“Fire!”
The urgent cry of alarm roused Bryce from his slumber and he hurried to his feet, his battle-honed senses instantly alert. He had heard the cry a few times at the castle while growing up and he had been trained to respond quickly. His fellow knights fought off the threat of flames with as much energy as they put forth to dispel any human attacker.
Fire was an enemy hated by all men.
The back wall of Bryce’s prison tent glowed faintly with the orange-red light of flames. The fire was so close! Smoke curled in through a gap between the tent wall and the ground and slowly drifted upward.
Outside the tent he could hear men screaming for more water. A horse whinnied in fear, then galloped off into the distance.
Suddenly, a hot burst of light bloomed on the tent wall in a fiery red glow as the blaze moved closer. Bryce felt the temperature in his prison rise dramatically. Droplets of sweat rose on his forehead and then dripped to the dirt, while a sheen of moisture appeared on his arms and legs. The manacle on his left foot slipped lower over his ankle. Bryce dropped back to the ground and started working on the manacle, turning, pulling, pushing.
Behind him the wall crackled. He stopped what he was doing only long enough to see a tendril of fire snake into the tent through the gap and start to crawl up the wall.
He turned his attention back to his ankle. When the guards had failed to chain him to the post in the ground, he knew this was his best chance. He had managed to remove one of his boots and had made some progress with his shackles earlier. Now, with his sweat lubricating the manacle, he was certain he could remove it. He had to; it didn’t appear as if anyone was in a hurry to get him out of there.
Outside, the cries grew louder as they competed with the roar of the blaze. More shouts for water. More horses making sounds of terror. Men running in all directions.
Bryce worked intently at the manacle on is ankle, talking to himself under his breath. I’m going to escape. All I need is to get this off and I can escape. The night will be my ally, my cloak. She will hide me well, as she has so many times in the past.
The tent grew hotter. The sweat flowed more freely from his body. The manacle moved even lower. The metal cut into his skin as he forced it lower and the salty sweat stung the tear in his heel. Blood seeped out of the wound. Bryce pulled on his shackles, ignoring the pain his effort was causing. This is nothing compared to what those searing flames will do to me, he told himself.
Then, to his amazement, his foot came free. He jumped to his feet and limped for the tent flap, the chains still attached to his right foot clanking as he ran.
Behind him, the tent wall disappeared into the belly of the inferno, eaten by the ravenous fire that was quickly surrounding him. The sound of the blaze swelled to a deafening roar as he raced outside.
His guards were gone from their posts, obviously busy fighting the fire. He saw at least fifteen tents burning, and several others were already piles of smoldering black ashes. He ran to a nearby tent and cautiously peered around the corner. He looked left and saw a clear path to the woods in the distance. He started to move toward the trees, but a small shadow at the corner of his eye caused him to turn and look back in the direction of his former prison.
The haze of smoke partially hid the figure of the small boy as he hurried inside the burning tent. No! It can’t be! Bryce dashed toward the burning tent.
He reared back as he entered. Fire was everywhere, the heat almost unbearable. Bryce squinted as the dark smoke bit at his eyes. His keen ears heard a snap in the roaring flames and he instinctively dived to his left as a burning tent support suddenly crashed to the ground! He felt the searing flames whip around his legs and he pushed himself to his feet, driving forward to escape the heat.
He saw the boy lying on his side in a corner of the tent with his legs pulled tightly to his chest, his face buried in his arms. “Here!” Bryce shouted, but the fire howled around him, drowning out his voice, demanding human flesh to feed its insatiable appetite.
The boy lay unmoving behind the shroud of flames.
Bryce felt his insides tighten with fear and, shielding his face with his manacled hands, he jumped through the curtain of fire. Pain seared his back, but he willed it away. He bent and scooped the boy into his arms, pressing him against his chest, trying to protect him from the heat of the fire.
Bryce exploded through the side wall of the tent, bursting past the charred canvas, moving out onto open ground. He hurried farther away from the flames, away from the intense heat, and then dropped to his knees, cradling the boy to his chest. He could not let him go. He was afraid, afraid of what he might find if he looked into the boy’s face. Runt was so still in his arms, so limp. Tears rose in Bryce’s eyes as he squeezed the boy close, willing his life into the child, wishing it were him instead of Runt. Slowly, he moved the boy away from his chest, feeling as if he were tearing a piece of skin from his body. I told him to go, he thought desperately. Why is he still here?
Finally, Bryce laid the boy gently on the ground and looked down into his wide eyes. There was no life there, only the reflection of the full moon. He reached toward the boy’s shoulder, but stopped as he saw his own hand was shaking.
He clenched his fist for a moment afraid that when he touched him, Runt would not move. “Get up, Runt,” he called hoarsely.
Nothing.
He cautiously prodded Runt’s shoulder. When the child didn’t stir, Bryce felt a desperation surge inside of him. He seized the boy’s shoulder and shook it, almost savagely. No, he thought, tears threatening to choke him. “Come on, boy,” Bryce commanded. “On your feet.”
But the child didn’t move; his eyes didn’t blink.
“I said on your feet!” he shouted. A moment passed, then another. When Runt did not move, Bryce sat on his heels, staring dumbly at the child. It can’t be, he thought. I won’t believe it. This cannot be Runt. I told him to leave. I commanded him. He would not disobey me.
Then, he saw it. That lock of dark hair that was forever in the boy’s eyes was lying limply at the side of his head, brushed aside for all eternity.
Bryce began to shake. He scooped Runt up into his arms, holding him tightly against his heart, and buried his face into the child’s neck. “Oh, God, Runt,” he whispered barely able to get the words past his clothing throat. “Why didn’t you listen to me? Why couldn’t you go…”
He stroked Runt’s dark head, his chest constricting tightly, tears blurring his vision. Finally, his sorrow and agony and pain overwhelmed him. He threw back his head. “Noooooo!” he roared, and his anguish echoed through the night.
In the nearby woods, wolves began to howl.