Fire on the Mountain: Mountain Trilogy, #2

By Michelle Isenhoff

What really happened on the mountain twelve years ago? 

Though his apprenticeship hangs on him like an ill-fitting garment, Quon is unprepared for the twist his life takes when his parents are killed and he is forced to flee the city. Adrift in the wilderness with no purpose and no protection, Quon is approached by an old man who hints that his destiny may be more than he imagined. Ancient tales fill Quon's head with expectations of glory, but he soon learns that being a hero is far different than dreaming of becoming one. 

Gripping tales of high adventure, noble characters, breathtaking settings, and literary prose, the Mountain Trilogy entwines the very best elements of children's genre in a way that has widely captivated adults. The stories are rich and multi-layered, relayed in an old-fashioned, oral story-telling tradition and flavored with the mystique of the ancient Orient.

Follow Song as he uncovers his family history in this second installment of the Mountain series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Isenhoff
• Release date: Jan 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386254652

Michelle Isenhoff

MICHELLE ISENHOFF's work has been reader-nominated for a Cybils Award, the Great Michigan Read, and the Maine Student Book Award. She's also placed as a semi-finalist in the Kindle Book Review Book Awards, a finalist in the Wishing Shelf Book Awards, and earned multiple Readers' Favorite 5 Star seals of approval. A former teacher and longtime homeschooler, Michelle has written extensively in the children's genre and been lauded by the education community for the literary quality of her work. These days, she writes full time in the adult historical fiction and speculative fiction genres. To keep up with new releases, sign up for her newsletter at http://hyperurl.co/new-release-list.

Book preview

prologue

The side of Mount Kamiratan was scarred with the debris of failure. Song heaved the cartful of burnt and fragmented bricks into the gully and paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. Deep sorrow laced his features. Though he had overthrown the ancient dragon four years ago, he had not been able to save his friend Nori or the countless others who had lost their lives that autumn. The rubble of Lord Dolisu’s estate stood like a ghostly reprimand.

Song would abandon the place altogether if he could. He was content to occupy the small hut he shared with his grandfather, but the villagers suffered without a governor. Song could see how disputes tore apart relationships with no one left to mediate them. He watched as laziness settled over men no longer accountable to authority. He observed the vulnerable left with no protector. These were simple, uneducated peasants, and Song had come to understand how the wealthy lord had served them. As Lord Dolisu’s only heir, that mantle was now his to take up.

So he had begun clearing the overgrown manor, tossing his past mistakes over the side of the mountain one by one. He would rebuild the house and gardens. He would restore the protective wall. He would restructure a system of government and renew trade along the river. With the help of his grandfather and the council of the Wise, he’d start new. He’d remedy his neglect.

Song!

He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sinking sun. A young woman picked her way up the village path, supporting a tottering old man. Song set aside his handcart and strode to meet them. Karina! Grandfather! What brings you so far up the mountain?

Grandfather’s face crinkled in pleasure. I just wanted to see how you are progressing, my child. Karina was taking a stroll, and she offered to drag me along with her.

Li-Min, I said no such thing, the girl protested.

The old man chuckled. Not in so many words. But you knew what your offer would entail.

She smiled. "Your company more than made up for any inconvenience. I believe your wealth of stories has no end.

Perhaps, but I am afraid my strength does. Help me to sit, my dear.

Song fashioned a hasty seat from the rubble, and Karina eased the old man onto it. His figure seemed incomplete without a big golden dog tagging at his heels. But as the old man’s power faded, Kintu had at last succumbed to his many long years. Song laid the faithful beast to rest in a place of honor on Kamiratan’s peak.

Grandfather sucked in a contented breath and looked about with pleasure. "You are progressing well, my son. Another season and you should be able to start building. And then, perhaps a wedding?

Karina smiled shyly. Her scar burned a deep crimson. Keeto has arranged for a community work party once the harvest is in, she told them.

Not all the villagers had been keen on acknowledging a seventeen-year-old orphan as the new lord. Jealousy and resentment often walked beside Song when he visited the village. But Keeto, Karina’s brother and Song’s onetime enemy, had become his most loyal supporter.

Grandfather’s eyes sparkled with affection. "I believe I may even live long enough to see you established.

Song bit his lip, detecting the loss that statement implied. Grandfather, what will I do without you?

Oh, I will not leave you until one is sent to take my place.

Who?

One who will watch over the affairs of men and counsel with the Wise. Grandfather’s eyes grew intense beneath his unruly gray brows. As long as Mutan sustains the world, the struggle between good and evil will go on. You have brought about the beginning of a new age. I cannot foresee what it will bring, but I know mankind will be equipped with whatever strength the Highest One deems necessary.

Song had learned to trust the words of the old man. But he felt so inadequate. How could he possibly accomplish the task set before him? 

Grandfather must have sensed his doubt. You, too, will be given all you need. He tapped Song’s chest with a gnarled finger. It is already here, within you.

All Song felt was an anxious fluttering. Suddenly, he longed to hear one of the old tales. He needed the assurance, the sense of purpose they awoke in him. Grandfather, will you tell me again about my father? It was the one he never tired of hearing.

The old man beamed a toothless smile. "It is well that you hold to the past. The stories must be passed down from generation to generation lest the young ones forget the Hand that wrote them.

Song settled his back against the charred remains of a statue, and Karina pressed in snugly at his side. Her nearness made him feel warm and alive, like the dancing flame of a fire. She was the best reason he could think of to finish the work at the manor site. He passed an arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

Grandfather cleared his throat and began a melodic singsong. "I entered the world after the first age of men had passed away, long after the sons of Zumari had left it. Water and ice scoured away all trace of their existence. The land healed, and I was sent to remember.

"For countless generations I wandered the earth, overseeing the lingering bloodline, preserving its history, and observing the activity of man’s great enemy. Much that was lost had been uncovered. Much that is yet to be had been revealed. But my greatest task was ever before me. Always I watched for signs that it was near at hand.

"I traveled from realm to realm, earning my bread with a tale or a chore. When the enemy stirred, when tragedy struck, when a descendent arose to prominence, I took notice. For companionship I was granted a great dog of molten gold. And many were the meetings with my council. Thousands of years continued thus.

At last, my eye fell on a young child named Quon…

Chapter 1

The alley swallowed the boy like a snake devours a mouse. Invisible in the deep shadows, he paused a moment to look behind. His palms dampened. His temples throbbed with the wild rhythm of his heart. He strained to catch any sounds of pursuit but could hear nothing over the rasp of his own breath.

He had to remain calm. Sucking in great draughts of air, he closed his eyes and willed his muscles to relax. Twilight lay silent all around him, the air damp and chill. He pulled it deep inside, letting it revive his body. Then, inching forward, he peered around the edge of a building.

There it was!

He jerked back, steadying the trembling in his hands. One more deep breath, then he dropped to his stomach and surveyed the scene more thoroughly.

The prize was there in plain sight, just as the rules demanded—the first of three slender wires swiped from Mr. Nimi’s forge, bent into rings, and tied with a bit of yellow cloth. It rested along the top of a doorway belonging to some unsuspecting shopkeeper. The street before it was vacant, but he knew Bantu or one of the other boys could not be far away. He only hoped his own teammates had placed their blue-flagged rings as well.

The boy looked the situation over carefully. Retrieving the ring from such a height would be a challenge, but waiting for help was so distasteful that he discarded the idea immediately. Apart from his scant patience, he did not relish sharing accolades with anyone. He scowled with frustration and drummed his fingertips on the street. There had to be a way!

His hand dropped to the bulge in his pocket and he pulled out a wooden flute. His father had given it to him only two days before with a firm admonition to take care of it. It had belonged to his grandfather, and perhaps Quon would care to learn it? He squeezed it thoughtfully. The instrument extended his reach by the width of two hands spread thumb to pinkie. He would have no trouble reaching the ring now.

Back at the corner he surveyed the street one more time, his body posed, his muscles taut. Still no sign of the enemy.

Now!

He burst from his hiding place, bare feet pounding the packed earth. He caught a glimpse of someone darting from an alcove but he was already past. He honed in on his target, lined up his flute. A flick of the wrist and he had it! 

The ring slid down over his hand. He wrapped his fingers around it tightly and beat his way down the street, crowing with laughter. Just a few more blocks and he would—

Crash!

A dusky figure sprang from an alley and drove him to the ground, knocking the instrument from his grasp. You’re finished, Quon!

With a growl of frustration, Quon retrieved his flute and slapped the ring into the boy’s outstretched palm. You cheat, Bantu, he protested. You single me out every week. It was the third time in a month that his best friend had ended his game, a fact that chafed against his pride like sandstone. Chase someone else for a change.

Just enough light remained to make out the gap in Bantu’s wide smile. "I do not have to cheat when you are as easy to anticipate as the summer rains.

The competition was a weekly ritual. Since beginning his apprenticeship to his father three years ago, Quon’s free time had diminished. The carriages his father crafted were in demand by some of the richest lords in the empire. Quon’s days were filled with sharpening tools, running errands, sweeping up wood shavings, and a hundred other tasks. But once each week, when chores were finished, when the workshop was put in order and supper eaten, Quon and his companions still clung to their favorite contest.

Bantu laughed. I knew exactly what you were going to do. You always go by way of Mr. Sumoki’s shop, so you had to come through here. I am not sure if it is the smell of baking bread or the sight of Mr. Sumoki’s daughter that turns your head.

Quon felt his cheeks grow warm. Every time he visited the bakery for his mother, Emi Sumoki would smile at him and ask about his family. Then she would listen politely as he shared some small treasure or chattered about topics dear to him. Only an hour ago he had showed her the new flute. It never occurred to him that the young woman would have little interest in a thirteen-year-old boy. He knew only that she was lovely and attentive, so his feet often carried him past the bake shop where he peered through the window in hopes of glimpsing her.

You are too predictable. Bantu grinned.

Quon let his friend pull him to his feet and they made their way back to the ring’s hiding place. Quon had to sit out the rest of the game, but he watched as Bantu caught two more boys before a pair of them outmaneuvered him and escaped with the ring. Together the friends jogged to the giant fir tree near the marketplace. They were the last to arrive. Bantu’s team had won again.

A few of the victors flaunted their success, but the banter ended quickly. Though the sun lingered a bit later each evening, it had long since put itself to bed, and the demands of the work week urged the boys to do the same. They had all outgrown the idle years of childhood.

Quon bade the others farewell with a confident grin and a parting shot. Just wait until next week! Then he and Bantu departed together, winding their way through the labyrinth of streets.

Quon had once climbed the roof of the temple just to see the city as the gods viewed it. Miruna’s roadways resembled a web stretched across the ground and contoured to the roll of the land, but no spider ever designed a home so haphazardly. The lines twisted the neighborhoods into geometric oddities, with no angle ever repeated twice. The buildings, however, followed a uniform code. Low and square, they seemed to bow before the splendor of the imperial palace that dominated the center of the city.

From his high perch, the mud brick dwellings had appeared to pool across the plain. The city’s northernmost edge faced the Kopri Mountains, which started at the North Star and passed between the city and the setting sun. In the east, cultivated fields piled one on top of another all the way to the sea. The city’s western edge hugged the curves of the powerful Chin-Yazi River, and directly south lay the river’s spreading mouth. Only the sun knew what lurked beyond the circle of the horizon, and it remained steadfast in its secrecy.

Eventually the boys emerged at the waterfront where Bantu now trained with a river captain. Did Mr. Malini say when you could start sailing with him? Quon asked.

Bantu’s words held disgust. "Of course not. All I do is scrub the deck, scrub the dock, load the cargo, unload the cargo, and every other menial task the master has no wish to bother with. I am heartily sick of Malini Shipping.

Quon grimaced. I prefer such mindless chores. When my father instructs me in the skills of carriage making, my fingers grow thick as bananas. The tools feel all wrong in my hands and the wood splits out of sheer spite. Then my father grows impatient.

Quon loved his father and tried hard to please him. He knew how much pride an artist took in passing on his trade, but the apprenticeship fit Quon like an ill-shaped garment. No matter how he tugged and stretched, it never hung quite right. He told himself that as he gained experience he would become a better craftsman. Conviction, however, was slow in coming.

He sighed. I would trade it all for something I could throw my soul into.

I would be pleased with a single hour on the river, Bantu grumbled.

One corner of Quon’s lip quirked upward. "All your life you have longed for the open water. A single hour would leave you ravenous, craving more just as a shark thirsts for blood.

Bantu flashed his gap-toothed grin. You make me sound like a predator.

You have all the patience of a starving wolf, Quon quipped. "But if you can tame your appetite, a rewarding career awaits you.

Bantu did not miss the note of longing in his friend’s lighthearted words. Cheer up, Quon. Your apprenticeship may yet surprise you.

Quon hoped so. He had no other recourse. See you next week? he asked.

I will be there. Bantu slipped inside the door of the shipping office where he kept a room beneath the eaves. Quon continued on, traveling streets as familiar to him as the lines on his own palm. His childhood had been spent exploring the city’s every corner. From the squalor of the