by Beam, Brian
“I said, leave me be,” he repeated, this time with his eyes viciously locked on mine. They held a deep and violent anger, an emotion I’d never seen in them before.
“Listen, Briscott—” I hadn’t been prepared for the punch that took me in the jaw, knocking me straight to the ground. The lantern flew from my hand and snuffed out, plunging the two of us into relative darkness.
Rotating my jaw to make sure Briscott hadn’t broken it, I looked up at my unlikely attacker. He was already back to his search, now just a moving shadow in the dark. He didn’t seem at all concerned that he’d just laid his friend out flat on the ground. Well, I’d thought I was his friend, anyway.
As I pushed myself up to a sitting position, something small and cold shattered under my right hand. I let out a small yelp at the pain of tiny, sharp slivers stabbing into my palm. Shaking the piercing shards from my right hand, I reached with my left to feel for the injuring object.
My fingers grasped the remains of a smooth, cylindrical item, the moonlight glinting from its reflective surface. With a start, I realized I was holding a half-shattered vial similar to the one Kait’ had once given me. There was a small amount of opaque liquid lining its bottom. The vial had once held ellifil.
My mind went back to the night we’d spent in the Lost Wizard in Auslin, remembering Briscott’s sudden episode that had sent him fleeing our room, only to come back in high spirits shortly after. I recalled briefly seeing a glass vial when he’d pulled the leather pouch of blueleaf from his cloak. I understood now why it had seemed familiar.
The truth of why Briscott would press ahead or lag behind as we traveled slammed into my consciousness like a battering ram. He was undoubtedly taking doses of ellifil during those times. His friendliness, his agreeableness, his amicability—it was all under a haze of ellifil intoxication.
“Briscott,” I whispered sadly with a shake of my head. I eased myself up and approached slowly, my hands held out in placation. “I know what you’ve been through, but this isn’t the answer. Please, let’s go back to the camp and talk. Okay?”
Briscott paused in his search and let his chin drop to his chest. With a sigh of relief, I dropped my arms and took another step closer. With a little bit of instinct and a lot of luck, I was able to lean back from the sudden lunging punch aimed at my face.
“What in Rizear’s domain are you doing?” I shouted, ducking under another swing. I could faintly see Briscott’s face twisted in rage as he continued advancing on me with a flurry of punches.
Knowing now that Briscott was going through ellifil withdrawal and was therefore not in his right mind, I didn’t want to fight him. Besides, he was my friend. Somehow, I needed to talk him down. Until then, I had to focus on blocking and evading his punches.
“You don’t understand, you blighted bastard,” Briscott screamed. His tears reflected moonlight as he threw another round of punches at me.
I knocked his fists away twice before taking a punch to the gut. My body automatically hunched over from the tightening of my stomach muscles, giving Briscott the perfect opportunity to throw a cross to my temple. I dropped to one knee and just barely twisted away from taking a kick to the chin.
“Max!” I called as I jumped up and dropped into a defensive stance. “I could use a little help here!”
Briscott shouted incoherently as he continued to heave punches at me, making me wonder if Max had even heard me over the noise. Even if he hadn’t, I hoped that Briscott’s screaming would still draw him to us. The camp wasn’t far enough away to mask the sounds of our fight.
Briscott’s attacks were wild and unpredictable, making them hard to anticipate and even harder to dodge. See, fighting is part skill and part instinct. If you have a good grasp on how people tend to fight, you can predict their attacks and dodge or counterattack accordingly. With a trained eye, you can monitor subtle indicators—eye movements, foot placement, or the tensing of certain muscles—to gauge where an attacker’s next strike will come from.
Skill aside, instinct sometimes takes over, telling your brain what an attacker plans to do next, whether from subconscious recognition of patterns or just some unexplainable, mystical foresight. However, such factors only apply to fights where the opponent is at least semi-rational.
At the moment, Briscott was the polar opposite of rational. There was no rhyme or reason to his fighting. His body was craving ellifil, evicting his mind of logical thought. Briscott saw me as nothing more than an obstacle to getting his next fix.
Briscott hadn’t shown the signs of a long-term addict, leading me to believe that he’d picked up the habit sometime after the death of his family. Unfortunately, he’d been taking ellifil long enough for his body to rely on the intoxicating substance. If I’d only been able to recognize the signs of his addiction sooner, I could’ve avoided our violent confrontation.
Another punch connected with my jaw and sent me staggering backwards several steps. I nearly lost my footing on the slick slope. I should’ve stayed where I was, keeping my distance until Max could help me subdue Briscott. However, in the heat of a fight, you don’t always recognize the smartest plan of action. All that existed in my mind was keeping Briscott from getting his hands on any more ellifil.
I started back up the hill, my lungs burning and my heart racing. My booted feet fought for purchase, the grass beneath them slippery from a thin layer of accumulated snow. I unclasped my cloak and threw it to the ground to prevent it from interfering with my movements.
Briscott’s hands were back in the saddlebag. His mare danced nervously, prompting Briscott to land a loud smack to her rump as she tried to pull away. That did nothing to calm the poor horse and sent Briscott into a further rage, aggressively snatching her bridle and yanking her towards him. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing.
“I know it’s blighting in here,” Briscott growled as he started digging through the saddlebag again. “Where is the damned thing?”
This time I didn’t announce my arrival; I just took a couple of running steps forward and jumped, wrapping my arms around Briscott’s waist and taking him to the ground with my shoulder and momentum. My plan was to hold him down until help arrived. Briscott had other plans. After landing with a grunt, he lifted an arm and dropped his elbow into my spine. I screamed but held tight, trying to get over top of him to gain the advantage.
Yet another punch struck my face, this time on the opposite side, as if to give some balance to my pain. He’d leaned into the force of his punch, allowing him roll on top of me. Straddled over my stomach, Briscott started raining punches down on me. Some I blocked, some I couldn’t.
“I lost everything. Everything!” Briscott screamed as he landed a punch that bloodied my nose.
With a buck of my hips, I was able to knock Briscott off of me and get back to my feet. He was up just as quickly, however, and threw another punch before I could react, splitting my upper lip. My nerves completely frayed, I started to fight back.
I ducked under Briscott’s next attack, rising with a fist to his chin. His next punch was a clumsy cross that I easily dodged, returning with a jab to his right eye. Before I could recover from my attack, Briscott hit me just below my own right eye, shooting pain through the back of my skull.
Off balance from his attack, I was unprepared for his follow-up strike to my cheek. I knocked aside his next punch and drove my fist into his stomach. Briscott doubled over, and I brought my knee into his face, knocking him to his back. His hand flew to his sheathed dagger, and he quickly drew it, scrambling shakily to his feet and holding it out in warning.
“Briscott, you don’t want to do this. Just think about it. I’m your friend,” I reasoned, holding one hand towards him, the other inching closer to my shortsword. “I’m your friend,” I repeated, speaking through ragged, gasping breaths. The blood oozing from my nose and lip felt like ice against my skin in the frigid air.
“Right. My friend.” Briscott let out a dry chuckle, a sinister
mockery of his usual jovial laughter. “Everything is so blighted hard on you, isn’t it? A blighted father you never met may be evil. I blighting hope he is. Maybe then you’ll know true pain.”
“Briscott, what are you talking about?” I asked, his words cutting deep. He may as well have been stabbing me with his dagger.
“You sit here and blighting whine that someone wants to kill you for some Loranis-forsaken prophecy. You act as if your world is blighting crumbling because some blighted whore of a sorceress doesn’t love you, because she’s been warming the loins of another blighted wizard instead of your selfish, blighted self.” His words were laced with malice, intended solely to hurt. They achieved their intended effect.
Anger burned deep in my chest, warming my extremities as it pumped through me. My hand found the hilt of my sword. My fingers curled around its leather-wrapped grip and tightened until my knuckles cracked.
“Briscott, you’d better watch your tongue.” My voice sounded as if it had come from a different person.
“Why? What are you blighting going to do? Kill me? Take that blighted sword and run me through? You’d be doing me a blighted favor. There’s nothing left for me in this world.” With that, he spat at me, hitting me right between the eyes. I lost it.
Screaming, I drew my sword. As soon as I had it drawn, it was ripped from my grasp and cast out into the darkness. Something slammed into my chest and threw me a couple paces backwards to the ground. My breath was knocked violently from my lungs. As I lay there gasping, the cold air burning my lungs, Max was suddenly on my chest.
“What in Asrin’s blood do you think you are doing?” he rasped, using the god of drunken brawling in his curse. Yes, you read that correctly.
It had taken a magic talking wizard squirrel knocking me on my ass, but understanding of what I’d done blossomed in my mind. I’d drawn my sword on a friend, intent on using it against him. Had Max’s prior instance of drawing magic energy from my body caused a permanent change in me—a change that put me at risk of completely losing myself to anger? I worried that the same unnatural compulsion for violence that had once prompted me to attempt harming Max had caused me do the same to Briscott.
As I struggled to calm my rage, I thought about Briscott’s words. Even though he’d been suffering from ellifil withdrawl, there’d been a harsh truth to them. While I’d fretted over what waited for me in Gualain, Briscott had been dealing with the prospect of returning to where his family had been so brutally and senselessly murdered. Where his life and dreams had essentially ended. Where he’d once assumed his daughter would eventually marry and bear his grandchildren. Where he’d thought his son would grow into a man. Where he and his wife were supposed to grow old together.
I should’ve realized that Briscott had been handling everything too well, that something dark lurked beneath his cheerfulness. He had been suppressing his emotions with ellifil the entire time. Anger towards me must have burned deep beneath the intoxication, latent and fighting for release, and had finally wormed its way to the surface. I felt like a complete ass.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, meaing it for both Max and Briscott. Now that the heat of anger was leaving me, I began to feel the painful effects of the fight. My lips stung and my jaw ached as I spoke.
“I am not going to heal your injuries,” Max snapped, dropping from my chest as I sat up. He sometimes did that in order to teach me lesson.
Briscott was storming down the hill towards our camp where Ithan stood behind a newly stoked campfire. “Briscott, wait,” I called after him, receiving no response. I turned to Max. “We have to talk to him.” I achingly tried to stand but was pushed back down by an invisible force.
“Let him go,” Max cautioned, watching Briscott’s retreat. “Give him some time.”
Something shiny on the ground beside me caught my eye. Picking it up, I realized that it was the corked vial of ellifil that Briscott had been searching for. Part of me felt I should simply empty it right then. Instead, I found myself tucking it behind my belt. Max, his eyes focused on Briscott, didn’t seem to notice.
“What happened?” Max questioned, bringing his attention back to me.
I told Max about the ellifil. “I should’ve known.”
“Do not be a lunkhead,” Max responded. “None of us knew. We will have to keep a close watch on Briscott tonight. There is no telling what he will do when withdrawal really kicks in.”
I looked to Max, incredulous. “It’ll get worse?”
Max nodded. “This is only the beginning.”
“So what do we do?”I questioned, leaning my head forward and holding the bridge of my nose to staunch its bleeding. Thankfully, it wasn’t broken.
“Wait it out,” Max answered curtly. “You, however, will stay here with the horses. I will have Ithan bring you a blanket. You and Briscott are not to be around each other until you both calm yourselves.”
I was taken aback by Max’s assertion that I had need of calming down. “Max, Briscott is the one—”
“Anything you are about to say is going to make you sound like a child trying to convince his parents that he should not be punished for breaking his mother’s favorite vase,” Max admonished. “Remember that you had your sword pulled on him. You both need time to clear your heads. Understand?”
I felt like a scolded child, but Max was right. “I understand,” I answered. I took a deep breath and looked down to Max. “Max, do you think my reaction tonight was because of the night you healed me after fighting Menar’s men?” I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the answer.
“That is definitely a possibility,” Max answered, his voiced edged with regret. “I hope not, but this was highly out of character for you. Either way, there is nothing we can do about it right now.”
Before I could respond, a frightened cry sounded from the direction of our camp. The cry was followed by a raptorial screech, a pained scream from Briscott, and then a large splash. Max and I exchanged startled expressions.
I jumped up and immediately charged down the hill, Max’s protests lost in the wind whooshing past my ears. The snowy cold burned against my bruised and bleeding face, but I had to make sure that Ithan and Briscott were okay.
Ithan stood by the fire with a look of pure panic on his wan face. Fleet was puffed up on his shoulder. “He came at me with his knife when I asked what was happening,” Ithan mumbled through trembling lips. “I just reacted.”
My gaze shot to the undulating ripples a good ten paces from the lake’s bank. “What did you do?”
“I . . . I knocked him into the lake . . . with magic,” Ithan answered softly, his eyes wide. “I did not mean to use so much force. I . . . I panicked.” It looked like Saiyre had been right about Ithan’s magic abilities. Launching Briscott so far across the lake had to have taken quite a bit of strength in magic.
After a brief moment of stunned silence, I realized that Briscott wasn’t surfacing. “Oh, blighted hell,” I muttered, Briscott’s curse of choice sneaking into my vocabulary again. I quickly kicked off my boots.
“Do not even think about going in there,” Max warned, arriving at my side. “We do not need you freezing to death.”
Ignoring Max’s cautioning, I started forward, unbuckling my scabbard and coin purse and dropping them to the ground. I waded into the shallows of the lake, the icy shock causing my lungs to seize and excruciatingly tensing my entire body. Max shouted something from behind me, but I couldn’t make it out over the sounds of splashing water.
Regardless of my body’s protests, I forced a deep breath into my lungs and started swimming towards the rippling waters where Briscott had landed. After several strokes, I stopped, treading water as I tried to once again locate Briscott’s entry point. My entire body burned with freezing cold. I began to panic, unable to draw in enough breath. If I couldn’t figure out where Briscott was, I was going to have to swim back to shore or die right there in the water.
To my right, a cluster of bubbles rose to the
surface. Without a moment’s hesitation, I dove under the water. The lake seemed bottomless as my cold-stiffened arms and legs propelled me deeper into its depths. I could feel myself reaching the delicate edge of consciousness. I yearned to take in a breath, but I knew that sucking in the water would be the death of me.
My arms and legs went numb. My chest exploded with pain. Dizziness enveloped me. Even so, I continued to dive further into the lake’s murky depths to save my friend, no matter what had happened between us. If he died in that lake, I’d never forgive myself.
My fingers suddenly met something solid. I desperately grabbed at whatever I’d touched, my right hand clasping one of Briscott’s wrists. For a brief moment, I thought I’d saved him. Before I could start back towards the lake’s surface, though, consciousness fled my body and left me to drown.
Chapter 36
Reprimands and Amends
The world was dead. Blackened splinters, the sole remnants of trees, stabbed into the sky as ash rained from above. Fissures spread across the charred ground in spider-webbed patterns as far as my eyes could see. From my vantage atop a stony bluff, I felt an overwhelming sense of loss. In my heart, I knew that the state of the land before me was my fault.
“Impressive, is it not?” a confident male voice announced from behind me.
I turned my head, the background blurring nauseatingly as I did. My eyes met those of my father. He was dressed in regal robes, his crown dull in the gloom of the darkened sky. His lips curved up in sinister satisfaction as he looked out over the ruined landscape, his usually blue eyes appearing a dull gray.
“No, this is wrong,” I argued. My mind couldn’t comprehend why my father was pleased about the death around us. “Why would you want this?”
With a condescending arch of his eyebrow, my father stepped towards me. As he did, his face morphed into someone else’s for a mere fraction of a moment. For that infinitesimal eye blink of time, his crown was rusted over and fitted with dull, cracked jewels. As quickly as the change occurred, it vanished, leaving me with the recognizable image of my father, save his disturbing expression and lifeless eyes.