“Speak to me…”

…

“…shining one…”

He was right in front of her. She dove through the patch of rhododendron, forcing her way through the brush, and burst out on the other side. Oaks thrust from the forest floor, too thick to wrap her arms around. The moon shone above and the air between the trees glowed slightly with a bluish haze.

Alex lay slumped by the roots of the nearest tree. He was always thin, with a slight build, but now he seemed barely a boy, fourteen instead of his eighteen. He didn’t move. His eyes were closed, his head drooped to the side. She dropped to her knees. Blood drenched his clothes, the fabric a solid mass of red.

Where was the wound? She could barely see him, let alone the injury.

Hugh knelt by her. A blue glow sheathed him. She’d seen glimpses of it before in the fight, but now it was obvious, a dense, rich blue, almost turquoise, the magic within it alive and strong, like a river. Hugh’s eyes glowed with the same electric blue.

The glow stretched from Hugh’s hand, sheathing Alex’s body.

She felt movement and looked up. Shadows moved through the blue haze between the trees. Humanoid shadows.

They’d massacred Redhill. They’d killed everyone there, men, women, children. Now they were coming after one of hers.

No.

“You got it?” Hugh asked.

“Yeah,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’ve got it.”

She rose and walked through the forest toward the advancing shapes, making no effort to hide. Creatures slipped through the brush on both sides of her.

A warrior stepped out of the haze twenty-five yards away. As tall as Hugh, he wore scale armor and a helmet that left his face bare. Tattoos marked his cheek. His long red hair spilled in a horse tail through an opening in his helmet and fell down his back.

He was a distraction. Bait. Elara stared at him, waiting. If he had a bow and fired, she could avoid the arrows. But a crossbow bolt travelled a lot faster and would prove to be a problem.

A creature darted from the right, impossibly fast. She locked her hand on its throat. It hung in her hand, limp. It used to be human, but now the corruption suffused it, twisting its very essence. It wasn’t the fetid stench of a vampire, reanimated after death. This was a living alteration and it left this beast with a shred of humanity hidden deep inside. Elara locked on the hot spark of magic within its body and swallowed it. It tasted delicious as only a human did. The lifeless sack of bone and muscle fell to the ground.

There were three warriors now. Same armor, same helmets, same swords in the scabbards on their hips. All three big men, the shortest only three inches or so under Hugh’s height. They watched her, mute. No bows then. All the better.

Elara smiled, showing them her teeth.

The creatures burst from the bushes all at once, clawed hands out, ready to rip her apart. The forest came alive with shadows. She dropped the mask she wore and let her magic out. A brush of her fingers, and a creature collapsed. A claw on her shoulder, and its owner crashed to the ground. She ripped the magic from them and fed.

The ring of bodies around her grew and still they kept coming.

The final beast collapsed at her feet.

The three warriors still looked at her.

Apparently, they were just going to stand there. No worries. She would come to them. Elara picked up her dress, carefully stepped on the corpse of the creature in front of her and walked across two bodies toward the three.

The magic died. One moment it was there, and the next it vanished like the flame of a candle snuffed out by a breath. Her power vanished, a weak coal smoldering deep inside her instead of a raging fire.

The three armored men moved forward as one, unsheathing their swords.

She backed away, circling the bodies.

The first warrior bore down on her, his pale eyes locked on her with the unblinking focus of a predator.

A hand landed on her shoulder and jerked her back. Hugh thrust himself into the space she’d occupied half a second ago and drove his sword into the man. The blade sank into the warrior with a screech of metal against metal just under the breastbone.

The warrior gasped.

Hugh freed his sword with a brutal jerk, twisting the blade as it came out, and spun out of the way as another tall warrior closed in from the left.

The injured man dropped to one knee. Blood poured from his mouth.

The tall warrior charged Hugh, feigning left, but Hugh dodged, spinning, batted aside the third warrior’s sword and backed up, facing her, drawing them away. The two warriors followed him, the taller on Hugh’s right and the shorter on his left.

She needed a weapon.

The injured fighter in front of her drew a hoarse breath. Elara grabbed at the sword in his hand. She might as well have tried to pry it from solid stone. He clenched it tighter and swiped at her with his left hand. She jumped out of the way, almost tripping on a rock. Perfect. Elara crouched and wrenched the chunk of sandstone out of the forest floor.

Behind the injured warrior, Hugh backed away another step. The right fighter thrust with bewildering speed. High blocked the blade and hammered a punch into the man’s face with his left hand. Cartilage crunched just as the other swordsman thrust at Hugh’s ribs. The Preceptor twisted out of the way, but not fast enough. The blade sliced through the leather and came out bloody.

Hugh didn’t seem surprised. He must’ve known the man would cut him. He’d calculated the whole thing and decided that taking a cut was worth it. She had to help him.

Elara clenched the rock and smashed it into the injured fighter’s face. He cried out. Blood splattered. She struck his face again and a third time, turning his features into bloody mush. His helmet came off. He dropped the sword. She let go of the rock and swiped the blade from the ground. It was wet with hot human blood. Elara raised it and brought it down on the fighter’s slumped back. The blade glanced off the metal collar of his armor and bit into his neck. It didn’t cut all the way through, but he collapsed.

Elara gripped the sword and pulled it free.

Hugh was on her right, the two fighters on her left. The one closest to her bled from his nose, his eyes swelling into slits. Hugh charged the fighter with the broken nose. Broken Nose cut at him in a fast, wild slash. Hugh leaned back, and Broken Nose’s sword sliced air. Before he could recover, Hugh cut at the fighter’s extended arm. The man let out a short guttural howl. His sword fell to the ground. His right arm hung limp, useless. The warrior grabbed his wounded arm with his left hand and stumbled back. The other fighter slashed at Hugh’s back. The blade connected. Hugh spun about, parrying the next strike, and attacked, driving the shorter man back.

Elara ran three steps forward and thrust the sword into Broken Nose’s armored back.

It didn’t penetrate.

The fighter turned around, swinging his blade. Elara rammed him, throwing all of her weight into him and his bleeding arm. He tripped and sprawled on the ground. She thrust her sword straight down into his chest and threw herself onto it.

The blade sank a couple of inches, screeching against the armor. The fighter screamed and clawed at the skirt of her dress with his remaining hand. Elara strained, digging her feet into the ground. She wished she still had the rock, so she could hammer the sword into his body.

The man screamed, staring straight at her. Blood poured from his mouth in a thick red gush. The metallic stench hit her. She had to finish it. Elara strained, summoning every last reserve she had. Something cracked in the man’s chest and the blade slid in. He jerked one last time and lay still.

Elara straightened. Blood dripped from her hands.

Hugh and the other man danced between the trees, their swords a blur. Steel clanged. She could barely see the blades. How in the world was Hugh even parrying that?

The weapons clashed, the two men throwing all their strength and speed into their strikes. The magic was down, but Hugh moved with insane precision: fast, flexible, strong, anticipating his opponent’s movements.

The warrior attacked him in an elaborate slash. Hugh parried and charged, raining blows on his opponent. The shorter warrior backed up. His blade danced, blocking, but his hand shook every time he countered a blow. Hugh was beating on him with methodical savagery. There was something almost business-like about it. Killing was a job, something that had to be done, and Hugh was an expert in it. He would get it done. The other man wouldn’t last long.