Page 3 of On Burning Paths

But any more time might kill Fenric.

In the distance, there’s the sound of fighting. The others are getting closer to us. Thorian might be able to fight two of them on his own, but that won’t stop the other two Vultures from coming after us. And we’re not really in a place to fight back. At least not Fenric and I.

Thorian reaches me in a second, dropping to one knee beside Fenric without hesitation. He takes a moment to assess him, one hand pressing briefly to his throat to check his pulse with a gentleness that doesn't match the blood still drying on his knuckles. Then he gets his arms under him, shifting Fenric's weight with practiced efficiency, and stands.

Fenric is not a small man. Thorian lifts him like he is.

He settles Fenric across his shoulders in one fluid motion, adjusting his grip until he's secure, and a knot tightens in my chest watching it. This is the same man who was ready to snap two warlocks' necks with his bare hands thirty seconds ago. Now he's carrying an injured near-stranger through a burning forest with the same quiet focus. Like both things are simply what the moment requires, and he is more than capable of either.

"This way," he says, and turns.

I follow without a word.

We run.

The burning forest blurs around us, smoke thick in my throat, embers drifting down through the canopy like dying stars. I keep my eyes on Thorian's back, on Fenric's limp form across his shoulders, and I run. Branches catch at my sleeves. Roots threaten my footing. Behind us, the sounds of the warlocks and the crackle of fire grow gradually quieter, swallowed by distance and the dense press of trees.

After a while, the smoke thins. The orange glow fades from the sky behind us. The sounds of fighting become impossible to make out, replaced by the ordinary noise of the forest: birds startled from their branches, the rustle of small things moving through the underbrush, the wind through the high canopy overhead.

I don't realize I've slowed to a jog until Thorian does the same. Then we slow to a walk. His breathing is controlled and even despite Fenric's weight across his shoulders, though I can see the effort now in the set of his jaw, the slight forward lean of his posture.

We walk for long enough that the fear begins to loosen its grip. The trees grow denser, older, their trunks wide enough that the three of us could hide behind one. The light filtering down through the leaves shifts from the warm amber of a fire-lit sky to a cooler, greener, quieter shade.

We are, I think, actually safe. For now. As long as we find water soon.

Then a river appears so suddenly from between the trees that I nearly run straight into it.

“Over here,” Thorian says, turning on his heel and following what seems to be his intuition. After several minutes of fast walking down the water way, we reach a large tree right along a sand bar. Its roots reach into the soil, but also arch over into the sand like massive, thick fingers.

I follow Thorian as he crouches into the little space, which is essentially a cave made from tree roots. It’s dark and damp, and smells of earth, but it’s cool, butting right up against the river so that part of the cave is nearly in the river itself. Thorian sets Fenric down and drags him into the water, which I swear begins to steam at the heat of his skin.

"Check for food," he says, tossing me the pack as I stand under the coolness of the tree roots, watching Fenric with worry. Then he crouches to press two fingers to Fenric's throat again.

I pull the pack open and dig through it. My hand closes around a handful of the berries from earlier. I keep digging.

"There's still some water in this cantina, and then we can refill it with river water," I say, pulling it free and shaking it. There’s still weight to it.

"Good." Thorian holds out his hand and I pass it over. He uncaps it and tips a careful measure of water to Fenric's lips, one hand supporting the back of his head. "Get the berries ready. Water first, then food."

I nod, sorting the berries into my palm, ignoring the pull of my own thirst.

"Stay here," he says, already scanning the tree line. "Keep him in the water as much as you can until his body cools." He picks up his sword from where he set it and checks the blade. "I'm going to find us something more substantial to eat."

I glance toward the trees beyond the river, then back at him.

He catches it. "We're safe here," he says, with that certainty he carries like a second skin. It’s not reassurance but a fact. "The others won't make it this far. Not after the swamp." He looks at me directly. "Care for Fenric. That's what I need from you right now."

I release a slow breath. “I can do that.”

Thorian glances at me, then nods. He shifts Fenric carefully, keeping his head above the surface while I wade in and take his weight against my chest. The water is shockingly cold against my leathers. Fenric makes a low sound but doesn't wake.

“Thorian?” I say.

“Yes?”

My gaze goes back to Fenric. “I don’t know a lot about berserker abilities.”

He takes a long minute to answer. “In their berserker form, they’re nearly unstoppable by any creature alive, save for the gods and demi-gods. In their human form, they’re stronger, faster, and heal more quickly than a regular human.”