Need-Fire

Day after day, I headed into the forest, gathering the wood for the need-fire. Night after night, I trained with steel and stake.

Through fluid strokes and sharp strikes, I dove beneath the flesh, seeking once more the Face of the One. Arta watched, but said nothing.

On the fourth day after my arrival at Omosghortos, Keitan brought back the ward-stones. There were four of them, roughly hewn, each the size of a fist. They glowed faintly in blue-white light.

Ward-stones sanctified the land around them. It was said that those blighted by Kweinos that stepped into their light would burn from within. The stronger the ward-stone, the hotter the fire.

“I tried to get the best price I could,” Keitan explained. “But ward-stones are selling fast.”

“What grade of ward-stone did you get?” I asked.

“Third.”

Third-grade ward-stones might cause lesser Kwei-beasts to flinch or flee. Greater ones could still endure a ward-stone long enough to reach and shatter it.

“You had silver enough to buy a single first-grade ward-stone,” Omos said.

“Only a tiny one,” Keitan replied. “Enough for one man, no more.”

Omos frowned. “I remember when we could buy a first-grade ward-stone large enough to protect the ghortos with that much silver.”

“The priests said a tide of Kweinos is rolling down from the Sky-Pillar. Thus the merchants raised their prices.”

“Where is the Striker? Is the Sky-Pillar not one of His holy mountains?”

“He has sent His Godsworn. Beyond that, He has not been seen.”

Omos snorted. “At least Hagra comes when we call on Her.”

That night, I paused my training long enough to help Omos and his family place the ward-stones. In the darkness we could see clearly how much light each ward-stone threw.

It was not far.

Omos held a single ward-stone. Standing next to him, I felt a wave of peace wash over me. The steady, gentle light eased the hundred little aches that came with life on a frontier ghortos. My skin and marrow hummed softly. As I paced away from the ward-stone, the world crept back inside me.

A stone’s throw away, the ward-light became mere light.

“We can’t place the ward-stones on the fence,” I said. “They’ll be spaced too far apart. Kwei-beasts will slip through the gaps in the ward-light.”

“Then we’ll place them around the longhouse,” Omos replied. “Three of them, one for each door.”

“We need to cover all four corners.”

Omos shook his head. “A ward-stone is a soft stone. It crumbles if you breathe on it too hard. This is a working farm, and we have animals and children running around. We’ll need a spare.”

He was exaggerating, but not by much.

“Without overlapping coverage, Kwei-beasts might endure the ward-light long enough to break the stones.”

“Then we’ll need to earn silver enough to buy more ward-stones, and gather wood for your need-fire.”

He was the ghortospotis. His decision was final, and he would not be swayed. There was more than a touch of the Oak in him, the same Oak that had stiffened Krehan the priest.

Keitan passed me the whetstone and oil I had asked him to buy. After training, I cleaned and sharpened my blades, and slathered a thin coat of oil over the steel. My stake I hung over the hearth-fire to cure in the heat and smoke.

In the morning, we put our axes and knives to work. With wood and glue, we built three large lanterns to house the ward-stones. Each ward-lantern we placed by the doors, near enough to serve its purpose, not so close that there was much danger of being knocked over.

The wood had come from the woodpile, so again I went out into the forest to harvest more.

Thus it came to pass that on the seventh evening after my arrival, I spoke to Omos across the longfire.

“We have enough wood for the need-fire.”

“You are certain you can hallow it?” Omos asked.

“It must be done.”

That night, after everyone else went inside, I practiced the Face of the Hallower.

I swung the stake through great loops, whipping up the wind. I flung the weapon through one-handed strokes. Where it fell, it kicked up the earth. Sweat poured freely. A chill breeze stoked the heat within me. I sank into the movements, into the moment, letting the Breath flow through me.

It was nowhere near as much Breath as the Breath I could draw before my Fall. It would have to be enough.

The following morning, we killed the fires.

By lantern-light, we walked the fence, checked for signs, milked the cows, gathered the eggs, did all that we needed doing. Then we set the lanterns aside and allowed them to burn down.

The morning meal was bread and butter and cheese and berries. When the last of the food was eaten, we pulled the logs from the hearth and let the longfire starve.

We went about the ghortos, putting out every light, save for the ward-lights. Then, at last, we went to work.

We returned to the fence and pulled out every rotten post and wattle. These we replaced with fresh wood, then broke down into touchwood.

We cleared a large space in front of the longhouse. Around it we dug a firebreak. Then the men of Omos’ family went back to their work.

I continued alone.

I carried out a long, narrow bough from the storehouse. Both ends I shaved down into sharp points. Now it was a drill.

Two more boughs I brought out, their branches thick and strong. I cut away most of the branches, leaving behind a sturdy fork. Then I whittled down the stems into poles.

I drove the poles into the earth. Then I propped smaller branches and boughs against the poles, holding them up. Once more I returned to the storehouse, and hauled out a log.

I carved out a small hole in the middle of the log with my knife. Then I ground the drill into the hole, twisting it round and round, boring out a hollow. When the hole was deep enough to swallow the point, I knew the bearing block was done.

I hefted the log over my head and wedged it into the forks. I tested the poles, checking that they would stand strong. Then I took up the drill once more.

The sharp end of the drill I shafted into the bearing block. Under the blunt end I positioned a single plank. The plank would serve as the fireboard. Nearby I placed a pile of kindling, a nest of tinder, and a stack of twigs and firewood.

I stepped back and beheld my work, and saw that it was enough.

Evening approached. Everyone headed into the longhouse and set aside every piece of metal they had. Every knife, every belt, even the smallest metal shaving. I had no chest, so I stowed my steel under the bench. Then we checked our neighbors to ensure we were all clean.

The women and the girls stayed indoors. The boys brought the livestock to the edge of the heath. The men took their places around the fire-drill.

I stood at one end of the rope. Omos had the other. The men evenly divided themselves between both sides. The odd man out, Keitan, wrapped another rope around the bearing block, and let the ends dangle free.

When the last light of the sun bled from the Sky-Pillar, we began.

I gripped the rough rope strongly in my callused hands. I sank my weight into the earth. I checked that the men around me had done the same.

I spoke.

“PULL!”

We pulled. The fire drill spun about. Omos and his crew leaned towards us. When our rope slackened, Omos shouted.

“PULL!”

They pulled. The drill spun again. Now it was our turn to fling ourselves forward.

Back and forth we pulled and pulled. Back and forth the drill whirled about. Keitan seized his rope and pulled also, keeping the fire drill steady.

My arms and legs began to burn. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I blinked them away and pulled, and pulled, and pulled.

“I see smoke!” Keitan called.

“PULL!” I roared.

We set our thews to the task. Rocking forward and backward, men strained and shouted. The world plunged into dark. Still the drill spun.

“HALT!” Keitan shouted.

We let go of the rope. The younger men staggered away, wiping their eyes and brows. I came up to Keitan.

The fireboard smoked on its own.

Keitan scooped the tinder over the new-made charcoal. An ember sprang forth. We took turns blowing on it. Brighter and brighter it glowed. Wisps of smoke tickled my nose.

I carried the ember to the kindling. The nest of twigs and leaves caught fire. I brought the fire to the stacked wood. Twigs burned, branches burned, all crackled and popped and burned.

I had chosen the heaviest, wettest woods. The kind that would give off the most smoke. Soon a dense pillar of swirling smoke climbed into the sky. I held out my hands over the growing bonfire.

“Hallower, we call upon You! Kweinos spreads across the earth! Beasts prowl the night! Come to us in our time of need! Come into our ghortos! Come into our fire! Ward us from those that seek the ruin of men!”

Breath surged. Skin and bone tingled. The sky twisted one way, the earth twisted another, toothed wheels sinking and locking into place.

The need-fire burned white.

Breath blew out of me. I was a candle guttering in the wind. A sudden weakness nearly dropped me to my knees. Still, I smiled.

I had succeeded.

The smoke grew thick and choking. The men walked sunwise around the need-fire, three times total. The smoke clung to hair and skin and clothes, dampening all other smells.

Then came the boys. They drove the livestock around the need-fire and into the smoke. Bathed in the hot, dark clouds, the animals lowed and bleated and clucked. Here and there we kept the animals in line, following the path we had trod, until they had finished all three rounds.

Omos held a branch to the need-fire. It burned swiftly. He carried it to the threshold of the longhouse. His wife waited for him with a nest of kindling. Holding it out with both hands, she received the gift of fire.

The hallowed fire she brought to the hearth. The women stoked it high. Thrice they circled around the hearth, bathing in the sacred smoke. From the hearth-fire they started new fires, re-lighting the rush-lights and the lanterns. Fires large and small burned white, and in that white light was the Face of the Hallower.

The boys stabled the livestock. The men headed indoors and took up once more their things and tools of metal. The women and the girls prepared the evening meal at last.

Omos sat me down across him.

“I know not how a Fallen Godsworn may call on his god,” Omos said, “yet your work was brightly done.”

“I called on the One.”

He looked strangely at me. “You named the Hallower.”

“Yes, well…” I scratched my head. “I am not sure how to explain it.”

Omos shrugged. “Whatever it is you did, the light speaks for itself. Thank you.”

“Consider it another ghostis-gift.”

“All the same, the rains will come soon. The need-fire will not last.”

“Then,” I said, “let us hope it lasts long enough.”