The Black Wing (14 page)

in respect to Tate's authority. “Speaking of forgetting,” Wolter said with bushy eyebrows
raised, “I didn't see you at morning worship.” Wolter eyed Tate's attire. “Hadn't you
better get your dandified self down there and pay Kiri-Jolith his due?” Tate colored,
looking properly chastised. “I stopped for a brief moment to enjoy the good weather and
lost track of time.” Wolter pushed him toward the steps. “I'll come and tell you when
three hours have passed.” He winked. “Just in case you get equally absorbed by your
prayers.” The old knight knew how difficult Tate found it to meditate for an entire day,
especially with the castle in so much need of attention. “Get you gone,” Wolter said more
kindly. “The meditation is as important to your quest as anything else. I'll keep an eye
on things, don't you worry.” Tate clambered down the circular tower steps. He passed by
the blacksmith's shop, forge always glowing to meet the constant demands of the craftsmen.
He saluted the two sentries at the gate house, though he didn't know their names, or those
of many of the younger knights. The temple to Kiri-Jolith was defined more by function
than decor. In reality it was a walled-off section of the first lord knight's
once-sumptuous apartments. Long ago stripped of its riches, it now contained just six rows
of hard wooden benches and a small altar, decorated only with the god's bison head symbol.
The room was always cold and dark, lit by a single candle, which was meant to aid
concentration. The temple was empty now as well. Tate slipped inside and onto the wooden
bench nearest the altar. He was glad for the privacy, since it allowed him to pray aloud
and thus remain focused. Tate cleared his throat awkwardly. “Kiri-Jolith, Sword of
Justice, hear my call. Guide this humble knight in his quest for honor and justice. Help
him to see grievous wrongs and right them. Let him never stray from the path of obedience.
Keep his will and his sword arm strong in your service.” Tate chanted the lines over and
over. He envied those knights who could simply meditate, free-form, for hours on end. He
was not gifted with profound words or thoughts. Tate fancied himself a man of action. The
knight was reciting the prayer for the one hundred thirty-seventh time when shouts in the
courtyard sliced through his already fragile concentration. One word alone was enough to
draw his attention. “Fire!” Tate's heart skipped a beat. Fire in a castle could mean
disaster. Certain Kiri-Jolith would understand the distraction, the knight jumped to his
feet and was on his way to the door when a young squire, his thin face glowing from sweat,
burst through it. He nearly knocked Tate down. “Sir Tate!” cried the squire, his voice
thin and reedy from inhaling smoke. “There's fire, sir! Sir Wolter sent me to get you.”
The youth collapsed on a bench, unable to draw a breath. “Where is it?” The youth couldn't
get enough air to speak. Tate shook him impatiently. “Damn it, tell me!” “Bake house,” the
squire managed to rasp. The bake house ... It was next to the granary. They'd had to
rebuild a lot of it with wood. He thought of Abeleverything had looked fine just a few
short hours ago. Tate bolted through the door and headed for the opposite corner of the
courtyard, where black smoke choked the sun. The normal bustle of the castle had been
replaced by near panic. As Tate approached the bake house, it came to him that he'd broken
another of the laws of the holy day. He'd spoken harshly to the squire. A good morning was
suddenly turning very bad.

Abel, covered in flour and soot, ran to and fro in front of the small building, clutching
at everyone who came near enough, begging them to fetch water. A few ran to the well,
others with more level heads went to nearby shops or to the stables to find buckets. The
stonemasons, working above the kitchen and very near the burning bakery, scrambled down
from their scaffolding and joined the force; the blacksmith bolted from his forge; the
sentries left their posts to help. Even a small fire could rage out of control and consume
an entire building in the time it took to organize a fire brigade. The well was more than
a hundred paces away, too far to form a continuous water supply line to the fire. Dozens
of workers ran back and forth, sloshing water from heavy wooden buckets all the way, to
splash a few gallons onto the rapidly growing blaze. Wolter dashed out of the knights'
barracks, weaving and dodging his way through the sprinting water carriers. He had barely
reached the scene before Tate grabbed him by the shoulders. “I thought you were keeping an
eye on things!” Sir Wolter's eyes already appeared red from smoke. “I couldn't be
everywhere there was flame,” the old knight said sadly, “and neither could you.” “Send
word out to the village,” Tate told him. “We need every man, woman, and child who can
carry water, and every container that will hold it.” Wolter immediately collared half a
dozen boys and dispatched them with Tate's message, along with a warning to “run their
hearts out, and pound down people's doors if necessary.” Meanwhile, Tate had captured the
distraught baker and removed him a few score paces from the tumult. “Is anyone still
inside?” The baker shook his head vigorously. “No, sir, I don't think so. But all my
implements are there, everything I need to do my job. It's all being destroyed.” Abel's
wide eyes turned back toward the smoking, half-timbered building, and he started to pull
away. Tate grabbed the man's arm and commanded his attention. “How did it start?” “It was
Kaye, sir, the apprentice.” Abel wrung his flour-covered hands uncontrollably. 'The boy's
apron must have caught an ember when he crouched down to feed the fire. Suddenly it was
burning and Kaye, why, sir, he nearly expired of a fit right there. Lucky for him young
Idwoir was nearby, waiting for a biscuit. Idwoir ripped the apron off the boy and tried to
get rid of it, but it fell to the floor. “The reeds on the floor caught up next. Idwoir
tried to douse them, but I guess he was too excited because he missed the flames. Before
we could fetch more water, the whole place was filled with smoke so bad it choked a man
just to be near it. Oh, I'm awfully sorry, Sir Tate. This is a catastrophe, thaf s what it
is.” Tate was in no mood to soothe the man's nerves. “See if you can help by passing a
bucket,” he ordered, then turned back to the fire. The blaze was intensifying rapidly.
Tall flames were visible through the windows, gyrating in the black billows. Yellow smoke,
so thick that it looked like raw wool, streamed upward through the thatched roof. By now,
villagers were arriving with leather and wooden buckets, cooking pots, ancient helmets
with chin-strap handles, even crockery mugs and tin cups. Wolter and the other knights
directed them into two long lines from the bakery to the well. “Every able-bodied person
available, and some not so able, is here,” Wolter reported. “We've got to make sure we
keep rotating the men at the front. It's hot as wizard fire, and no one can stand it long
when they're up close enough to throw on water.” One line of people, containing mainly men
and matrons, passed the heavy, sloshing buckets from the well to the fire. Empty
containers traveled back to be refilled along the other line, passing through the hands of
grandparents, children, young women, even some ailing residents who, Tate realized, must
have left their sickbeds to take a place in line.

With the bucket brigade operating at full speed, the fire seemed to be held in check. Tate
marched up and down the lines, yelling encouragement. The roar of the flames mingling with
the grunts and shouts of the fire fighters was nearly deafening. On returning again to the
front of the bakery, Tate found Raymond of Winterholm, the master architect. The man's
forehead was furrowed with anxiety, his face filmed with perspiration. The heat here was
nearly unbearable.

“What's your opinion, Master Raymond?” Tate shouted over the din. “Are we beating it
back?” The knight's heart hammered in his chest from the excitement and exertion. “That's
hard to say, Sir Tate,” the architect bellowed back. “There's so much smoke we can't get a
good look at the extent and direction of the fire. At the very least, we've slowed it
down. And a good thing, too. Those support beams to the left of the bakery are reinforcing
the new upper portions of the east wall, where the mortar isn't completely set. If we lose
those beams, the battlements could crumble.” Wincing, he ran a hand through his hair. “I
don't want to think about how much more damage that would cause.”

Tate clapped the man on the shoulder, trying to be reassuring though his own doubts were
great. A torrent of flame suddenly burst through the thick roof of the building. The
column of yellow smoke that had been pouring upward ignited into a writhing pillar. And
then, a vast portion of the roof broke away and tumbled downward. Spitting fire and smoke,
the roof section broke off and crashed into the midst of the people below, who had charged
forward with buckets of water. Men, women, and children scattered from the sudden
onslaught, dropping buckets as they ran; all but two, who were pinned beneath the searing
mass. Their screams seemed to have no effect on those who scrambled for their lives, but
in moments, knights converged on the scene. One of them, armed with a long-handled
military hook, plunged the weapon into a bundle of thatch. As he pulled aside the burning
mass, Tate and another knight grabbed the two victims and dragged them out into the
central courtyard, away from the heat and danger. Both men appeared horribly burned. Their
clothes were scorched, their faces blackened, much of their hair fried away. Remembering
his own painful, narrow escape from burning death, the young knight thanked Habbakuk that
both were unconscious. Momentarily the barber, a dwarf with long braided locks, rushed up
and began gingerly peeling the smoking clothes from the victims. Tate watched helplessly
for several moments until Sir Wolter jolted him, saying “You'd best come back to the fire.
We've a new problem.” The hole in the roof was acting like a chimney; the sudden rush of
heat and flame through the opening drew a blasting draft into the house. The building had
become a furnace. “That's not the worst of it,” the older knight added. “We can't possibly
put it out, but we must keep it from spreading. There's new construction to the left of it
and the granary to the right.” Once again Master Raymond was at Tate's elbow. “Sir, that
new construction must be protected. If the supports burn away, anything could happen.”
“But if we lose the grain,” Tate responded, “we can't sustain the castle and village in
the coming winter.” Though he already knew and now feared the answer, Tate asked Sir
Wolter, “How full is the granary?” “Dol tells me if s about half full,” Wolter replied.
“Damnation!” Tate slammed his fist into his hand. "Thaf s not just our food for the
winter, it's next year's seed. Take whomever can be spared from the bucket lines and start
emptying the granary. I don't

care where you put the grain dump it on the ground if you have to, but get it out of
there.“ Turning to Raymond, Tate barked, ”Find the head groom and have him get all the
horses out of the stables. We can't chance losing them, too.“ ”Of course,“ Raymond
replied. ”If the granary goes up, the stables will be next.“ Tate cut him off. ”I don't
intend to lose either of them. Get some people on top of the granary and tear off its
roof. Don't leave any kindling up there for a stray spark to ignite. Then use chains or
ropes or whatever else you can find and hitch some plow horses to the granary. If it
catches fire, pull it down and scatter the pieces so there's nothing for the flames to
climb."

“What about the new wall?” the architect asked. Tate peered through the smoke at the
scaffolding behind the kitchen. “We'll just have to hold the fire off as best we can.”
After Raymond ran off into the smoke, Tate rubbed his face in his hands. Great Huma's
ghost, he didn't have all the answers, even if they expected him to.

Tense minutes later, Wolter and Raymond were again back at Tate's side. “We're ready to
topple the granary, but I hope we don't have to,” the knight reported. “What with the heat
and the smoke, getting the grain out is next to impossible. If s going awfully slow
because the men have to work in short shifts to keep from searing their lungs.” “And the
wall supports?”

Raymond's soot-streaked face looked worried. “The beams are scorching, and the ropes are
smoking like a dwarf's pipe. If the bakery collapses soon, and I expect it will, we'll be
a lot safer.” Strangely relieved by the news that the bakery was about to fall, Tate
relaxed slightly. But cries of “Water! Water!” from the fire fighters cut short his brief
respite. Tate's heart nearly choked him when he saw bucket passers and fire fighters
standing idle, shuffling their feet and looking quizzically back toward the well. A few
empty buckets were still moving down the line, but no newly filled ones came forward. At
the well, the blacksmith and the farrier both dripped sweat. They stood panting, their
hands on the rope that disappeared down the dark shaft. Tate stopped his headlong rush by
crashing into the side of the well, clutching the rough stones to keep his balance. Before
he could blurt out the obvious question, the farrier answered it. “We've drained it to the
bottom, Sir Tate. If s just filling at a trickle now, not nearly as fast as we've been
taking it out. And we've already drained the cisterns, too.” “How much water can we get?”
Tate asked softly, almost a whisper. Everyone's eyes were on him. The blacksmith arched
his eyebrows momentarily as if to apologize. “We can get one bucket in the time it took us
to get ten or fifteen before.” Tate stood straight as a pike and glared at the sky,
darkened with smoke and soot. “Gods' teeth!” he screamed. “Am I to be opposed by fate at
every step?” He stared into the roaring sky, then turned to the men waiting by the horses.
The words to command the destruction of all their hard work choked in his throat. Tate
waved his arm. “Pull down the granary,” Wolter bellowed, correctly interpreting the
gesture. Grooms tugged on bridles, chains lifted off the ground, then grew tight and
strained. Slowly a chorus of “hiyaa” and “g'yon there” gave way to groaning timber and
splintering lath. The granary building leaned at the top, then buckled at the bottom, and
collapsed into a dust-obscured heap of rubble. Flames shot up and danced across its
surface. As the horses continued dragging the massive timbers, they scattered the burning
matter across the inner courtyard. Women and children swarmed around it to beat out the
flames with brooms and blankets. Unchecked, the fire now raced along the wall support
beams above the kitchen. With no water to hold back the flames, the kitchen would soon be
engulfed the same way the bakery had been.