Chapter 13 Flaming Tylocks #2
At the last moment, a slender blade caught his, pushing him off his balance. Corric was standing beside him, two hands on his sword.
“Are you ins—” he didn’t get to finish as a flash of fire split them apart, the force knocking them backward far enough that Ridan crashed into the remnants of a burning wagon.
The pain in his hands was forgotten as he blinked blood from his eyes. Stars danced in his vision, blackness licking at the edges. Clinging to consciousness, he saw his sword laying abandoned between them, a dark scorch mark on the fuller.
Beyond his sword, the magic user was glaring at him again. He lifted his hands, palms up, as flames danced between his fingers. Stepping over Corric, and ignoring the hail of arrows and Brune’s screams, his attention never wavered.
Ridan’s couldn’t move. He was stiff, sluggish, and not responding the way he wanted. Clawing into the sand, he desperately tried to make his limbs move.
Suddenly Osmond was there. With no fear, he engaged the man. His speed was a direct contrast to the magic user, who relied on distance and power.
Corric was suddenly at his side, heaving him up and dragging him closer to Brune and the relative safety of his shield. Resting his back against Brune’s, he felt slender hands checking the wound on his head.
“What the fuck…” he grumbled blearily, slapping Corric’s hands away.
“He’s my brother!” Corric shouted, his raised voice cutting through the ringing in his ears.
Brother? Ridan was too addled to remember what Corric told him about his family—but from what he could shake loose, there wasn’t a single decent Tylock besides the one he currently wanted to smack.
“Please, Ridan,” Corric pleaded, wincing as Osmond was nearly too late to dodge a blast. “You can’t kill him.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Brune snapped, sweat dripping down his face. “Ask him nicely?”
“Maybe I c-can talk to him!” Corric looked desperate, his eyes wide and wet. If Ridan could smell, whatever coming off his packmate would be unpleasant.
Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “No, you can’t reason with him.” Something was wrong with the magic user. Something about his eyes, about that blank stare. The way he ignored everyone else and kept his attention solely on Ridan, even when he was no longer a threat.
They needed a new plan. One that didn’t end with his blade in the man’s throat, or their insides cooked like Sehleh’s chicken dinner. Closing his eyes didn’t help, so he opened them. That seemed to help with the spinning. Ridan took stock of what they had.
Niklas must be too far away to get a good shot, otherwise the man would be down by now. They couldn’t fight him, even Osmond as fast as he was seemed unable to land a blow.
They had to somehow douse the flames…
Jerking, Ridan grabbed the back of Brune’s shirt. He used it to pull himself to his knees. “The horse pens!”
Clambering to his feet, he pointed to where the horses were stabled. Sufficiently far enough away that they would have plenty of room. The big pens were hastily constructed and separated by clan, and then further by gender. The fences were wood, but the rest of the paddocks were flat grassland.
And they had massive water troughs in each one.
It took Brune a moment, but understanding bloomed in his red eyes. “Ridan that’s…”
A half-mile run. A massive risk. An impossible task.
“Can you do it?”
Brune clearly wanted to say no. That he wasn’t interested in what amounted to a fool's run. He nodded tersely.
Ridan didn’t wait.
As he expected, pupiless eyes followed him the moment he broke off.
Osmond shouted after him, his hair smoking.
Ridan didn’t stop. Pumping his legs, he tried to focus on his destination, refusing to allow himself to look back.
Without his sword, he could move a little faster, but the blow to his head was messing with his balance.
His vision swam, and his legs and arms felt disconnected.
Even his lungs burned. Each breath was riddled with smoke, pinpricks of pain cascading down his throat like jagged shards of bone.
They settled in his chest, and he felt a stitch begin to rip at his side.
Still, he ran. Even when he could feel the heat of a fireball thrown his way, felt sand and dirt raining down on him as the fire cratered out big swaths of land. Dimly he heard Corric screaming pleas that fell on deaf ears.
An explosion ripped in front of him, sending him careening to the ground.
He rolled, arms over his head to protect himself.
He didn’t feel the searing pain of a burn.
Blinking dirt from his eyes, he scrambled back to his feet.
His mouth was so dry he couldn’t even spit the grit from between his teeth.
The pens grew closer, but so did the heat at his back. He couldn’t hear anything except the roaring of blood in his ears and the panicky wheezing of his breaths.
A hastily erected fence of taut ropes strung between uneven posts was the only thing keeping the horses contained.
Most of them didn’t bother with testing the barrier—they knew they had fresh food and water inside and were content enough.
Ridan hit the ropes hard enough that he ripped a post from the ground.
Collapsing into the pen, he tried not to get tangled in the ropes as the closest horses spooked, running to the far end.
Kicking the debris loose, he checked that all the horses were clear before he made it to his feet. He could only hope the madman wouldn’t be interested in hurting them. Half crawling, he made his way to the massive water trough set up along the northern fence.
Because the water was so far, the clan used the big trough so they wouldn’t have to make the journey too many times. Now, Ridan just hoped it would be enough.
Just as his hand closed around the lip of the trough, he was struck from behind.
Panicked, he spun, kicking out and throwing punches at whatever he could get his hands on.
The magic user was on top of him. This close, Ridan could finally see the details of his face.
What he had assumed was dirt was actually runes.
Someone had carved runes into the man’s face—across his nose, around his eyes, along his jaw.
Tiny, scribbled lines he didn’t recognize scribbled along burnt flesh.
His face was blank as it loomed over him, the flames lighting them up in the trough's shade. Ridan had his hands around the man’s wrists, feet in his abdomen, anything to keep the fire away from him.
Heat and pain seared across any inch of exposed skin, and he bared his fangs, willing strength into his trembling limbs.
A loud bang caught his attention moments before he heard a guttural yell, and then a wave of water splashed over them. Water flowed across his face, entering his mouth and choking him. Trying to keep his eyes open against the onslaught, the tide shoved him forward, half burying him in the dirt.
Rolling to his knees, he hacked up water. Air trickled into his lungs. It took all his self-control not to panic, to tell himself to keep breathing. In. Out. Everything hurt. He lifted his head and looked around through wet lashes.
Brune was standing over the magic user, fist raised. The man was limp. His skin was hissing, steam rising from it where the flames had been doused.
Still on all fours, he kept trying to catch his breath. “R-Restrain…him…” he gasped, water and spit drooling from his lips.
Staring at the damp dirt between his hands, he distantly heard footsteps and shouting. Big hands grabbed him, holding him against a dry chest. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe in the scent of whoever had him, but he couldn’t smell anything.
Garbled words cut in and out. Something about Iylah.
That’s when Ridan remembered everything. The market was destroyed. People were injured.
Opening his eyes, he pushed some of his wet hair off his forehead.
“We need to get people to the market. Put the fires out and summon the healers. Any able-bodied person needs to help with the wounded.” His voice was raspy, and he wondered if they could even hear him.
Corric was clutching his brother as Osmond sat on his back, pushing his face down as he restrained him with a pair of thick ropes. Jonen was hovering behind him, looking conflicted.
Niklas jogged up, catching the last bit of Ridan’s orders. “Fires are already being put out. Iylah has commandeered some tents with healers from the other clans.”
He nodded, but his attention was drawn to the strong arms lifting him. Brune had him held safely against his chest. “Osmond, Corric, can you get him someplace out of the way?”
Corric nodded.
Ridan glared up at Brune with all the dignity of a wet rat. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you to Iylah,” he said sternly, carrying Ridan away from the group and back towards the tents. His face was set like stone, eyes dark.
“I need to—”
“You need to see the healer, Ridan.” Brune’s voice was hard. There was no room for argument. Not that Ridan could. He wasn’t sure he could stand even if Brune put him down.
“Drink this,” Iylah instructed, as she shoved a mug of something at Ridan. Peering into the mug, he made a face at the murky sludge within.
“Don’t give me that look,” she chided as she continued slathering poultice on one of his burns.
Luckily, the burns were mostly surface—painful, but unlikely to cause any permanent damage.
The blow to his head had been unfortunate, but after staring at his pupils, Iylah said he would live. Provided he rest.
Which they both knew was unlikely, but at least she tried.
“What is it?” he asked, swirling the concoction he was afraid to get close to his nose.
“Don’t ask.” She finished bandaging his last burn. “You may have some water in your lungs. We don’t need it festering. Drink it and be quiet.”