Stepping Wild (Dungeon Runner 04)

Tibs pulled out from under the debris and forced himself not to hear the people's pained cries as he moved from the destroyed building, and into another one, also destroyed by his out of controlled anger. Over the cries of those hurt were others, yelling names, calling out in hope, but answered only with silence.

How could he have let this happen again? He knew better than channeling fire when he was angry. When he burned so hot, nothing was safe.

No one was.

"Thibaud?" a woman yelled. She yelled again and her voice broke.

He pushed himself deeper into the destroyed building, cursing.

Of course she'd be here. He'd told them his plan, and she'd know where the Master's hideout was. Like him, she had to have been forced to meet the man. She couldn't know he was the cause of the blaze, but she had to believe he'd been there when it happened.

It was for the best, he told himself; forced himself to believe it. Now, he didn't have to lie about where he was going to ensure none of them followed him. That they tried to keep the team going.

Better they thought him dead and moved on with their lives.

He wished he could convince himself it was true of everyone who'd lost someone to the fire he'd unleashed.

How many dead because of his anger?

People approached the wreck he hid in, and he ran.

He fled.

"Thibaud?" a man called out, voice filled with hope, as Tibs crossed out into an alley; Charlie.

Covered with so much ash, and with the distance, he couldn't know, but hope would drive him on. Hope would drive everyone on; until it shattered.

Until what Tibs had done broke it.

He left the fighter behind.

Fled deeper into the city; Darkness etched around him to remain unseen. So no one would know what he'd done. The misery he'd brought onto this city just because he couldn't keep his anger in check.

Again.

When he couldn't run anymore, he punched a wall and screamed. Pain spread through his hand from the wood and he punched it again and again. And again when it didn't cause him anywhere near the pain he deserved.

A stone wall wouldn't work; that hadn't since back in Kragle Rock.

He rested his head against the cool wall and wished, as he often did when he caused so much destruction, that he could ice himself. Numb the pain and the guilt. But he knew better. Not feeling anything was as dangerous as his rage.

Someone new entered the edge of his range, and it was the speed at which they ran toward him that caught his attention. He cursed and climbed to the roof.

Of course, they'd chase anyone who fled the destruction. And no matter how well the etching hid him, he left a trail of ash for anyone skilled to follow.

Air scattered that.

Then he ran again.

* * * * *

When he fell to his knees this time, he rolled onto his side, curled up, and cried.

It was now full dark.

It wasn't his fault, a voice whispered at the back of his head. He'd been driven to it. The Master was the one to blame.

Tibs pushed the excuses down. He wouldn't pass the blame on to a dead man. Whatever the Master had done, Tibs knew better. How often had this happened? How many times had he told himself that had been the last time?

Why couldn't he ever learn?

Getting to his feet proved almost too hard. Exhaustion pulled him down, but he couldn't waste his time. He couldn't use his disgust to as an excuse. He, too, needed to move on.

Water cleaned him. A bit of robbery dressed him as one of the city folk.

He wandered among the night folks, wavering between running for the locked gates as an escape of what he'd done, and finding guards to hand himself over. Convince them he was responsible for all those deaths and let them punish him the way a murderer should be.

Already, whispers of how it had happened circulated. An unexplained fire, some said. The cause, according to others, was a tipped over oil barrel. A candle falling from a windowsill. And, as with anything people couldn't easily explain, some claimed magic was involved. A sorcerer, a careless adventurer, or possibly the Elements themselves, punishing wrongdoers.

It was me! He'd almost yelled at the old woman who had warned passersby to behave, lest the Elements did the same to them. Get the guards! Have them punish me!

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Only, what would they do to him? How did they punish murderers in this kingdom? Did they hang them? Cut off their heads?

Could he be hang? Ropes were made of either Wood or Fever. Too little of anything else to do anything. Could he keep from undoing a Wood essence made rope? Could he suffocate? Would he just fall through a Fever made one? Fever couldn't hurt him anymore, but how did that work with it around his neck? And again. Would he suffocate? He could put air directly into his body.

Maybe they burned murderers here, the way they did in some kingdoms. Or in distant villages in those where it wasn't accepted. Tied to a post and lit aflame. The pain considered a worthy trade off for sending the killer back to the elements.

The unattended brazier caught his attention, and he couldn't look away. Why shouldn't he suffer the way he had killed them?

His hand was in the bright coals. His teeth tight, to keep from voicing the pain. He didn't have the right to cry out in pain. This was nothing like the heat he had forced on them.

When he pulled his hand out, he hated himself for his cowardliness. They hadn't been able to escape the fire he'd brought onto them. Why did he think he deserved to remove his hand from it?

He tried, and failed, to put it back.

He wrapped his hand in cloth to keep people from wondering about it and went looking for a doorway to sleep in.

* * * * *

Sleep didn't help.

His hand burned coldly, and he constantly fought the urge to apply an etching of Purity. His punishment was nowhere near over.

He was careful to be certain his team wasn't waiting for him at the rooming house his room was in. He used essence to unlock the door, since picking a lock required two hands. His bags of coins went into a satchel. He dressed the way a traveler would, forcing a leather glove over his burned hand.

Maybe the leather couldn't hurt him, but the pressure on his charred flesh was an excruciating pain.

He set out, intent on leaving, but his steps took him in a different direction. Toward the nobles' neighborhood.

He didn't want to go.

He didn't want to see her. To be reminded of what he'd done to her. But he needed to. Something else he needed to be punished for. Fever might have been in control, but it wouldn't have if he hadn't channeled it first.

Not that he understood how it had happened. Fear of the fever poisoning him?

The reason didn't matter. He'd done it, and someone had been hurt because of it. And he needed to be punished.

And that meant seeing the damage he'd caused.

He found the house easily enough and watched from the alleys. He looked at the window to the room where he'd committed this crime. Where he'd let Fever cause it. Fever causing her to move against him. The essence flowing between them. Her cries—

He looked away, fighting against throwing up and trying to think of anything else other than her cries of—

And the cries of the people he burned filled his ears.

He turned to leave, disgusted at his cowardliness again, when she stepped out of the house.

He knew her, even if he didn't recall studying what she looked like. He knew her curves too well; the feel of her body against his. He'd seen her, and Fevered heat had consumed him; consumed them both.

Looking at her now didn't trigger it. He wouldn't let it. He kept Fever locked to its minuscule reserve and would never let it out.

She looked ordinary; tired. One of a multitude of servants constantly told what to do. Pushed by those who thought themselves better simply because they had money.

He tried to step in her direction. She deserved to unleash her anger on him for what he'd done to her. It wouldn't be enough, but it would be a start to his punishment.

He didn't move.

Coward.

He couldn't even face a woman's scorn. Her hatred.

He couldn't even manage to tell her he was sorry for how he'd abused her.

Coward and a monster.

But if he wasn't going to give her the chance to get her revenge on him, he could see to it her situation improved. It wasn't a bribe; he told himself. If he could work up the courage, he would go to her and let her tear him apart, and still see to it she had a better life.

It wasn't a bribe; he tried to convince himself.

It was simply the best he could manage.

* * * * *

He hadn't wanted to heal his hand.

He didn't deserve even a pause in his pain.

But the person he needed to be to set this up had wealth and people would question why he'd let any injury go untended. He couldn't afford to have people question anything about the role.

He dodged Charlie, who'd been watching the room where Tibs had his noble's clothing. Because of the fighter, he moved to a different part of the city. The clothing washed, embellishments acquired and added; he looked far wealthier than he ever had. He had to. The money he would hand over to the money holder was a pittance, not the entirety of his wealth.

"Welcome," she greeted him, taking in how he was dressed. "My Lord…?"

"You can call me Tiberon," he answered haughtily, making it clear it wasn't his real name. There would be no crest, not family surname. This was something no noble wanted traced back, lest it ruin their reputation.

She led him to the desk and motioned to a chair as she took hers on the other said. "How may I assist you, Lord Tiberon?"

He dropped the satchel on the desk as if he couldn't wait to be rid of it. "I need you to help me deal with a situation I have…I am responsible for."

She eyed it without judgment. "You understand that all I do is handle money?"

"Of course," he almost snapped. What else did she think he wanted from her? He brought his temper under control. This much could be allowed because of his position within society, but he needed her help, therefore needed to treat her appropriately. "There is a woman from…. Not my household that I have…." Keeping his tone neutral proved difficult. "Feelings for."

She glanced at the satchel again. "And you want me…?"

"See to it she has a simple, but unencumbered life without ties to any of the families."

"Including your own?"

"None of them," he stated. "She isn't to know how this came to be."

"Shouldn't she know you are her benefactor?"

"No." The vehemence startled her. He calmed himself, working out his answer. "If she knows, others can find out. The consequences would be…" more breathing. "She will never see me again—" you coward "—but I need her to be at ease."

He thought her expression changed, became gentler. Had any nobles ever come to her for the purpose of improving someone else's life? He certainly hadn't encountered many over the years.

"If you give me her name and where I can find her, I'll see to it her life is peaceful going forward."

Her name had been simple. He'd known he'd need it, once he decided on this method, so he'd followed her as she shopped. Then talked with the merchants. As for where to find her? Tibs wished he could forget that house existed.

He lost himself in alleys as soon as he exited her house. Then he lit his hand on fire and kept it going until cowardliness forced him to stop.

* * * * *

Tibs nearly walked into Uzoma as he went to join the caravan. He'd expected the archer to have found a caravan over the days it took him to establish the identity of the guard he'd travel as.

A few days later, he found a caravan heading in the general direction he wanted to go. It would be an indirect route, but by them, Tibs cared more about being away from the city than reaching his destination.