Turning, he focused the fireblood on the approaching men and watched them become consumed into plumes of ash.
“How many?” Baylen asked.
“At least a hundred,” Khiara said from above.
“Hold the flames,” Tyrus ordered. “Now we can see, and the smoke will add confusion. Bring the fight to them. Now!”
“Was only waiting for you to say it,” Baylen said with a chuffing laugh. The bulky Cruithne rushed toward the advancing foes.
Prince Aransetis put his hand on Annon’s shoulder, looking him in the eye with deep seriousness. “I will keep them away from you.” Then he shot like a lance into the midst of the Boeotians. Annon watched him, no weapons in hand, attacking the larger men with crisp, curt movements, standing like a dam against a flood. Each stroke was painful and Annon could hear the sound of snapping bones. An axe coming down at Aransetis’s skull was caught, ripped loose from the attacker’s grasp and tossed aside, followed up with a sharp kick to the kneecap and an elbow into his nose. Annon watched in amazement as the Vaettir prince struck with brutal efficiency, tossing men nearly twice his weight as if they were nothing. His black Rike cassock clung to him, snapping like a flag on a pole as he whipped from one victim to the next.
Nizeera growled at Annon’s feet, staying next to him in case others broke through.
None did.
Paedrin’s chain struck Cunsilion Uchitel’s cheekbone, hard enough to slit open the skin and spray blood, but the giant-man was tireless and determined. Again he swung the axe down hard to split Paedrin in half vertically and again the agile Bhikhu sidestepped the blow and delivered three of his own in return for the one doled out.
Paedrin whipped the chain around once more, but the Boeotian leader ducked and double-stepped forward, seeking to crush the young warrior with his hands. The Sword carried Paedrin directly over the rushing man and the Bhikhu landed behind him, pivoting the blade under his own armpit and stabbing backward. He felt the blade strike flesh and muscle and withdrew it and swung around again. The giant barely managed to avoid the killing stroke by diving forward. He seized a fistful of dirt and thrust it in Paedrin’s face. The tactic was an ancient one. It normally worked.
As Paedrin closed his eyes to deal with the abrasive pain of the dirt, his other set of eyes seemed to open and he could see just as clearly with his other senses. He lashed the chain whip down and the Boeotian rolled to one side. He lashed it again, forcing the man to roll the other way. The Boeotian struggled to get to his feet and Paedrin caught him around the neck with the chain, wrapping it in quick circles, and then jerked hard, unbalancing him. With the leash in his left hand, he raised the Sword of Winds to finish him off. His heart hammered in his chest. This would be a deathblow, his first deliberate kill. He sensed the Boeotian kneeling in front of him, chin out defiantly, his breath coming in winded gasps. Could Paedrin do this? Could he end a man’s life on purpose?
“Hasten!”
The command was issued by Tyrus. Had he seen the indecision on Paedrin’s face? Was something else amiss in the battle? From what he had seen, Tyrus’s small band was making short work of their foes. Was the summons to return to him and use the Tay al-Ard a result of something Paedrin had done—or failed to do?
One.
He could not waste time thinking about it. He left the chain around the leader’s neck and summoned the power of the Sword to bring him to Tyrus’s side.
Two.
Paedrin could not see, but he sensed the others were gathering swiftly. His eyes hurt from the dirt, but he ignored the pain. Reaching out, he clasped onto an arm. He recognized the bracer and the shape. It was Hettie. He squeezed her forearm, wanting so much to be away from the nightmares facing them. Where would Tyrus take them? Into the Scourgelands?
Three.
“Quickly!” someone called. From the commotion, Paedrin was almost sure it was Phae.
Four.
The magic of the Tay al-Ard gripped and flung them far away.
Five.
“There is something in humility which strangely exalts the heart.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
V
The battle with the Boeotians horrified Phae. She felt no physical threat or personal danger, but the abilities of those surrounding her had left her with a deep sense of her own helplessness. She had witnessed Shion fight before, single-handedly defying a group of Romani horsemen and scattering them to the four winds. He did the same to the Boeotians, using his skill and his double knives to deflect any attack against him and preventing any of the warriors from reaching her. Behind them, she had seen the one known as Kiranrao exhibit a bloodlust that would haunt her dreams. He was brutal and efficient at killing and had the uncanny ability to disappear like smoke only to reappear nearby, ready to kill the next man.
“How many?” Baylen asked.
“At least a hundred,” Khiara said from above.
“Hold the flames,” Tyrus ordered. “Now we can see, and the smoke will add confusion. Bring the fight to them. Now!”
“Was only waiting for you to say it,” Baylen said with a chuffing laugh. The bulky Cruithne rushed toward the advancing foes.
Prince Aransetis put his hand on Annon’s shoulder, looking him in the eye with deep seriousness. “I will keep them away from you.” Then he shot like a lance into the midst of the Boeotians. Annon watched him, no weapons in hand, attacking the larger men with crisp, curt movements, standing like a dam against a flood. Each stroke was painful and Annon could hear the sound of snapping bones. An axe coming down at Aransetis’s skull was caught, ripped loose from the attacker’s grasp and tossed aside, followed up with a sharp kick to the kneecap and an elbow into his nose. Annon watched in amazement as the Vaettir prince struck with brutal efficiency, tossing men nearly twice his weight as if they were nothing. His black Rike cassock clung to him, snapping like a flag on a pole as he whipped from one victim to the next.
Nizeera growled at Annon’s feet, staying next to him in case others broke through.
None did.
Paedrin’s chain struck Cunsilion Uchitel’s cheekbone, hard enough to slit open the skin and spray blood, but the giant-man was tireless and determined. Again he swung the axe down hard to split Paedrin in half vertically and again the agile Bhikhu sidestepped the blow and delivered three of his own in return for the one doled out.
Paedrin whipped the chain around once more, but the Boeotian leader ducked and double-stepped forward, seeking to crush the young warrior with his hands. The Sword carried Paedrin directly over the rushing man and the Bhikhu landed behind him, pivoting the blade under his own armpit and stabbing backward. He felt the blade strike flesh and muscle and withdrew it and swung around again. The giant barely managed to avoid the killing stroke by diving forward. He seized a fistful of dirt and thrust it in Paedrin’s face. The tactic was an ancient one. It normally worked.
As Paedrin closed his eyes to deal with the abrasive pain of the dirt, his other set of eyes seemed to open and he could see just as clearly with his other senses. He lashed the chain whip down and the Boeotian rolled to one side. He lashed it again, forcing the man to roll the other way. The Boeotian struggled to get to his feet and Paedrin caught him around the neck with the chain, wrapping it in quick circles, and then jerked hard, unbalancing him. With the leash in his left hand, he raised the Sword of Winds to finish him off. His heart hammered in his chest. This would be a deathblow, his first deliberate kill. He sensed the Boeotian kneeling in front of him, chin out defiantly, his breath coming in winded gasps. Could Paedrin do this? Could he end a man’s life on purpose?
“Hasten!”
The command was issued by Tyrus. Had he seen the indecision on Paedrin’s face? Was something else amiss in the battle? From what he had seen, Tyrus’s small band was making short work of their foes. Was the summons to return to him and use the Tay al-Ard a result of something Paedrin had done—or failed to do?
One.
He could not waste time thinking about it. He left the chain around the leader’s neck and summoned the power of the Sword to bring him to Tyrus’s side.
Two.
Paedrin could not see, but he sensed the others were gathering swiftly. His eyes hurt from the dirt, but he ignored the pain. Reaching out, he clasped onto an arm. He recognized the bracer and the shape. It was Hettie. He squeezed her forearm, wanting so much to be away from the nightmares facing them. Where would Tyrus take them? Into the Scourgelands?
Three.
“Quickly!” someone called. From the commotion, Paedrin was almost sure it was Phae.
Four.
The magic of the Tay al-Ard gripped and flung them far away.
Five.
“There is something in humility which strangely exalts the heart.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
V
The battle with the Boeotians horrified Phae. She felt no physical threat or personal danger, but the abilities of those surrounding her had left her with a deep sense of her own helplessness. She had witnessed Shion fight before, single-handedly defying a group of Romani horsemen and scattering them to the four winds. He did the same to the Boeotians, using his skill and his double knives to deflect any attack against him and preventing any of the warriors from reaching her. Behind them, she had seen the one known as Kiranrao exhibit a bloodlust that would haunt her dreams. He was brutal and efficient at killing and had the uncanny ability to disappear like smoke only to reappear nearby, ready to kill the next man.
