Book 7: Chapter 44: Soul on fire
Molten rock spewed from below to roll down the sides of the fiery peak. Although in pain and discomfort, Martel watched with awe. While the sea of flames was many miles away, he felt it across the distance. Primordial fire, calling out to his soul. He wanted to let it absorb him until he was nothing but a blaze, rolling across the landscape, burning everything.
The panicked screams shook him from his stasis. Eleanor grabbed him, and through the ringing in his ears, he heard her shout his name.
“We have to get away!”
“The ship,” Marcus spoke grimly. “That’s our only way out!”
“There’s not nearly room enough for everyone,” Martel protested. The townspeople numbered well in the hundreds, with all the workers included.
“Martel, rafts!” Eleanor interjected.
A dreadful memory came to him. Fleeing across the Savena, Khivan soldiers on their heels. Fighting a desperate, losing battle as rafts launched into the waters, carrying the legionaries to safety.
“Hah, of course!” Marcus exclaimed. “We have more than enough felled timber.” He turned away and stalked over to the magister, speaking rapidly to her.
“How much time do we have?” Eleanor asked.
Martel looked toward the lava conquering its way toward them. It moved fast. “Not long.” He swallowed. “Maybe I can buy us time.” “How? What can you do?”
“I don’t know. Eleanor, help with the rafts. Make sure nobody steals the ship.” Despair could easily make some treasure their own survival at the expense of everyone else. He looked at her, and should it be the last opportunity, he quickly kissed her before he separated from her.
Walking to the edge of the town, Martel looked up at the blazing inferno. The air itself felt like steam. The island was a cauldron, cooking. Martel had no knowledge of volcanoes, but he imagined the very sea surrounding them would boil as well. They had to get far away.
Martel knew he could never stop a force this powerful. This was nature itself, the very earth. He might as well try to command the gods themselves. But if Martel could not prevent the relentless onslaught of the blaze, perhaps he could delay it.
Cautiously, afraid, Martel reached out with his magical sense. He recalled how the explosion of Khivan powder had made him feel; the instant conflagration of such power connecting to him, overwhelming him.
This was worse. As Martel’s magic bound him to the flaming rock, his mind felt shattered. Or rather, dispersed. Spread out across a wide landscape; everywhere the lava touched. It was too much for a human to handle, like reaching out a hand to touch the sun.
But Martel was more than a mere human. Fire-touched, battlemage, wielder of inferno. With sweat pouring down his face, he regained mastery of his consciousness and forced his mind to collect itself. Drawing on all the spellpower he possessed, and all he did not, Martel bade the blaze to slow its merciless approach.
Martel had no impression of time, if he had held this position for a minute or an hour. His senses did not work; he could not hear what happened behind him, nor did he see anything. His eyes wore an empty stare, relaying no knowledge to his mind. He only felt the heat of a thousand stars, burning him through the connection he had established.
He did feel his body, though it seemed to him a mirage created by the magic at work. His mouth was full of dust, like the flour in the dungeon where he had incinerated a dozen inquisitors and a prince. Not a drop of moisture remained in him, judging by the sensation, and Martel would have poured saltwater down his throat to extinguish the blaze in him, if possible.
But he did not move. He could not. None of his limbs would have obeyed him, even if his consciousness could formulate the order. Every mote of energy in him went toward holding back the inexorable tide of fire.
No matter the strength of his efforts, Martel could not stall the advance entirely. Inch by inch, the lava crept forward, swallowing tree and plant and any animal unable to escape. All Martel could do was slow it down, and he bent his entire being toward this purpose; every moment might see another raft finished, or another yard of distance placed between the refugees and the disaster, once they set to sea. Hundreds of lives were at stake; maybe as many as Martel had killed during the battle of the Alonde bridge. Perhaps more, perhaps fewer.
While his body was locked in place, Martel’s mind floated. Memory of every major feat of magic performed by him came back. Quelling the blaze in the Khivan quarter. Setting a Khivan galley on fire. Stopping a cannonball. Unleashing an inferno to incinerate every enemy surrounding him on the shore of the Savena River. The moment where the flames he believed himself to have mastered had in turn mastered him.
If Martel could, he would have turned his thoughts to happier memories, but the bond to the flames proved stronger. All he could think about was fire. Unleashing it, again and again, slaughtering enemies. Proving stronger. Seizing its power, wielding it for his own gain. Felling the decurion with a single spell; watching his body burn with lightning. The fear in Flora’s eyes as she realised she had underestimated Martel, and how that same magic tore through her, killing her. Releasing the bolt to sink a ship carrying desperate fugitives, fleeing their own doom.
The salt of his sweat stung Martel’s eyes, but he could not close them. He had opened a door, creating a bridge to a force far greater than him, and with his spellpower spent, it turned on him. It continued to feed on him, his body, stealing his strength; little by little, Martel felt the darkness encroach on his mind. When he finally lost consciousness, it was a reprieve. Around him, the island burned.