Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [2]
"Stay right where you are, bukhla," said Walloch. Amira didn't know what bukhla meant-it wasn't a Tuigan word-but the slaver's fondness for it said enough. He made his way down the slope, keeping the tip of his blade pointed at Amira.
The other two men kept their distance, their gaze alternating between Amira and their boss. The Nar's shirt was still smoking, but he didn't seem injured.
Walloch stomped to a halt at the bottom of the slope. "Where is the boy?"
Amira glared at him.
The Nar spoke up. "We saw only the woman. Chiet grabbed her, and she burned him. We never saw the boy."
The green flames in Amira's fist were growing smaller with each breath, though the fire on the end of the branch she held still crackled with life.
"Put the stick down," said Walloch.
Amira raised it over her head, ready to strike.
"You really think a torch is going to help you against me?"
Amira glanced at the two mercenaries. They took a cautious step back and looked to their boss.
"Enough of this," said Walloch.
Amira crouched and prepared to spring, her eye fixed on Walloch's blade.
The slaver took one step forward and brought his other hand around in an almost lazy pitch.
Something sharp struck Amira on the forehead, pain flared in her skull, and every shadow in the wood seemed to flood her vision. A roaring filled her ears, then she felt herself being hauled to her feet. The shadows fled, and she found herself looking into Walloch's furious gaze. Her limp hands were empty, and the last of the green flames were dying in the brush at her feet.
"Stupid bukhla. You go up against another wizard, all you think about is magic, and I take you down with a rock." He spat in her face and threw her down.
She fell on her side. Her head bounced against the carpet of sodden autumn leaves and mud, and pain lanced through her skull. Light flared in her eyes. She had to fight the pain to stay conscious. Wet warmth pulsed from the point of the pain on her forehead, and when she tried to rise, a mat of leaves and dirt clung to her face.
Blood, she thought. It's blood. That bastard hit me with a rock, and I'm bleeding like a hung pheasant. She cursed her own foolishness.
She made it halfway to her feet, and Walloch's boot struck her in the side. Her breath left her body, and she heard ribs crack.
"Stay down! You get up when I tell you. Not before."
Amira tried to draw a breath into her lungs, but she felt as if her entire upper body were stiff and brittle as cracked wood. Something struck her in the back, hard. Darkness filled her vision-
She was drowning. Water filled her nose, choking her, and she coughed and coughed until she found herself vomiting a pace away from two worn leather boots.
"Careful, boss. You don't want to kill her."
"Those pale-skinned bastards'll kill us all if we don't get that boy back." It was Walloch, nearby and spitting mad.
"No need to hurt good merchandise. That's all."
"If I want your opinion, I'll give it to you. Now get her up."
Amira felt strong hands hauling her to her feet. She opened her eyes and had to squint against the burning light. More men had come, and several held torches. The thick, oily light struggled to burn a halo through the dense mists, but the blow to her forehead seemed to have cracked more than skin, and even the feeble light stabbed into her like hot needles. It was hard to tell for sure, struggling to see through the pain and uncertain light, but Amira thought she saw at least four more newcomers, and one of them held the leashes to two hounds.
"Hey!" More water splashed into her face.
She turned to face Walloch. He still held his sword in one hand, but the other held a dripping waterskin.
"Look at me, bukhla. Look at me and listen, or I'll be the last thing you see."
Amira looked. Blood dripped into her right eye, but the men to each side held her arms fast, and she couldn't wipe it away.
"Where's your boy?" asked Walloch.
"He ran."
"He