The smith ran for the front door, bursting through a swirl of smoke and flames. Frantic hands reached for the smith and helped him lay his wife on the ground. They poured buckets of water over his head as he gasped for breath. He shook the water out of his eyes and turned back to the house. “No, you fool, it’s too late.” A man restrained him as they all looked towards the flames blocking the front door.
Without pausing, Jerrol bounded back up the stairs. Keeping his face muffled and his hands off the wall, he halted on the landing and kicked in the first door he came to. The room was smoke-filled but empty. He moved on to the next room, similarly filling with thick black smoke. Coughing, he tried to filter the air through the damp material of his cloak. A low groan caught his attention and he wafted the smoke away from his face. “Sylvie,” he croaked and, clearing his raw throat, tried again. “Sylvie!”
He found her huddled in the corner under a sheet. She had managed to tip her water jug over her. The dampened material steamed, but she had been overwhelmed by the ever-thickening smoke. Jerrol ducked under the sheet and felt her neck. She lived. But not for long, he thought, desperately trying to see a way out.
The Guardian jerked under his hands. “Don’t let them fail,” she pleaded. Her grip on his arm was unexpectedly strong. “Gilly knows what to do, she just needs time.” Her eyes streamed from the smoke, and she slumped in his arms. Jerrol scooped her up and staggered towards the door; she was much heavier than she looked.
Hot embers drifted in the hallway. Red tendrils of burning flame licked up the walls, scorching him. His shirt sleeves shrivelled; the flames blistered his skin, and he stumbled back into the bedroom towards the bed, hissing in pain. He laid Sylvie down and leaned out the window. Behind him, the flames extended up the wooden door frame. He turned back and slammed the door shut. Yanking down the curtains, he beat uselessly at the fire before stuffing the material along the bottom to block the smoke.
Returning to the window, he peered out. A pulley jutted out from above the hayloft in the adjacent barn. He leaned out, teetering over the windowsill; it was out of his reach.
The Guardian coughed behind him. “Stick.”
Jerrol turned. She was pointing at a hooked stick propped up in the corner. He grabbed it and leant out the window, reaching for the rope. The hook caught and he pulled it towards him. Down below, Birlerion was leading the hysterical horses out of the barn.
“Birlerion,” he bawled, “hayloft.” He frantically pointed as he tossed the stick aside. Bless the man, he understood immediately and disappeared into the barn. Jerrol looped the rope around the Guardian’s chest and dragged her over to the windowsill. He flinched back as flaming red embers caressed his cheek. He levered Sylvie out the window as fast as he could, and the rope took the strain as Birlerion gathered the slack.
Jerrol paused as Sylvie’s hand cupped his face; her hand was silky soft and cool against his scorched skin. He leaned into it. “The Lady bless you, lad,” she said in a husky whisper. She was staring right through him, her eyes glassy. “Aye, m’Lady, I’ll give him what I can,” she said as she focused on his face. She kissed him on the lips as the light faded from her eyes, and she was jerked out of his grasp as Birlerion worked the pulley.
Jerrol flinched back as her will zinged through his blood. His heart raced as a fresh green wash flowed through his body, meeting scorched skin on the outside, making his body a living battlefield. His heart stuttered as he tried to assimilate the opposing forces, and he dropped to his knees. Steam rose from his tattered clothes. His skin gleamed with sweat: the only sign of his body’s internal struggle.
Leaning against the window frame, he gasped for breath as black smoke billowed around him. The rope swung in front of him, and he cast about for the stick and then realised the fire had consumed it. The room was alight. The fire roared like a furnace behind him, the heat intensifying on his back as the room was engulfed in flames. He looked up at the pulsing moon watching overhead, as distant rumbles heralded the start of the building’s collapse.
Jerrol climbed out of the window and balanced as Birlerion took the slack, staring up at him in horror. He launched himself at the rope, swaying precariously away and then back towards the burning building; the flames leapt and caught the rope as he spun away. His palms stung as they slipped, but he tightened his grip and hung on grimly.
Above him, the flames ate their way through the rope as Birlerion frantically lowered him to the ground. His legs collapsed as he touched the ground and he lay trembling face down on the cold cobblestones, gasping for breath and choking out smoke, wheezing like an old man. He rolled over and let Birlerion unravel the rope. He stared up at the moon until his smoke-ridden eyes watered and his sight blurred.
Suddenly, Birlerion wrenched him upright, and frantic hands stripped off his steaming cloak and started on his clothes. A bucket was upended over his head as he gasped for breath. Birlerion wrapped him in a damp sheet, cool against his naked skin; hands patted him down as if putting out flames.
“Ascendants’ balls,” Birlerion cursed, making Jerrol smile, “you’re smouldering, you fool. You’ll
