Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [31]
Then, without warning, fire came again.
Kalassyn staggered in helpless, sightless pain, struggling to stand amid the roiling winds of the bright, searing blast. Off to the left, a man screamed, and an instant later Kalassyn fell over a huddled, armored form.
He landed hard atop another guard, whose black armor was hot enough to burn. Kalassyn rolled off as hastily as he could, cursing weakly. Crawling pain told him his robes were ablaze. Tears blinded him as he tore away his garb in flaming strips, shrieking at the agony spreading from his frantic, trembling hands.
Somehow he staggered on and sank to his knees at last in grass that was not scorched or ablaze.
He must… now would be the time to…
Kalassyn of Zhentil Keep fought for and found an instant to wonder if he was dying, but it was snatched away again by flames that roared in to fill his mind.
6
Fire in the Night
"Lord? Lord, do ye live?"
Kalassyn struggled to reply and discovered he was lying on scorched grass, legs twisted awkwardly under him.
He raised his head and, through a blur of tears, made out a dark, helmed head bent anxiously over him. Behind the first man, another guard stood holding a torch. Kalassyn winced, turning his eyes away from the flickering light.
"Aye," he said at last, struggling to move stiff, blackened lips. They cracked, with little twinges of pain, but the rest of him hurt far worse. "What-what happened?"
"Fire out of the night, Lord. From a tree next to the guard tree. We've surrounded it, but there's been no sound or movement since the second strike felled ye."
Kalassyn struggled. Pain stabbed at him. "Help me up," he snarled.
"Aye, Lord." Hands like heavy stones fell upon his shoulders, and he whimpered despite himself as he was gently hauled to his feet. Reeling, he fell to one knee. The hands steadied him, raised him again, and stayed there. He clung to them without shame and looked around.
After what seemed a very long time, as breath whispered and hissed in and out of his tortured lungs, he could see again.
It was not an inspiring sight. He was naked, covered with matted grass and burned hair. Behind him, smoke still rose from a ring of grass in front of the calmly glowing, unchanged gate. Within the ring lay the blackened bodies of five… six… no, eight Wolves and, facedown at their forefront, Mrinden. Bones showed here and there in the ashy ruin of the wizard. Kalassyn doubted he'd ever hear that nasty voice snapping orders again.
He looked away and saw other men groaning and clutching themselves in agony, their armor blackened and burned, or torn off. Others stood as if dazed or walked with the stiff strides of strong men in pain but determined not to let it diminish them. Of the band that had hurried up from the barracks not so long ago, only a handful still stood.
Kalassyn swallowed, thinking of Stormcloak's face-or the visage of sneering, sarcastic Hcarla Bellwind-and closed his eyes. The scorched smell of overcooked flesh hung sickeningly in the air, Kalassyn knew it would be a very long time before he'd want to eat bacon again.
He opened his eyes and drew himself up. Men were looking at him. There was anger in some faces and anxiousness in others. Something remained to be done. Something they were waiting for.
He stepped forward, free of the helping hands. "Get me my robes," he said hoarsely, without looking at the guards behind him. "The burned ones, all the scraps you can find."
He waited in the cool night breeze until a black form moved in front of him. "Here, Lord."
He angrily waved a torch nearer and with eager fingers probed the sorry scraps held out to him. Ah, there! He plucked out the brass-and-horn purse by its chain, The purse was ruined, twisted and scarred with the heat, but perhaps within all was well. He snatched out a certain ball wrapped in