Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (12 page)

The Preachán’s eyebrows rose, as if pleasantly surprised. “Well, you can put it that way if you wish. In the end…”

Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

Annon raised his hands and flames gushed from his body as he twisted and sent them rushing to the deadwood debris to the right. There was heat, light, and the crackling snap of raw flames exploding into wood. The debris of wagons and barrels and crates created a skyward blaze. Crowding trees were blasted by the heat and the flames began running up the trunks and catching the deadened branches afire.

Behind Annon, there was a twin explosion of flames, this one caused by Hettie as she followed his lead and turned the other piles into tinder. Screams filled the air along with the roar and groan of the fires. The Preachán sitting on the wagon rim fell backward in his shock and surprise, leaving the daggers stuck in the wood.

The feeling of loosing the flames was visceral and innately pleasurable. Annon could feel his blood singing with it.
More! Loose more!
They wanted to be freed, like some caged mountain cat bursting with savagery. He delighted in the power, in the taming of the fire, and he yearned in the deepest part of his soul to let it flow from him, engulfing the trees and rotting caravan ruins until nothing was left but cinders. Rebirth. That was what flames brought. A chance to be reborn.

Yet he knew the feelings were not telling the full truth. The longer he let the flames dance across his hands, the more they
would begin to control him. The incomprehensible yearning of the fireblood was an illusion. It would fade in time and be replaced with self-loathing and guilt. He knew it, even though he did not feel it. Clenching his teeth, he tamed the fire within him and for a moment wondered if he had gone too far. It did not obey him at first. Slowly, so slowly, the impulse to unleash it began to ebb. Slowly, his mind forced it to obey. Flickering tongues of flame danced across his fingers and then guttered out.

Annon turned and saw Hettie, her eyes wide with frenzy, her hands still held open, flooding the woods with flames, sending it lancing out at the fleeing Preachán, streamers of liquid hate that hit them from behind and burst their clothes into flame. They were screaming and running.

“Hettie!” Annon called, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her off-balance.

The forest all around them was blazing with heat and billowing black plumes that arched skyward. The flames would rage and battle the rest of the forest. He could not let that happen.

“Hettie!” he called again, trying to get her eyes to focus. She blinked rapidly, unable to focus, a half-smile of pleasure on her mouth.

He smacked her hard. Pain was all it took. She shook her head, as if emerging from a dream, and the flames in her hands sputtered out. Her legs gave out, and she nearly collapsed, but he caught her.

Annon turned, glancing at Paedrin, and saw a look of shock and utter horror on his face. It was a look that said
what are you?

Then Paedrin glanced over Annon’s shoulder, and he was suddenly in the air, zooming like a raven and coming down on the Preachán who had threatened them, scrabbling down the road to escape the flames and the strangers who had unleashed it.

“Of all the races to have survived the great Plague, there is one feared more than any other because they, of all people, cannot be harmed by it. The race appears as Aeduan as any Waylander. They are often mistaken for Paracelsus because they can summon fire into their hands and use it to harm others. A Paracelsus can only do this through an implement of magic, such as a ring or a bracelet. Curiously, the majority of this race have red hair. They are hated in Stonehollow. Though there are sparse records, I have learned that in the distant past, they used their immunity from the Plague to enrich themselves and their fellows. In places where the Plague destroyed entire villages, save their own kind, they inherited the wealth abandoned by their dead neighbors. They rose to thrones, principalities, and increased their dominion through deception and flattering words. In addition to calling fire into their hands, they are quick to learn and master skills, especially the skills of persuasion. This invoked jealousy, for men always distrust those wiser than themselves. And when it was eventually discovered that it was their ‘fireblood’ that made them immune to the Plague, the people of Stonehollow rose up against them when the seasons of Plague came. I watched this myself. A rumor of Plague came from the north. A rumor that turned out to be false. But a woman, red-haired and young, was dragged to a pillory in the center of town. They cut her with knives and collected her blood, which they brushed on the lintels of their homes. Many homes, they claimed, had been spared from the Plague in the
past by so doing. Thus one death could save an entire village. The folk of Stonehollow do not consider this murder. No one would give me the name of this race. And no one with this blood willingly admits it.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

W
ith flames devouring the woods and smoke billowing wildly, Annon motioned Hettie to join him as Paedrin hauled the trembling Preachán to his feet. The little man had paled as white as milk. He thrashed against Paedrin’s grip for a moment before the Bhikhu gripped his hand, twisted his wrist, and suddenly he was helpless, his arm pinned behind his back.

Annon fingered the Druidecht talisman mixed with the necklaces around the man’s neck. He gripped it and snapped the chain that held it, his anger still smoldering in his heart.

“I am worth more to you alive than dead,” the Preachán pleaded. “There are others…wait…what I mean is that there are ducats. Many ducats. Casks of ducats…”

“I’m not interested in ducats,” Annon said coldly.

“You may not, but the Romani girl might,” he said with a tremor in his voice. “Eh, lass? Ducats aplenty. I can lead you there. I didn’t notice the earring at first, forgive me. Had I known, I never would have presumed…”

“Yes, you would have,” Hettie said, her look full of loathing. “Kill him now. He’s of no use to us.”

Annon saw the glint in Paedrin’s eye, the sour expression of loathing. He remembered that they never willingly shed blood.

“How far is Havenrook?” Annon asked.

“A few leagues,” he replied, trying to seem helpful. “I know a place you could stay…”

“Somehow I doubt we can trust your recommendations,” Paedrin said. “Several leagues, you say?”

“Several. Maybe six? I forget. You will get there before nightfall if you hurry.” He was panting, his eyes darting back and forth at their faces, trying to read in them any possible way to save his life.

Paedrin released his arm and shoved him hard, making him stumble and fall. As the Preachán turned and faced them, eyes dancing with worry, Paedrin swiveled his staff in a swishing circle and then jammed the butt into the tip of the man’s toes with crushing force. There came from his mouth a howl of pain as he crumpled to the road in total agony.

“When we get there does not matter,” Paedrin said, “so long as we get there before you. I suggest hobbling along quickly before the flames catch up with you.” Giving a curt nod to Annon and Hettie, he said, “Let’s go.”

Crippling the man was a nice touch, Annon thought. Waves of heat from the flames pressed against their backs as they quickly left the scene of the ambush. The plumes of smoke would be seen as far away as Havenrook, in all likelihood. And it would halt traffic on the road until they were quenched. He did not care.

After they had left the lamed Preachán far behind, Paedrin suddenly whirled on them, his face flushed with anger. His voice
was low and controlled, but his eyes were blazing. “What was that, back there?” he said sharply, pointing toward the road. “You started the forest burning! I thought you were a Druidecht, a protector of the woods.”

Annon stared at him in surprise, and then he understood. To a man raised in a city, fire was a considerable threat and needed safeguards to control it. “Paedrin, you must learn to trust me. I am a Druidecht. I would never do anything to harm a forest.”

The other opened his mouth in amazement. “You just set fire to it!”

“Fire is how a forest is reborn. There are certain trees that will only release their seeds during a firestorm. Oaks, for example, need fires to properly grow and to prevent being crowded out by weaker trees. This forest cannot even be properly called one. Green wood does not burn very well, Paedrin.”

“There was no need to butcher those men, though.”

Annon met his stare. “They are the butchers, Paedrin. They chose their kill unwisely this time.”

The Bhikhu squeezed his eyes shut, as if choking off a retort and struggling to master himself. He opened his eyes slowly. “I was sent here to protect you both. Taking life should always be the final resort. The last option. I have been trained all of my life to fight. To maim. To hurt. To choke. To squeeze a man to within an
inch
of his life. But not to kill him. Not unless there is no other choice. That was not the case today. I was going to intervene. I tried to whisper it to you, but you would not hear it.”

“I am sorry,” Annon said.

The Bhikhu stopped, dazed.

“I should have warned you,” Annon continued, mastering his temper. He understood the Bhikhu’s feelings, while not agreeing with them himself. The sentiments were admirable. “I
respect your beliefs. I respect the foundation of your order. But those men have no laws. They would have killed us without hesitation. I did not feel it right to ask you to do the same to them.”

“The next time…” Paedrin said, his voice rising.

“Spare us a sermon,” Hettie said, her voice full of disdain.

He rounded on her. “The next time we face trouble like that…”

“I will use my knife, or an arrow, or my hands if that will suffice,” she answered hotly. “We are not at the temple anymore. This is the wide world. No one cares how you feel about it.”

Annon watched Paedrin swallow, his eyes blazing with fury. “I was orphaned in Kenatos. I have seen every sort of man seek shelter in the temple. The wildest drunk to the sneakiest purse snatcher. I am not a child, and this is not my first experience with the wide world. Pain is a teacher. Pain is a harsh teacher. I have broken my fingers. I have broken my leg twice. My arm has been twisted out of its joint three times.” He took a step closer to her, his face barely a breath from hers. “I am not afraid of hurting or bleeding or even dying. But when we come across trouble in the future, we will spare life. I insist on it. Or I will school you both as I have been schooled.”

Hettie’s eyes glittered like daggers. “You know nothing of pain,” she said softly.

Annon put his hand on Paedrin’s shoulder. “Very well, Paedrin. That is only fair. We startled you today. I did not wish to do that. In the future, you will get the first chance to make peace or finish things the Bhikhu way. If it works, well and good. If not, at least you know what we can do.”

There was a hard line across Paedrin’s mouth as he stared at Hettie. He glanced briefly at Annon, nodded once, and then stepped away from her, still scowling. “How is it that you both
can summon fire from your hands? Is it magic your uncle gave you? I have seen rings and bracelets that contain special powers, but never something like what I saw you both do.”