And still, Lord Ragget was winning. Not by much, but enough.
A jagged red line appeared on the back of Ragget’s hand. A longer one traced down Lumist’s cheek. A nick on Ragget’s thigh was followed by another gash to Lumist’s arm. A bolt tore across the platform and thudded into Ragget’s shoulder. The Yordician lord didn’t even flinch. Despite himself, Kylpin couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s intense concentration and ability to ignore pain. How was he doing it? Was he chewing on Campornil?
Or was he a Saldoleicht?
“What can I do?” Kylpin shouted to Lumist.
“Free Ian . . .” his friend gasped over the steady din of clashing metal.
Kylpin nodded. He rushed over to where Ian hung. The steel manacles around each of his wrists were draped over metal hooks. Without a ladder, he’d have to somehow raise each arm high enough to create some slack in the chains and then flip them just so for them to come free.
His options for accomplishing this task were few and considering Ian’s injuries, not without painful consequences for his friend.
“I’m sorry,” Kylpin murmured. He pressed his chest against Ian’s and as gingerly as possible, he wrapped an arm around his friend’s bloody back. Ian whimpered but did not cry out. “This is going to hurt . . .”
With a grunt, Kylpin pulled Ian close and lifted him off the ground. Ian’s whimper turned into an odd close-mouthed whine that only grew louder and louder as Kylpin started flipping the chain attached to Ian’s left hand up in the air. On his third try, the damn thing came free.
Kylpin set him down. Ian sagged against him, moaning softly.
“I know, my friend, I’m so sorry . . .” Kylpin adjusted his position and wrapped his other arm around Ian’s blood-slick back. He grimaced. He didn’t want to imagine what he might be touching. “I have to do it again.”
Ian mumbled something and pawed at his mouth. Kylpin hesitated. Had the guards broken his jaw . . .?
Tiny stitches ran across the entire length of Ian’s lips. Someone had sewn his mouth shut!
Kylpin reached for his knife and remembered it had been taken from him in the dungeon. All he had on him was his borrowed sword and he didn’t dare try to cut the stitches out with that. Perhaps he could use one of the torturer’s knives once Ian was free.
“I’m sorry . . .” he said again.
But Ian wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at something happening behind him.
A pair of bolts whipped past Kylpin one right after the other and they were followed by three more in rapid succession. Josephine was firing freely now which could only mean . . .
Kylpin whirled around and what he saw was like getting kicked in the ball sack. Lord Ragget’s left hand was wrapped around Lumist’s throat and he had lifted the old knight a foot off the ground. Three bolts protruded from Ragget’s extended left arm. A fourth was buried in his chest and a fifth stuck out of his right ear.
Kylpin couldn’t believe his eyes. No one could survive that last shot! No one! Not even a person using Campornil!
Before he could move, or breathe, or do anything to stop him, Lord Ragget gave a gleeful cry and pushed the entire length of his sword into Lumist’s stomach. The other end burst out his back between his shoulder blades.
“NO!” Kylpin screamed.
Ragget swung around. With a snap of his wrist, he flicked Lumist off his blade as if he was merely swatting away an annoying fly. The old knight tumbled across the platform and came to rest where the torturer had fallen earlier. Only, the torturer wasn’t there anymore, and his case of weapons was missing too. Where had he gone?
Kylpin had no time to consider an answer or search the emptying Square for the tall bearded man. Not with Lord Ragget standing only a few yards away with Lumist’s blood dripping from his sword and a triumphant gleam in his violet eyes.
Until a bolt punched into one of them and knocked the lord back a couple of steps.
Kylpin swallowed down a cheer. Lord Ragget bellowed in rage. Kylpin took a deep breath and prepared for one last fight. He held no illusions about who would win this duel. Even with one eye, Lord Ragget was a better swordsman. Soon, Kylpin knew, he would join his mates in the next world and together they’d sail the Endless Seas for all eternity. Perhaps with any luck, Evie would be waiting for him on board too. He almost smiled at the thought.
But until Lord Ragget sent him on to his next life, he’d protect Ian in this one. As long as he had air in his lungs, blood in his veins and a sword in his hands . . .
Only, Lord Ragget didn’t seem to notice him standing there blocking his way. He only had an eye for Ian.
Until a second bolt plunged into that one too.
“YES!” Kylpin shouted. His hopeless situation suddenly looked much more hopeful. Confidence filled him to bursting. He rushed forward to meet the sightless lord. Just one good blow was all he needed. Just one and he’d take the man’s head right off! Not exactly a dignified victory, what with Lord Ragget blind, but after seeing him ignore all of Josephine’s other shots; he wasn’t exactly concerned about the fairness of the fight. He wound up for the lethal blow.
Let’s see him ignore this!
Kylpin swung with all his might. His sword clanged against steel.
Impossible!
Lord Ragget had parried his strike.
He tried again.
Again, Lord Ragget turned his weapon aside.
He tried a third time and Lord Ragget’s sword flicked out like a snake’s tongue and Kylpin’s blade went flying from his hand. He watched it sail away and then he stood there all alone, unarmed, unmanned and stunned silent.
He had nothing left.
chapter 40
Garett Navarro had nothing left. No fire, nothing. He’d expended it all. Again. And again, he felt cold and barren. The tips of his fingers were a blotchy white. He couldn’t feel his frozen toes. This was the third time now he’d abused his magic. Once in the tunnel under Lord Ian’s home, again in the royal dungeons while freeing Captain Caleachey and his friends and now here, standing on the rooftop of the Bank of Belyne next to the smelly bartender who was making another gesture toward the sky. Garett shook his head. It shamed him to admit it, but he couldn’t create another blast of fire. “I . . .” His cheeks reddened. “I can’t right now!” he shouted.
Philson’s broad forehead wrinkled, but he kept playing his music. At least, Garett assumed he was playing some sort of tune. Maybe he was just blowing notes. The fat man had insisted on him putting chunks of greasy fabric torn from his shirt in each of his ears.
“That’s disgusting,” Garett had said. “I’m not doing it.”
“It’s so you don’t get . . . uh, uh . . . scared,” Philson explained.
“Scared of what?”
Philson held up his pipes as if that explained everything.
“And when I . . . uh, uh . . . gesture like so . . .” Philson bobbed his jowly chin toward the sky. “Send up . . . uh, uh . . . some fire.”
“What kind of fire?”
Philson’s tiny eyes blinked a couple of times. “Like . . . uh, uh . . . like . . .”
Over Philson’s shoulder, Garett caught sight of the new king standing on the bell tower’s balcony. Oh, how he hated that man! Years ago, before joining with Delila, when he had been a prisoner in the royal dungeons, Edmund had visited his cell with a couple of water mages. They’d hung him upside-down by his ankles and while the prince watched and laughed, the mages took turns spraying water in his nose and mouth. Not once did they stop to ask him any questions. It was only after he’d pissed himself and begun sobbing uncontrollably that the prince intervened and stopped the mages.
“See,” the prince said. “With the right motivation, even a fire mage can produce water.”
In a sudden fit of rage, Garett hurled a comet of fire at King Edmund. “Like that?” he asked Philson.
The fat man’s little eyes bugged as the flaming ball exploded against the bell tower and knocked hundr
eds of Yordicians off their feet. “Maybe . . . uh, uh . . . just a little less. More like streams of fire.”
Garett clenched his jaw to keep from smiling. It was just that kind of reckless behavior that would keep getting him into trouble if he wasn’t careful. He really ought to maintain control of his magic!
Still, was it entirely bad to find joy in killing such a wicked man?
“Hey! Are you . . . uh, uh . . . ready or not?”
Garett sighed. “Very well.” He stuffed the bits of greasy cloth in his ears and nodded at the fat bartender. “Let’s have a bit of fun!”
Fun? Was this excruciating pain fun? Garett scowled at the sweat dripping from his brow. After shooting a dozen or so streams of fire sky high every time Philson nodded, he was hurting. Delila would have voiced her displeasure with him. How very pathetic you are without me, she would have said. Is that the best you can do? Garett tried to shake her from his thoughts. He didn’t need her ghost telling him what he’d done wrong. He knew. He should have paced himself better. In mere minutes, he had undone hours of healing. While the others had slept, or talked, or ate or paced the floor in Theodora’s home, he had nibbled on the charred wood chips Master Tu’olo had given him after he had exited the secret room behind the fireplace.
“They’ll help soothe your fire rash,” the old master explained as he pressed the leather bag into his hands.
The chips tasted like ash. Once he might have found them delicious, but with Delila gone, he wasn’t so fond of the flavor anymore. After leaving Master Tu’olo’s home, he had choked down ten of them before he’d started to feel better and after the dungeon rescue he had eaten a dozen more before the flames in Theodora’s fireplace would answer his summons. For nearly an hour, he’d sat on the matron healer’s hearth and played with a simple bit of fire, mesmerized by the little flame dancing in the palm of his hand. It was a pale imitation of Delila’s more . . . erotic performances, but the tedious exercise had provided him a small measure of comfort. Lately, he’d felt . . .
Well, lately, truth be told, he’d felt a bit . . . guilty.
His actions had helped ruin both Lord Ian Weatherall and Captain Kylpin Caleachey’s lives! And now that he’d had a chance to meet the sea captain and get to know him a bit, he realized the Seneician was really a decent fellow. And as for Lord Ian, well, he’d watched his trial from the courthouse roof. He’d seen how unfairly he’d been treated by the king and the judges. Garett shook his head again. How could he possibly atone for such . . . such . . .?
Wickedness?
Garett winced. Wasn’t that what he was trying to do now? Wasn’t he trying to . . . to . . . what? What was he doing here?
Evening the score?
Evening the score! Was that possible? How exactly was he going to manage that? Evening the score, indeed! People had died. Scores of people. And he was just one man. A life for a life left him many, many lives too short for evening the score!
He could always confess.
Garett cringed.
He could confess his crimes to both men and accept whatever punishment they desired. If they wanted his head, then . . .
No! No, there must be another way!
And just then, another way presented itself. Lord Ragget charged onto the platform across the street and began dueling with Sir Lumist Tunney. Garett pointed a finger at the Yordician lord and . . .
Nothing happened.
Dammit.
His fingertips were white, not golden yellow. He called for fire. None came.
Dammit!
He wasn’t just fire empty. He was fire injured and fire empty.
He reached for another charred wood chip and found the bag on his belt nearly empty too. Only five small pieces remained.
“Use them sparingly,” Master Tu’olo had cautioned him.
Garett crammed two pieces in his mouth and tried not to gag on the bitter taste. Across the way, Sir Lumist was holding his own against Lord Ragget. That surprised Garett. Only last night, the old knight had seemed on death’s door and now, mere hours later, he was exhibiting a stunning display of swordsmanship. What was his secret? The matron healer’s talent was impressive, sure, but was this all her doing? Garett wasn’t so certain.
He choked down the half-chewed chunks of wood and stretched a hand toward the bell tower fire. Rarely did he re-use heat energy, it tended to be harder to control the second or third time it passed through his body, but as it turned out his concerns were unfounded. The fire stubbornly refused to answer his call.
He slammed a fist into his palm and tugged on Philson’s sleeve. The bartender shot him a dangerous look which Garett ignored. He pointed at the platform.
“Do something!”
Philson kept playing. Garett paced the edge of the bank’s roof and watched helplessly as the fight raged on. Captain Caleachey had fought well against the wardens, but now he was struggling to free Lord Ian while Sir Lumist kept the Yordician lord occupied. From time to time, Josephine’s bolts tore into Lord Ragget’s flesh and at first, Garett celebrated each hit, but after Lord Ragget continued to ignore them, Garett found he grew more depressed with each strike. Was Lord Ragget impervious to pain? Was he some sort of healer? Or did he possess some sort of holy relic capable of incredible feats of healing? Garett had heard tales of such religious artifacts before.
Or . . . Garett trembled at the thought . . . was he really one of those Saldoleichts straight out of history?
Lord Ragget knocked Sir Lumist’s sword aside and in one fluid motion, he caught the old knight around the throat and lifted him off the ground. Multiple bolts slammed into the Yordician lord with the last punching into the side of his head!
And still, Lord Ragget did not stop!
“DO SOMETHING!” Garett screamed. He glanced over his shoulder at the bartender to make sure the fat man had heard him and gasped.
The fat man wasn’t so fat anymore. The grease-stained shirt which minutes before had been straining at both the frayed seams and the haphazardly buttoned buttons now hung loosely on his broad shoulders and his suspenders which had seemed like a waste of time before now kept his baggy trousers from falling.
Lord Ragget viciously stabbed Sir Lumist.
“NO!” Garrett shouted.
His face screwed up in anger. He thrust a clawed hand out toward the fire across the way and offered it a taste of his flesh. The always hungry fire leapt at the chance to feed. A tendril of it surged back across the Square and wrapped around his pinky finger. Garett gritted his teeth against the sharp pain. No gentle caress. No loving embrace. This fire just wanted to feed!
As quickly as he could, he crafted a spell of sending and . . .
And Lord Ragget was gone!
Sir Lumist was lying next to the wooden table in a pool of his own blood. Captain Kylpin Caleachey was standing like a statue frozen in place just a few feet away. Dozens of bloody Gyunwarians surged onto the platform . . . but . . .
He couldn’t find Lord Ragget anywhere!
Dammit! He had to send the small bit of fire somewhere or it would finish off his finger and move on to feast on his innards. He hastily imagined Lord Ragget’s face and willed the fire to find him.
The tiny spark didn’t budge.
Garett wiped the image clean and tried again. This time, he pictured the Yordician lord as he had looked sitting behind his desk moments before he’d killed Delila. That memory was burned into the fabric of his mind and was the cleanest image he had of Lord Ragget.
Still the spark didn’t move.
It didn’t make sense. The spell ought to work. Lord Ragget couldn’t have changed so much in so short a time . . . unless . . .
The pain was too much. He had to send it the spark now! He scrambled for a target and settled for Captain Wolfe Straegar, his nemesis from the Belyne Military Academy, and . . .
The spark disappeared. So did most of the pain. Except for the burn on his pinky finger. That would require some attention later as would Lord Ragget�
��s disappearance. Right now, though, he didn’t have time to ponder that mystery. He and Philson needed to rejoin their companions. He yanked the greasy bits of cloth out of his ears.
And found himself face-to-face with a mighty dragon.
A great hammer of fear struck him square in the chest. His heart lurched. His knees wobbled. A black ring darkened the edges of his vision. If he’d had any magic left, he might have thrown it all straight in the dragon’s face and ran away, but since he had nothing left and no place to run, he balled up his fist and punched the creature right on the snout.
Except his knuckles only found air. Immediately, his ears were filled with a frightening tune. Garett shuddered. The haunting melody crashed against the inside of his skull. He wanted to run, to empty his bladder, to crawl into a hole and hide. Instead, he stayed rooted in place until the final notes stopped echoing around the Square. Philson lowered his pipes. His round face was oval now and he had visible cheekbones and only two chins and his tiny eyes looked less tiny.
“What . . .?” Garett blinked and waved his hand in the air. “What was that and what . . . what happened to you?”
Philson’s less-jowly cheeks reddened. “I . . . uh, uh . . . I poured myself into my music.”
“But, you’re a bartender. You pour drinks.”
Philson shrugged. “That’s just what I do. It’s not who I am.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I used to be the Prancing Piper.”
“You were . . . him?” Garett stopped and squinted up at the big man. Could he really be THE Prancing Piper? Before his parents had died, they’d taken him to a traveling circus show. He would have been happy just watching the various fire acts, but then he’d heard a song coming from one of the other tents and it had . . . he struggled to put the feeling into words . . . it had . . .
The song had seeped into the very pores of his skin and had turned him into fire! At least that’s how it had felt. Neither of his parents had noticed anything different about him, though later that night, when his parents thought he was sleeping, he’d overheard them talking. They had lied. They had seen something different about him. His eyes had glowed red.
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