“No!” another wailed in terror, the net of magic scattering.
Tyrus’s head lifted, his eyes glazed with savage fury. He held up his hand, exposing a ring on his finger, and one of the Paracelsus went flying backward, arcing into the sky to smash into one of the stone columns still standing. Paedrin dove forward, coming up into a high leap and smashed his heel into the last Paracelsus’s face, dropping him to unconsciousness.
Paedrin whipped the blade around and turned to Tyrus. “Where is Hettie?” he shouted.
Blue flames irrupted from Tyrus’s outstretched arms, flooding toward Paedrin. Only his Bhikhu reflexes saved him and he leapt high into the air, summoning the blade’s magic to carry him up and over Tyrus’s head.
“It’s me, Paedrin!” he screamed and realized with anguish that Tyrus’s mind was no longer his own. Flames rippled from the man’s fingers, which were hooked like talons. There was no euphoria on his face, only malice and madness. Another burst of flames raced at him, and Paedrin swept it away quickly, barely dodging it.
“Stop!” Paedrin pleaded, trying to meet the gaze. It reminded him of the Boeotian Tasvir Virk and his heart crumpled with pain. Not Tyrus—not him. It was too much to lose him.
“You won’t . . . trick me!” Tyrus snarled, his body contorting into an unnatural position. He hunched over, as if experiencing horrible pain. His legs seemed rooted to the spot and one arm was tucked tight against his body, as if guarding a deep wound.
“It is not a trick,” Paedrin said, changing angles, using the Uddhava to be unpredictable. “Tyrus, please! You are sick. Let me help you. Where’s Hettie?”
“She’s dead. They’re all dead. I couldn’t stand alone against the entire world. I bore it all, but I’m dying.” He coughed and sagged to one knee, bending over and vomiting black bile. He struggled to breathe, choking.
Paedrin’s heart wrung with emotions. It was like watching Shivu die. “No, Tyrus! They’re alive. Phae is alive! We must wait for them here. They will come.”
“No . . . one . . . is . . . coming,” Tyrus gurgled.
“Trust me!” Paedrin pleaded. He needed to get close. If he could strike fast and hard, he could stun Tyrus and knock him unconscious. He came around from behind.
“Too late,” Tyrus moaned, shaking his head. Dribbles of spittle came from his mouth.
Paedrin saw his neck turn, saw the cunning in Tyrus’s eyes. The hands shot out like serpents, the illusion of weakness shattered by the surge of madness. Blue flames exploded around Paedrin, smothering him, searing his skin. He had seen what happened to a person struck by them before. Ash.
Yet the flames did not burn him.
“Tyrus!” Hettie yelled. Paedrin heard her voice, saw her appear behind Tyrus on the other side, her body crouched, her fingers burning blue as she tamed the fire and prevented it from engulfing Paedrin. It was everything she could do to absorb the fatal blast herself, drawing Tyrus’s fireblood with her own. Her face twisted with anguish.
“Now, Baylen!” she snapped.
Then the Cruithne was there, behind Tyrus and wrapping him in his huge arms, pinning his arms to his sides and jerking him away from Paedrin. The flames guttered out momentarily and Tyrus bucked and twisted. Even the Cruithne could barely contain him and Paedrin watched Baylen’s hold slipping.
Hettie ran up, her face wrinkled with anguish. “Uncle, stop! I have the cure for monkshood. Baylen, hold him still!”
“No!” Tyrus shrieked. “You’ll poison me!” He was desperate, frantic, his eyes blazing with terror.
“He’s stronger than he looks,” Baylen grunted, dodging his head aside as Tyrus’s whipped back to crush his nose. Baylen shifted his hold to a Bhikhu grip, wrapping his forearm around Tyrus’s neck, blocking off his air. The Paracelsus slammed into Baylen’s ribs, clawed at his face with his nails. Blood streamed from a cut on Baylen’s cheek, but he leaned forward, overpowering Tyrus with his pure weight. Both men wrestled viciously.
Paedrin saw several soldiers watching them from behind the shelter of stones, their faces frozen with terror. None of them tried to interrupt the scene. They were frightened out of their wits, leaderless—shattered.
Tyrus was choking, but he was still fighting. Baylen’s face scrunched with determination, his broad shoulders flexing as he forced Tyrus’s face into the shattered cobbles.
“Now,” Baylen grunted, blood dribbling off his chin.
Tyrus’s head was forced back, his throat exposed.
He looked at Hettie in wild terror. “Kill me,” he croaked. “Please! Just kill me!”