“I don't see anything,” Flare said, frowning.
“Well, I don't see anything either,” Philip snapped back. “But I assure you it's there.”
Atock stepped forward, “Let me try.” He too reached out his hand, and stopped at the same point where Philip had stopped. He shook his head. “Feels solid.”
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Flare stepped forward. “Let me try.” Philip moved backwards out of his way, and he stepped up next to the left side of Atock. Slowly, and with his hand shaking a little, Flare reached out to grasp the sword.
There was a sudden movement to Flare's right, and then a resounding crack and Atock collapsed, hitting the ground hard.
Flare tried to dive to his left, but something still grazed his head, stunning him a little. He hit the edge of the stone lid, and fell over the edge of it, landing at the foot end of the carving. Dazed, he still scrambled around the corner of the coffin, standing back up with the stone coffin between him and whatever had attacked them.
Flare wasn't sure what he expected to see, perhaps a demon left to guard the body. But there wasn't a demon, or Zalustus, or one of Zalustus' lieutenants, or even a goblin. There was Philip; just Philip.
Chapter 28
Flare stared in disbelief, rubbing the side of his head where he had been struck. “Philip,” he asked quietly, “What in the name of the abyss are you doing?”
Philip was breathing hard, and his face was red. He still held the rock that he had used to hit both Atock and Flare. “What am I doing? Is that what you asked me?” He was loud, borderline shouting. He pointed at Flare. “I defended you to High Priest Olliston and to my father. They said you were the one that Kelcer warned of, but I didn't believe them, but you are the one.” His voice was strained, as if he still didn't want to believe it.
Flare was dazed but even so, some things made a little more sense now, the mood swings, the anger, and even Philip insisting on following on his heels over the bridges. “Philip! You know me better than that.” He said, but Philip interrupted him.
“Don't lie! I followed you last night. I saw you drop the torch and then what did you do? You used magic. A soldier using magic! You are an abomination. I was even prepared to go against my church for you, and you are the one!” Philip's voice shook with anger and emotion.
“Philip,” Flare said, raising his hands in a placating manner, “I admit that I have learned a few magic spells and maybe I shouldn't have done that, but you know that I am not an evil person. I cannot be the person that Kelcer spoke of, you have to know that deep inside.” He spoke slowly and clearly, trying to penetrate the emotion in which Philip had wrapped himself. He had to stop this, and now! Philip had already attacked both Atock and himself, and who knew where this might wind up if he didn't do something about it quickly.
“No!” Philip shouted. He looked down at the rock that was still in his hand. He opened his fingers and let the stone drop from his hand. He raised his eyes to watch Flare, and then slowly drew his sword from its sheath.
“Philip,” Flare said, panic and fear breaking over him, as his worst fears were realized. “You can't do this. It's me. You don't want to fight me.”
Philip shook his head and dropped his eyes. “No, I don't want to fight you.” Flare started to breathe easier, but Philip forestalled it. “I don't want to fight you, but I have to.”
Now it was Flare shaking his head, “No, you don't. I won't fight you.”
“Good.” Philip said, the emotion gone from his voice. “That will make it easier and quicker.”
There was no warning or sign. One moment they were just talking, almost calmly, and then Philip lunged forward trying to skewer Flare over the stone lid.
Clang!
Flare and Philip both looked down. Flare had reacted, reacted without even thinking about what he was doing. He looked down to see that he had blocked Philip's lunge with the sword of Osturlius. He had instinctively grabbed the sword, and whatever had blocked Philip and Atock from picking up the sword, hadn't even slowed him down. In a flash, his hand had wrapped around the sword hilt and jerked it upwards, leaving the point of the sword on the lid of the coffin. Philip had lunged forward, his sword straight out in front of him, trying to impale him. Flare's sudden moved had deflected Philip's lunge.
Philip's eyes widened and he stepped backwards, his eyes narrowing. “So, you're not the one, huh?”
Flare picked the sword up, and took a step backwards, trying to keep the coffin in between him and Philip. “Philip. I won't fight you.”
Philip smiled, but it was without mirth. “Yes, you will.” His voice was completely calm, not even a trace of emotion came through. He took a step to Flare's left, so Flare moved to his right, just hoping that he could keep the coffin between them. He stopped and sighed, “This has to happen.”
“No it doesn't. Trust me.”
Philip just snorted in reply, and then in a flash he jumped up on the coffin lid and then down on Flare's side. He swung his sword in a downward arc, and Flare instinctively raised his sword. The blades collided with a mighty clang, and Flare's whole arm shook from the blow.
Philip didn't give him a chance to collect his thoughts, but instead rained blow after blow down on him. Overhand swings were quickly followed by horizontal swings, and even upward swings. He swung like a man possessed; sweat flying from his face and arms.
Flare furiously deflected blow after blow, barely able to breathe with the number of the swings Philip was taking. The blade of Osturlius, or Ossendar as it was actually named, felt right in his hand. It felt less like a sword, and more like an extension of his own arm.
In the middle of a horizontal swing, Philip suddenly changed his attack. He lunged forward, trying to catch Flare off guard and run him through.
Flare barely changed his defensive swing in time. The fat part of the blade just under the hilt was what actually clipped Philip's blade and deflected the attack. That bit of luck saved his life, if only for the moment. Philip was momentarily thrown off balance, and Flare slipped past him and around the edge of the coffin. Under the overhang and behind the coffin was a very confining space and Flare wanted to get out into the open part of the ledge.
Quickly retreating to the center of the ledge, Flare spared a glance in Atock's direction. The big man was still lying in a heap, and still not moving.
Flare pushed the concern for Atock away. There was nothing he could do to help Atock if Philip managed to run him through with a sword.
“Philip,” Flare said with a note of desperation in his voice. “Please don't do this!”
Philip walked around the edge of the coffin, shaking his head. “Don't waste your breath, Flare. I know what I must do for my faith, for my church.”
He launched himself forward, stabbing at Flare's chest. There was another ringing clang as Flare easily deflected the blow, and then Flare struck back, but carefully, he aimed to hit Philip directly in his shoulder. Hoping to disarm him more than anything, but he missed.
Philip easily avoided the precision attack, but he was still overextended from his lunge. He attacked the only way he could; he slammed the hilt of his sword directly into Flare's face.
The blow caught Flare in the mouth, his lip busted, and the blood began to flow freely. He intentionally fell backwards, trying to get away.
Philip sliced his sword horizontally, aiming for Flare's throat but he missed, and caught Flare in the left shoulder. Blood sprayed from the wound.
Flare landed on his back, a little dazed. The sword flew from his hand as pain exploding in his shoulder. Luckily his right shoulder was okay. At least he would be able to fight, if he could regain his sword, that is. He realized with a start that they were near where the ledge dropped off, he was surprised they were that close. It was strange what thoughts ran through a person's head when he was fighting for his life. He started to sit up, the pain running down his left arm, but he slipped on the sand that covered the ledge.
Philip showe
d no mercy, but dove forward, raising his sword to impale Flare.
Once again, Flare's instincts saved his life. Pushing away the emotion and fear, Flare focused and reached out with his spirit. He flailed about trying to find something nearby with which to defend himself. Ossendar had fallen too far to be used in time. He used the only thing he could find, the very sand that surrounded him.
Directing his spirit, he stirred up the very sand. It rose off the ground and began spinning as if in a cyclone. Flare flung the sand at Philip, and a memory involuntarily surfaced. It had been a different type of fight, where he at flung dirt at Philip, but that fight had been to see who would lead the guardians.
Philip skidded to a halt under the deluge. He began backing up, covering his mouth and eyes.
With his sharpened senses, it felt like Flare could almost see each grain of sand as it hit. He forced the sand faster and faster, and Philip began to curse. Then, a new thought occurred to Flare, and he put it into action. Still maintaining his focus on the sand, he spoke quietly. “Ignum a' silius.” He channeled his desire into the spell, and his sharpened senses immediately told him it was working. Each grain of sand burst into flame, and Philip's curses changed to screams.
Philip flailed about, turning first one way then another. His foot caught on the edge of a rock, and he fell over, landing half on the ledge and half off.
Flare immediately pushed the flaming sand away, and forced himself to his feet. Holding his left arm close to his body, he moved to the edge of the drop off and cautiously looked over.
Philip was hanging on to a sharp rock several feet below the ledge drop off. He had both hands wrapped tightly around the rock, and he was frantically trying to pull himself up to the ledge.
Their eyes met and Philip stopped struggling.
Flare carefully got down onto his stomach and extended his right arm over the ledge. “Grab hold, Philip. I think I can pull you up.” He wasn't entirely sure, as his left shoulder was sliced up pretty good.
Philip grunted. “You want to save me?”
“Of course. Why wouldn't I?” Flare asked coolly. His throbbing shoulder was a good reason why not, but he didn't want to bring it up. Philip looked up calmly at him, and for just a moment, Flare thought he was getting through to him.
Philip shook his head. “I don't mind dying, but I wish I could have done my family proud. I've failed them.”
“What do you mean?” Flare asked, still trying to get close enough to grasp Philip's hand.
Philip reached up with his right hand and caught a hold of Flare's wrist. A smile broke out on Philip's face. “Maybe I haven't failed them just yet.” Philip took his left hand off of the rock and stretched upwards wrapping it around the other side of Flare's wrist.
“Philip, quit talking. You're making it difficult to save you.”
“I don't want to be saved, Flare.” Philip let out a chuckle, but it sounded off. “I just want to take you with me.” He managed to get his right foot up against the cliff, and started pushing.
Flare immediately starting inching over the cliff, and he flattened himself against the ground, trying to keep from going over the side. “Philip! Stop! We'll both die.” Then he looked down into Philip's eyes, and his heart seemed to skip a beat. There was a look of determination in those eyes, and Flare was afraid he knew exactly what Philip was determined to do. He tried everything he could think of, he dug his toes into the dirt, and he even tried using his sore left arm but his arm was fairly useless. His head had already been hanging over the cliff, but his shoulders were also inching out there.
The panic was starting to blossom within Flare, as he looked down into the molten lava. He turned his head first left and then right, looking for something, anything to help him, but there wasn't anything.
Turning his head, he looked back down at Philip. He still had both hands around Flare's wrist, but he had stopped pushing against the cliff with his leg. Confused by the grimace on Philip's face, it took a moment for him to realize what was the matter. Philip was concentrating on maintaining his grip on Flare's wrist, and there was a good reason. They were hanging over a lake of molten lava, and it was hot. So hot, that they were both covered in sweat. Beads of sweat ran down Flare's right arm, and Philip's hands were slipping as he tried to hold on. Sensing that this could be his saving grace, Flare did the first thing that came to mind. He started spitting on his right arm. The spit ran down his arm and collected around Philip's slipping hands. Flare was amazed. As dry as his mouth felt, he still managed to get a lot of spit to come out.
Slipping even more, Philip dug his finger nails into Flare's forearm. He fought desperately but his right hand slipped and Philip was left holding on just with his left hand.
Sensing the advantage, Flare ripped his right arm upwards, and Philip slipped loose. For just a moment, he hung there in the air, and then he fell, without a sound.
Flare rolled over onto his back, and lay there panting. Emotions battled within him. Relief was first and flooded through him at his miraculous escape, but grief was close behind and threatened to overwhelm him. Philip had been deceived about him, and that deception had forced him to take his friend's life. Tears welled up in his eyes, and despair welled up in his stomach, and seemed to gnaw at his very soul. Fear also crept in, perhaps Philip had been right. What if he turned into this evil murderer of Kelcer? He pushed those thoughts away. He simply could not believe that he or anyone else was fated to be evil. After a few moments, another emotion came onto the scene. Rage reared up at those that had sent Philip after him, and he rolled over onto his side and curled into a ball. He knew one of them, High Priest Olliston. But who were the others? Although he had no proof, he was willing to bet his very soul that Duke Angaria had a hand in this.
He lay there for a moment, and the rage slowly dulled. It was probably shock, and he knew it, but still he felt better as the emotions drained away slowly. His eyes focused, focused on something moving slowly across one of the stone bridges and he forgot all about the emotions.
Flare pushed himself to a sitting position for a better look. Someone was moving out there. Actually, there were several moving people. A line of men were creeping across the third to last bridge, coming towards them.
As if his sitting up was a signal, the men broke into an all out run towards him, drawing swords as they did so.
Slowly climbing to his feet, Flare cradled his left arm against his stomach. Although there was blood all over his shirt, the cut itself didn't look all that deep. If it was kept clean and tended to, then it should heal nicely.
Moving closer to the bridges to get a better look, he stumbled on his first step and nearly fell. He was physically and emotionally drained and his muscles seemed to have a mind of their own. As it turned out, the first step was the hardest, and each one after the first came easier.
He paused only to pluck Ossendar from the dirt, where it had fallen. Leaning over, he grasped he hilt, and nearly fell onto his face. He was in desperate need of rest, or perhaps a bucket of ale.
Catching himself, before he fell, he straightened up and started for the bridges again. The men were still coming towards him, and they were coming quick. Even squinting, Flare could not make them out. He could see the swords in their hands, though.
The answer came to him in a flash of revelation, and he could have laughed at his foolishness. Sorcery! He reached out with his spirit, his senses were sharpened and he reveled in the exultation of it.
He turned his sharpened senses on the men. The men were from the South, that much was apparent from the darker skin and jet black hair. There wasn't anything that stood out about them. They each ran with a sword in their hand, and a long knife on their belts. A chain mail tunic covered their upper body, and their heads were uncovered.
Guards? Could there have been someone left to watch the tomb? That was a disquieting thought, but it was possible. He scanned the line of men again. Abruptly, several of the men toward the back of the line stood out.
He hadn't noticed them earlier, but the sight of them made his blood run cold. These men were not guards. He knew that now, and he recognized some of them. Several of the men had been at Mul-Dune, and if that wasn't bad enough, Prince Zalustus was also there.
No, not guards. These men had followed the guardians somehow, and they in turn had led them straight to the sword.
He turned his head and looked at the coffin; his control of his spirit was slipping away. Atock was still lying in a heap, and Flare cursed that he hadn't thought to check on the man, but Philip's death had pushed it from his mind.
He studied Atock's crumpled form for a moment, and a chill ran down his spine. His head spun and Flare closed his eyes. What if Atock was dead? Philip was dead, and it had been Flare who had killed him. The spinning in his head intensified, and he knew in a detached manner, that he was close to passing out. If he did that, then he and Atock were both dead. He opened his eyes, and focused on the men on the bridges. The guardians had led them straight to the sword, and now there was nothing between them and the sword but Flare. The first of the men reached the last bridge, and ran onto its expanse. Several more followed the first out onto the bridge. Rage exploded in Flare. It felt like the very blood in his veins had been turned into a liquid, white hot rage and every heartbeat forced it all throughout his body.
Without knowing what he was doing, he reached out for his spirit. Well, that wasn't quite right. He seized the spirit in a vice; it felt as if he would explode at any moment.
To this point, he had done little with moving things with sorcery. He had moved small objects like swords, but he had never really tested himself before. He didn't intend to test himself now, but he acted without thinking. He unleashed his rage, and followed its lead, as it exploded.
Using his spirit, he reached out and grasped the point of the bridge that connected to this stone ledge. He grasped it and yanked it free. The sound was deafening as the very stones that made up the bridge exploded under the pressure. Pieces of stone flew through the air, some of them the size of a helmet. Flare's hair whipped around in the air, but not one piece of stone struck him. Without even being aware, he used the spiritual energy to deflect every piece that came near him.
Ossendar: Book Two of the Resoration Series Page 50
