Closer now.
There weren’t many of the pack left alive; seven, perhaps eight. Of those that had begun the attack, many had fled, many had died. Kellen and Shalkan were within reach of the stragglers now. He could attack them, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to defend Petariel, Gesade, and Keirasti.
Keirasti had turned back when she felt Petariel’s weight leave her saddle. He could hear her shouting. Gesade was shouting too. Kellen didn’t bother to listen to the words. He was focused on what he must do.
The coldwarg could have attacked him and Shalkan as they passed, but they didn’t. Kellen hadn’t thought they would. The creatures would find it far more entertaining to let them reach the others and kill them all together.
He was counting on it.
“Help me,” he said to Shalkan, almost conversationally.
“Yes,” the unicorn answered simply.
They reached the other three. Shalkan was running flat-out, bounding over the snow. Kellen thrust himself off backward, landed standing in the snow, whirled, and drew his sword.
The coldwarg, sensing at last that something was not right with their prey, abandoned their lazy lope and began to run. They closed the distance between them and Kellen in seconds.
The world became nothing more than a series of targets. Kellen had no time to think, only to be. Afterward—long afterward—he would realize it ought to have reminded him of fighting the Outlaw Hunt, but it didn’t, and it never would, because the Kellen who faced the coldwarg in the Elven snow was a very different man than the frightened boy who had faced the pack of stone dogs sent by Armethalieh. That boy had been unsure of himself, uncertain of what to do.
Kellen knew exactly what to do.
He cut through the neck of the first beast that leaped at him. The second didn’t die, but it ran, badly wounded. He stopped counting after that. Each blow merged into the next. It was as if they moved to meet his blade. He knew where they were; knew where they would be. It was snowing harder now, masking the world in an impenetrable veil of whiteness, and it didn’t matter. Kellen saw the world in patterns of blue and green and red: his attacks, their attacks; defense, retreat.
He did not plan to retreat. He would not be where their blows landed; they would be where his blade could find them. It did not matter if he killed, or merely wounded, all that mattered was that he became the center of their attention, the foe that could not be ignored, that he dominated their thoughts until there was room for no other prey in their minds.
Except, of course, that he was not the prey.
They were. They just hadn’t realized it yet.
Here was the dancing circle, as it had been drawn for him by all his teachers—Jermayan, Master Belesharon, those who had taught them, back to the beginning of the World. Within it was what he had sworn to protect. Attack came from every side; he crossed the circle again and again, his sword spraying blood across the snow like dark stars.
At last there were no more targets.
The patterns faded around him and vanished into whiteness. And his sword suddenly felt too heavy to lift.
Warily Kellen gazed around. With his own eyes, he could see nothing but blowing snow, but the battle-sight told him the coldwarg were gone.
Or dead.
He looked around. Where were the others? There was no one in sight.
They had to be here.
“Shalkan?” he said hoarsely. “Keirasti? Petariel? Gesade?” Now that it was over, he could feel the ache in his muscles, the weariness of long exertion in the cold.
Before he could panic, a mound of snow a few feet away thrashed. Shalkan got to his feet and shook vigorously, then Petariel and Keirasti climbed out of the hollow where they had been shielding Shalkan. The two of them gently lifted Gesade to her feet, then at last Keirasti allowed her mare to rise from where she had been lying. The animal shook herself exuberantly, and snorted as if in disapproval of the entire matter.
“I believe I now know what a carpet feels like,” Petariel observed, his voice absolutely emotionless.
“You—I—Wait. I stepped on you?” Kellen said, confused.
“Several times,” Shalkan said. “I thought it best if we stayed out of your way.”
“I put Orata down to use as a shield, and Gesade next to her. Shalkan told us all to curl up as tight as we could,” Keirasti said.
He’d said he’d help, Kellen remembered with a sudden flash of gratitude. If he’d had to concentrate on protecting the others—if they’d been visible targets for the coldwarg… well, things might not have worked out so neatly.
“I’m sorry,” Kellen said contritely, his voice thick with the exhaustion that poured over him like winter honey. “I didn’t mean to step on you.”
Petariel stared at him as if he’d gone mad. Kellen could read the expression very clearly, even through Petariel’s helmet. “You saved our lives. You saved Gesade’s life. And now you’re apologizing for it. It’s true what they say. Wild-mages are all mad.”
“Let’s go,” Kellen said. He shook his head to clear the snow that was falling into his face through his helmet slits, and found enough energy to lift his sword and sheathe it. “Those things won’t be back today, but I’m tired, cold, and we need to get back and report. If you can walk that far, Gesade?”
“I can run, if I have to,” the unicorn said proudly, lifting her head.
“Let me go on ahead,” Keirasti said. “I’ll let them know that Leaf and Star have favored us this day.” She vaulted into Orata’s saddle and cantered off in the direction of the army.
Kellen looked up at the sky. He could see nothing. Now that he had the luxury of worrying, he hoped the rest of his friends were all right.
He knew as clearly as if the coldwarg had the power of human speech what their intent had been. Attack the army, kill as many of the Unicorn Knights as they could. They could not hope to destroy the entire army, but every warrior they could kill was a small victory for those they served. And if the Deathwings had managed to kill Ancaladar… or capture Vestakia…
“You killed a coldwarg pack,” Petariel said in tones of awe, breaking into his thoughts. “I wish I’d been able to watch.”
“There weren’t a lot of them,” Kellen said, realizing the moment he spoke that the words sounded like the worst sort of false modesty. He tried again. “Petariel, I’m a Knight-Mage. That kind of fighting is just one of the things I’m good at, because of the Wild Magic. Like Idalia can heal. It’s not like—like something I trained all my life to have. I mean, it’s just something I am, not something I had to earn. It doesn’t mean…” He wasn’t sure what he meant to say, so he stopped.
“But you came for us. You and Shalkan,” Petariel said.
That reminded Kellen of something. He rounded on his friend, fury giving him a burst of energy he wouldn’t have believed he had left only a moment before.
“And what did you mean by that? Coming out here with me like that? You didn’t have a scrap of armor on! You could have been killed!”
“I wanted to see the fun,” Shalkan said innocently. “Besides, I knew you’d protect me.” Shalkan stretched out his neck, batted his lashes, and managed to assume an infuriatingly sappy expression of hero-worship, despite the fact that he was still covered in drying coldwarg blood.
“I really ought to beat you senseless,” Kellen said fervently.
Gesade snorted. “Oh, don’t make me laugh!” she begged. “It hurts.”
The four of them began to walk slowly back toward the others through the thickening snow.
Chapter Eighteen
The Price of Power