Hettie’s stomach twisted with the realization that they were stranded. What had happened? She saw the fury in the eyes of the Weir, their teeth bared and ready to shred.
As one, they both unleashed the fireblood on the charging beasts. Hettie’s heart nearly exploded with fear and desperation. She let the whirl of emotions sweep her up in the temporary euphoria that always accompanied the power. Gushes of blue flames came out as a vortex, blackening the churned earth, igniting the mass of desiccated leaves within, and tearing through the Weir. The thrill almost surpassed her terror, but not quite. They stood shoulder to shoulder, spreading the net of flames through the ground in front of them, trying to create a barrier of flames to hold back their enemies.
Where dozens fell, dozens more came out.
Plumes of smoke stained the air with a brown haze, and the flames began to spread across the ground. The Weir darted through the pockets, snarling and howling for their blood.
There were too many to stop. The next wave was already nearing them.
“We are defeated!” Tyrus shouted with panic in his voice. “Spare my daughter at least. Let me die, but save her!”
Hettie’s insides churned as she watched the malevolent looks from the Weir. Their sinews and muscles were bunching, their stride increasing as they loped forward. The wind tousled her hair and she felt another moment of pure panic.
“Lukias!” Tyrus bellowed in desperation.
“You murdered her when you chose to bring her here,” Lukias said coldly. “It’s a trick, Tyrus. We both know it.”
One of the Weir vaulted through the ring of flames and tackled Tyrus, its teeth snapping viciously into his shoulder. He wrestled it around, sending fire into its belly, dissolving it into ash. Hettie ducked as one hurtled over her, dropping into a low Bhikhu stance. With one hand, she sent flames surging into the next row. With her other, she destroyed the one that had gotten past her. Movement surged from every side as Tyrus made it back to his feet. His fingers were like claws themselves as jets of blue flame erupted from his hands, catching several of the Weir.
Hettie stayed near Tyrus, her face damp with sweat. A hopeless feeling swelled with the panic and she realized they were both going to die or go mad with the fireblood. Already she had used so much of it in the Scourgelands that she was giddy with the notion of unleashing the power fully. Annon had always been more self-controlled than she with the flame. She remembered using it alongside her brother on the road to Havenrook. This was not even a shade in comparison. The guilty relish filled her heart, demanding she push the limits further. What was the point? With the Tay al-Ard gone, they were both doomed. The Arch-Rike suspected a trick. The trick was on them.
One of the Weir managed to sidestep her attack and its claws ripped into her hip, slashing through the leather pants she wore. She almost didn’t feel the pain when its teeth sank into her knee next, but she slammed her fists down on its head and channeled enough flame to destroy it. Pain and dizziness began to surface, threatening to break past her desperate struggle to survive. Pain and blood and smoke filled her lungs and she found herself screaming in challenge, delving deeper into the magic of the fireblood, drawing on its infinite power and infinite danger.
“No, Hettie!” Tyrus warned.
She heard his words but they were meaningless to her. Another Weir landed in front of her, and she grabbed it by the ruff of its neck and ripped it apart with her magic. Let them come! Let them meet their death! She was enraged, feeling her mind begin to totter over the brink. She no longer cared. If she were going to die in the Scourgelands, she would ruin it. It would be reborn in fire.
“No!” Tyrus shouted, striking her hard across the face, just as Annon had. While he was turned, two Weir knocked him down, ripping into his flesh. He groaned in pain, twisting quickly and shielding his face from their claws. Fire bloomed again, shattering them both, and he made it up just as another round advanced.
“Climb, Hettie!” he begged her, retreating to the promontory wall. “That way! Climb!”
He stood between her and the Weir, his expression full of hate and rage. He took the leather pouch around his neck and put it in his mouth, beginning to chew on the bag. It contained monkshood, the dose she did not know. He would chew on it, dissolving it with his saliva until it entered his system. It would kill him, but not until after he had released the full power.