The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [69]
The other man danced a jig of anger on the gravel. “Holy crap, what did you go and do that for, Marty?”
“Maybe he can start a fire,” the tall one, Marty, called back. He smiled at Travis. “We haven't had any luck. The wood is so cold it won't catch.”
“What makes you think I can do it?”
“You look like a man who can start fires,” Marty said, then turned and started back toward the viaduct.
Travis stood still, not sure what to make of those words.
You should leave. You can't trust anybody—you can't know who's working for Duratek.
Even as he thought this, a chill wind whistled over the river, slicing through his thrift-store parka. He drew in a breath, then ducked his head and trudged back toward the dimness of the viaduct.
There was a niche in the cement retaining wall beneath the bridge where the men had set up their makeshift camp. However, it was anything but warm; their breath formed frozen ghosts on the air. Marty introduced himself, along with his associate. The short man's name was Jay, and his sparse black beard framed what seemed to be a permanent scowl. Travis gave them his first name and shook Marty's big hand, but Jay turned his back when Travis tried to repeat the gesture.
“Never mind him,” Marty said. “He has a thing about certain kinds of people.”
Travis pulled his hand back. “What kinds of people do you mean?”
“The living kind.” Marty squatted down beside a pile of unburned sticks. “So, you can get it going, can't you?”
Travis gazed down at the wood. “I suppose I can.”
Despite the darkness and his turned back, it was impossible to hide what he was doing. He held a hand toward the sticks and whispered the rune of fire. A tendril of smoke curled up from the wood, but that was it. His rune magic was pathetically weak here on Earth, and while it would have been far stronger if he opened the iron box, he didn't dare. He might end up setting them all on fire. Instead, he spoke the rune with greater force.
“Krond!” Flames leaped up, bright and consuming.
Marty grinned, the sharp planes of his face illuminated by golden light.
“How did you do that?” Jay stood above Travis. “You didn't even use a match. Marty's right—all you've got to do is say some mumbo jumbo and stuff happens. What was that word you said? Tell it to me so I can start a fire.”
Travis stared into the flames. “It's not that simple.”
“You mean you just don't want to tell me,” Jay said, his scowl deepening. “You want to keep the secret for yourself, don't you, you greedy bastard?”
“Believe me, if I could give it to you, I would.”
Those words seemed to startle Jay. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then sat next to the fire.
Marty laughed. “You really must be able to do magic, Travis. I've never seen anyone put Jay at a loss for words.”
The little man glared at Marty. “And I've never heard you be such a big blabbermouth before, so maybe it is voodoo.” He turned his hot gaze on Travis. “You're pretty good with the fire stuff. Got any words that'll magic up some food?”
Travis shook his head.
“Well, then what good are you?” Jay's tone was disgusted, but a trace of a smile showed inside his beard as he held his stubby hands toward the fire and rubbed them together.
“My uncle told a story,” Marty said, “of a man he knew who could use sticks to find lost jewelry, and I knew a pretty woman who could see the future in a deck of cards. But I've never heard of making a fire with a word.”
“I didn't make the fire,” Travis said. “Fire is just a transformation. When something burns, all it's doing is moving from one state to another. The heat and light were locked inside the wood all along. All I did was release them.”
Jay let out a snort. “Good grief, that sounds like the kind of crap old Sparky is always dumping on anyone stupid enough to listen to him. Still the professor, even though the college gave him the boot years ago. It's all