Half-Face

Called by Fire

Everybody who passed through Greyhaven noticed Tomàs.
He was the boy at old Razer’s inn, always there, always moving, always two steps ahead of whatever needed doing. He mucked stalls, waited tables, polished boots, cleaned latrines, every single day without complaint. Up before first light, down long after dark when his arms gave out. That was his life. He didn’t know what else to ask for.
It was his face that made people stop.
A burn scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear, taking half his smile. Some felt sorry for him. Some thought a boy marked like that couldn’t amount to much.
No girl had ever run her fingers through his blond hair. No girl had ever kissed him. They looked away, and there were no promises on his lips.
He lived for the sword.
Whoever came to town came through Razer’s, and whoever walked through that door saw Tomàs, that half-scarred face, those two eyes, the bluest, quietest eyes anybody had ever seen.

Dragon’s eye, my drawing.

---

That evening Tomàs didn’t get out until late. The sky was black iron. Ravens were everywhere, perched on the rooftops, the fence posts, the bare branches, watching. He stepped out onto the hard red mud path and headed for the drainage ditch, lantern in his left hand, a heavy tin bucket in his right. The liquid sloshed with every step, threatening to spill down his breeches, but he walked fast anyway.
A low rumble rolled in from somewhere far off. Behind the rooftops, clouds lit up, veined with lightning. A storm was tearing through the mountains, and a hot wind came down off the peaks, carrying ash.
Tomàs’ arm burned under the weight. He breathed like a man in a fight, air forced through his teeth, down into his throat. His chest ran hot. Sweat on his back clung, jaw set, eyes on the ground. Halfway there, he stopped and set the bucket down, crouching with his hands on his knees.
The lantern light shook on the water, and his face came back at him in pieces, broken up by the ripples. He looked. The scar. The skin pulled tight and shiny, like old leather. The edges thick, bunched up, layered. No cheek, just a hard fold that dragged his lip back on that side so the teeth showed a little, like somebody had ripped half his face off and pressed it back without caring whether it lined up. His left eye looked smaller, pinched down by the skin.
He tilted his head and raised his right hand, bringing it close, slow.
“You alright, boy?”
Tomàs dropped his hand and looked up. A man on horseback. A tall, heavy animal, dark coat. And the man himself was as big as the beast. Wide shoulders, solid. He looked like a shadow inside a shadow. Tomàs hadn’t heard him coming. Not a step, not a sound.
“Yeah,” he said, getting to his feet.
“You know if there’s an inn ‘round here?”
“Yes, sir. Down that way,” he said, nodding toward Razer’s place.
The rider moved his head slightly. Tomas didn’t see the gesture but heard the faint creak of stiffened leather.
“Food any good?”
“Not really.”
The horse blew air through its nose. The man’s cloak moved in a breath of wind. Tomàs felt those invisible eyes on him like a hand on his neck. He picked up the bucket.
“You always this straight with people, boy?”
“There’s no other inn, sir.”
Nobody said anything for a second.
“What you got in there?”
Tomàs looked down at the bucket.
“Urine,” he said.
“Urine?”
“From the customers.”
“Finish up and come back. You’re walking me in. I’ll meet your master.”
“He’s not my master.”
The man was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped down off the horse, boots hitting the hard mud.
“Then why are you hauling his piss bucket?”
“That’s my job.”
“He paying you? Or just letting you sleep inside?”
Tomàs didn’t answer. The man almost smiled.
“Then he’s your master. Now get moving.”

---

Tomàs went in first, the man right behind him. When he pulled back his hood, every conversation dropped at the same moment, and the silence was complete. Tomàs turned to look. The man was dark-haired, weathered, nothing remarkable about him. Except his eyes.
“A table,” he said. “And get your master. I need a word with him.”
So he did, then went back to work behind the bar, cleaning and polishing whatever came to hand, though not really paying attention to any of it.
One of the other boys came closer. “You’re crazier than I thought,” he said. “You brought one of ‘em in here?”
“One of what?” Tomàs asked.
“That’s a hunter, Half-face.”
“So?”
The other lowered his voice and leaned in. “You see how he moves? You see those eyes? He comes down from the mountains.”
“Plenty of men come down from the mountains.”
“Not like him. Men like him live where the sky burns. They say they guard the barriers. Say they know the true names of fire.”
Tomàs couldn’t keep his eyes off the man, still talking with Razer.
“That’s all just talk,” he muttered.
The other boy made a sign against bad luck.
“When one of ‘em comes all the way down here, something’s about to happen. Trust me.”
“Like what?”
“The mountains burnin’.”
Razer came over right then.
“You, Half-face, take that man some stew and red wine,” he said.
“Where’s he from?” Tomàs asked.
“Somewhere they pay well. No women, just food and drink. And he’s asking around.”
“Looking for someone?”
“You could say that.” Razer pocketed the coins. “Now go. Serve him, and do what he says.”

---

Tomàs set up the tray and walked over to the table. He set down the bowl of stew, the wine, the bread. Then he turned to go.
“Sit down, boy,” the man said, without looking up.
Tomàs froze.
“I can’t, sir.”
“I paid your master for your time.”
He pointed to the chair across from him.
“Sit down.”
Tomàs sat. Near the bar, Razer and the other boy weren’t even pretending not to watch.
“You know how to read?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re lying.”
“I can’t read.”
“You’re faster than the other boys.”
They looked at each other.
“You read the orders.”
Tomàs hesitated. “Maybe,” he said. “You need a scribe?”
“No.”
“Then why am I here?”
“You move like you’ve been taught to survive. Sword. Tight grip. Long hours.” He looked at Tomàs’ hands. “I know those hands.”
“Everybody’s gotta know how to handle themselves.”
“Not like you do.”
“Then what am I training for?”
“You don’t know yet. That’s the point,” the man said.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It will.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Years ago, a warrior spoke an oath before he faced a fire beast. His words outlasted the walls he was defending.”
“He was a fearless one. Good for him.”
“He was afraid. Like anybody.”
“Did he kill the beast?”
The man looked at the fire.
“Maybe.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Wasn’t a question.”
“Did he at least die well?”
The man was quiet for a moment.
“He died doing what he was made for. That’s all any of us get.”
“Any of us... Who?”
For the first time he felt the man was looking at the left side of his face. Really looking.
“Fire leaves marks,” he said.
Tomàs didn’t look away. “I know.”
“Most men burn. Some learn to carry it.”
“Who are you?”
“Your friend back there told you where I come from.”
“People talk about things they don’t know.”
“There are barriers up there, in the Silver-Mountains. They keep out what shouldn’t come back. And there are men who have watched over those barriers since before the kingdoms had names.”
“Soldiers?”
“Something older. Older than wars. Old as the oaths spoken when the sky was burning.”
His eyes came back to Tomàs.
“Tell me, boy. Your father ever talk to you about fire?”
“My father?” His lips parted. “They told me he died a long time ago, sir.”
The man leaned back in his chair.
“You don’t know your legacy.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing you can’t give.”

---

When the man walked out of the inn at dawn, the horse was already saddled and someone was waiting. He didn’t look surprised.
“Your master know?”
“No, sir,” Tomàs said. “Won’t make much difference anyway.”
The man mounted and looked down at him.
“Walk ‘til you can’t,” he said. “You’ll learn the rest on the road.”
Tomàs shifted the pack on his shoulder and held it there a moment.
“What’s wrong, boy?”
“I might not come back.”
The man turned toward the road.
“Oh, you’ll come back. Just won’t be the same.”
Tomàs didn’t say anything. Then they set off together, heading north, where the Silver-Mountains tore open the sky.

---

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I’m not really a fantasy author, you know, but I wrote this story to submit to ArcadianWeald and The Brothers Krynn for the World of Livania project.
They’re two gifted authors, and the lore is incredible.

If you want to dive in, here it is:

The Annals of Livania: World of Dragons

Thanks for reading, guys.

Michael