But he found his focus again, and he forced himself forward through the fire, ignoring the burning branches, ignoring the painful licks of flame. None of it mattered. None of his discomfort, his pain, his potential death mattered. All that mattered was that figure, now the focus of his ire, the symbol of all the injustices and all the hatred, of all the bullying and all the torture.
There he stood before Bransen, high on his rock.
Bransen crashed through the side of the bonfire. He heard the screams all around him; out of the corner of his left eye he saw Callen gasp and fall back, along with the guards supporting her.
But he strode forward, clearing the edge of the bonfire, stepping into the open in all his Highwayman glory right before Bernivvigar the Samhaist, right before the gasps and wide eyes of all the gathering.
He heard them crying out and whispering, "Highwayman."
They didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except that one figure.
"You dare interrupt this sacred ceremony?" old Bernivvigar roared down from on high. "You dare?"
Bransen drew the sword from his rope belt, but even without the weapon, the murderous intent was very clear in his eyes.
He strode toward the rock, and Bernivvigar surprised him, for the old man did not back away, did not show fear.
"To challenge me is to challenge the Ancient Ones!" he proclaimed, and he lifted his skinny arms up before him and uttered a quick incantation, the likes of which Bransen had never before heard. Bernivvigar's voice sounded like guttural grunting, but in a rhythm, as if someone were rolling stones down a jagged rocky slope in perfect timing.
Bransen didn't care. He drove forward, thinking to run up to the base of the stone and leap atop it, cutting the old wretch down in a single movement.
But he wasn't running fast, was suddenly barely moving, as if he were wading through deep mud. He glanced down at his feet, to see the grass itself reaching over his soft black shoes, grasping at him, knotting above the top of his feet. With a determined tug, Bransen tore one foot free, then the other. He swung his sword down in frustration, slicing a line in the grass, but any freedom he found was temporary as Bernivvigar's weeds and grass slapped and grabbed at him.
And the man was still chanting, and was no longer before him, Bransen realized. He followed the voice to the side and saw that Bernivvigar was standing on the grass not too far away, chanting and leering at him crazily, hungrily.
"Too long has the wrath of the Ancient Ones been bound inside the earth!" Bernivvigar cried; all about him, the people fell back in fear, for his voice was no longer that of a man, no longer that of a mortal creature. Somehow, Bernivvigar had gone beyond the bounds of his corporeal body, beyond the reach of the lesser beings about him.
Bransen, too, nearly swooned under the power of that voice.
"Feel the fires of the Ancient Ones!" Bernivvigar proclaimed, and he thrust both his hands out before him, his old, gnarled, and twisted fingers sparking and trailing wisps of smoke.
Bransen braced himself, falling once more into his concentration to deny the expected fires. But Bernivvigar was not aiming his strange magic Bransen's way, at least not directly. The ground beneath the Highwayman's feet began to slide and churn, and Bransen looked down in terror, noting that what had seemed ordinary grass was now smoldering with swirling red lava!
He didn't know what to do; he didn't know how to react. He scanned his memory of the Book of Jhest, looking for some clue, some hint as to what this old wretch was doing to him.
And then he heard a cry, sharp and shrill and full of a primal, tearing energy. His gaze slipped to Callen, who was on the ground on her back, the deadly viper coiled and ready to strike, just inches from her face.
Bransen wanted to call out to her, to tell her not to move. He wanted to leap before her, to take the strike if necessary, for he believed that with his training, he could withstand a snake's poison.
But the buzzing screamed in his head, a nest of bees, it now seemed. He knew that his shoes were smoking, knew that his feet were blistering, but he felt no pain: not even the bite of Bernivvigar's molten fires could penetrate the wall of his rage.
Without thinking, Bransen jerked his arm up and then snapped it forward, throwing his sword as if it were a spear.
He heard Bernivvigar's gasp, and the incantation stopped, before he registered that his sword had struck right through the Samhaist's chest.
Bernivvigar staggered backward, but did not fall to the ground. It hardly mattered to Bransen, for he charged at the man, in a great leap that brought him clear of the lava. His arms worked like the hooves of a charging horse, pumping and pounding, smashing Bernivvigar in the ribs, but strangely Bernivvigar was not grunting under the blows, and his skin seemed not to give at all beneath the weight of Bransen's punches, nor did his old bones crack in protest.
Bransen looked up to see Bernivvigar staring down at him and smiling, as if Bransen were but a child, an inconvenience. Bernivvigar lifted a hand and balled it tightly, and lightning-like energy crackled from his fist.
Bransen slugged him hard in the jaw, snapping the old man's head to the side. But Bernivvigar kept smiling and punched back. Though Bransen blocked the blow, he felt the jolt of energy surge through his body, stiffening him. Only his studies saved him, for he instinctively arched his body in just the right manner to serve as a conduit for the jolt, so that it ran down to the ground and left him relatively unscathed.
He punched again, and Bernivvigar swung.
Bransen ducked, leaning low, and with perfect balance, managed to kick his foot against the hilt of the sword protruding from Bernivvigar's chest.
A wince broke through Bernivvigar's mask of calm and confidence; and Bransen snapped off three quick kicks, all smacking the hilt and changing the angle of the blade.
Now the Highwayman found his rhythm, coming forward suddenly and popping off a series of short punches at the Samhaist. None connected heavily, and none would have done much damage anyway. But that wasn't the point.
Bransen was setting his feet; balance was the measure, he knew.
Bernivvigar swung again, and Bransen, knowing better than to block the enchanted fist, ducked. But even though the fist did not connect, it sent a jolt of lightning into him.
But that didn't knock the focused Bransen off balance, that didn't diffuse the buzzing.
He stepped sideways at Bernivvigar, grabbing the sword hilt, and accepted another powerful jolt and then another as he stepped away, turning his back as he tore his sword free.
Bernivvigar cackled mockingly behind him, but Bransen didn't hear it, didn't hear anything but the anger in his head.
Bransen started left, reversed the sword flow suddenly, and spun back right so quickly that Bernivvigar was still looking the other way when Bransen came whirling around, the sword high and horizontal, level with the old Samhaist's neck.
High into the air flew Bernivvigar's head, still wearing a smile of calm confidence.
Bransen was already moving the other way when the body crumpled behind him, when the head bounced down to the ground with a wet thump.
He dropped his sword and slowed his movement as he approached Callen and the snake, motioning at her to keep still. The snake hadn't struck yet, and it seemed as confused and overwhelmed as everyone else in the area-now far fewer people than when Bransen had emerged from the bonfire!
The buzzing continued, but within it, Bransen found a place of calm as he slipped between Callen and the viper, moving low and staring the frightened snake in the eye.