Fires of Mastery by Zackery Arbela

Author:Zackery Arbela [Arbela, Zackery]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-03-04T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

The chronometer's told him it was an hour past noon, but one could hardly tell from the sky, so thick was the smoke and ash above. Fires still burned here and there, accompanied by the occasional scream, but there was little left but the mopping up. And the retribution.

Azaran sat on a fire-scorched chest. The lid was long bashed on, so he'd turned it sideways to sit. The planks creaked ominously under his weight, but held for now. He pulled back the bandage wrapped around his midsection. The runes glowed with their power, especially the line along his lower ribs that gave him powers of healing, which were drawing deeply on his remaining reserves of strength. The cut along his side was scabbed over now, the flesh pink and tender. A few more hours and it would be healed completely, leaving at most a faint scar. A far cry from the day before, when Azaran got a good look at his intestines, once the ax was removed from his flesh.

Sloppy. He was angry...not at the savage who inflicted the wound, but at himself. A warrior of the Green Banner should have known better. Always be on your guard, especially in a place like this, where there were still pockets of resistance scattered about and ambushes were a risk.

He'd survived. There was never any doubt. A lesser man would have died. But Azaran was of the Osa'shaq, and what was deadly to some was merely excruciating to him. He lived. The savage who inflicted the wound did not.

Someone waved a flask in front of his face. "You're looking well," Tarazal said. "Have a drink."

"I have water."

"Who's talking about water?"

Azaran took the flask, catching the odors of strong wine. He took a gulp, the harsh drink burning its way way down his throat. "A bit raw," he said, handing it back. The effects of strong drink rushed to his head for a moment, before the runes purged it from his body. It was the closest an Osa'shaq came to actual drunkenness.

"The savages destroyed the good stuff." Tarazal took a drink, grimaced, and tossed the flask aside, letting it shatter on the street. "Reason enough to kill the scum."

"How long are we staying?"

"As long as the Master wills. But not for much longer, I should think. We are almost done." Tarazal glanced at his wound. "Bezoraki is dead."

"Is he now?" Azaran bowed his head.

"Ax blow,. Like you, but with him it was to the neck. Cut his head clean off. No coming back from that."

"Well...bad luck for Bezoraki then."

"No, just sloppiness. He got lazy and the savage saw the opportunity." Tarazal pointed at Azaran's wound. "You are the lucky one. Next time I may not be there."

"Consider me reprimanded, Tarazal."

Tarazal nodded. "Where is your armor?"

"There is a large rent in the side. It is being repaired. I still have my sword." He pointed his thumb at the weapon, slung on his back, the hilt poking over his right shoulder.

"Very well. Get up, we have work to do.

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