Page 93 of Fires of the Forsaken
One strong breeze andpoof,those papers would start smokin’.
Cheriour turned when I stopped and followed my gaze to the candle. “Ah,” he grunted. “Why do you fear fire?” He stumbled over a pair of shoes as he went to extinguish the candle.
The tight sensation in my chest loosened a bit once the flame was out. I blew out a breath. “My parents died in a housefire.”
He gave me a long, studying look before he plucked a weapon off the bed. “How old were you?”
“Five,” I said. “You know, it’s funny. I can’t even really remember what they looked like. But...” I trailed off as a phantom sound filled my ears.
“Addie! Addie...Don't...do you hear me? Don't.... no matter what...”
I closed my eyes.
“But?” Cheriour prompted.
“Sometimes I still hear my mom screaming.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I opened my eyes, started to respond, and completely lost my train of thought when I glimpsed the monstrosity of a weapon in his hands. “What isthat?”
He held the weapon toward me. “It’s yours.”
My brows shot up. “You’re joking, right?” The weapon was a big axe on a stick. Actually, it was worse. An axe only had a single blade. This sucker had a blade on one side, a meat mallet on the other, and a spear in the middle. Oh, and the other end of the stick had a point on it too. There were way too many sharp edges.
“It's a poleaxe,” Cheriour said.
“That’s nice. Since you named it, you can keep it.”
“It's similar to what you've been training with—”
“No, it’s not. My stick was longer and didn't have all the pointy bits. “
A spasm tugged at Cheriour’s lips. “The pointy bits will help keep you safe,” he said. “As for the size…” he tugged at the handle with both hands. With a dullclick, the little foot-long axe transformed into a five-foot polearm.
“It’sretractable?” I blinked.
“Yes. I thought you’d find it easier to carry. Especially on horseback.”
This time, when he handed it to me, I took it. The mechanism was almost the same as a selfie stick or other similar equipment. It was easy to use; I extended and retracted it twice. And it wasn’t nearly as heavy as it looked. It weighed more than my wooden pole, but not by much. “Didyoumake this?” I asked. “This is a custom weapon, not something you pulled off a shelf.”
Instead of answering, Cheriour turned away. “Harnessing it to your back would be best. You’d only have to reach over your shoulder—”
“Being careful not to impale my arm—”
“—to draw it. I should have a scabbard in here...” he surveyed his pigsty of a bedroom. “Somewhere.” He bent and rooted through the (seemingly endless) piles of clothes.
“I’m surprised you can find anything in here,” I chuckled. “It looks like you set a bomb off.”
He said nothing, but the backs of his ears reddened.
I fought back a grin. “What are you looking for, exactly?”
“A scabbard,” he grunted.
“No idea what that is.”
“A leather strap.”
