“Too late,” Tyrus moaned, shaking his head. Dribbles of spittle came from his mouth.
Paedrin saw his neck turn, saw the cunning in Tyrus’s eyes. The hands shot out like serpents, the illusion of weakness shattered by the surge of madness. Blue flames exploded around Paedrin, smothering him, searing his skin. He had seen what happened to a person struck by them before. Ash.
Yet the flames did not burn him.
“Tyrus!” Hettie yelled. Paedrin heard her voice, saw her appear behind Tyrus on the other side, her body crouched, her fingers burning blue as she tamed the fire and prevented it from engulfing Paedrin. It was everything she could do to absorb the fatal blast herself, drawing Tyrus’s fireblood with her own. Her face twisted with anguish.
“Now, Baylen!” she snapped.
Then the Cruithne was there, behind Tyrus and wrapping him in his huge arms, pinning his arms to his sides and jerking him away from Paedrin. The flames guttered out momentarily and Tyrus bucked and twisted. Even the Cruithne could barely contain him and Paedrin watched Baylen’s hold slipping.
Hettie ran up, her face wrinkled with anguish. “Uncle, stop! I have the cure for monkshood. Baylen, hold him still!”
“No!” Tyrus shrieked. “You’ll poison me!” He was desperate, frantic, his eyes blazing with terror.
“He’s stronger than he looks,” Baylen grunted, dodging his head aside as Tyrus’s whipped back to crush his nose. Baylen shifted his hold to a Bhikhu grip, wrapping his forearm around Tyrus’s neck, blocking off his air. The Paracelsus slammed into Baylen’s ribs, clawed at his face with his nails. Blood streamed from a cut on Baylen’s cheek, but he leaned forward, overpowering Tyrus with his pure weight. Both men wrestled viciously.
Paedrin saw several soldiers watching them from behind the shelter of stones, their faces frozen with terror. None of them tried to interrupt the scene. They were frightened out of their wits, leaderless—shattered.
Tyrus was choking, but he was still fighting. Baylen’s face scrunched with determination, his broad shoulders flexing as he forced Tyrus’s face into the shattered cobbles.
“Now,” Baylen grunted, blood dribbling off his chin.
Tyrus’s head was forced back, his throat exposed.
He looked at Hettie in wild terror. “Kill me,” he croaked. “Please! Just kill me!”
Hettie knelt by him, her eyes wet with tears. She shook her head fiercely. “You didn’t kill my mother. You saved her life. You did everything you could.” She cupped his sweating face with her hand. “You gave everything, Uncle. I won’t let you die.”
She took her water flask and pressed it to his mouth. He spat it back at her, swearing violently, choking with rage and helplessness. Baylen torqued Tyrus’s arm viciously and his head arched back, mouth wide in a soundless scream. Hettie poured more of the liquid from the flask into his mouth and then Baylen released the chokehold and clamped his hand on Tyrus’s mouth. Paedrin crouched nearby, his heart breaking with pity.
The three knelt by Tyrus as he lay panting, chest heaving. He started to weep, great choking sobs that split the air like thunder. He lay crumpled and defeated, unable to move, unable to fight, unable to rage. He sobbed, the sound a hymn of mourning and desolation so fitting for the Scourgelands.
Paedrin squatted nearby, wiping tears from his own eyes, watching the mighty Paracelsus with overpowering pity.
Hettie raised Tyrus’s head, resting it on her lap, and she stroked his hair, whistling softly. Baylen sat nearby, struggling to regain his own strength from the contest. He wiped a smear of blood from his chin, shaking his head sadly.
Hettie cooed softly, bending low. “I won’t leave you,” she whispered to him. “I won’t abandon you.”
“To your father,” the Seneschal said. His magic enveloped her and Shion and they rose with his inhaled breath up the chasm of broken rock to the top of the plateau. As they emerged from the crags of shattered stone, Phae watched the whorl of stormy clouds dispersing, exposing streaks of stabbing sunlight. She blinked, covering her eyes with her hand for a moment. As she looked, she saw her father sprawled on the ground, with Hettie, Paedrin, and Baylen crouching near him. He lifted his head as she approached him, her heart shuddering with relief at seeing them all alive.
“Phae?” Tyrus said hoarsely, his eyes clear and focused.
“He’s mad,” Hettie said forlornly, her eyes streaked with tears.
Tyrus pulled himself up slowly, his muscles trembling with extreme exhaustion. “No, my thoughts are clearing.” He shuddered, trying to stand, but he was too weak to manage it. He shook his head, blinking rapidly.
Paedrin saw his neck turn, saw the cunning in Tyrus’s eyes. The hands shot out like serpents, the illusion of weakness shattered by the surge of madness. Blue flames exploded around Paedrin, smothering him, searing his skin. He had seen what happened to a person struck by them before. Ash.
Yet the flames did not burn him.
“Tyrus!” Hettie yelled. Paedrin heard her voice, saw her appear behind Tyrus on the other side, her body crouched, her fingers burning blue as she tamed the fire and prevented it from engulfing Paedrin. It was everything she could do to absorb the fatal blast herself, drawing Tyrus’s fireblood with her own. Her face twisted with anguish.
“Now, Baylen!” she snapped.
Then the Cruithne was there, behind Tyrus and wrapping him in his huge arms, pinning his arms to his sides and jerking him away from Paedrin. The flames guttered out momentarily and Tyrus bucked and twisted. Even the Cruithne could barely contain him and Paedrin watched Baylen’s hold slipping.
Hettie ran up, her face wrinkled with anguish. “Uncle, stop! I have the cure for monkshood. Baylen, hold him still!”
“No!” Tyrus shrieked. “You’ll poison me!” He was desperate, frantic, his eyes blazing with terror.
“He’s stronger than he looks,” Baylen grunted, dodging his head aside as Tyrus’s whipped back to crush his nose. Baylen shifted his hold to a Bhikhu grip, wrapping his forearm around Tyrus’s neck, blocking off his air. The Paracelsus slammed into Baylen’s ribs, clawed at his face with his nails. Blood streamed from a cut on Baylen’s cheek, but he leaned forward, overpowering Tyrus with his pure weight. Both men wrestled viciously.
Paedrin saw several soldiers watching them from behind the shelter of stones, their faces frozen with terror. None of them tried to interrupt the scene. They were frightened out of their wits, leaderless—shattered.
Tyrus was choking, but he was still fighting. Baylen’s face scrunched with determination, his broad shoulders flexing as he forced Tyrus’s face into the shattered cobbles.
“Now,” Baylen grunted, blood dribbling off his chin.
Tyrus’s head was forced back, his throat exposed.
He looked at Hettie in wild terror. “Kill me,” he croaked. “Please! Just kill me!”
Hettie knelt by him, her eyes wet with tears. She shook her head fiercely. “You didn’t kill my mother. You saved her life. You did everything you could.” She cupped his sweating face with her hand. “You gave everything, Uncle. I won’t let you die.”
She took her water flask and pressed it to his mouth. He spat it back at her, swearing violently, choking with rage and helplessness. Baylen torqued Tyrus’s arm viciously and his head arched back, mouth wide in a soundless scream. Hettie poured more of the liquid from the flask into his mouth and then Baylen released the chokehold and clamped his hand on Tyrus’s mouth. Paedrin crouched nearby, his heart breaking with pity.
The three knelt by Tyrus as he lay panting, chest heaving. He started to weep, great choking sobs that split the air like thunder. He lay crumpled and defeated, unable to move, unable to fight, unable to rage. He sobbed, the sound a hymn of mourning and desolation so fitting for the Scourgelands.
Paedrin squatted nearby, wiping tears from his own eyes, watching the mighty Paracelsus with overpowering pity.
Hettie raised Tyrus’s head, resting it on her lap, and she stroked his hair, whistling softly. Baylen sat nearby, struggling to regain his own strength from the contest. He wiped a smear of blood from his chin, shaking his head sadly.
Hettie cooed softly, bending low. “I won’t leave you,” she whispered to him. “I won’t abandon you.”
“To your father,” the Seneschal said. His magic enveloped her and Shion and they rose with his inhaled breath up the chasm of broken rock to the top of the plateau. As they emerged from the crags of shattered stone, Phae watched the whorl of stormy clouds dispersing, exposing streaks of stabbing sunlight. She blinked, covering her eyes with her hand for a moment. As she looked, she saw her father sprawled on the ground, with Hettie, Paedrin, and Baylen crouching near him. He lifted his head as she approached him, her heart shuddering with relief at seeing them all alive.
“Phae?” Tyrus said hoarsely, his eyes clear and focused.
“He’s mad,” Hettie said forlornly, her eyes streaked with tears.
Tyrus pulled himself up slowly, his muscles trembling with extreme exhaustion. “No, my thoughts are clearing.” He shuddered, trying to stand, but he was too weak to manage it. He shook his head, blinking rapidly.
