From Darkness Won - Jill Williamson [143]
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Lord Nathak thrust his hands out. Green fire sizzled from his palms like a bolt of lightning. Achan threw himself to his stomach on the mossy ground to avoid the hit. The fire bolt struck the already burning wagon, causing it to leap off the ground and come smashing down in a pile of shredded wood.
Lord Nathak cackled like a madman and let fly two more streams of green fire, one to Achan’s men to the north and one to the south. Men screamed. Some fell to the road, on fire, rolling in the dirt.
Achan pushed himself up, standing between Lord Nathak and his men. He lifted Ôwr, breathing through his nose like a bull, terrified but unwilling to watch more of his men be slaughtered. “You came here for me. So deal with me.”
Another ball of fire formed on Lord Nathak’s palm. He flung his hand backward as if to throw it, but the green fire flew off his hand and struck a tree behind him.
His eyes widened. Achan looked up.
High above their heads, the tree trunk severed. The top cracked as it broke away and fell. Lord Nathak leaped back just before the tree trunk stabbed into the mossy ground.
Achan stumbled back over the squishy terrain. The leafy treetop tipped toward him. He dived out of the way just as the branches slapped against the road, leaves rustling. A few whipped his back.
When Achan got back to his feet, the fire had jumped from the wagon to the tree, but the leaves and branches sizzled and smoked, too green to burn well.
“This isn’t over, brother!” Lord Nathak yelled.
Achan peered through branches. Lord Nathak had mounted his horse. “Now that I am the Hadad, you would be wise to give up your claim to the throne and serve me.”
As if Achan would give up now. “That’s never going to happen!”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to kill yet another family member.” He turned his horse and rode off through the forest.
Achan backed out of the branches and sat down on the fat end of the tree trunk. It smelled fresh and sharp, a pleasant change from the thick smoke of the fire. A misty green cloud swarmed with the black smoke and hung over the wreckage. Orange flames licked the sky over the remains of his wagon. He wiped the sweat off his face, then wiped his hands on his trousers. His arms were trembling.
“Are you well, Your Highness?” Sir Caleb stepped off the road. He sank in the moss, nearly up to his knees.
“I dropped Ôwr under the tree.”
“I’ll get someone to look for it.”
“I don’t understand it,” Achan said, shaking his head. “What came over him? He got so powerful all of a sudden. And then that last green magic ball… it looked like it fell off his hand, like he meant to hit me with it but dropped it.”
Sir Caleb stood. “The ways of sorcerers are beyond me. Perhaps they make mistakes as well.” He looked around at the carnage, then back at Achan. “Why don’t you rest here while I fetch another wagon? It may be a while. I’ll have Shung and Kurtz come sit with you.”
“See to those burned men.” Achan wanted nothing more than rest at the moment. His mind was too full to think or logically discuss matters.
A knock rattled the shields around Achan’s mind, mincing his already sore head. Duchess Amal.
Achan didn’t know when he’d closed his mind to the duchess. Yes, my lady?
How do you fare?
As if he could put such a thing into words. Lord Nathak had just admitted to having killed his parents. The keliy had come to him, healed him before Achan’s eyes. His men had been burned alive. And Prince Oren had been stormed. I am yet living, my lady.
Do not be glum. Look around you. We have done what we set out to do. Your army has crossed over into southern Er’Rets. Tonight, you and your men will rejoice in a job well done.
If I had been better trained I would not have made such terrible mistakes, and Prince Oren might still be here. I am no Veil warrior.
None of that now. Prince Oren knew the risks. We all did. Any one of us could have perished.
But only Prince Oren had.
Achan cried out to Arman. Let it not be so, I beg You, Arman. Spare his life. Spare my family. But that