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.
Unless… ?
He glanced up at Shalkan hopefully, but the unicorn shook his head.
'I can't,' the unicorn said, shaking his head unhappily. 'I'm sorry, Kellen. He's not a virgin.'
So it was all up to him alone. And when it was over, Kellen would be laboring under some sort of new responsibility or geas, as the Wild Magic exacted its payment—and it was barely possible that this price might be
