Ossendar: Book Two of the Resoration Series (68 page)

Directing his spirit, he stirred up the very sand. It rose off the ground and began spinning as if in a cyclone. Flare flung the sand at Philip, and a memory involuntarily surfaced. It had been a different type of fight, where he at flung dirt at Philip, but that fight had been to see who would lead the guardians.

Philip skidded to a halt under the deluge. He began backing up, covering his mouth and eyes.

With his sharpened senses, it felt like Flare could almost see each grain of sand as it hit. He forced the sand faster and faster, and Philip began to curse. Then, a new thought occurred to Flare, and he put it into action. Still maintaining his focus on the sand, he spoke quietly. “Ignum a' silius.” He channeled his desire into the spell, and his sharpened senses immediately told him it was working. Each grain of sand burst into flame, and Philip's curses changed to screams.

Philip flailed about, turning first one way then another. His foot caught on the edge of a rock, and he fell over, landing half on the ledge and half off.

Flare immediately pushed the flaming sand away, and forced himself to his feet. Holding his left arm close to his body, he moved to the edge of the drop off and cautiously looked over.

Philip was hanging on to a sharp rock several feet below the ledge drop off. He had both hands wrapped tightly around the rock, and he was frantically trying to pull himself up to the ledge.

Their eyes met and Philip stopped struggling.

Flare carefully got down onto his stomach and extended his right arm over the ledge. “Grab hold, Philip. I think I can pull you up.” He wasn't entirely sure, as his left shoulder was sliced up pretty good.

Philip grunted. “You want to save me?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I?” Flare asked coolly. His throbbing shoulder was a good reason why not, but he didn't want to bring it up. Philip looked up calmly at him, and for just a moment, Flare thought he was getting through to him.

Philip shook his head. “I don't mind dying, but I wish I could have done my family proud. I've failed them.”

“What do you mean?” Flare asked, still trying to get close enough to grasp Philip's hand.

Philip reached up with his right hand and caught a hold of Flare's wrist. A smile broke out on Philip's face. “Maybe I haven't failed them just yet.” Philip took his left hand off of the rock and stretched upwards wrapping it around the other side of Flare's wrist.

“Philip, quit talking. You're making it difficult to save you.”

“I don't want to be saved, Flare.” Philip let out a chuckle, but it sounded off. “I just want to take you with me.” He managed to get his right foot up against the cliff, and started pushing.

Flare immediately starting inching over the cliff, and he flattened himself against the ground, trying to keep from going over the side. “Philip! Stop! We'll both die.” Then he looked down into Philip's eyes, and his heart seemed to skip a beat. There was a look of determination in those eyes, and Flare was afraid he knew exactly what Philip was determined to do. He tried everything he could think of, he dug his toes into the dirt, and he even tried using his sore left arm but his arm was fairly useless. His head had already been hanging over the cliff, but his shoulders were also inching out there.

The panic was starting to blossom within Flare, as he looked down into the molten lava. He turned his head first left and then right, looking for something, anything to help him, but there wasn't anything.

Turning his head, he looked back down at Philip. He still had both hands around Flare's wrist, but he had stopped pushing against the cliff with his leg. Confused by the grimace on Philip's face, it took a moment for him to realize what was the matter. Philip was concentrating on maintaining his grip on Flare's wrist, and there was a good reason. They were hanging over a lake of molten lava, and it was hot. So hot, that they were both covered in sweat. Beads of sweat ran down Flare's right arm, and Philip's hands were slipping as he tried to hold on. Sensing that this could be his saving grace, Flare did the first thing that came to mind. He started spitting on his right arm. The spit ran down his arm and collected around Philip's slipping hands. Flare was amazed. As dry as his mouth felt, he still managed to get a lot of spit to come out.

Slipping even more, Philip dug his finger nails into Flare's forearm. He fought desperately but his right hand slipped and Philip was left holding on just with his left hand.

Sensing the advantage, Flare ripped his right arm upwards, and Philip slipped loose. For just a moment, he hung there in the air, and then he fell, without a sound.

Flare rolled over onto his back, and lay there panting. Emotions battled within him. Relief was first and flooded through him at his miraculous escape, but grief was close behind and threatened to overwhelm him. Philip had been deceived about him, and that deception had forced him to take his friend's life. Tears welled up in his eyes, and despair welled up in his stomach, and seemed to gnaw at his very soul. Fear also crept in, perhaps Philip had been right. What if he turned into this evil murderer of Kelcer? He pushed those thoughts away. He simply could not believe that he or anyone else was fated to be evil. After a few moments, another emotion came onto the scene. Rage reared up at those that had sent Philip after him, and he rolled over onto his side and curled into a ball. He knew one of them, High Priest Olliston. But who were the others? Although he had no proof, he was willing to bet his very soul that Duke Angaria had a hand in this.

He lay there for a moment, and the rage slowly dulled. It was probably shock, and he knew it, but still he felt better as the emotions drained away slowly. His eyes focused, focused on something moving slowly across one of the stone bridges and he forgot all about the emotions.

Flare pushed himself to a sitting position for a better look. Someone was moving out there. Actually, there were several moving people. A line of men were creeping across the third to last bridge, coming towards them.

As if his sitting up was a signal, the men broke into an all out run towards him, drawing swords as they did so.

Slowly climbing to his feet, Flare cradled his left arm against his stomach. Although there was blood all over his shirt, the cut itself didn't look all that deep. If it was kept clean and tended to, then it should heal nicely.

Moving closer to the bridges to get a better look, he stumbled on his first step and nearly fell. He was physically and emotionally drained and his muscles seemed to have a mind of their own. As it turned out, the first step was the hardest, and each one after the first came easier.

He paused only to pluck Ossendar from the dirt, where it had fallen. Leaning over, he grasped he hilt, and nearly fell onto his face. He was in desperate need of rest, or perhaps a bucket of ale.

Catching himself, before he fell, he straightened up and started for the bridges again. The men were still coming towards him, and they were coming quick. Even squinting, Flare could not make them out. He could see the swords in their hands, though.

The answer came to him in a flash of revelation, and he could have laughed at his foolishness. Sorcery! He reached out with his spirit, his senses were sharpened and he reveled in the exultation of it.

He turned his sharpened senses on the men. The men were from the South, that much was apparent from the darker skin and jet black hair. There wasn't anything that stood out about them. They each ran with a sword in their hand, and a long knife on their belts. A chain mail tunic covered their upper body, and their heads were uncovered.

Guards? Could there have been someone left to watch the tomb? That was a disquieting thought, but it was possible. He scanned the line of men again. Abruptly, several of the men toward the back of the line stood out. He hadn't noticed them earlier, but the sight of them made his blood run cold. These men were not guards. He knew that now, and he recognized some of them. Several of the men had been at Mul-Dune, and if that wasn't bad enough, Prince Zalustus was also there.

No, not guards. These men had followed the guardians somehow, and they in turn had led them straight to the sword.

He turned his head and looked at the coffin; his control of his spirit was slipping away. Atock was still lying in a heap, and Flare cursed that he hadn't thought to check on the man, but Philip's death had pushed it from his mind.

He studied Atock's crumpled form for a moment, and a chill ran down his spine. His head spun and Flare closed his eyes. What if Atock was dead? Philip was dead, and it had been Flare who had killed him. The spinning in his head intensified, and he knew in a detached manner, that he was close to passing out. If he did that, then he and Atock were both dead. He opened his eyes, and focused on the men on the bridges. The guardians had led them straight to the sword, and now there was nothing between them and the sword but Flare. The first of the men reached the last bridge, and ran onto its expanse. Several more followed the first out onto the bridge. Rage exploded in Flare. It felt like the very blood in his veins had been turned into a liquid, white hot rage and every heartbeat forced it all throughout his body.

Without knowing what he was doing, he reached out for his spirit. Well, that wasn't quite right. He seized the spirit in a vice; it felt as if he would explode at any moment.

To this point, he had done little with moving things with sorcery. He had moved small objects like swords, but he had never really tested himself before. He didn't intend to test himself now, but he acted without thinking. He unleashed his rage, and followed its lead, as it exploded.

Using his spirit, he reached out and grasped the point of the bridge that connected to this stone ledge. He grasped it and yanked it free. The sound was deafening as the very stones that made up the bridge exploded under the pressure. Pieces of stone flew through the air, some of them the size of a helmet. Flare's hair whipped around in the air, but not one piece of stone struck him. Without even being aware, he used the spiritual energy to deflect every piece that came near him.

Still holding the end of the bridge with his spiritual energy, Flare yanked it even farther, and threw it to his right. The bridge hung there for a moment, and then it slowly toppled away from the edge of the cavern and towards the lake of molten lava.

The men that already reached the bridge had grasped the sides as soon as he had torn the bridge loose. Several had been knocked loose by the flying stone debris, but the rest still held on tightly. As the bridge fell into the lava, the men screamed and tried desperately to jump to safety. None of them made it.

The screams of the dying men, more than anything else, caused the rage within Flare to lessen and fade away. The anger was still there, but it was replaced by a feeling of amazement at what he had done. His jaw dropped as he surveyed the scene of destruction, and his control of sorcery slipped and he lost his hold on his spirit.

Flare staggered and fell to his knees; exhaustion rolling over him, every muscle in his body screaming in agony. He shoved Ossendar into the ground, and leaned forward resting his forehead against the hilt. He hungrily sucked in air, feeling like he had been holding his breath for minutes. His clothes were soaking wet with sweat.

“Pretty impressive.” A voice called out from the stone hill on the other side of where the bridge had stood. “I never would have thought you had that in you.”

Wearily, Flare raised his head and stared across the expanse at the speaker. Should have known who it was. He cursed himself for not waiting another couple of seconds before ripping the bridge apart. Gods! Had he really done that all by himself? He shook his head, trying to clear it. Yes, if he had only waited several more moments, then Zalustus would be dead. 'If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,' was how the old saying went.

Struggling and with great effort, he pushed himself to his feet. He continued to use the sword as a crutch, though. He looked to the left, where the bridge had stood. It had completely collapsed, and took a small portion of the ledge with it. Glancing down, he was surprised to see that the bridge had almost completely disappeared into the lava. Looking back up, he noticed a small ledge that ran along the wall of the cavern. Apparently, the bridge had been attached to the wall, and that small ledge could very well prove to be his undoing. The ledge was small and would be difficult to cross, but it was passable. Flare swallowed hard, realizing it was a matter of time until the men on the other side found a way over.

“Flare? Can you hear me?” Zalustus shouted.

“Yeah.” Flare croaked, and then repeated louder. “What do you want?”

Zalustus laughed, “What do I want? Surely you know by now, I want the same thing you do. I want the sword.”

Confusion battled the exhaustion in Flare's mind. Why would Zalustus want the sword? It didn't make any sense. He didn't even waste any energy responding. Instead, he walked back to where Atock still lay motionless. Kneeling, Flare pressed his fingers to Atock's neck and was immensely relieved to feel a faint but steady heart beat. Carefully, he turned Atock's head and examined the wound. There was a bloody swollen spot, where Philip had clobbered him, but after a moment of examining the wound, Flare was sure he would live.

Still kneeling beside Atock, He raised his head and began frantically looking around for a defensible spot. He turned and looked towards Zalustus. They were still on the stone hill on the other side of the broken bridge, but they were intently studying the ledge along the cavern wall. It wouldn't take them long to find a way over.