TODAY they rode through the bottom of a narrow gorge. On either side, sheer granite walls rose straight up; the only way out was straight ahead, through a dense birch forest. The ground underfoot was thick with fallen yellow leaves. None of them was very happy about their route, and it was not one that Kellen would have freely chosen, but there didn't seem to be any other way, not if they were to keep to anything at all like their proper course northward.
Suddenly a flash of blue on the ground off to his right caught his eye. Kellen looked toward it. One of the drifts of leaves at the base of the trees was… blue?
"Look there," Kellen said, pointing. "I'm going to go check that. That's not right."
Shalkan stopped, and Kellen dismounted, with far more grace and assurance than he'd exhibited even a few days previously. He walked toward the strange blue leaves, drawing his sword as he did—the gesture was almost second nature by now. Behind him, Jermayan was dismounting as well, telling Valdien to stand.
When he reached the pile at the base of the tree, Kellen prodded it with the tip of his sword.
Not leaves.
Butterflies.
Dead butterflies, blue ones, hundreds of them. They'd flocked here, drawn somehow by the Barrier's power—did butterflies flock, or swarm?— and frozen to death in the harsh northern autumn. He sighed, depressed by the senseless destruction of so much innocent beauty.
"Kellen!"
He whirled at Jermayan's anguished cry, and stared in shock.
Running toward them was a mob of men and Centaurs with swords and clubs.
How… ?
Kellen stifled the automatic question. There would be time for questions later—if they survived. He summoned his battle-mind and ran toward the enemy.
He was closest to the group; they reached him—or he reached them— before Shalkan and Jermayan had taken more than a step or two.
Around him, the double-sight overlaid every one of the attackers; he fell into the fighting-trance without effort, and he met the attack of the nearest with no more thought than he had to put into taking a step forward. He had no shield, and his helmet was on Shalkan's saddle; that didn't matter. He automatically adjusted his defense to deal with those handicaps.
Jermayan hadn't had time to get his helm and shield either. And their opponents did have helmets, and shields that could turn or even stop a sword, and had the weight of numbers on their side as well. But they were facing an Elven Knight and a Knight-Mage, and their skills and their shields were not enough to protect them. Kellen knew that, bone-deep, blood-deep, and gave no more thought to it than that.
Kellen heard the slam of metal upon metal as Jermayan engaged his foe just behind him, and knew from the shouts and cries of pain just beyond Jermayan that Shalkan and Valdien were attacking as well. Good, he thought, then shut out all distraction to focus on his own battle.
He chose his target—a man wearing a shaggy bearskin vest with a chainmail shirt beneath. On his head he wore a close-fitting round helmet with a flat nosepiece, and carried a small round shield on his forearm, but his only heavy armor was a steel collar and shoulder guards. He smiled when he saw Kellen, and in that smile Kellen could almost read his thoughts—bright surcoat—fancy armor—no helmet —only a boy —easy prey.
Step and slash, Kellen told himself.
This was different from facing Jermayan in the practice ring. It was almost harder, because his enemy kept backing away, searching for an opening that Kellen wasn't willing to give him, all the while making wild swipes with his sword that had no chance of connecting. After a few seconds, Kellen realized that he needed to lure the man into attacking in order to finish him. He set up an easy patter of parry-right, strike-left, and parry-right, taking his parries farther and farther out away from the proper defensive line, and waited for the man to spot it and think he had found the weakness in his opponent's defenses.
As he'd hoped, the man rushed him, sword held foolishly high. Kellen stepped inside his opponent's swing with ease, felt the man's forearm jar harmlessly against his shoulder, grabbed the sword-arm with his left hand, and brought his own blade down on his foe's undefended shoulder with all his strength.
This time he did not turn his blade when he struck.
The razor edge of Elven steel slipped in between the steel shoulder guard and the steel neck-collar of his enemy's armor, sinking through bearskin vest, chain armor, flesh, and bone, to sever his attacker's arm cleanly at the joint.
The man reeled back, his torso spraying dark blood from severed arteries. He screamed in horror, pain, and shock, falling to his knees in a pool of spreading blood, groping after the limb that was no longer there before he fell over entirely.
Kellen dropped the arm he still held as if it had burned his hand, abruptly shocked out of his battle-trance. The man's screams of pain razored through him and he stood staring stupidly at the blood, and the dying man.
This was no game, no wondertale. It wasn't a practice session. This wasn't like the bloodless destruction of the stone Hounds. This was noisy and messy and real. He'd killed a man.
One moment he'd been alive, with a wife perhaps, or a sweetheart, siblings, parents. The next, he was dead.
And Kellen had killed him.
Then Jermayan jumped in front of him, shoving him back just as one of the Centaurs swept a spiked mace down just where Kellen's unprotected head would have been. Jermayan blocked, but the blow had caught him off-balance. The mace slammed into Jermayan's ribs, just where the jointed Elven armor was weakest, and Jermayan fell, crumpling awkwardly to the ground, his coiled black hair spilling free around him in a sudden untidy tangle.
No!
Kellen snapped back into full warrior mode again. Anger spilled around him, but did not touch him. He forgot everything but his training and his purpose. He stepped over Jermayan's body—always advance—and forced the Centaur back, away from Jermayan. It reared, striking at Kellen with metal-shod forehooves, and Kellen showed no mercy, crippling it swiftly and then moving in for the kill.
This time he did not stop, did not hesitate for a single instant. When the Centaur was dead he turned, looking for other attackers.
The other Centaur was already down, its belly open in a spill of glistening entrails. Four left, all human. They spread out, trying to keep an eye on Kellen and Shalkan at the same time.
He thought he heard a groan from Jermayan, and rage filled him again; before it could interfere with the battle-trance, he seized it, fed it into the trance, and felt it nourish his muscles with new strength, give a sharper focus to his vision.
Kellen circled around, giving them the choice of facing either him or Shalkan, knowing they'd see him as the greater threat—or the easier prey. The possible attacks all converged into one as he moved, the ghost-images coalescing into a single path for each man. They'd try to attack him all together, hoping he'd get rattled and careless.
But he wouldn't.
He backed up—Jermayan had also taught him that, to retreat as gracefully and as easily as to advance—leading them away from the bodies and the blood, onto surer footing. Away from Jermayan.
They tried to rush him all at once, but to attack in a group took training, and they only got in each other's way, while the ghost-images told him the best way to move to ensure that they tangled with each other. In the space of a breath, he struck while they were still trying to sort themselves out, one after another.
You could dance in Elven armor—a dance of death. Kellen moved now as if he wore nothing more than his Wildwood buckskins.
Cut high. Sidekick. Parry on the spin and cut low, parry high. Two were killed outright at the end of that pattern. High, low, high, rush, hilt to the chin, thrust. That one he wounded and Shalkan rushed in from the side and finished him. Kellen left his sword in the body and sidekicked the last attacker into Shalkan's path, and Shalkan killed that man by himself, standing over the body with a look of grim satisfaction, horn and hooves dyed scarlet with blood.
It was over. The entire battle had taken less time than the warm-up to a practice session.
Kellen fell out of his trance, and blinked, staring around himself. He wasn't winded, not even close, but he took the moment to breathe deeply, watching the bodies for any sign of movement, for another thing that Jermayan had warned him of was that an enemy might merely pretend death in order to take the supposed victor unawares—or attack in two groups, holding back half his strength.
But as he watched, Shalkan moved among the bodies, testing for signs of life, then raised his head, looking in every direction, testing the air. When he was done, the unicorn shook his head silently. There were no survivors, and no further threat.
Kellen reclaimed his sword. It was bloody from hilt to point, blood dripping from the quillons and the end, as wet as if he'd dipped it into a vat of the stuff. His surcoat was sodden with blood. He shook his head to clear it, feeling as though he were half-asleep, dazed, but knew he did not have the luxury of sinking to his knees and resting as his body suddenly urged him to do. There were urgent matters to attend to and no time for either panic or self-reproach.
Jermayan.
Still carrying his sword—there was no way he could sheathe it in its present condition—he hurried quickly back to his fallen friend and knelt beside him.
To Kellen's enormous relief, the Elven Knight still lived, though he was unconscious from his wound. Blood was seeping steadily through the armor, soaking the edges of the gash in the dark blue surcoat. His breathing was shallow, and his face was far paler than usual, nearly as white as shell-clay.
For one moment, Kellen felt a blinding flare of panic—what should he do? What could he do?
But as soon as it had come, it was gone. He knew what to do. He had to heal Jermayan with his magic. Fortunately, Idalia had taught him enough of the Healing spells to manage that. It was a simple spell, but costly—and with Jermayan unconscious, he couldn't ask him to share the cost. Kellen would have to pay the entire price.