Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (16 page)

The sound of boots on the stairwell announced the arrival of Dwyer, who held a knobbed stick in his hand. “Out with ye, lads. Out with ye. Come on. Let’s have no trouble.”

Erasmus brushed his hands and turned back to Paedrin, who had not budged from his spot. “You too, Bhikhu. You have all caused enough trouble already.” He reached for Paedrin’s sleeve.

Paedrin was waiting for that. He intercepted the Preachán’s hand and put his finger on one side of his hand and his thumb on his palm. With a quick twist, he had the Preachán in an armlock that completely halted him.

“I do not mean to harm you,” Paedrin said. “If you do not move, it will not hurt. But you will listen and figure this out quickly. We do not have much time. Grab what you need and come with us, because if you do not, I will go back to the Millpond this evening and explain to Kiranrao that you know of Drosta’s lair. What do you think he will do with you if he finds out you have known all along?”

The others froze in the stairwell. Dwyer’s face hardened with rage.

Erasmus muttered softly. He said several things under his breath that they could not hear. Then he spoke up. “You are correct. That changes the situation entirely. Very black-hearted of you, Bhikhu, but wise considering the circumstances. Dwyer, fetch my cloak. I do hope one of you knows how to speak the Cruithne tongue. That will help us immensely.” He gazed at their faces and saw the dumb shock there. “I see you do not.” He let out a deep, exasperated sigh.

Dwyer stood by the rear door, cudgel still in hand. “I will give you as much time as I can. Make for the woods. The dark will help shield ye a bit, but not for long if they hire a Finder.”

Paedrin glanced at Hettie and saw her face stiffen with disgust. Her eyes flicked once his way, but did not linger.

Erasmus pulled on some stiff wool socks and then stuffed his feet into a well-worn set of boots. “Dry feet. Never underestimate the value of dry feet,” he muttered.

There was a loud hammering at the front door. Erasmus shrugged into his cloak and then motioned toward the woods visible beyond the next row of buildings. Annon and Hettie followed, but Paedrin stayed put.

Annon paused and looked at him meaningfully, his eyebrows lifted.

“I will join you shortly,” Paedrin said, clenching his staff.

Annon and Hettie glanced at each other.

“Go on ahead. This won’t take very long.”

He did not wait for them to acknowledge his words and walked around the side of Erasmus’s dwelling, watching the
spatter of torchlight brighten from the front. The angry voices of a mob grew steadily louder.

Paedrin breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, short, quick breaths to steady himself. He listened to the raucous voices and the shouts of anger and demand. He could barely make out Dwyer’s voice, trying to turn the tide of anger. A stone or brick smashed into the front window. The shrill wail of voices grew louder. There was the sound of a door slamming and being bolted. But against such a mob, it was a flimsy defense. In a moment, the home would go up in a blaze, along with all the books of poetry and translations, a man’s work for many years. It was unfair.

Paedrin inhaled, and as he started to float, he ran up the side of the structure so that he reached the apex before running out of breath. He flipped up onto the roof, still holding the staff in one hand, and crouched at the edge, looking down at the mob. There were easily thirty or more down there, some with torches, others with lanterns. They were all Preachán, and they were a ferocious mob, shouting threats and insults at the lone man inside. One man stuffed a rag into his bottle of spirits and set fire to the edge.

Paedrin stood up straight, adjusted his neck muscles, and then hurtled off the edge of the roof. Someone saw him jump, for fingers were suddenly in the air stabbing at him. He plummeted to the street like a stone, but just before landing, he hissed in his breath to soften the impact and managed to land on the man with the flaming bottle and crush him into the street.

Paedrin looked up, taking in the momentary shock on their faces. Then he spun the staff in a wide circle and set to work.

That they were drunk made it almost too easy, but it was still forty or so against one, and he saw the gleam of knife blades, swords, and chains with hooks. He struck hard and fast, smashing a man in the eye with one jab of the staff pole before reversing
the stroke and hammering another on the top of his skull, likely shattering it—using just enough force so as to not make it lethal. He cracked ribs, maimed feet, and, for certain, dislocated shoulders and hips. The anger and fury of the crowd—or perhaps the promise of coin—made them exceptionally brave. It was a hive of bodies, all trying to get a snatch at his clothes, grip his staff, or trip him with a boot. But Paedrin dodged every attempt, striking with feet, hands, or staff in all directions at once, sending bodies backward.

They rallied, those that could, and tried to crush him with sheer numbers. Chain whips whistled in the air at him. He ducked and darted to keep them from striking him, but he recognized that there were still more coming, and others were drawn to the screaming. Sucking in a gulp of breath, he jumped up and rose above the mass of bodies, letting them crash into each other before exhaling sharply and landing down amidst the pile.

He was wickedly good with his staff, and he knew it. It was an extension of him, and he whirled it against daggers and rapiers alike, returning each stroke with a whack to the chin or cheek; he dropped men to the street as his weapon impacted between their legs. He did not stay in the same place but moved with the flow of bodies, sometimes going over them. Sometimes he met the charge head-on. Sweat slicked down his ribs and arms, but he knew his own body and knew he had the strength to continue the fight.

From the crowd emerged a new man, and he recognized him from Kiranrao’s table. There was a subtle shift in the mood then others fell back, making way before the bearded fellow, his eyes molten with hate.

Paedrin studied his footing, his confident walk. No stumble with wine or drink. There was something in his hand that glowed like a firefly. As if he were holding on to a burning ember and it
made his palm glow orange. It was a stone in the hilt of a dagger, and the blade was back near his wrist, underhanded.

The man moved impossibly fast. Suddenly he was right next to Paedrin, and the knife was slashing toward his ribs. Paedrin twisted hard to the right and clamped his elbow against the man’s arm, pinning it against his body. He felt a razor line of heat flash across his skin.

Eyes widening with anger, Paedrin dropped the staff and sent his hooked fingers into the man’s grimacing face. For a moment they wrestled against each other, each one trying to throw the other off balance. A boot went behind Paedrin’s ankle, and he knew in another moment he would fall. Rather than fight it, he released his hold on the knife hand and rolled backward, over the man’s shoulders, and grabbed his chin. He connected with the man’s elbow and hurled the man off his feet, slamming him on the cobbled street with a bone-jarring crash.

A flash of pain went across Paedrin’s side. Lights began to shimmer. He looked down at the man, his face contorted in agony, and he stomped hard on his forearm, enough to break the bones. He heard them snap. He twisted the dagger from his fingers and immediately the light from the gem winked out. It felt heavy suddenly, as if it weighed as much as a bag of gold.

The broken man did not scream. His face was contorted with rage. He reached in his belt for another blade and began hefting it. Paedrin stomped on his stomach next, watching the man’s eyes bulge out. He had damaged him severely. It would take him months to recover.

The pain in Paedrin’s side was getting unbearable, but he did not let it show on his face.

The two stared at each other, fixing the moment in their minds. It was the first time in his life Paedrin was tempted to kill. The look of hate on the man’s face meant revenge. It meant he would stop at nothing to hunt Paedrin down for another
chance. He knew if their positions were reversed, there would be no qualm on the other’s part, and he would have buried the dagger to the hilt in Paedrin’s chest.

But that is why I am a Bhikhu
, he reminded himself. Even a life as miserable and wretched as this man’s was too sacred to steal. It meant that Paedrin had to be better than him. Always. There could be no room for doubting that. Paedrin stared into the hateful eyes, unflinching, and gave him a subtle nod as he lay on the dirty street, unable to even stand up. Two broken arms. Some grave internal damage. It would stop him from following them.

No one faced him in the man’s place. The wave had crashed with all its fury and might and was now slinking back to the place where it came from. Gripping the heavy iron weapon in one hand, Paedrin knelt and retrieved his nicked staff, and he walked away from Havenrook, knowing that he if he ever ventured there again, he would die.

“I am always fascinated by the baubles and trinkets which are invented by the Paracelsus order. They know how to enchant weapons with special powers. They created the magic that gives light to the city. Their genius knows no boundaries. Even the Rikes use their magic to heal the sick or Plague-ridden. They say that each item must be carefully crafted. I do not understand the principles involved, but I have grown to appreciate the genius behind it.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

T
he fire was small and sheltered within a hollowed-out stump to help conceal the light. Annon winced as Hettie pulled back Paedrin’s blood-stained shirt and exposed the gash. It was an awful wound, yet Paedrin sat like a stone, his face impassive. Several layers of skin and tissue that was white and purplish lay exposed. It made Annon ill to look at it.

Hettie shook her head slowly. “It’s too deep for just a compress. We’ll need to stitch it.”

Paedrin shrugged one shoulder.

“It will hurt,” Hettie said. “Do you want some ale for the pain?”

He looked at her coldly. “Do your worst, woman.”

Annon noticed Erasmus pacing around the camp, looking at each stump and tree, counting off the paces between them, looking at each patch of ground, often testing it with the toe of his boot.