The Black Prism
Page 120

With an inhuman roar, a sound like Kip had never heard, a sound he didn’t even know he was capable of, he shot to his feet, taking a wide stance. The suddenness of his movement seemed amplified by his previous slowness.
Bellowing, bleeding, with his yell he sprayed blood into the face of a man who’d been running forward to kick him. Kip was like a cave bear, suddenly standing on its hind legs. The man’s eyes went wide.
Kip grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled, spinning, screaming, and hurling him the only direction that wasn’t blocked by bodies.
Into the fire.
The man saw where he was headed. He grabbed for the spit arcing over the fire to catch himself, missed, caught it with his elbow instead. It spun him sideways into the fire, his head dropping right into the heart of the flames, the spit collapsing.
Kip didn’t watch, didn’t listen to the new screams. Someone hit him in the stomach. Ordinarily the blow would have folded him in half. But now the pain didn’t matter. He found his attacker—a big, bearded man easily a foot taller than him, looking at him like he was stunned the boy hadn’t fallen. Kip grabbed the man’s beard and yanked it down toward him as hard as he could. At the same time, he lunged forward, head like a ram. The big man’s face crunched as they collided. He went down in a spray of blood and flying teeth.
Something like hope glimmered through Kip’s rage. He turned again, looking for another victim just as something cracked across his head.
Kip went down. He wasn’t even aware of falling. He was just on the ground, staring up at another grinning ghoul of a man carrying a piece of firewood in his hand. Behind that man were four others. Four? Still? Between the tears and the dizziness, Kip wasn’t even sure he was counting right.
He clambered to all fours again, and promptly fell over, spots exploding in front of his eyes. He had no balance.
“Throw him in the fire!” someone yelled.
There were other words, but Kip couldn’t sort them out. The next thing he knew, he was being lifted, one man taking each limb. He was facedown. The heat of the fire beat at the top of his head, his face.
The men stopped. “Don’t push us in, you assholes!” one of the men at the front said.
“On three!”
“Orholam, he’s big.”
“Don’t have to throw him far.”
“Gonna sizzle like bacon in the pan, ain’t he?”
“One!”
Kip swung a little over the fire, close enough that he swore his eyebrows curled from the heat. Fear strangled him. The dizziness disappeared.
He swung back away from the fire.
“Two!”
Enough. The odds were just too bad. I tried. What do I have to fear when I have nothing to lose? I despise myself. So what if I die? A little pain, so what? Then the pain’s gone forever. Then oblivion.
Kip swung farther over the fire, closing his eyes, welcoming the heat. His eyebrows and eyelashes melted. The fire licked his face like a cat.
A Guile wouldn’t give up. They accepted you, Kip. Expected you to pull your weight. Gavin, Ironfist, Liv, they let you belong for the first time in your life. And you’re going to disappoint them?
And like that, the fear was gone. No.
They swung him back away from the fire; one last time. Four men. Four Ramirs. Four of his mother, treating him like shit and expecting him to take it.
Hell no. The sudden, implacable heat of Kip’s hatred matched the heat of the fire.
“Three!”
The men swung him forward.
Kip kept his eyes open and felt them go wide—but not with fear, fear was gone. His eyes widened at the sight of the fire like a lover’s eyes widen at the sight of his beloved. Yes, beautiful. Yes, mine.
A rushing sound like a mighty wind roared out of nowhere. The fire deformed, leapt toward Kip—into Kip. And disappeared. The entire fire went out in an instant, plunging the camp into darkness.
The men dropped Kip with a shout.
And Kip barely noticed.
He’d fallen among the embers. He caught himself with his left hand, and heard a sizzle as his hand closed around a burning faggot. Though he’d sucked up the whole fire, the embers were still red-hot.
And Kip barely noticed. Rage was a sea and he merely floating in it. He wasn’t himself, wasn’t aware of a self. There were only those he hated, who must be struck down.
He screamed, throwing a hand heavenward. Heat gushed out, becoming fire a foot away from his hand, painting the sky blue, yellow, orange, and red. He stood, heat roaring through his veins. Unbearable heat. Despite the darkness, he could see the men who’d been holding him clearly. He saw their warmth. One had tripped and was staring at him, openmouthed.
Kip flung a hand at him. Fire enveloped the man from head to foot.
The others fled.
Kip threw his left hand toward one. He felt skin crack as he opened that hand, but the pain was a distant echo. He aimed with his right hand, too. Pop, pop, pop. Three fireballs, each the size of his hand, flew into the night, almost pushing him back into the fire with the recoil. But each found its target, burying itself in a man’s back, gutting him with fire, cooking him from inside even as he fell.
Falling to his knees, still hot, so hot, so overwhelmed, Kip raised his hands once more. Fire poured into the sky from both hands, even his crippled left hand. Then his vision returned to normal. He heaved deep breaths, like some demon had just released him, leaving him empty, hollow, part of his humanity burnt away.
The fire was burning once more, much smaller, the heat of the coals slowly returning the wood to flame, illuminating the wagons and the faces of the fearful crowd gathering to see what had happened.
In the light of the lanterns and torches and the reawakening fire, Kip saw the scene with sane eyes. Scores of people were staring at him from a wide circle around the fire, all looking ready to bolt. There were bodies strewn about: the four men who’d tried to throw him in the fire were dead, one a charred meaty skeleton, the others with holes the size of Kip’s hand in their backs.
Somehow, the others were worse. The man Kip had doused with grain alcohol had skin sloughing off his face and chest and knife wounds all over his arms and body. He lay moaning softly, a few tufts of hair still protruding from his burnt scalp. The fat woman lay next to him, openly weeping. The flaming man must have run headfirst into her, because her face was scorched, blistered on the right side, her eyebrow gone, her hair melted back halfway up her head, and somehow her own knife had been plunged to the hilt low into her right side. Blood dribbled down her cheek. The man Kip had flung into the fire was the worst, though. He’d caught the spit to stop himself, and only his head had dropped into the fire, falling directly onto the hottest coals.
He’d dragged himself out of the fire, and by some dark miracle he was still alive and still conscious. He was crying softly, as if even weeping hurt, but he couldn’t stop. He’d rolled over, exposing the burnt side of his head. His skin hadn’t just sloughed off—it had stuck to the coals like burnt chicken sticking to a pan. His cheekbone was exposed, his cheek burned through, exposing teeth now washed red with coursing blood as he wept, his eye burnt a chalky white.
The only one who might survive was the bearded man whose teeth Kip had smashed. He was unconscious, but so far as Kip could see, still alive.
Kip tottered toward his horse, unfeeling. He didn’t have a plan. He just had to get away. He was so ashamed. He got all the way to the beast before he saw the soldiers. They had surrounded the camp, but were staying back in the crowd. Kip looked at one of the soldiers who was mounted, an officer, he guessed.