Hobart charged forward and drew his broadsword. Leslie executed a complex maneuver by deftly sidestepping the swinging axe and then lunging in close to the fishman before it could make a return swing. The maneuver gave Hobart a clear opening, and he swung the broadsword down at the exposed neck of the fishman, made contact, righted himself in his saddle, and corrected his balance as Leslie charged the other fishman. The second fishman had only enough time to throw up his arms when the horse reared and slashed out with her hooves….
“That’s that,” Hobart said a half minute later. He dismounted and checked to make sure the fishmen were all dead, and when he got to the one that was nearly decapitated, he finished the job and carried the head back to his horse.
“Did you need to do that?” Angus asked.
Hobart opened a saddlebag and took out a heavy, cloth sack. He opened it and dropped the head inside. After he tied it shut, he turned to Angus and said, “Commander Garret will need proof.”
“You’re going to take that all the way back to Hellsbreath?” Angus asked. “Won’t it rot?”
Hobart nodded. “Yes,” he said. “But it is important.”
“It’s going to attract scavengers,” Angus protested. “Can’t you take something else instead?”
Hobart shrugged. “We should take all of their heads,” he said. “There’s a bounty on them.”
“Look,” Giorge said, pointing toward the grain. The cat-things were disappearing into it as if it were their native habitat, and once they were inside, there was almost no sign of their presence. “Do we pursue them?” he asked. “Or do we investigate the ruins?”
“See the fires?” Hobart said. “There are too many of them.”
“Not necessarily,” Ortis said. “The cat-things fled when we killed the fishmen. They may not fight us.”
Hobart shook his head. “What would they have done if the fishmen hadn’t been killed?”
“Do cows fight when the herder tells them to?” Giorge quipped.
“They aren’t cows,” Hobart reminded him. “Their claws are formidable weapons.”
“More to the point,” Angus said. “What are they doing now?”
“They’re probably on their way to alert the others,” Hobart said, as if he were simply stating an obvious truth. “So, do you want to go into a well-defended, well-prepared stronghold to fight against an enemy of unknown size and strength? Or do you want to go back to Hellsbreath to report in? We can always come back here with the garrison to deal with what’s in the temple.”
“That grain,” Angus suddenly asked. “Is it the same kind of grain that’s grown in Tyr?”
“It looks like it from here,” Ortis said. “Why?”
“Did any of you get a look at their eyes? The cat-things’ eyes?”
“No,” Hobart said. “I was busy with the fishmen.”
“I was focused on shooting arrows at the fishmen,” Ortis said.
“What does it matter?” Giorge asked. “Eyes are eyes, aren’t they?”
Angus frowned, shook his head. “I need to get a closer look at them,” he said. “It they’re what I think they are, it will change everything.”
“Why?” Hobart asked. “What do you think they are?”
Angus shook his head and removed his backpack from his shoulders. “You’re sure fishmen don’t have arrows? Spears? Weapons like that?” he asked as he strapped his backpack to his saddle horn and focused on the magic around him. There were far more strands of flame than he expected for such a high place, but he went past them, reaching for the darkest blue strand of sky magic he could find. Even though it would be difficult to control, he needed a powerful one if he were to fly such a long distance, and the darker the strand the more potent—and dangerous—its magic.
“These three didn’t,” Hobart said. “But the ones to the north often carry spears made from the same kind of reeds as their armor.”
Angus nodded and began tying the knots for the flying spell. When he finished, he leapt upward—shot upward, really; he still didn’t have very good control over velocity, and this was a powerful strand. He shifted position until he was moving toward the temple, and struggled to control his pace. It was a long flight, and when he neared the walls, he realized his mistake: The spell would break free before he could get back; it was too powerful for him to contain for much longer. Should he return as far as he could? Or should he find out what was in the ruins?
They were ruins; only two of the original walls were still standing, and the temple grounds were mostly covered in rubble. Some of that rubble had been cleared away for a large fire, around which slept about three dozen of the cat-things. He saw no sign of fishmen. Would the cat-things attack him if he landed? They hadn’t noticed him yet, but there was no question that they would if he landed inside the ruins. If they didn’t attack, he could cast a spell or two….
He looked for a place to land away from the fires and the cat things. If he landed quietly, perhaps they wouldn’t notice. But he needed them to notice him; he wanted to see their eyes. He needed to see their eyes….
No, the spell first. He would see their eyes then. Wide eyes full of terror….
He rounded the temple one more time to slow down. How far have I come? How many miles? Two? Three? Would they follow him? He’d have to make sure they did, wouldn’t he? It was foolish to come alone; he could get captured, eaten….
There, he thought. The rubble will block their view of me. If they don’t see me, I’ll have time….
He wrapped his black robe tightly around him and did his best to land—fall, really—as quietly as he could. As he descended, he caught a glimpse of the temple interior. The outer wall had collapsed, but the inner chamber was still standing, and inside it was a smaller fire with at least a dozen fishmen gathered around it. There were no cat-things, only the fishmen. And they had axes, no spears or bows. Was that all of them? Or were there other fishmen deeper in the temple ruins?
When he struck the ground, he didn’t bother to wait to see if he had been heard. The spell was too complex; he needed as much time to cast it as he could get. He released the sky strand and reached for several strands of flame and earth. He began weaving them together as if he were making a blanket, and as he worked, he reached for the strands within himself and integrated them into the complex pattern of the spell. He began to sweat as the threads writhed around him, within him, their potent energy blending with his own, intensifying it.
Minutes passed as he struggled to force the unruly threads into the unnatural design. An eerie silence fell in around him, enveloped him. No hiss or howl from the cat-things. No fishmen charging in to kill him. Just himself and the overwhelming power radiating through him, from him. Then he reached the last knot, the one from which he could not return.
He tied it, and the threads ignited, their flames violently cascading through him, almost wrenching him apart—but the knots held! He had cast it properly! In his exultation, he lifted his hands above him—
They were on fire! They were fire! They burned with white-hot intensity, and he relished the energy surging through him. He let it go, and a ball of flame shot upward and exploded outward, sending out a shower of sparks over the temple grounds. He laughed—a hideous, monstrous laugh—and turned to the rubble in front of him. He held out his hands, stepped forward….
Flames shot from his hands and the stones began to glow red, then white, then melted. He stepped into the pool of lava, relishing the fierce intensity of the heat, adding it to his own. He stepped forward, through the gap he had made….
He turned to the temple grounds and reached out for the fires, drew them to him, fed off their energy. The power!
Howling, screeching, the cat-things fled from him. As well they should! He laughed as they scampered over themselves in their hurry to escape into the grain fields, their cat-like eyes glistening with an eerie orange glow. Cat-like eyes? He was wrong! There was no need to follow after them; they weren’t the plains folk….
<
br /> He turned to the temple, to the fishmen….
Energy surged through him, as he strode forward, into the room, rock melting beneath each footstep, lava dripping from his fingertips.
They had their weapons drawn. Some of them charged, but as they advanced, Angus reached out for the threads wrapped around him and fed the energy through them. Whip-like, writhing pulses of flame cascaded outward from him to strike the axes, the fishmen. He sent more and more energy into the maelstrom of tendrils snaking out from him….
The other fishmen tried to run, but he was blocking the entrance, the exit. He stepped forward, bringing the inferno with him….
They scratched at the walls, trying to pull them down, but it was no use. He stepped forward….
They tried climbing the walls. A few tried to run past him, their charred bodies crumbling to ash. He stepped forward….
The power surged through him, struggling to be set free, and he let it go!
Shrieks, smoke, singed flesh….
The intensity of the heat raged through him, from him, but there were no more targets. The fishmen who weren’t dead—if there were any—had fled. The cat-things were long gone. All that was left was him, and—
How do I stop it? he thought suddenly. And then he knew; one knot held the whole spell together, and all he had to do was let it go….
Too much power! he realized as the knot unwound. I can’t control it!
The flames were trying to devour him, and they would, unless—
He drew the energy into him, channeled it to his hands, lifted them above his head, and released it in one massive burst. It roared upward, struck the ceiling and spread outward, melting the rock. Then it erupted skyward, sending up a huge geyser of flame….
As the last of the energy fled from him, he sagged to his knees and gasped. It was over; he had survived the spell. He would live—
Pain.
Sudden, intense pain swarmed around him, flames flickering out from his sleeves, from the hem of his robe. He was on fire!
Flames, Voltari had told him over and over again, are a fickle ally. They will resent your control, and if they ever have a chance to consume you, they will. You have only one defense against such an attack: smother them.
Angus dropped to his knees, gathered his robe close about him, and fought the urge to run.
The robe will protect you, Voltari had said. If you let it.
He screamed….
10
An eternity seemed to pass while Angus counted to twenty. A fierce cocoon of heat enveloped him, and the air around him was crisp with flames. When he finally reached twenty, he lifted the robe from his chest to look down—smoke but no flames.
He took a shallow, scalding breath and ran from the desolation around him and into to the temple grounds. The fires were contained, sputtering; there was no more fuel to feed them. He ran a bit further, his fingers working to untie the sash. By the time he stopped, his robe hung loose about him. By the time he tossed it to the ground, flames were once again beginning to flicker on his smoldering tunic.
He didn’t bother trying to untie the tunic; instead, he reached for his dagger—and quickly let it go, his right hand stinging from the fresh burn. He gripped the ties and wrenched at them until they broke. He pulled off the tunic and threw it away from him.
The belt burned his fingers before he was able to unclasp it, and then his breeches slid down and he stepped out of them. He left the boots on—his feet were the only part of his body that weren’t hot—and quickly surveyed the damage.
Burns on his wrist—bad ones; the skin was charred away.
His neck was ringed with blisters, and they dipped down his chest and back.
There were minor burns spotting his torso where the tunic had burned through.
His legs were bright red, but the burns were superficial.
His palms and fingers had welts on them.
But he was alive.
He stripped down the rest of the way, and then looked around for the first time.
The temple grounds were empty.
No fishmen.
No cat-things.
Small fires flickered wherever there was fuel to feed them.
The rubble where he had landed radiated heat and glowed red where the man-sized wedge had melted through it. Footprints of hardening lava ran from it to the room where the fishmen had been—where he had been. It was bright orange with heat, and there was a huge hole where the ceiling had been.
He stood there, near-naked, alone, amid the carnage of the ruins for what seemed like hours before he heard horses approaching. He didn’t bother turning when they reined in behind him. He simply said through clinched teeth, “Bring my pack.”
Several seconds passed, and then Ortis stood silently beside him, Angus’s pack in his hands.
“Healing salve. On top the scrolls,” he said. “Don’t lose the scrolls. They burn.”
Ortis knelt, set the backpack down, and opened it.
“Where are the fishmen?” Hobart asked from behind him. “We saw the cat-things fleeing as we approached.”
Angus shrugged and immediately regretted it as the skin on his back and shoulders stretched, intensifying the pain.
“Is this it?” Ortis asked, lifting out the clay pot.
“We’ll find out,” Hobart said. “Giorge, Ortis, standard deployment. Secure the area and report in.”
“Yes,” Angus hissed.
Ortis took out a dagger and pried open the lid of the pot, set it aside, and stood up. “How much?” he asked.
Angus held out his fingertips, and when Ortis tipped the pot toward him, he reached in to scoop up a small amount of the ointment. He spread it over his fingers, palms, and wrist before rubbing it lightly into the burn. Where it touched his skin, the pain subsided but didn’t disappear completely.”
“How did you get burned?” Ortis asked.
Angus didn’t answer. He needed his concentration and energy to keep from crying out in pain, to keep from flinching away from Ortis’s rough hands as they pushed the healing salve over the blistered skin, the missing skin…. Still, despite using too much pressure, the pain subsided, and by the time Ortis had finished, it was manageable.
“That should do it,” Ortis said. “But I can’t be sure in this light. Maybe we should move closer to the fire.”
“No,” Angus said, shuddering. “I’ve had enough of fire for the time being.”
“What happened?” Ortis asked.
Angus sighed. “I made a mistake,” he said. “I’ve been wearing those—” he pointed at the smoldering tunic and breeches “—under my robes. When my spell ended, the tunic caught on fire.”
“It must have been some spell,” Ortis said. “If there are any dwarves about topside, they know we’re here. So does everything in this valley.”
Angus half-smiled, reached down to pick up his robes. “They weren’t flares,” he said, then realized he couldn’t explain what they were. He had been intoxicated; there had been far more energy in the strands he had used than there should have been, and it had nearly overwhelmed him.
“We weren’t sure about that,” Ortis said. “Hobart said the first one was a call for help, but Giorge didn’t think so. He had seen your magic up close and thought that was all it was. We were still discussing it when we saw the second one.” He shook his head. “If we weren’t surrounded by mountain peaks, it would have been visible for hundreds of miles. That convinced us, and we rode at a gallop to get here.”
Angus shook his head. Although he hadn’t intended it to be a cry for help, it couldn’t have worked out any better for him. He slipped into the robe and tied the sash. It began to itch, but he didn’t care; itching was much better than burning. “What have they found?” he asked.
“Not much,” Ortis said. “That room is too hot to enter, so they haven’t been able to get very far. They haven’t found any other entry points into the temple, either.”
“Any more fishmen?”
“We can’t tell,” Ortis said. “If there are any they’ll be deeper in the ruins, and we can’t get to them right now. It will take quite a while for it to cool down enough to risk investigating it.”
Angus nodded. “You and Hobart speak their language, don’t you?”
“Hobart understands it better than I do. All of Tyr’s soldiers learn enough words to deal with them, but commanders have to learn the language. He was slated to be a commander until his affliction.”
Angus nodded and said, “If there are more of them, tell them to surrender or the lava man will come back.”
Ortis frowned and asked, “What’s the lava man?”
Angus half-smiled. “I am. At least, that’s what I call the spell I cast. It merges the magic within me with the strands of flame around me to encase me in flame. But it isn’t supposed to reach high enough temperatures to melt stone.” He shrugged. “The strands here are incredibly powerful.”
Ortis’s orange eyes grew somewhat distant for a moment, and then he said, “I’ve told Hobart and Giorge. If they see any fishmen, we’ll give them a chance to surrender. But don’t count on it. If what Hobart believes is true, they’ll die before being taken prisoner. Especially if they are an advance party for a larger force.”
Angus frowned. “How long will we have before the room cools down so we can find out?” he asked.
“It could take hours, possibly days,” Ortis said.
“Good,” Angus said. “I need some rest.”
11
“It’s about time you woke up,” Ortis said. “We were beginning to wonder if you would.”
Angus stretched, feeling the stiffness in his limbs and the tightness of his new skin. But there was little pain, and it was quite manageable. “How long did I sleep?” he asked, looking at the temple grounds. The fire was out, the rubble was mostly undisturbed, and the stone wasn’t glowing red any longer.
The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) Page 29
