He smacked her hard. Pain was all it took. She shook her head, as if emerging from a dream, and the flames in her hands sputtered out. Her legs gave out, and she nearly collapsed, but he caught her.
Annon turned, glancing at Paedrin, and saw a look of shock and utter horror on his face. It was a look that said what are you?
Then Paedrin glanced over Annon’s shoulder, and he was suddenly in the air, zooming like a raven and coming down on the Preachán who had threatened them, scrabbling down the road to escape the flames and the strangers who had unleashed it.
“Of all the races to have survived the great Plague, there is one feared more than any other because they, of all people, cannot be harmed by it. The race appears as Aeduan as any Waylander. They are often mistaken for Paracelsus because they can summon fire into their hands and use it to harm others. A Paracelsus can only do this through an implement of magic, such as a ring or a bracelet. Curiously, the majority of this race have red hair. They are hated in Stonehollow. Though there are sparse records, I have learned that in the distant past, they used their immunity from the Plague to enrich themselves and their fellows. In places where the Plague destroyed entire villages, save their own kind, they inherited the wealth abandoned by their dead neighbors. They rose to thrones, principalities, and increased their dominion through deception and flattering words. In addition to calling fire into their hands, they are quick to learn and master skills, especially the skills of persuasion. This invoked jealousy, for men always distrust those wiser than themselves. And when it was eventually discovered that it was their ‘fireblood’ that made them immune to the Plague, the people of Stonehollow rose up against them when the seasons of Plague came. I watched this myself. A rumor of Plague came from the north. A rumor that turned out to be false. But a woman, red-haired and young, was dragged to a pillory in the center of town. They cut her with knives and collected her blood, which they brushed on the lintels of their homes. Many homes, they claimed, had been spared from the Plague in the past by so doing. Thus one death could save an entire village. The folk of Stonehollow do not consider this murder. No one would give me the name of this race. And no one with this blood willingly admits it.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
With flames devouring the woods and smoke billowing wildly, Annon motioned Hettie to join him as Paedrin hauled the trembling Preachán to his feet. The little man had paled as white as milk. He thrashed against Paedrin’s grip for a moment before the Bhikhu gripped his hand, twisted his wrist, and suddenly he was helpless, his arm pinned behind his back.
Annon fingered the Druidecht talisman mixed with the necklaces around the man’s neck. He gripped it and snapped the chain that held it, his anger still smoldering in his heart.
“I am worth more to you alive than dead,” the Preachán pleaded. “There are others…wait…what I mean is that there are ducats. Many ducats. Casks of ducats…”
“I’m not interested in ducats,” Annon said coldly.
“You may not, but the Romani girl might,” he said with a tremor in his voice. “Eh, lass? Ducats aplenty. I can lead you there. I didn’t notice the earring at first, forgive me. Had I known, I never would have presumed…”
“Yes, you would have,” Hettie said, her look full of loathing. “Kill him now. He’s of no use to us.”
Annon saw the glint in Paedrin’s eye, the sour expression of loathing. He remembered that they never willingly shed blood.
“How far is Havenrook?” Annon asked.
“A few leagues,” he replied, trying to seem helpful. “I know a place you could stay…”
“Somehow I doubt we can trust your recommendations,” Paedrin said. “Several leagues, you say?”
“Several. Maybe six? I forget. You will get there before nightfall if you hurry.” He was panting, his eyes darting back and forth at their faces, trying to read in them any possible way to save his life.
Paedrin released his arm and shoved him hard, making him stumble and fall. As the Preachán turned and faced them, eyes dancing with worry, Paedrin swiveled his staff in a swishing circle and then jammed the butt into the tip of the man’s toes with crushing force. There came from his mouth a howl of pain as he crumpled to the road in total agony.
“When we get there does not matter,” Paedrin said, “so long as we get there before you. I suggest hobbling along quickly before the flames catch up with you.” Giving a curt nod to Annon and Hettie, he said, “Let’s go.”