The Devil's Fire

by Sara Bell

  Gareth lifted his head over the grassy bank. At least ten men lay dead on the field, while the wounded struggled to get out of the line of fire. As Alric predicted, another hail of arrows soon followed the first. Gareth called for the soldiers to retreat to the tree line, but his voice was drowned by the thunder of hooves. The riders were on them, close enough that Gareth could plainly see the colors they wore—colors he didn't recognize. He might not know the colors, but there was one thing Gareth did know with absolute certainty: within a matter of moments, they'd be surrounded.

  "Looks as if they have us outnumbered two to one.” Gareth grabbed his sword from the water where he'd dropped it. “We have no choice but to fight, arrows be damned."

  Alric lifted his head to survey the enemy. “I recognize their colors.” He rested his forehead against the bank. “We don't stand a chance fighting them sword to sword."

  Not what Gareth wanted to hear. “What do you suggest we do? Stay here and die?"

  "Tell the men to fall back.” Alric pushed himself from the water, giving Gareth a full view of his blood soaked tunic. “Make certain the lot of you stay in or near the water."

  "You can't think to go out there and face them alone.” Gareth grabbed his arm to pull him back down. “You'll be killed."

  "Do as I say if you want to live.” Alric shook free of Gareth's hold. “Stay here and instruct the men to obey my command.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you come out with me, we'll both die."

  Before Gareth could stop him, Alric crested the bank and pulled himself into the open.

  Gareth had no choice but to let Alric go. He gave the soldiers Alric's instructions, then watched in horror as Alric made his way to the center of the valley.

  Once in the middle of the clearing, Alric turned sideways so that one hand pointed towards the ridge where the archers lay and the other pointed in the direction of the horsemen.

  Gareth had no doubt he was about to bury another husband. If the archers didn't fell Alric, the riders would be on him in moments. Gareth was readying himself to defy Alric's orders and go after him, anyway, when the wind shifted.

  Time seemed to slow and then stop altogether as Alric waved his hands in the swirling air, weaving circular patterns with his body. At first Gareth thought Alric was performing a protection ritual of sorts, but that notion fled as the potent scent of sulfur filled the valley. Before Gareth could reason what was happening, a rolling ball of orange flame burst from Alric's fingertips.

  Chapter Five

  Alric fought the pain and called forth the power. He felt little satisfaction as the flames flew from his fingers and engulfed his enemies.

  Men and horses fell into a writhing heap, rolling and running to escape the searing of flesh and bone. The screams of the dying were thick and loud, but Alric dared not break his concentration. He remained steady at his task until a lancing pain penetrated his leg.

  One of the enemy soldiers, his face a mask of burned skin, had managed to extinguish himself enough to stab Alric with his dagger. Alric lost his balance and fell onto his back. The arrow—still tightly lodged in his flesh—broke in half with sickening force. His agony was so great, Alric was unable to defend himself as the soldier climbed over him, raising the knife and aiming straight for Alric's heart. With no means of defense, Alric closed his eyes and waited for the death blow.

  It never came. He heard a cry of pain and looked up in time to see his would-be assassin fall to the side with Gareth's sword protruding from his back.

  Gareth pulled the blade free, then knelt beside Alric. “Can you stand?"

  Could he? Alric wasn't sure. His wounds radiated pain to his every extremity, but that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was knowing he'd just unleashed the monster inside him for all the world to see.

  "Alric, answer me.” Gareth gave Alric's arm a slight nudge. “Can you stand?"

  "I think so.” He tried to rise, but his legs refused to move.

  Strong hands were behind him, then, lifting him in a careful but steady motion. Gareth's breath was hot on his check as he wrapped his arms around Alric's waist and half walked, half carried him to the brook where the men were waiting.

  Through pain-blurred eyes, Alric could see the fear on the soldiers’ faces as he approached. Some made signs in the air with their fingers. More still backed away as if fearing Alric more than they'd feared the enemy he just vanquished.

  Gareth led Alric to Merrick, who'd been wise enough to keep to the waterline during the fray. The horse stood still as Gareth tried in vain to lift Alric's near-dead weight into the saddle.

  "Where's my horse?” Alric's voice sounded weak to his own ears.

  "Your mount is nearby, for all the good he'll do you.” Gareth grunted as he tried yet again to help Alric into the saddle. “You're too weak to climb up by yourself, much less command the beast.” Gareth propped Alric against Merrick's flank, then looked to the soldiers. “Don't just stand there. Help me."

  The bulk of the men stood in motionless silence, only one having the courage to speak. “We cannot help you. Prince Alric, he's..."

  Gareth ground his teeth. “Say what you have to say and be done with it."

  "He's cursed,” the solider said. “'Tis the only explanation for what we just witnessed."

  Gareth's fingers tightened against Alric's arms. “You rampalians all feel that way, I take it?"

  The squadron's silence was answer enough.

  "Very well,” Gareth said. “You're dismissed."

  "Dis ... dismissed, Prince Gareth?"

  "Dismissed.” Gareth caught Alric as he began a slow slide to the ground. “I'll have no quivering cowards in my service."

  The spokesman blinked. “Where would you have us go, my prince?"

  "I care not where you go,” Gareth said, “but you're not to return to your posts. Any man unwilling to assist the heir of the same throne to which he's sworn allegiance is unfit to call himself a soldier."

  The men didn't so much as move.

  "You'd best take yourselves off, and quickly ere our enemy returns.” Gareth used his body as a wedge to hold Alric upright against Merrick's side, then turned his head so that he was looking at the men. “I doubt Prince Alric will be inclined to save your worthless hides a second time."

  Gareth's warning got through. Alric couldn't see the soldiers past Gareth's bulk, but he could hear them scrambling to round up their horses.

  "What about the men injured by the archers?” Alric struggled to focus on Gareth's face. “We must help them."

  "They're dead, Alric."

  "I killed them, didn't I?” Alric felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. “I killed my own men when I unleashed the fire."

  "No, you didn't.” Gareth's voice was surprisingly gentle. “Those hit by the archers were dead before you intervened. How those arrows pierced the mail our men were wearing is a marvel, but most of the stricken soldiers were dead ere they hit the ground."

  "'Twas not the archers...” Alric tried to explain, but he was almost too weak to get the words out. “'Tis the arrows..."

  "Alric, you must stay awake.” Gareth's voice took on a quality of desperation. “I'll tend your wounds as soon as I get you somewhere safe, but you must stay with me. Alric!"

  Alric tried to keep his eyes open. He wanted to explain—both about the enemy and the fire—but he was no match for the numbing darkness which claimed him.

  * * * *

  Gareth clutched Alric to his chest in an effort to keep him from tumbling to the ground. They were running out of time. Alric's breath was coming in shallow pants, and his body was shaking.

  Gareth laid him carefully on the ground, then tore two lengths of cloth from the hem of his own tunic. Wrapping the first strip around Alric's waist, Gareth bound the back wound as best he could with the arrow still lodged inside. Next he wrapped the slash on Alric's leg. He was relieved to see it was not as serious as the other, but he had to get Alric to shelter so he could clean and bind the injuries
properly.

  First, Gareth had to get him onto the blasted horse. He pulled Alric to his feet—no easy task considering Alric weighed nearly as much as Gareth—and then dragged him back to Merrick. He was about to have another go at hoisting Alric onto the stallion's back when a twig snapped. Without having to turn, Gareth knew someone was standing behind him.

  "If you're going to run me through,” Gareth said with hard-fought calm, “I'd just as soon you have done with it."

  "I've no wish to hurt you, Prince Gareth. I seek only to help."

  "Then come ‘round here where I can see you."

  The man stepped into Gareth's line of sight. Then again, perhaps “man” was a bit of an overstatement. The fresh-faced soldier standing behind him looked more like an untried boy than one of the king's fighters. His eyes were wide—fear, no doubt—but he had the mettle to stand his ground. Gareth didn't recognize him, but the lad wore the Kray colors.

  "What's your name, boy?"

  The soldier fell to one knee on the grass. “Balthazar, my prince."

  "On your feet,” Gareth said. “Why didn't you leave with your comrades?"

  "I swore an oath to serve the house of Kray.” Balthazar stood. “'Tis not something I take lightly."

  Loyalty. Who'd have guessed? “How old are you, boy?"

  Balthazar stepped closer. “Eight and ten.” He cleared his throat. “Old enough to help you lift Prince Alric onto that horse."

  "Let's get to it, then.” Gareth still wasn't certain he trusted the boy, but he'd wasted all the time he dared. “I'll swing into the saddle and lift him up as you steady and push him from below."

  Balthazar nodded, then held Alric steady as Gareth swung himself into place. Once seated, Gareth reached down and pulled Alric up, doing his damnedest not to jar Alric's wounds and make them worse.

  Balthazar was as good as his word at helping Gareth haul Alric in front of him on Merrick's back. Alric never even stirred.

  Once Alric was positioned, Gareth looked down at Balthazar. “Where's your mount?"

  Balthazar blushed. “Ran away during the attack, my lord."

  With his head, Gareth motioned to the black stallion tethered on the other side of the brook. “You can ride Alric's horse, but be quick about it."

  Balthazar untied Alric's mount and was seated within minutes. Urging the animal forward, he came into place beside Gareth. It wasn't until Balthazar looked at him as if for direction that Gareth realized he hadn't a notion where they were going.

  Balthazar seemed to understand. “If memory serves me, there's a village just to the east of us. ‘Tis not much, but they have an inn."

  "'Twill have to do,” Gareth said. “Lead the way."

  Balthazar guided Alric's stallion to the fore, taking them over the brook and through a wide stand of trees. From there, the landscape blurred into a series of open fields and wooded paths.

  Time lost all meaning, with Gareth's thoughts centered on nothing save keeping Alric alive.

  They were on the village road sooner than Gareth would have thought. He stopped Balthazar just as the boy was about to move out of the sheltering tree line.

  "Put this over your mail lest someone recognize the Kray colors.” With one hand, Gareth pulled forth a clean tunic from his saddlebags and passed it to Balthazar. “The fewer people who know who we are, the better."

  Balthazar donned the tunic and then led the way down the potted road to the village. Rotham, a weathered sign proclaimed the place. A first glance told Gareth the village was little more than an inn, a tavern, and a cluster of crofter's cottages. He reined Merrick to a stop in front of the inn.

  "Secure us two rooms,” Gareth said. He removed a pouch of coins from his belt and tossed them to Balthazar. “Ask the innkeeper if the village has a healer."

  Balthazar swung from the saddle, then tethered the stallion to a rail in front of the inn. Gareth waited a tense moment while the boy was gone, wondering if they'd come this far only to be denied shelter.

  Balthazar came back soon enough. He was accompanied by a stout man wearing a rough but clean work apron over his shirt and hose. The innkeeper, Gareth guessed.

  The man walked over to where Gareth sat on Merrick's back, holding Alric.

  "Yer rooms are ready, me lord.” The innkeeper glanced at Alric. “Yer man tells me yer companion is injured. Shall I have someone carry him up for ye?"

  Gareth shook his head, unwilling to trust Alric's welfare to yet another stranger. “We'll see to him ourselves."

  The innkeeper nodded. “I'll have me stable hand tend to yer horses and send yer saddlebags up to yer rooms, then."

  Gareth waited until the innkeeper went back inside before signaling to Balthazar. Working together, the two of them were able to get Alric off the horse and stretched between them.

  The walk through the inn's common room and up the stairs was torturous. Each time Alric's injuries took a jolt, Gareth watched helplessly as fresh blood seeped through the make-shift bindings. He let out an audible sigh of relief when they made it to the room.

  Though the sun was still high, the room was dark, having but one window that faced east. Balthazar motioned to the bed with his shoulder. “I think we should place Prince Alric on his stomach and tend to the back wound, first. It seems to be the worst."

  Gareth nodded, and the two of them went to work settling Alric. Once done, Gareth said, “What about a healer? Did the innkeeper say the village has one?"

  Balthazar cleared his throat. “I didn't ask, my prince."

  "Have you gone mad? Can you not see how sorely Alric is injured?"

  Balthazar paled in the face of Gareth's anger, but he held his ground. “Prince Gareth ... you have a healer standing before you."

  Gareth narrowed his eyes. “You?"

  "Yes."

  "You're a soldier, not a physician."

  "My father was a great healer, his talents matched by no other. He passed his knowledge on to me ere he died.” Balthazar lowered his eyes. “I became a soldier because I had no other option, but I swear to you, I am more than capable of healing Prince Alric."

  Something in the boy's voice told Gareth he meant what he said. Well, why not? Having a soldier who was really a skilled healer in disguise made as much sense as having a husband capable of conjuring fire from thin air.

  "All right,” Gareth said. “I'm trusting you with Alric's welfare.” He looked Balthazar directly in the eyes so there'd be no mistaking his meaning. “For your sake, I pray my trust is not misplaced."

  Balthazar swallowed, but he kept his back straight and his head up as he walked to the still-open door. “I have need of some supplies,” he called over the balcony to the innkeeper.

  The innkeeper looked up at him. “I'll provide whatever ye need if'n I have it."

  "I'll take as many candles and holders as you can spare, a kettle of freshly boiled water, a cake of soap, and some clean rags."

  "I'll have it to ye in a blink.” The innkeeper went to work gathering the requested items, and Balthazar stepped back into the room, closing the door behind him.

  "I cannot begin until I have what I need,” he said. “Let us hope the innkeeper is as quick as he claims."

  Moments later, the innkeeper came in carrying a basketful of candles, rags, and soap in one hand and a small caldron of water in the other. He set the caldron on the floor and handed the basket to Balthazar. “This be everything."

  Balthazar nodded his thanks. He waited until the innkeeper was gone, then removed a dagger from his belt and made quick work of cutting the binding over Alric's back wound.

  Gareth blanched when he saw the blood caking the injury, but Balthazar wasn't overly concerned.

  "Even the paltriest of wounds are heavy to bleed,” he said. “The important thing is to cleanse the cut well.” He then instructed Gareth to light all the candles and place them as close to the bed as safety permitted.

  While Gareth was at his task, Balthazar cut the tunic from Alric's body, stri
pping him to the waist. It took him a moment to work the garment away from the dried edges of the wound. Once finished, Balthazar let out a low whistle.

  "What?” Concern washed over Gareth at the expression on Balthazar's face. “Is it worse than you expected?” His heart hammered at the thought.

  "No, my prince. ‘Tis not this wound that surprises me.” Balthazar lifted the candle closest to the bed and held it over Alric's back. “See for yourself."

  Gareth came closer, only to be struck speechless.

  Alric's back was a mass of scars. Some were jagged and puffed like lashes from a whip. Others bore the clean, thin mark of a knife. Not a finger's width of skin on Alric's back remained untouched by one form of torture or the other.

  Gareth could only wonder at the pain such injuries must have caused. He glanced at Balthazar. “You're not to breathe a word of this to anyone."

  Balthazar nodded. “Prince Alric has a right to his privacy.” He placed the candle on the low chest by the bed. “'Tis time to remove the arrow."

  Gareth sat on the edge of the bed by Alric's side. “How can I help?"

  "You can hold him down while I dig the arrow out.” Balthazar's expression was grim. “'Tis lodged in the fleshy part of his back. I believe it missed anything vital, but ‘twill cause a damnable pain coming out.” He washed the dagger and held it over a flame to purify the blade, then signaled to Gareth.

  Gareth took hold of Alric's shoulders. The moment the knife touched his torn flesh, Alric began to thrash, trying in vain to rid himself of the agony. Gareth could do nothing more than hold him while Balthazar worked.

  A few minutes into the surgery, Balthazar's blood-covered hands brought forth an arrowhead of interwoven, razor-edged triangles still attached to the broken shaft of the arrow. “No wonder these things were able to pierce the armor of our men. I've never seen a weapon crafted so."

  Neither had Gareth. “Did you recognize our enemy's colors?"

  "No, but I came to Kray only a year ago. I know little of the surrounding kingdoms."