The Elemental Series: Kiss Of Fire

“Give me the bow.”

Calypsa laughed. “Get your own.” She held the bow above her head so that her brother, Jarin, short in his age of only twelve sun cycles, couldn’t reach.

“Please,” he whined.

She giggled and started running, nearly toppling an elder in her glee.

“Calypsa Li’Sar!”

She stopped, turning to face her father. Her hands clasped together behind her back. “I’m sorry father,” she said quietly, bowing her head.

He was angry, she could tell. “As well you should be. Sixteen cycles is much too old for you to be fooling about like a babe. Get back home and get your chores done.” He started toward the elder, adding, “And give your brother his bow,” as an after thought.

Sixteen cycles wasn’t old. She’d only just completed her womanhood ceremony and was barely of marrying age.

Calypsa went inside her father’s hut and collected his tunics to be washed and mended, discovering a few pairs of leggings that needed it, as well. She put them in a Mandisari basket, made by the people of her village, and walked down to the river. The water was cool and clear, reflecting the deep blue hues of the sky. She got the garments washed and had them hanging over a nearby tree branch to dry. A scent in the air caught her attention. It wasn’t uncommon, she knew, to pick up scents and sounds from a neighboring village, but usually it took an Elven elder of some skill to do it.

She wasn’t so powerful, so the source of the strange scent must be close.

She edged her way along the river, passing through a copse of thorny helia bushes, and into a clearing. The spot faced the river and was surrounded by trees and underbrush. She started to walk through, but stopped, covering her mouth with her hand. “A fire Warlock,” she whispered in awe.

A Warlock was one of the rarest sects in her world, and one who could control fire was the rarest of all. They were hunted, like the ancient Draconus, because of their affiliation with fire and the belief that they were evil.

The Warlock groaned and rolled slightly, displaying a bare chest and firm muscle. His breeches were torn, his boots worn. The scent of blood was strong, and she immediately traced it to a nasty gash across his side. She approached him hesitantly, not sure of his intent and found him in a state she believed to be unconsciousness. Her hand reached out of his own volition, wanting to touch something so rare.

“Don’t.”

She jerked away, sprawling on her behind in the grass. Her eyes went to his face. There was blood matting his shoulder-length flame colored hair and the goatee framing his full mouth. His eyes were open, and he appeared ready to do battle. There were tendrils of flame licking around the irises of his unusual, red-orange eyes. He grimaced, groaning in pain, his eyes returning to their usual hazel.

“Be still.” She moved to his side. “I’m going to tend your wound.”

“No! You must not touch it!”

She laid her hands in her lap. “If I don’t, you’ll get the blood fever, or worse, bleed to death.”

“My blood will set you ablaze, stupid wench,” he said through clenched teeth.

She scooted away immediately. “What can I do?”

He sat up, nearly howling with his pain. “Tear me a bandage from the hem of your underskirts,” he said, his breathing labored.

She did as instructed, tearing it all the way around about four inches wide, as he maneuvered himself closer to the edge of the water until he was nearly sitting in it. He held out his hand for the bandage and she placed it there, careful not to touch the dried blood in his palm. He moistened the cloth in the running water of the river and leaned back on the grassy bank, dabbing around the wound. Every time the cloth touched his injury, a sizzling could be heard like pouring water on hot coals.

When the gash was cleaned to his satisfaction, he stood, with much effort, and did something Calypsa thought she’d never see in the extent of her cycles. As big and forbidding as a giant, he braced his feet apart and lifted his right hand. The nail on his index finger was nearly an inch long and as red as the sun in the Ricarit Desert. His eyes flamed over, a phantom wind blowing his magnificent mane of red hair. When his hand was waist high, he uncurled his long fingers, his palm facing out.

She watched, awestruck, as the tip of his fingernail produced a small flame, then it grew, engulfing his hand. He pressed it to the cut in his side, which had started to bleed again just slightly. He let out a bone-shaking roar as the gash sealed up tight with a hiss. Weak, he dropped to his knees, bracing his big hands on his thighs, and breathing as if he’d just run a mile.

Seemingly having gathered his wits, he went to the river and scrubbed the blood from his face and corded forearms.

Calypsa watched him, fascinated, then stopped. A sound came to her attention. Hoof beats and men talking, one man in particular, shouting orders.

He was watching her closely. “You can hear it?”

She nodded.

“They’re less than a half mile from here.”

Fear squirmed its way into her belly. “Who?”

“Warsan hunters,” he replied, looking grim.

She gasped. So that’s why he’d been hurt. “What will you do?”

“There is only one place I am safe. The Rhighan Mountains.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “That’s two hundred miles from here.”

Nodding, he replied, “Ten days walk.” He cocked his head, as if listening. “You must go back from whence you came.”

“But, they’ll kill you-”

He held up his hand to silence her. “You, as well, if you don’t go.”

She couldn’t just leave him. Without a horse, he would lose ground to them quickly. “I’ll get you a horse and some food for your journey. Come.” She led him back along the river, to the outskirts of the village. Thankfully, the horse pen was just ahead.

The stables were empty, as it was late afternoon and time for the evening meal. She got him the biggest horse they had, a white stallion, and saddled him up. She led the horse behind the stables, handing him the reins. “Wait here,” she whispered. She moved carefully to her father’s hut, going straight to the provisions and putting some in a leather pouch. She rejoined him. Nervously, he glanced over his shoulder. Handing him the pouch, she said, “There’s sweet frybread and some cheese, also a flagon of wine.”

He thanked her.

“Safe journey,” she replied, knowing it would be the last time she would lay eyes on such a magnificent creature.