The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (33 page)

“He crossed this desert, see, and the witches was chasin’ him. These witches”—the sailor spat, his companions spat too—“they’s the ones that set the curse. So they was tryin’ to stop him. He had to get to the stone and they wakes a whole army of dead men from out of their graves to stop him. All bones, see, with skin hangin’ off like bits of rotten cloth. There was thousands comin’ at him, and the witches was comin’ too, spittin’ fire the way they can, and turnin’ theirselves into oliphants—”

“Nah,” said one of the men.

“They does! But this Prince Harkeld—”

“Where’s he from?”

“Osgaard. He had an army of men from Lundegaard too, and they gets to this stone—there’s three curse stones and he’s the only one who can chop ’em—and he takes his axe, he’s got this big axe, no one else can lift it, and he hits the stone dead center, big stone, red as blood, with the curse on it in witch language what no one can say, and it breaks in half, clean as that...” The sailor chopped with his hand. “And then it kind of crumbles into dust, and this army of dead men, their bones all comes apart and their skulls fall off their shoulders—it’s true, I talked to a soldier who was there—and the witches, they give this big howl”—he spat again and the gob landed near Jaumé’s feet—“like pigs when you stick ’em, and they turn into crows and fly away. True as I’m sittin’ here. The soldier, he were a sergeant, he seen it with his own eyes. He’s got a scar on his chest where the witches spat fire at him.”

“This Prince Harkeld? Where’s he now?”

“Leadin’ his army to find the next stone. He’s got to chop ’em all and then the curse’ll end. And the witches has come back and they’s chasin’ him.”

“I never heard of curse stones, just poison water.”

“There’s three stones. The second one’s here, in Ankeny. In the jungle—”

The kitchen woman came out of the pastry shop, eating a tart. She called, “Boy,” round a sticky mouthful, and then, “Hurry,” when Jaumé hesitated.

He picked up the sack of vegetables and followed her.

Harkeld. Prince Harkeld. Now he knew. He was on his way to join the prince’s army and fight witches and end the curse. Jaumé sweated under his load, and shivered with fear and delight.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

“C
ORA WANTS ME
to shoot arrows again,” Justen said, while they pitched tents in the rain. “She says I’m to aim at you.”

Harkeld glanced at him. The armsman’s face was hard to see beneath his dripping hood. “Does that bother you?”

“Yes. What if I hit you?”

Harkeld grinned at the armsman’s tone.

“It’s not funny! I could kill you.”

“You won’t. Cora and Katlen are going to burn any arrows I miss.”
But I won’t miss any
.

“What if
they
miss too?”

Harkeld shrugged. “Then the healers get to show off their magic.”

“They can’t resurrect corpses.”

“Then aim for my legs.”

Justen snorted. “Ach, you can laugh now, but you’ll scream if I
do
hit you.”

Cora strode through the mud towards them, accompanied by Katlen and Rand. “Well? Do you still wish to try this? You don’t have to. We can practice some more with—”

“I want to do it,” Harkeld said.

“Very well. Justen, grab another hundred of those arrows.”

Justen hurried off.

Harkeld headed away from the campsite with the three witches. “Have Justen stand there,” Cora said, pointing.

Katlen nodded and halted.

Cora led Harkeld another forty or so yards towards the ragged fringe of unfelled forest. “Justen will start by aiming off to your right,” she said. “And gradually alter his direction of fire. Should be a dozen arrows at least before he’s aiming directly at you.”

Harkeld nodded.

“You want to burn the arrows as far away from you as you can. If you fail to burn them by here...” Cora walked a dozen yards back towards the camp. “Katlen and I will burn them.”

Harkeld nodded again.

Justen had reached the point where Katlen waited. From the way the witch was gesturing, she was telling the armsman exactly what Cora had told him.

“If
we
fail to burn them, then my only advice is to duck.” Her gaze flicked to Harkeld’s left. “Rand is here, just in case.”

Harkeld followed her glance. The healer had settled himself on a wet tree stump a prudent distance away.

“If at any time you want to stop, just say so. This isn’t an exercise in courage.” Cora paused, her eyes on him, until he nodded. “Any questions?”

“No.”

“Very well. Let’s get started.”

Katlen joined Cora. Forty yards distant, Justen nocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring, sighting to Harkeld’s right.

Harkeld wiped rain from his face, inhaled a deep breath and flexed his hands. Nervous anticipation coiled in his belly. He summoned his fire magic.

“Ready?” Cora asked.

“Yes.”

Cora signaled to Justen. The armsman released the arrow. Harkeld followed the blur of its flight with his eyes.
Burn
.

A white-hot burst of flames and the arrow was gone.

Katlen waved a halt with her hand, frowning. “What happened to the arrowhead?”

“I burned it.”

Her eyebrows rose. “To ash?”

He nodded.

“It’s a waste of your energy,” Katlen told him. “You should use just enough magic to destroy the shaft.”

“I disagree,” Cora said mildly. “The next weapon he’s faced with may not be an arrow. It might be a throwing star. You or I couldn’t burn one of those, Katlen, but Flin might be able to. It could save his life.”

“Throwing stars are made of
steel
,” Katlen said. “Not iron.”

“Did we keep any throwing stars?” Rand asked.

Cora shook her head. “Buried them with the Fithians. A mistake.”

“The assassin I killed in the canyon,” Harkeld said. “His throwing star didn’t burn.”

“No,” Cora said. “But you had no idea what you were doing. I think there’s a good chance you can burn steel if you put your mind to it. Your grandfather could.”

His grandfather. The witch who’d tainted his mother’s bloodline. Harkeld felt a familiar surge of anger, and shoved it aside. He didn’t want to be sidetracked into rage right now. “Shall we continue?”

Cora waved to Justen. The armsman released another arrow.

Burn
. The arrow burst into flames.

Each time Justen nocked a new arrow, he sighted closer to Harkeld. The arrows became foreshortened, harder to see. Harkeld concentrated on burning them as far back towards Justen as he could. The armsman was almost directly facing him now.

Cora waved a halt. Justen lowered the bow.

“When Justen aims at you, that means
you
will be aiming at
him
. How do you feel about that?”

“I...” He frowned and tried to organize his thoughts. “I’m not aiming at Justen, I’m aiming at the arrows.”

“You don’t think you might accidentally burn him?”

He shook his head with a certainty that was deep and instinctive. “My magic knows what it’s aimed at.
I
know what it’s aimed at.”

“Are you certain?” Katlen asked. “Because that’s extremely potent fire you’re wielding.”

“I’m throwing my magic at the
arrow
,” Harkeld said, annoyed. “Not at anything else. If I wasn’t, then tree stumps all over this cursed place would be on fire!”

Cora smiled. “Good. As long as you realize that.”

Harkeld felt slightly mollified. She hadn’t been doubting him; she’d been teaching him yet another lesson.

“Ready?”

He nodded.

Cora waved at Justen. The armsman raised the bow. His stance was nervous.
He’s afraid he’ll kill me
.

Harkeld took a deep breath. His heart began to beat faster.

Justen released an arrow.

Burn
.

Two seconds’ wait. Another arrow.

Burn.

Another two seconds. Another arrow.

Burn.

Harkeld realized he was holding his breath. He made himself exhale, inhale. His heart hammered beneath his breastbone. The arrows were coming at him faster now.
Burn. Burn
. There was barely time to aim his magic, barely time to blink rain from his eyes, barely time to think, let alone breathe.
Burn. Burn. Burn.
His heart was galloping. His lungs had no air. The arrows were coming even faster.
Burn. Burn
. How could he aim when they were this fast? They were too—

An arrow streaked at him. He felt a spurt of panic—

The arrow flared alight. Orange flame, not white-hot. The shaft disintegrated into ash. The iron arrowhead struck his jerkin, a brisk tap against his chest. Harkeld flinched back a step, splashing into a puddle. His mouth was open, a yell lodged in his throat. His heart felt as if it was beating its way out of his ribcage.

The arrowhead hissed in the puddle at his feet, steam rising.

Cora waved Justen to stop and burned the two arrows he’d released. Their heads tumbled to the ground.

Harkeld swallowed the yell and closed his mouth.

“Excellently done, wouldn’t you say, Katlen?”

Harkeld tried to inhale. His lungs felt uncomfortably tight. His heart still trampled in his chest.

Cora smiled at him. “How did that feel? Would you like to try that again?”

Harkeld swallowed. He wiped rain from his face.
Do I have to?

No, he didn’t. Cora had said this wasn’t a test of his courage. He could stop whenever he wanted.

Harkeld touched his chest where the arrowhead had struck and glanced at Justen.

The armsman stood with his bow lowered.
How does he feel, knowing he hit me?
Scared. The armsman would be as scared as him, right now.

“Flin?”

“In my opinion, he’s had enough for one lesson,” Katlen said.

Her tone annoyed him. “No.” Harkeld moistened his lips. “I’d like to try again.”

Cora looked at him appraisingly. After a moment, she nodded. “Katlen, please tell Justen we’ll do that one more time. Tell him to start slowly, and gradually build up speed.”

Katlen looked as if she wanted to argue. She thinned her lips and walked back to where Justen stood.

“Are you certain about this?” Cora asked. “Because if you want to stop—”

Harkeld shook his head. Cora had stood in front of an archer and learned to do this.
If she can do it, I can do it
.

“Watch Justen,” Cora said. “See if you can anticipate when he’s going to release each arrow. It may make it easier.”

Harkeld nodded, his eyes on the armsman.

Katlen came back to stand with Cora. Justen nocked an arrow, sighted. Harkeld’s heart picked up speed again. Fear was tight in his chest, in his throat. He forced himself to breathe.

He was too far away to see the armsman’s fingers move as he released the arrow, but he saw Justen reach for the next arrow in his quiver. Harkeld aimed his magic at the arrow he couldn’t yet see.
Burn
. Something ignited in the air between them.

Justen reached back again, another arrow must be speeding at him. Harkeld threw his magic.
Burn
. Another flare of fire.

Ah, yes, this was easier. Much easier.

The fear faded. Harkeld began to relax. If he watched the armsman he knew when an arrow was in the air.
Burn. Burn
.

Justen began firing more swiftly. Harkeld narrowed his eyes, noting each snatch from the quiver.
Burn. Burn
.

The arrows were coming as fast as the armsman could shoot, but he had Justen’s rhythm, could anticipate each arrow’s release and destroy it within half a dozen yards of the bow.
Burn. Burn
. There was no fear, no panic. His heart was beating normally, his breathing was steady.
Burn. Burn. Burn
. This was simple. He had the trick of it.
Burn
. If it wasn’t Justen shooting at him—if it was an enemy—he could have burned the arrows as they leapt from the bow, could have burned them
in
the bow.