Prairie Fire Read online

  Text copyright © 2015 by E. K. Johnston

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  The images in this book are used with the permission of: © Corey A. Ford/Dreamstime.com (dragon wing); © Todd Strand/Independent Picture Service (person), (bugle); © William Langeveld/Dreamstime.com (smoke); © Algol/Dreamstime.com (full dragon); © Badabumm/Dreamstime.com (dragon wing with claw).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 10/14.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Johnston, E. K.

  Prairie fire / by E.K. Johnston.

  pages cm

  Sequel to: The story of Owen.

  ISBN 978-1-4677-3909-2 (trade hard cover : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978-1-4677-6181-9 (EB pdf)

  [1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Dragons—Fiction. 3. Bards and bardism—Fiction. 4. Fame—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction. 7. Family life—Canada—Fiction. 8. Canada—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J64052Pr 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014008995

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – BP – 12/31/14

  eISBN: 978-1-46776-181-9 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-46777-679-0 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-46777-680-6 (mobi)

  THE STORY OF TRONDHEIM

  After the Thorskards moved to Trondheim, we always had a permanent dragon slayer. It wasn’t necessarily the same dragon slayer, mind, but when the great beasts threatened from the sky or the lake or their squats in the fields, help was close by. Sometimes it would be Aodhan, the gentle giant in the ancient Volkswagen, his sword and shield strapped to the roof and lights flashing to herald his coming. Sometimes it would be Lottie, the fallen one who had worked so hard to slay dragons again, and Hannah, who would walk through fire.

  But most of the time, it was Owen. And where Owen Thorskard went, I was not too far behind.

  It hadn’t always been like that. Once, Trondheim had been left to burn. We had no factories and little in the way of industry. We could not afford a dragon slayer and always waited for the mercy of those who worked for the government. After her fall and injury, Lottie had changed that. She had come to Trondheim to train her nephew, while her brother patrolled and her wife crafted swords. We didn’t pay them, except with welcome and food. But it was enough, and even the threat of a new, much closer hatching ground couldn’t worry Trondheim the way it might have.

  Before, we were just another small town, another second violin in the greater orchestra of Ontario. Now, we looked nowhere else for a conductor, and we wrote our own score.

  And when I say “we,” I do mean “me.”

  My name is Siobhan McQuaid of Trondheim, and I am the first true bard in a generation. Owen is my charge, and it is my work to shape his fractured notes into a logical melody. Strains of the others creep in too, of course. There’s always a symphony in Trondheim now. Lottie’s trumpet and Aodhan’s cello and Hannah’s oboe: They all work in concert. And every day, it seems, more instruments emerge from dusty cases and join.

  We had one year to assemble our company before we would have to leave it. The Oil Watch had always loomed on Owen’s horizon. I had chosen to put it on my own as well, and we would leave our town when we joined the Watch’s ranks. Sadie Fletcher, who dreamed of fire and was born to dance with a sword in her hands, would come with us, but the others would stay and make the town safe—or go away to university in the fall.

  So we worked. We rebuilt the houses burned out from when the dragons came. We trained even harder than before, knowing that Sadie, Owen, and I faced the strict physical requirements the Oil Watch maintained. And we kept one eye on the skies and one hand on our sword hilts. Just in case.

  Owen slayed ten dragons that last year of high school. It wasn’t a remarkably high number. He had slayed or helped to slay as many in the month before Manitoulin, and there had never been an accurate count of the dragon deaths the day we burned the island. But it was a very respectable number nonetheless.

  Sadie managed three, with aid, and Lottie assured her that she would not lag behind when she reported for duty. Owen had been preparing and practicing for more than a decade, and Sadie a mere ten months. Her trumpet would soon more than match his horn.

  For my part, I kept the record. I wrote the song for Sadie’s first dragon and kept the details of the others. There was no need to immortalize them all in music. Owen was popular, and Sadie’s notoriety was growing. I slayed no more, having already one more dragon to my name than I had ever thought I could, at the cost of my hands.

  The Burned Bard, the media called me, though it was more my broken finger bones than burn-scarred skin that affected me. I’d gone to Manitoulin and left my music on its blazing shores. It wasn’t the truth, of course. The music was inside my head, same as always. It was just harder for me to get it out.

  Gone were the days of easy scratching on staff paper, and gone were the days of tinkering with notes on ivory keys. Even my beloved saxophone, the shape of my spirit and my indulgence throughout high school when I should have been focusing on composition, was lost to me. Instead, I struggled with software and often called on Emily Carmichael to make the little changes when I was too frustrated by my lack of finesse. I moved away from the part I’d played throughout my childhood to focus on my new responsibilities, but even the new noises couldn’t fill that gaping hole.

  I never doubted that it was worth the price, though. I had saved my town, my whole region. I had burned it, so they did not have to. And my neighbors, near and far, did not forget it. All through the summer and into fall and winter, the local farmers fed my family as they fed the Thorskards—the freshest and the best. My physical therapy, which would have been covered anyway, was never even billed. My high school gave me a trombone, the only orchestral instrument left that I could easily play.

  Thus the vision of Lottie Thorskard was, in part, fulfilled. Trondheim, the town too small for a dragon slayer, now boasted four of them, even though two were still listed as “in training” on the official roll. And there was Hannah too, to hold Lottie’s shields like the Vikings of old.

  The day that Owen, Sadie, and I left for the Oil Watch, there was no parade. We left without fanfare, but with the well-wishes of the entire town. Owen and Sadie would do Trondheim proud, whether I chronicled it or not. They would be missed, but they would be welcomed home when their tours were done—on that much the three of us agreed. And while they were away, their service in the Oil Watch would honor their home. I was much, much less sure of myself.

  You see, I had known since before the moment I signed my name on the enlistment papers that most orchestras have no place for a saxophone.

  OWEN THE FOOTBALL-SHOULDERED

  Once he got older, they sang songs of his bravery and his heroic deeds. He’d filled out enough that I wasn’t surprised to learn they’d attached names like “the Broad” or “the Football-Shouldered” to his self-effacing “Owen.” Most of the time, he was kind of a legend. Rig
ht then, though, in addition to being weighed down by the responsibility for twelve people who still didn’t really know him very well, and standing much too close to a terrifically poisoned forest glade, he was about to go up against a kind of dragon he’d never even seen before, much less fought. I, for one, was feeling pretty darn flammable.

  Owen was a professional, though, his tempo more measured than some of the drill sergeants who had overseen our every move these past twelve weeks before turning us loose into the woods. Owen had dragon slayer singing in his blood farther back than most people kept records, and he had the training to match. He was the third generation of his family to enlist in the Oil Watch. Though the dragon lighting aflame the treetops above our heads hadn’t realized it yet, that clearing was going to be its end, if the Viking in Owen Thorskard had anything to say about it. And the Viking had done very well since he’d joined the Oil Watch and arrived at CFB Gagetown for Basic Training.

  Basic Training had not gone so well for me, and I’d let my responsibilities as Owen’s bard slide as a result. Where once I had kept track of all the parts and where they fit, I now had to focus solely on my own performance and ignore the orchestra around me, even if I sensed it faltering behind the beat. We’d all agreed to this, Owen, Sadie, and I, before we’d ever left Trondheim, but I still felt like I was letting him down. I didn’t have a choice though. My burned hands had mostly regained their former colour, but there was no working around the angry red lines of scarring or the hardened muscles and knitted phalanges. I had no leisure for composing, which took me far longer than it used to, or even spare moments to think about songs to compose later. I spent all of my time scraping by, meeting the minimum physical requirements and trying to avoid the cold looks of the other cadets who assumed, possibly correctly, that someday my disability would get them killed.

  I could have stopped. Basic Training essentially served two purposes: preparing troops for the field and identifying those who would never, ever make it. From the very first night, when I’d only managed to eat half my dinner in the time we were allotted and was berated at full volume by our barracks-sergeant for not dressing quickly enough, it was clear that I was, at best, a long shot. If I had been playing actual music, I could have just pointed my embouchure in the general direction and hit most of the right notes, but the military demanded considerably more precision.

  None of Lottie and Hannah’s stories had really prepared me for life in the Oil Watch. Theirs had been a different era, when gun battles with other people had been as likely—if not more common—than actual dragon slaying. They talked about the Oil Watch like it was all adventures and foreign locales. They didn’t sugarcoat anything, not on purpose anyway, but I knew a story when I heard one. They did their best to tell us what to expect, but their memories were clouded by nostalgia, and I quickly learned there was nothing nostalgic about being rousted from my bed at 0400 and shouted at for ten minutes because I hadn’t fastened my buttons quickly enough, before being ordered outside to run laps until the sun came up.

  For his part, Aodhan reminded us that after we had done our time in the service, we would be able to return home to Trondheim, where a grateful town and familiar tune would be waiting for us. He did not tell stories about his days in the Oil Watch, which I thought was too bad. He was much more pragmatic about that sort of thing than his sister was. But I’d already heard most of the details about what had happened to him in the desert, and I knew better than to ask for any more. As the weeks wore on and I still failed, repeatedly, to keep up with my cohorts, I clung more and more to Aodhan’s reminders that someday we would all get to go home.

  By the time we were divided into squads—the assortment of firefighters, medics, engineers, and in Owen’s case, bard, who supported a dragon slayer in the field—my place on the front line was generally accepted if not always appreciated. Sure, I was entertaining if you happened to be stuck in a shelter for a couple of hours while the more experienced troops dealt with an attacking dragon, but for the most part there was relief on the faces of those people not assigned to work with me.

  For the dozen unlucky souls who would make up Owen’s dragon slaying support squad, though, relief was not to be had. I tried to make myself scarce so as not to besmirch Owen’s reputation any more than a solid year of news reports had already done by suggesting, not always subtly, that he was essentially an ecoterrorist. Usually, it would have been my job to sway their opinion, but this time, he was mostly on his own.

  To be fair, Owen hadn’t suffered that much without me to talk him up. He did come to the military with a very well established public record, for good or ill. Between my music and Emily Carmichael’s Internet acumen, there weren’t very many people in Canada who didn’t at least know his name, if not exactly what had happened on Manitoulin Island. The other dragon slayer recruits at least respected his achievements—even if they were a bit jealous of his notoriety—and the engineers, medics, and firefighters all looked at him with something like awe. After a week, I was starting to figure out how our squad fit together, more or less, anyway. The engineers were identifiable enough, and the medics also cooked our food, so I did my best to stay in their good graces. I could only barely tell the male firefighters apart, though, much less put them into the songs I should have been writing. I felt bad, but unless one of them did something heroic or stupid, I’d end up writing them as the low bass: supportive, utterly necessary, and predominantly away from the focus of the piece.

  Of course, now the engineers, medics, and firefighters of Owen’s squad were looking at him with something like terror, but that was probably because the fire above us had started to burn through the trunks, and we were all in very real danger of being brained by falling treetops.

  We’d been wandering around the carefully landscaped forest that surrounded the main living areas of the base for five days of drills with only each other for company. I think the general idea had been that we’d either kill each other or learn to work together, and we had chosen to do the latter. The general idea had not included any dragon slaying, particularly unsupervised dragon slaying, but apparently no one had thought to tell the dragon that, and it continued to demand Owen’s attention, forcing him towards the poisoned ground we had been trying so hard to avoid. It was time for action, and that was the thing we had been training for all these weeks.

  We were in unfamiliar surroundings, and even though there were fourteen of us, we felt very much alone. Everyone in the squad had seen dead dragons before, but this was going to be the closest most of them had ever been to a live one. Basic was for physical fitness and mental discipline. We weren’t supposed to worry about dragons until we had received our posting, and then we would be working closely with a mentor, an established dragon slayer, and his or her squad. Help might arrive from the base, but it was going to take some time to get here. Another dragon slayer might have cracked, might have run.

  But another dragon slayer wouldn’t have had two years’ experience commanding the high school soccer teams in group manoeuvers. Another dragon slayer wouldn’t have grown up in the shadow of one of the Oil Watch’s greatest heroes. Another dragon slayer wouldn’t have been taught patience by a giant. Another dragon slayer wouldn’t have had swords made for him by the woman who’d raised him from diapers. We weren’t about to face the fire with just any dragon slayer. We were with Owen Thorskard, who had fought on the beaches of Manitoulin and returned home to finish the fight there as well.

  When I looked at him, I saw that same reluctant smile I’d seen so long ago, half excitement and half worry. In his uniform, his shoulders seemed more square, his stance more grounded. The familiar strains of that Nordic saga came to me, not in whispers like they used to, but at full volume. If the others could have heard it, they might have smiled too.

  “Send the code, Siobhan,” he said, reaching over his shoulder for his sword.

  That’s not how it started.

  ENLISTMENT AND A NEW SOUND

  The
re were three things I realized pretty quickly after I joined the army.

  The first was that I might die. This was not quite as alarming for me as it might have been for another eighteen-year-old, because I had faced down death on a pretty regular basis ever since Owen had moved to town. Even death by dragon fire was starting to lose its fatal charm. You burn down the world’s largest freshwater island once, and it kind of puts the whole fiery doom thing in perspective.

  The second thing I realized was that my friends might die. This was also less alarming than it might have been, since it was with my friends that I usually faced death. Owen signed up the same day I did, having waited until my birthday so we could enlist at the same time. The TV cameras were certainly more interested in him than they were in me, and I couldn’t blame them. He’d grown, finally, and filled out enough that he actually looked like something a dragon might need two bites to swallow.

  The third thing was that I needed to stop calling it “the army,” because that’s what people who aren’t in it think it’s called, and people who are in it can be sort of touchy about that sort of thing. I walked into the recruitment office a civilian, albeit a very unusual one, and I walked out a member of the Canadian Forces.

  We didn’t set out for New Brunswick right away. We still had to finish school, for one thing. The Oil Watch operated as part of the Canadian Forces, but thanks to its international influence, it also played by its own rules, and one of its rules was that all members had to have completed high school. Owen, as planned, had done well enough in his final year to squeak into the officer track, while Sadie was several steps ahead of him in that regard. I think her parents were kind of hoping that the first time a dragon died at her feet and ruined her shoes, she’d decide that she had made a mistake. I happen to know she kept those boots, looked at them often, and only worked harder as a result.

  There was also the not-small matter of my physical fitness. Yes, I could do the running and the push-ups and the marching for kilometres with heavy things on my back, but my burned hands still had very limited mobility. I think, had I arrived at the enlistment office with anyone other than Lottie Thorskard, I would have been sent on my way, but Lottie had been determined, and very little could stop her when she decided she wanted something done. Furthermore, while it was common for civilians to choose the Oil Watch, I was the first bard to enlist in decades, and they weren’t entirely sure what to do with me. Again, Lottie had been prepared.