rugged from the desert sun and wind, but with a splash of finery about them. Sturdy, sand-brown work trousers and linen shirts, but with a shawl of purple silk or a sash of ruby-red. Humans going about their day, the heat of the sun on their backs. The pulsing beat of the world.

One stood apart in his sweep of the town; a youth standing at a corner, in loose-fitting shorts and looser tank top. A box of matches in her hand, her hair a shock of tangled crimson in contrast to the blacks and browns, her skin an amber gem. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled a match. It lit, she spat, the flame erupted in an impressive display. Then she ate the match, flame and all, with hardly a concern.

The other folk, milling about their day, gave her only a second-hand glance. She was an uncommon sight only to him, it seemed. A few coins tossed her way, a bill or two, but little else.

If he’d any to give, he’d have done so. What little he had was for drink.

The thought- and the heat, distant though it was, hooked into him. A dry pulling at his throat steered his tired legs till he found his destination- a tavern, the faint smell of spice and incense wafting from within. He pushed through the purple silk that hung from the entranceway and made his way inside.

###

A tavern is a tavern, no matter where you go. Dehali’s tavern was no different. The wood furniture and smooth walls may have decorations befitting a financier from Markaz-amn, the place scented with fine candles and the spices of its kitchen, but the contents were as ever. People drinking, people talking, people living.

The man wished to join them, and took a seat.

“Welcome, traveler,” the man behind the counter said with a gentle voice. He had the warm, desert-copper tone that fit the region, coarse black hair and a slick moustache. “You interested in a drink?”

“Water,” he answered. His voice reverberated faintly. Huh, is that…?

“Water we can do, sir,” he said. “You need a straw? That mask of yours seems pretty tight.”

Ah, right. He’d nearly forgotten in all his walking, all his aches, the filtration mask firmly strapped to him. In the wilderness, it had become a second layer of skin.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve a face under this old thing,” he pushed the heavy leather up enough to show his jaw, then replaced it just as quickly. It still felt odd, to breath without a filter.

“Good to hear it. That war to the west has taken a lot from fine folk,” the tavern man said, his gentle tone slipping. “And pardon my assumption, but you look the part. Heavy boots, metal suspenders, that hat of yours.”

“Suppose I do,” he answered simply.

“Has an Exovan look,” the word is heavy in the tavern man’s mouth. “You from the south?”

The stranger gave the slightest nod. “More or less. My water?”

The tavern man hopped a little, a faint twitch jolting across his face. Embarrassment, at a perceived offense. The stranger let it slide, and simply nodded when the man handed him his drink- the faintest hint of ice along the glass.

“You’ve got a chiller?” he asked, tracing a gloved finger across it, dragging a thin path along the condensation.

“We do indeed, traveler. Took a lot to get imported across country lines, but worth it. Keeps the drink nice and cold for those hotter days- business’s boomed, even in a place like this.”

“Exovan?”

He shook his head. “Felisian. Ever since they took Zarrhdad, nothing Exovan’s gotten in- save you, of course. With hope, they’ll win this war, and we’ll all have chillers of our own.”

The stranger lifted his mask and took a sip. It traced a thin, chilled path down his throat and to his core. Then he replaced the mask, and spoke, “Course, once everyone has a chiller, business will slow. Might put you out of a job.”

“Oh, it might,” the tavern keeper smiled. “But if Exova wins…”

He paused, as though realizing a second offense only he believed in. The stranger paid it no mind and drank his Felisian water.

Same as any water, but at least it was cold.

When the tavern man felt he could broach discussion again, he asked, “What brings you out here?”

Memories tumble, like stones down a mountain.

“I’m looking for a man with a smile in his eyes.”

The tavern man thought a moment. “We’ve our share of happy folk-”

“Not what I mean.”

“- but none that fit quite that distinction. The friar might, he gets all sorts. More so than I, at any rate.”

“Friar?”

“Yup. Old priest moved here some ten years ago, as Felisia was ending things. We were worried he’d cause a fuss but, never did. Runs a lovely parish in town, so I hear- never been myself.”

“I see. Directions?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, never been myself. But the salamander will lead you.”

“Salamander?”

“Ah, did you not see the kid on your way in? Our resident fire-eater. Blessed by salamanders, so the story goes. He’ll lead you.”

There was a small hitch in the tavern man’s voice, a knife of sarcasm. He let that, too, slide past.

“He? The fire-eater I saw was a girl.”

A third twinge across the man’s face, another offense made to the air. “Er, it’s no matter. There’s only the one in Dehali. You ask h- her, you’ll find your way.”

The stranger chewed on the information like it was dried jerky. He finished the last of his water, stood, and tossed a few coins on the counter.

“Keep the change- for the company, and the directions.”

The tavern man gave him a relieved, grateful nod, and collected his pay. What tension floating in the scented air seemed to fade away as he left.

###

The stranger’s legs had regained some of their strength, his bones softened by the icy touch of water. It was a short order to find the so-called salamander, right where he had last seen her.

“Look upon the flame!” she said in a sing-song tone, her voice a squeaky falsetto straining against a dropping baritone. “Watch it dance!”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The crowd was mostly children- younger even than herself. But a girl- just over sixteen from the look of her- playing deftly with fire looked all the more impressive to ten-year-olds.

The ‘dance’ she was performing was a simple one, if clever. Two matches on either end of a sturdy metal stick- some kind of debris from the war? No, too far away from the front lines- each lit, spun with a surprising amount of skill. The flames twirled, shifting with each subtle motion of her hand, flickering and sparking as she spoke.

If he didn’t know better, he’d assume the flames were pulsing with her breath.

To finish her trick, she snapped at the matches as they passed her face. The children gasped- then cheered as she blew out a heart of flame, the matches twisted together in a knot.

“How did you do that?!” one of them cried.

“That, is a secret,” she smirked, then stage-whispered, “but throw down a dollar and I’ll tell you.”

The children scurried amongst themselves and threw what amounted to a dollar of pocket change onto the dusty ground.

For the briefest of moments, the fire-eater’s showmanship faltered into a disappointed frown. She twisted it into a grin, spread her arms, and shouted out her ‘secret’.

“Long ago, when I was but a girl in my mother’s stomach, a salamander leapt from the fireplace and crawled across her. She was shaken, but he told her ‘Worry not, your child will be graced by flame! She is blessed by the salamander!’. And when I was born, I breathed not air, but fire!”

The children loved the show, her wild gesticulations only adding to the tale.

Human reflex made him clap, curtly but not without respect. She turned to him, so engrossed she did not notice him standing off to the side, the children following her eyes.

“Blessed by the salamander, eh?”

She gestured to the children. “Go on home, children. I’ve business to do- adult stuff.”

The children, laughing, ran off.

“Business?”

She nodded. “Yup. I can tell- it’s written on your face.”

“… I’m wearing a mask.”

“Exactly,” she smirked. “You’re a traveler. I know Dehali. You want a tour guide, maybe a fire-show, yeah?”

“You’re a clever one, Salamander,” the stranger said simply. “And quite talented. I do need a guide, of sorts.”

“I have a name, but please, continue with the compliments,” she said, deftly snatching up the coins at her feet. With her watchers gone she was all business… as much as a girl her age could be. “But a tour’ll still cost you- and more than a pack of children’s lunch money. That was charity, soldier-man.”

He reached into his cloak and fetched out a fistful of dollar bills.

“This enough?”

“Hm. Looks to be… six dollars? Where you headed?”

“The friar’s place.”

“Hah! Six’s plenty.”

“Understood, little lady.”

Her all-business persona faltered, for the briefest of moments. Then it was back, and swift as a whip snatched her pay.

“Now come on, we got-”

Gunfire rang out, gunpowder shouting above the faint wind.

With it, hurried cries. Expectant ones, urgent but not surprised.

He scanned the horizon.

A hand took his.

“Th- this way!” the salamander pulled him into the alley, wedged between two buildings.

Half a second before he went there himself.

He’d be impressed if the ringing sound didn’t demand his attention- and if she hadn’t immediately placed herself behind him, scrunched behind his legs. He felt the faint tremor through his glove.

She was a kid, blessed or not.

He turned his gaze out from the small shadows they had scurried into and did what he did best. He watched, and waited.

Didn’t take long for the commotion to arrive.

Three men, dressed in an all too familiar uniform, stained with old blood. Heavy boots, metal suspenders, a slouched hat with a wide brim. No masks, but they had the proper jacket over their military standard dress shirts- infantry, by the style. Made the stranger feel underdressed in his dirty white cloak.

Exovan soldiers, each with a military grade double-action six-shooter.

Behind them, pulled along at a languid pace by a clay-red draft horse, was a wooden cart.

“Good morning, menschen of Dehali. I believe it’s that time of the week,” shouted the man at the lead- a hardy looking man pushing thirty. “You know the drill. You hear the shot; you bring your lot.”

The satisfaction dripping off his tongue made the stranger twitch. So amused with his little wordplay, so relaxed and carefree as he let loose another round into the air. One by one, the local folk quit their homes or turned the corners they had hid behind when the first shot rang out. And one by one they formed a line and paid their dues to the three.

“Who are th-!?”

The little salamander cowering in the crook of his leg jabbed him in the thigh.

“Shushushu. They see you, you’re dead. They don’t care for outsiders- not since their old captain croaked.”

He nodded, not that she could see it.

Despite her own warnings she continued, a worried waver in her voice. “Got a whole army near the mountain. N- nothing… anyone can do.”

“That so…” he whispered- he doubted the words escaped the filter.

He glared at them, each in turn, unblinking, through the ovoid glass lenses of his mask.

He focused on their eyes.

The gang of three finished up their work, and the procession moved on. Their leader went back to hollering about shots and lots, his revolver heralding him as they marched on. Slowly they left, till all they heard was the shouting of gunpowder into the empty air.

The girl tugged at his hand.

“Come on- gotta… get you to the friar. You can lay low there. They n- never… never bother with him.”

“Lead on, little lady,” the stranger said.

She did, with hurried feet.

###

The two wove their way through the alleyways, a red-and-bronze needle and dirty white thread, till they finally reached their destination. The friar’s parish stood out like a splinter, the standard smooth mud-brick base with wooden supports. A ring of desert flowers- stringy pink plumes and sunset poppies- rounded the ramshackle building, and sticking out of one window was a gnarled but healthy peach tree.

Nailed to the front door was a sterling silver chalice, the faintest sign of sand-brown tarnish already seeping in.

“Here we are,” the salamander said, already starting to dart off. “You stay inside till the gunfire stops, alright?”

“You gonna be okay?”

She spared him an over-the-shoulder glance. “Yeah, I’m good. I got you here safe, right?”

The youthful confidence had returned to her, and he was glad for that.

“Suppose you did.” He tipped his hat to her, then went on his way as well.

###

He’d never been in a church before, though he knew how the Silver Choir worked their trade. Their love of plant life matched their love of humans- only things that could set down roots anywhere, he reckoned- and if the outside hadn’t made it clear the inside forced a certain clarity. Rich soil, cloyingly sweet flowers, and the faint hint of fruits danced within the gentle parish.

“Ah, good morning child,” the friar said. He was a large man, weathered by age and bald by choice. He wore the vestments befitting his station in the Choir- a simple robe of earthen colours, gardener’s gloves, and a chalice shaped broach on his lapel. The broach was wood, hand carved, a friar’s mark where the norm was silver. He held a glint in his eyes, silvery-blue.

“Been a long time since I was a child, friar,” the stranger said with a curt nod. “Was told I could hunker down here?”

The old friar’s face went dour. “Ah, that was gunfire, wasn’t it. Yes, you’re safe here. They’ll be done a bit after lunch, no doubt.”

“Efficient lot,” the stranger said. He took a seat on one of the pews and started fiddling with his glove- the one the little lady had grabbed hold of. It was wet, slick with something.

“What brings you to our fine Dehali?” the friar asked, going about his business- tending the planters scattered around the empty church building.

The stranger was silent a moment, focused on his glove. He sighed and wiped his palm on his cloak. A question for another day. “I’m looking for a man with a smile in his eyes,” he finally answered.

“A man with a smile in his eyes…” the friar repeated, putting some thought to it. Aside from the occasional muffled gunshot, the world was gently silent for a time.

Finally, “afraid I haven’t, young man. Sorry to disappoint.”

“No problem,” he said, but after all the running around the exhaustion had returned, and he could not keep the sigh out of his voice.

“Like I said, sorry to disappoint,” the friar said. “Any other details? I’ve met a lot of folks. Got a lot to stories to tell.”

“No, it’s fine,” the stranger said. He dipped his hat down to block his vision, resting his eyes. He lounged back into the pew, letting the exhaustion take hold. “Though, if I may- what poor luck got this town in the sight of ex-Exovan infantrymen?”

“Ex-Exovan…?”

“Yup. That mountain south of town cuts Exova off from Trestaria. If they took a sea route, they’d land closer to…Samudr-tat, I think it is? Why come up here, in the middle of nowhere.”

To his surprise, the friar gave a curt chuckle.

“Well, our Dehali is- was, intended anyway, to be a gateway. So the name says- but folks just don’t take to mountain climbing like they used to. So the Exovan Republic sent some soldiers through Samudr-tat. Engineer corp, mostly, to carve a path through the mountains. A railway, they said. That was ten years ago or so.”

Engineers eh… that brass stick of hers must have come from them.

“There was some resistance. Sappers from Markaz-amn, slowed them a touch. Enough that when Felisia started in on Trestaria, they were caught unaware. Sent a wave of troops through, to feel the country out. Some… spies? No- scouts, is the word. They made their way down here.”

Hm. The friar spoke Dulacean well- even before the five countries went to war, the northern language had slowly started to become the norm- but the stumbling of his words clicked something in the stranger’s brain. Gears turned.

“What happened then?” he asked, pocketing the thought like a lucky coin.

“The usual. The Exovan’s rattled their sabers and struck first- and nearly crumpled on the counter blow. Judging from your dress you’re a military man, yes?”

The stranger nodded halfheartedly.

“Then you know how it is. Felisia has their war secrets- whatever they are. Mowed the infantry down, so the townsfolk say it. But the survivors caught their second wind and collapsed the work they’d done. Killed the Felisians- or trapped them in that mountain tunnel, Creator take their souls.”

At that, the friar’s voice grew muffled. No doubt his hands were cupped to his face, gathering prayers to give out to the dead. The stranger just listened.

“Ahem, sorry,” the friar said. “It’s there that we find ourselves. The survivors, no way to call home, no way to continue their work, decided to take the place as their own. An awful affair… I had no idea, when I got here. Been a hard five years.”

“When’d all this start?”

“The way they tell it, the year before I came up.”

“I see… now I heard they had a whole army. The way you tell it, that’s unlikely.”

“It’s what they claim anyway, those three, but I doubt it. Not much we can do either way though. We’re an old town, but not a strong one. With Felisia in Zarrhdad, little places like us are liable to fade into the sand.”

The stranger pushed his hat back up from his eyes. “A sad tale as any.”

The friar nodded. He held out a plate of freshly cut fruit- ah, not a prayer. Stepped into the other room- and said, “here, for a traveler who’s good at listening.”

“I appreciate it,” he took a slice of peach and, after adjusting his mask, popped it in. Delicious and sweet, with a faint after taste of… gasoline? Huh. Should really clean these gloves.

The friar took a slice himself, chewing gratefully, then asked a question mid-mouthful. “So, who told you about their so-called army? Few in town like to talk about it.”

The stranger returned the mask to its proper place, and answered, “oh, my guide. The little salamander girl.”

The friar just about choked on his peach. “Oh, little matchsticks? And the soldiers showed up while she was with you? I’m sorry young man, but I need to tell you- check your pockets.”

The stranger did so, nonplussed.

His wallet was gone.

“… well how do you like that.”

The friar sighed. “The little one, she’s… the soldiers saw her, heard she was an orphan and, well… demanded her lot. She does her fire-shows, but to get a full pay she needs to steal. I-”

“And no one pitches in? No one helps the poor girl?”

Something started in the stranger’s chest.

“Well, you heard her- she’s the salamander. Round these parts, that’s a bastard child- the father ran out from her like the self-same lizard from a campfire. Her mother passed when she was ten. Folks have tried to take her in- myself included, but she wouldn’t have it. Crueler folk call her blessed; no obligations to any but herself. She’s taken it to heart- near she’s concerned, the world’s her parents now.”

Before the stranger could react to the travesty laid plain before him, distant gunfire cracked the air.

Three shots, in quick succession.

Memories tumble, like stone down a mountain.

“Some blessing,” he growled beneath his breath. He made his way for the exit.

The friar tried to protest, but his words had barely left his mouth before the stranger had shot from his parish.

######