Chapter 12 Fire
The irregular rhythm of axes biting into the heartwood of ancient trees echoed through the Big Timber, supported by a chorus of humming saws, grinding metal, and deep voices booming out rough commands. When fleeing from the Raxxars the previous day, the distant sound of an ax had been as soothing as the familiar, faithful ticking of a grandfather clock. Due to Digtry’s suspicions, however, that had changed. All day those noises had ruled Roland’s heart like drums in a hostile jungle. Chop! Chop! Chop! Even when the forest went quiet and Roland fell asleep, the rhythm kept beating on him in his dreams.
“Roland,” hummed a tenor voice from somewhere near the stuffed mattress on which he slept. He was vaguely aware of frogs chirping outside the window and the muffled scraping of boots in the dark. “Roland.”
He raised his groggy head for an instant, buckled under its insupportable weight, and fell back into his covers. This was the best, most comfortable sleep he had experienced in weeks. At the moment, he could not imagine that anything would ever coax him out of this pleasant nest. When he made no response to yet another calling of his name, Digtry said, “They murdered him in his sleep. We’ll have to leave his body.”
That got Roland’s attention. “Give me a break. It’s the middle of the night.”
“Your point being?”
Late the previous evening Roland had finally succumbed to Digtry’s urging. Not that he had spent much time seriously debating the matter. Digtry was the man with the answers. If he said to flee Big Timber, they had better out of there fast. For that matter, if the guy said to fix clothespins to their ears while doing underwater pushups, Roland would do it. But it helped restore Roland’s pride to hold out against him as long as possible.
“All right, I’m coming,” he said at last. As he fumbled for his shoes, he muttered, “Are you sure this is in my contract?”
“He’s talking nonsense,” said Puddles. “That means he’s fully awake.”
A shaft of moonlight slanted through the window, revealing four shadowy shapes, each in a posture of anxious impatience. Berch had insisted he would not leave Big Timber for love or money, yet there he stood, dressed and ready to go.
“Move!” whispered Digtry. Roland slung his pack to his shoulder and started after the others. Buttoning his shirt as they raced out the door into the dark night, he ran into someone’s back. Before he could utter an apology, he noticed that somehow he had not gotten outside. A solid wall hemmed them in. The wall was moving, breathing, and smelled of sweat.
Glaring at him from atop a massive chest was Broadmaul, flanked on either side by an army of Lumberjacks running calloused thumbs over gleaming ax blades. Behind them more surly-faced men held sputtering torches.
“Off for home so quickly?” asked Broadmaul. “And at such an hour?”
Having been caught red-handed in their flight, not even Digtry could speak a world in their defense.
“Search them!” growled Broadmaul. Several Lumberjacks tore into the travelers’ backpacks, tossing aside the contents. Others began roughly patting down down the detainees, starting with Berch.
“Aha!” shouted the one who had been searching Windglow. He held up Windglow’s flint kit for all to see.
“How do you explain this?” demanded Broadmaul.
“Explain it?” repeated Windglow, baffled. “Why, it’s for starting fires.”
At this a furious outcry rose up from the Lumberjacks.
“Damned by his own confession!” shouted Broadmaul above the din. “To the blockhouse with them, men!”
The jail was constructed of massive, peeled logs sealed with a thick, hardened pitch that filled the room with a sulfurous vapor. Roland was certain that if an asteroid slammed into the realmlands, obliterating all life on the planet, this piece of architecture would stand unscathed. A single window chiseled high along one wall and reinforced with black iron bars let in the flickering, diluted torchlight that provided the only illumination in the room. Roland had already discovered that a bolt thicker than a curtain rod locked the only door.
The gloom heightened their despair. “I thought these were your friends!” whined Delaney, still grasping at that dissolving thread of hope.
“I tried to explain that they were a bit volatile,” said Windglow, glumly. “Though I am sure I did a poor job of it. And as Digtry has told us, somebody may have been working on them to our detriment.”
“What are they going to do to us?” Delaney asked in a small voice. “Are they going to turn us over to that Fifth Realm thing?"
“I can answer that for you, sweetie!” barked a cheerful Lumberjack. He had been amusing himself by eavesdropping on the prisoners, and was immensely pleased to be the bearer of ill tidings. “You’re to be tied hand and foot to logs and floated down river until you drown. The fun will commence in about two hours, so’s it won’t interrupt our work day. We’re not doing it for anybody but us and you better believe we’ll enjoy every minute of it!”
“Two hours!” gasped Windglow.
“What’s gotten into them?” asked Roland. “And why did they get so upset over what Berch said in the dining hall?”
Although Roland was simply trying to make sense out of a bewildering situation, Berch took it as an accusation.
“Oh, so you’re blaming me now, punk?” he shot back. “We wouldn’t be in any of this mess in the first place if you hadn’t poked your nose where it didn’t belong and then come running to us to save your bacon.”
“My, you tonsiled tenterbellies turn noble in your final hours,” clucked Puddles, perched saucily on Windglow’s shoulder.
“If you must blame anyone, point the finger at me, ” Windglow said, trying to smooth the waters. “It was my flint kit that seems to have offended them the most.” He buried his head in his hands. “What power does this Fifth Realmer have, Digtry? An evil storm is racing through the realms, sowing discord and calamity in every plain and valley, mountain and forest. We cannot outrun it; we cannot escape it no matter where we go. We cannot fight it. We cannot even understand it.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” moaned Delaney. “You can’t hypnotize people into killing their friends.”
Despite his own peril, Roland was filled with pity for Delaney, who retreated into the corner. There she sat, hunched, with her eyes shut, reverting to that peculiar rocking motion. He could well imagine what was going on in her head. Although clean and above ground, and mostly bug-free except for the spider webs in the corners, this log room was as much a dungeon as the rank cell in Rushbrook, and with less hope of escape.
They sat in silence for awhile. Finally, Windglow turned to Digtry, who sat in the darkest corner of the room, alone with his thoughts. “Digtry, have you any idea what is going on?”
“Yes.”
Windglow sighed heavily. “Please tell us, then.”
“So clever it’s beginning to scare me.”
“Who? The Lumberjacks?” asked Windglow, incredulous.
“Be serious. I mean the Fifth Realmer. This is set up beautifully.”
“What do you mean?” asked all of them at once.
“It wants the Lumberjacks to do us in. So how does it get them to do that?”
“You said it had to be dreams,” said Roland. ”But-”
“Right. A subconscious suggestion to kill us would have no effect on them without a catalyst--like fear and suspicion. So the pursuer brought a dose of that.”
“What are you saying?” Windglow’s befuddlement spoke for all of them.
“What do the Jacks fear the most? What is the only thing they fear?”
“Fire,” answered Windglow. “One does not dare whisper the word to them, not even in a rainstorm.”
“The burnt trees we saw yesterday. There’s the catalyst. The fire was fresh--deliberately set about the time we entered Cloudmire.”
“Arson!” exclaimed Windglow. “To a Lumberjack, there is no worse crime!”
And it wasn't the only case.
"How do you know that?" asked Windglow. "I believe I am right in remembering we saw no other signs of fire."
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"We smelled it."
"I thought you couldn't smell anything," said Berch.
"Can't," sniffled Digtry. But I can tell which way the breeze is blowing. You complained of the fire smell long before we saw the ashes. The burnt trees we saw were downwind of us. What does that tell you?"
"We were smelling another fire," said Roland.
“Correct. You’ve got hot-tempered and not overly bright Lumberjacks fuming about multiple cases of arson, and who happens to walk into their woods? An odd assortment of people who couldn’t be more suspicious if they were sneaking around the woods pulling a wagon full of corpses. We are walking targets for the power of suggestion.”
“But doesn’t the Fifth Realmer have to be here to do that dream thing?” asked Roland. “You said it couldn’t do it from far away. It had to be in contact. And if it’s here, why wouldn’t it just grab us?”
"Fifth Realmer can't take us out by itself. It can' do anything to us. It needs help. Since none of the usual assassins--Raxxars, wild dogs--could get into the Big Timber and live to tell about it, needs the Lumberjacks. It came here, set a fire, seeded a few dreams, and left. It wouldn’t risk hanging around a Lumberjack camp waiting for us.”
“If these fires have them so upset,” said Windglow. “That explains why they took such a keen interest in my flint.”
“That’s a load of crap,” said Berch. “Any woodsman is going to carry something to start a fire. For the love of Pete, the Lumberjacks didn’t cook that breakfast over a lava bed.
And in case you didn’t notice, they’re carrying torches right now.”
“Well, of course,” exclaimed Windglow, stunned by the absurdity of the situation. “Even the Lumberjacks use fire, and flint!”
“Then why in God’s name--” began Berch.
“Because we come in here bleating our fool heads off just when they are in the market for a scapegoat,” said Digtry.
Windglow considered this and then nodded in agreement. “There is a Tishaaran proverb that says, `Those who seek scapegoats travel lightly."
“What’s that supposed to mean?” snorted Berch.
“It means such folks lighten their load by discarding reason.”
“What are we doing that’s so suspicious?” asked Roland, trying not to glance at Berch. He did not want to restart the mudslinging but he truly wanted to know why they were in such trouble. As near as he could guess, it all had started with Berch’s outburst. “We weren’t being suspicious or sneaky; at least not until we tried to run off in the middle of the night.”
“We have two hours left,” said Digtry. “Let’s use the time to plan the future, not analyze the past.”
“But this whole thing is so stupid!” exclaimed Berch. "Can’t we just explain the situation to Broadmaul? Dumb as he is, he’ll have to see how ridiculous this is.”
“I can think of better ways to spend the last minutes of my life than trying to explain something to Broadmaul,” said Digtry.
Windglow nodded grimly “We have another proverb in Tishaara. ‘A Lumberjack will admit an error when the redwood grows apples.’"
“I’ve had all I can stomach of the wit and wisdom of Tishaara,” snapped Berch. “I’d like to hear some ideas that are actually, you know, useful."
Desperate to make some sort of useful contribution at last, Roland weighed in with the first thing that came to mind, remembered from action stories in his old world. “If we
could somehow get the guards drunk . . ."
The silence that followed was excruciating. Even Windglow gave Roland a look of astonishment mixed with pity, and that was the kindest expression he saw.
“Any other ideas?” asked Berch.
“Gather close and keep your voices down,” whispered Digtry. Some trace of hope in Digtry's voice snapped Delaney out of her catatonic trance. When she joined the group they formed a tight circle, Digtry said, “We can’t get out of this ourselves. They’re going to have to help us.”
“Right!” sneered Berch. “Why would they--”
“They have to make a mistake. They don’t show a lot of sense even when they have time to think. If we can force them to react without any time to think, there’s a chance they will make a bad decision.”
“We’re in no position to force them to do anything,” said Berch.
“We know their weakness. And we can make them deal with it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Windglow.
“‘One does not dare whisper the word ‘fire’ to them, not even in a rainstorm!’” quoted Digtry.
“So you think we should start one?” said Berch, sarcastically. “Right here?”
“Start what? A rainstorm?” asked Windglow.
“No, a fire, genius,” fumed Berch.
“I cannot start a fire without my flint,” said Windglow.
“I can,” said Digtry.
“How?” asked Berch and Windglow.
“Trust me,” said Digtry.
“But why bother?” asked Berch. “We would be burnt to ashes long before these walls burnt down. That only saves them the trouble of drowning us.”
“I was thinking of a fire out there,” whispered Digtry.
“Oh sure!” scoffed Berch, pacing awkwardly over the uneven floor boards. “Let’s ask the guards to be so kind as to--
“Shhhhh!”
“--let us out long enough to set their whole village ablaze!” growled Berch, dropping back to a whisper.
Stepping over to a patch of wall illumined by moonlight, Digtry scraped a finger over the pitch. Returning to the group, he said in a barely audible voice, “This material burns. The forest is dry. A fortuitous juxtaposition.”
“Wait a minute!” said Windglow, growing alarmed.
“Right!” said Berch, beginning to wonder if he were the only one in the room with any common sense. “And after your fireworks display, they’ll come in here where we still sit locked tight as a drum and thank us for the entertainment. Then they’ll be so mad that they’ll carve us alive into fish food!”
Digtry shrugged. “Is that worse than drowning?”
“I cannot be a party to what you are suggesting,” said Winglow.
“Whatever,” said Digtry. To Roland and Berch, he said, “Get me some pitch. Scrape it into your shirt. I’ll pick the lock.”
“How are you going to pick the lock?”
“They were frisking for arsonists, not burglars,” said Digtry, digging into his pockets.
“If you can unlock the door, why have you been just sitting here picking our noses?”
“Why ruin a good door if you’re caught the instant you break out?”
Berch let that sink in. “Okay, I get it he said, licking his lips, anxiously. “What do we have to do?”
“If you have a belt buckle, use it to help scrape pitch from the wall,” said Digtry.
“Digtry, I beg you, do not do this!” pleaded Windglow.
“What is your problem?” asked Berch, in disgust.
“You do not see the implications of what you are suggesting,” said Windglow, wringing his hands. “A Tishaaran setting the Big Timber ablaze? Begging your pardon, but are you insane? The Lumberjacks would never forgive Tishaara for such a thing. Not in a million years. Our security is not something we can afford to take for granted; they are the only civilized neighbors we have. If you do this, you leave Tishaara without friends in a hostile and powerful world.”
“With friends like these . . .” said Roland.
“Hurry, we do not have much time!” said Digtry, as he tore a section of his tunic from around his waist.
“Digtry, I cannot let you do this! This act of hostility will have ruinous consequences. You may be condemning Tishaara to extinction!”
“The lesser of two evils, said Digtry.
For the moment, Roland was glad for Digtry’s apparently underdeveloped conscience. Hey, what choice do we have? You do what you have to do.
As Windglow sputtered in helpless indignation, Roland, Delaney, and Berch collected a small mass of thick, hardened pitch.
“Nice,” said Digtry, inspecting the torn cloth that held the finished product. He pulled a couple of tiny pouches from inside his sleeves and dashed pinches of each against the floor. A white flame leapt up. Digtry lit a corner of the cloth.
Beside himself with anguish, Windglow knocked it out of his hand. The flame went out.
“Don’t do that again,” warned Digtry in a cold voice.
Windglow collapsed on the floor and covered his face in his hands.
Digtry relit the cloth and ran to the window. "Quick, let me get up on your shoulders," he said to Windglow.
"No! I will not be a party to this."
"Anyone else? Before I burn my hands."
Berch got there just before Roland. Digtry clambered up his back. “Guard!” he yelled, peeking through the bars.
“Yeah? What do you maggots want?!”
“Could we ask a favor?” The flame was spreading, licking his fingertips. He used his body to shield his bomb from the guard’s view. Roland wondered how much longer Digtry
could hold the cloth without burning himself.
“Sure, you can ask,” chuckled the guard. “You can ask for a snot rag, you can ask for a lodestone; answer’s the same.”
As the guard drew close, Digtry thrust his hand through the bars of the window and flung the burning shirt onto the Lumberjack’s woolly stocking cap.
“Yaaa! Get it off! Get it off!” In blind panic, the Lumberjack flung the cap into the woods. It landed several feet from a spindly pine with drooping needles brown from lack of
moisture. Had the Lumberjacks isolated the torch they could have put it out without incurring any damage. But the sight of their brethren’s hat blowing up in flames threw the entire guard detail into a panic. Several of them charged the flaming cap, cursing loudly. “Fire!Quick! Water! Stamp it out!”
When they stomped on the flames, the burning pitch stuck to their boots. Wild with fear, the loggers hopped and danced and scuffed their flaming soles against the ground. In the process, they ignited a dozen small patches of fallen needles. With a shriek of terror, one of them kicked off a boot that glowed like a torch. It landed in the boughs of a sapling, which exploded into flame and lit the forest bright as day. A tongue of fire crackled along the carpet of dried needles to ignite the trunk of another dry pine.
Meanwhile, his travel mates crowded around Digtry who was working on the lock strictly by feel. All except for Windspear who paced the room in anguish, gnawing on his knuckles.
“Come on, hurry!” urged Berch.
“Give me room!” snapped Digtry.
After testing the strength of the hinges, he twisted the long flat bar of metal beneath them. Shooing the others away from him, he wedged his narrow shoulders between the door and the frame and pried open a slender gap. The hinges, bent out of alignment, clung precariously to the frame. “Don’t move,” he ordered, as he slipped out the opening.
“No one move until I say.”
Outside, the scene turned to bedlam as newly roused Lumberjacks poured out of their bunkhouses to defend their beloved forest from their worst fear. Hastily, they formed a bucket brigade down to the river and began relaying huge wooden pails of water to douse the fires.
Broadmaul stormed onto the scene, his hair sticking up at odd angles from being awakened out of a deep sleep. Brandishing his ax, he cried, “Where the bloody devil did this fire come from? I want to know who’s responsible!?”
Blistering the air with his curses, he directed a squad to hack down a ring of trees beyond the flaming white pine. While these crashed to earth, sooner than anyone but a Lumberjack would have believed possible, other sweaty workers chopped down those trees already ablaze. Still others leapt upon the fallen trees with rugs and clubs to beat the flames that licked the forest litter while a bucket brigade doused them with water relayed up from the river.
“It was the prisoners,” gasped one of the guards when at last they got the fire under control. “The rummies threw a torch out the window. Hit Farkster in the head.”
“They set my cap on fire,” said Farkster, indignantly. “Hit me with burning pitch, they did!”
“A torch!” bellowed Broadmaul. “Why the filthy--” Suddenly, he swore a tremendous oath. “The door! They broke it down and escaped! Which way did they go? Who saw them?
“Didn’t they say they were on their way to Tishaara?” said one of them. “Heard it with these very ears. Have the younger lads here put their heels to their butts and block the Westcut Bridge before they get there and we’ll have them trapped.”
“Pig froth!” roared Broadmaul. “That’s just what they expect us to do. I know those lying thieves and traitors and they’re headed the other way.”
“What other way?” asked several dripping, confused Lumberjacks.
“Where would Tishaarans go if they’re not going to Tishaara?” asked one.
“In case you gullible ninnies didn’t notice, they weren’t all Tishaarans,” fumed Broadmaul. “For sure, the old geezer wasn’t.”
The Lumberjacks murmured in agreement.
“No, you’re right. Not after what he let slip.”
“Who was he? And what’s he doing with Tishaarans?”
“I don’t care who he was!” exclaimed Farkster. “I want his head on my bedpost!”
The Lumberjacks milled about like racehorses at a starting gate--frightened, confused and angry--unsure of where to direct their adrenaline-stoked wrath.
“What are we doing?” growled one. “They’re getting away!”
All eyes glared at Broadmaul, who ground his teeth in thought and anger.
“He’s a Pharitan,” he announced, his eyes narrowing into murderous slits. “I’ll bet my life on it. The Tishaarans are up to something with those no-good, thieving, timber-burning, prairie chickens! They’ve been scheming to burn us out of our forest! Spread out on the double! Comb every inch of woods between here and the Eastern prairie. Send word to the other camps. Not a breath of air moves in Big Timber without we get our fingers on it!”
He tore the jail door from its frame, popping off the few loose screws that had held it in place. He peeked into the blockhouse and snorted in disgust at its emptiness.
Hidden in the darkness high above him, tucked into the corner rafters with his companions, Roland tried to ladle breath into his lungs without moving his diaphragm. When a mosquito drilled his earlobe, he bit his lip and let the insect suck its fill.
Broadmaul slammed the door on the ground with such force that it split in half. Pointing at the three who had been on guard during the escape, he announced, “When I find those filthy little flowersniffers, I’ll beat them to death with the bloody stumps of your arms that I rip from your sockets! And once that’s done, so help me, we will burn Tishaara to the ground!”