Keeping low, using the wall fragments as cover, she started off away from the approaching soldiers. The gap between the edge of the promontory and the wall narrowed until the footing disappeared entirely, dropping straight down. The corner had already given way, providing a small gap that she could leap through.
“I see someone!”
The voice was right behind her. She pulled herself over the gap and climbed up on the edge of the wall, using it as a crumbling walkway to get herself farther away. The soldiers shouted in warning and charged after her and Hettie stumbled off the edge of the wall, landing crookedly on her ankle. She went down in a heap, cradling her leg, rocking back and forth and whining with pain.
A sword cleared its scabbard with a metallic swish.
“Hold there, girl!”
“It’s Tyrus’s daughter,” one of them whispered.
The three approached her, two soldiers and a Rike. She stared up at them, gripping her ankle tightly, cowering.
“Be careful,” the Rike warned. “Don’t look in her eyes or she’ll bewitch you. She has the fireblood too.” He held out a hand coaxingly to her, his gaze averted. “Give yourself up, lass. The Arch-Rike has ordered us to take you alive. Will you come?”
“Do I have a choice?” Hettie said darkly.
The world was made of fire.
Tyrus staggered through the crackling blaze, feeling wooden and confused. His bowels were on fire as well, all needles and pain and agony. He spat out the leather in his mouth, not aware of what it was or how it had gotten there. He snapped the twine keeping it to him and tossed it aside, watching with relish as the flames consumed it instantly. The fire was everywhere, even inside of him. His belly hurt. Why? What had happened?
Looking up, he saw the cliff of stone. A buzzing in his ears became annoying and he knuckled at his left ear hard enough that it hurt. But it could not hurt worse than the fire in his belly. He bent over, wincing and writhing. Where was this place? He could not remember the details. There was a fog about his mind, almost as thick as the plumes of sooty smoke billowing all around.
There was a rampway leading up the cliff. Anger drove him to it. The anger was terrible and roiling, hotter than the flames. There was someone to punish on the mountain. An enemy to destroy. He started to laugh, feeling giddy with the thoughts of revenge. His hands were glowing blue, swathed in flames. He stared at them, excited by the swirling colors. Blue, violet, even a tinge of green. He stopped walking, mesmerized by the flames gushing out of his hands. His arms were trembling. It made the flames dance.
Another spasm of heat and agony went through his middle. It was insufferable! He groaned loudly and let loose a string of blistering curses. Spittle flecked his lips. Up. He had to go up. Vengeance was required. Punishment given. Clack, clack, like a rod to unruly children. He remembered fragments from his life. An orphanage. A tower. Hatred drove him up the steep ramp, despite his wayward legs. There was a song in his mind, something he had heard from long ago. He remembered a golden locket. Why did that matter? He had lost the locket. He had to find it. Someone had stolen it. Yes, that’s why he was angry. Someone had stolen his locket. Someone had stolen his music.
Tyrus bent over double, the clenching so painful he vomited bile. There was a sharp taste in his mouth. A bitter taste. He started walking again, moving up the ramp in a daze of pain and anger. Someone had stolen his song. He would kill the thief.
Ahead, up the slope, he saw a group of soldiers in the haze, forming two lines. They all had crossbows. Crossbows were made of wood. Wood burned.
Tyrus smiled, willing the wood to burn.
The crossbows exploded into flames and the soldiers began shrieking, fleeing into the haze.
Tyrus staggered up the ramp after them.
XXXV
Phae entered Mirrowen and dropped to her knees with pain shooting up and down her injured leg. The ground was soft, yielding. Her fingers dug into the cool grains as she gasped and moaned, hoping the agony would subside. Instead of suffering with the pain, she tried to focus on the sensation of the gritty dirt between her fingers. But it wasn’t dirt. It was finer, like river sand. She squeezed it, feeling it give away, but firm as she compacted it in her fists. The throbbing in her leg began to subside.
Strangely, she did not experience any sense of danger or imminent threat. There was the murmur of a gentle brook somewhere on her right. In the distance, she heard a sound she had never experienced before. It sounded like thunder, but it didn’t come from the sky. The rumbling noise built up and then exhaled like a long sigh, only to build up and again, release into a sigh. The sound was vast, not one of a creature—unless the creature were larger than the world. Smells struck her next. The air was crisp and fresh, with a slight saltiness filled with pleasant aromas from flowers. The scent was distinct, blended in a way that struck her so much that she let it linger, focusing on breathing it in and exhaling.
“I see someone!”
The voice was right behind her. She pulled herself over the gap and climbed up on the edge of the wall, using it as a crumbling walkway to get herself farther away. The soldiers shouted in warning and charged after her and Hettie stumbled off the edge of the wall, landing crookedly on her ankle. She went down in a heap, cradling her leg, rocking back and forth and whining with pain.
A sword cleared its scabbard with a metallic swish.
“Hold there, girl!”
“It’s Tyrus’s daughter,” one of them whispered.
The three approached her, two soldiers and a Rike. She stared up at them, gripping her ankle tightly, cowering.
“Be careful,” the Rike warned. “Don’t look in her eyes or she’ll bewitch you. She has the fireblood too.” He held out a hand coaxingly to her, his gaze averted. “Give yourself up, lass. The Arch-Rike has ordered us to take you alive. Will you come?”
“Do I have a choice?” Hettie said darkly.
The world was made of fire.
Tyrus staggered through the crackling blaze, feeling wooden and confused. His bowels were on fire as well, all needles and pain and agony. He spat out the leather in his mouth, not aware of what it was or how it had gotten there. He snapped the twine keeping it to him and tossed it aside, watching with relish as the flames consumed it instantly. The fire was everywhere, even inside of him. His belly hurt. Why? What had happened?
Looking up, he saw the cliff of stone. A buzzing in his ears became annoying and he knuckled at his left ear hard enough that it hurt. But it could not hurt worse than the fire in his belly. He bent over, wincing and writhing. Where was this place? He could not remember the details. There was a fog about his mind, almost as thick as the plumes of sooty smoke billowing all around.
There was a rampway leading up the cliff. Anger drove him to it. The anger was terrible and roiling, hotter than the flames. There was someone to punish on the mountain. An enemy to destroy. He started to laugh, feeling giddy with the thoughts of revenge. His hands were glowing blue, swathed in flames. He stared at them, excited by the swirling colors. Blue, violet, even a tinge of green. He stopped walking, mesmerized by the flames gushing out of his hands. His arms were trembling. It made the flames dance.
Another spasm of heat and agony went through his middle. It was insufferable! He groaned loudly and let loose a string of blistering curses. Spittle flecked his lips. Up. He had to go up. Vengeance was required. Punishment given. Clack, clack, like a rod to unruly children. He remembered fragments from his life. An orphanage. A tower. Hatred drove him up the steep ramp, despite his wayward legs. There was a song in his mind, something he had heard from long ago. He remembered a golden locket. Why did that matter? He had lost the locket. He had to find it. Someone had stolen it. Yes, that’s why he was angry. Someone had stolen his locket. Someone had stolen his music.
Tyrus bent over double, the clenching so painful he vomited bile. There was a sharp taste in his mouth. A bitter taste. He started walking again, moving up the ramp in a daze of pain and anger. Someone had stolen his song. He would kill the thief.
Ahead, up the slope, he saw a group of soldiers in the haze, forming two lines. They all had crossbows. Crossbows were made of wood. Wood burned.
Tyrus smiled, willing the wood to burn.
The crossbows exploded into flames and the soldiers began shrieking, fleeing into the haze.
Tyrus staggered up the ramp after them.
XXXV
Phae entered Mirrowen and dropped to her knees with pain shooting up and down her injured leg. The ground was soft, yielding. Her fingers dug into the cool grains as she gasped and moaned, hoping the agony would subside. Instead of suffering with the pain, she tried to focus on the sensation of the gritty dirt between her fingers. But it wasn’t dirt. It was finer, like river sand. She squeezed it, feeling it give away, but firm as she compacted it in her fists. The throbbing in her leg began to subside.
Strangely, she did not experience any sense of danger or imminent threat. There was the murmur of a gentle brook somewhere on her right. In the distance, she heard a sound she had never experienced before. It sounded like thunder, but it didn’t come from the sky. The rumbling noise built up and then exhaled like a long sigh, only to build up and again, release into a sigh. The sound was vast, not one of a creature—unless the creature were larger than the world. Smells struck her next. The air was crisp and fresh, with a slight saltiness filled with pleasant aromas from flowers. The scent was distinct, blended in a way that struck her so much that she let it linger, focusing on breathing it in and exhaling.
