The Black Prism(28)

The bridge groaned, and Kip looked up. The opposite post, on the island side, was aflame, and the animals were pushing away from it, but too scared to go back into town, which was also burning. That pushed them against the rail directly above the boys—and against the gap in the rail the horse had made—mere paces to their left.

Half a dozen rats splashed into the water, kicked by the other animals. Each of them began swimming in a different direction, including several right at the boys.

Kip’s stomach knotted in visceral fear. It was ridiculous that a rat should freeze him while two drafters didn’t—but he hated rats. Hated hated hated them. Sanson yanked on his sleeve, pulling him away. Kip launched off the post, splashing awkwardly. He turned back, making sure none of the rats latched onto his clothes. His eyes flicked up to the apprentice drafter Zymun, the boy’s head tucked between his arms as his master beat him. But then Zymun stiffened.

Zymun shouted something and stood, and his master stopped hitting him. Kip got his first good look at the boy. He couldn’t have been more than a year older than Kip, with unruly black hair, dark eyes, and a wide, fleshy mouth curved into a triumphant grin. Even in the moment Kip saw him, Zymun’s and his master’s skin were filling with red, the swirls like smoke being inhaled, but then compacted until it filled their bodies.

Kip turned and swam as hard as he could. There was one metal screen in front of the waterfall to keep boats or swimmers from going over, and a dock and stairs next to it. Sanson was already to the screen, more than ten paces ahead of Kip.

After a few more hard strokes, Kip glanced back. The bridge and the jostling animals blocked much of his view of the two drafters, but as he looked, he saw the master run a few quick steps forward. He jumped, spread his arms wide, and slapped his hands together. A shimmering ball of red luxin formed between his hands, and as they slapped together it rocketed forward. The drafter was blasted back by the force of what he’d thrown, but still landed on his feet.

The ball caught fire in midair, right before it plowed through the animals on the bridge. Sheep, horses, and pigs exploded in every direction, body parts flying. Wild shrieks filled the air, sounding almost human. The burning missile tore off the railing and blasted a chunk out of the middle of the bridge itself, and then it streaked over Kip’s head with a fiery roar and smashed the wood stairs above the dock. Kip didn’t think the drafter had missed, and for a moment he thought the man was trying to trap them.

The drawbridge cracked, and all the animals on it stumbled toward the sagging middle.

Now Zymun ran forward. He slapped red hand to red hand, but this time Kip couldn’t even see the ball of luxin—because it wasn’t aimed at him. One moment, Zymun was falling back, completely bowled over from the force of what he had thrown, and the next, the entire wood bridge exploded.

Flames and blood and spinning, detached body parts leapt into the sky. One great flaming section of the bridge streaked toward Kip, tumbling and filling his vision. It hit the water beside him with a great hissing splash.

When Kip could see again, he was pressed against the metal screen in front of the waterfall, surrounded by scraps and shards of wood, some sections still burning, one great section of the bridge slowly sinking, and hundreds of rats, some burnt to charcoal, others wounded, others simply wet, but all the living desperate to get out of the water. The larger animals hadn’t been blown so far by the explosion, but they were coming, thrashing, kicking, splashing, biting each other in their fear and pain.

“Kip! Climb over! We’ve almost made it!” Sanson shouted. He was already on the other side of the metal screen.

“Don’t move!” the older drafter shouted. His skin was already filling with red swirls. “Don’t move or the next one’s coming for your head!”

Kip grabbed the screen, but as soon as his hands touched it, he felt little claws scratching on his legs, then more on his back. He froze. Rats. First one or two, then half a dozen.

His eyes clamped shut as he felt the claws scramble onto his neck, and then over his head. In holding on to the screen, his body had become a bridge—the only way out of the water—and the rats swarmed him.

In moments, it wasn’t half a dozen rats. It was hundreds.

Kip’s muscles locked. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. He didn’t dare even open his eyes. Rats were in his hair. A rat had fallen down the front of his shirt and was clawing his chest. Rats were running up his arms.

“Move, Kip! Move or die!” Sanson shouted.

Suddenly, Kip felt detached from his own body. He was nearly drowning, the town was on fire, almost everyone he knew was dead, two drafters were trying to kill him, and he was worried about rats. Even as he clung here, the drafters were preparing the death blow, and he was too frightened to move. Ridiculous. Pathetic.