Owlknight

dominance.

Darian shrugged, as if the tactic hadn’t impressed him, and the Shaman’s smile turned to a frown. Is Darian going to attack next? Keisha wondered, her hands balled into fists at her side as she watched. The Shaman was obviously expecting him to do something equally showy in response, and his frown deepened.

Darian didn’t even shift his weight; he waited patiently, with no sign of agitation or anger. Why? she wondered. Steelmind had come up to her other side unnoticed; he put a comforting hand on her shoulder and she jumped.

“Darian is playing a waiting game,” he murmured in her ear. “When two Masters contend, there is no question of one running out of magic energy, for they use the ley-lines. Instead, usually the one who loses is the one who becomes physically fatigued soonest. Darian is rightly letting the Shaman expend his own strength first; he loses nothing by this, but if the Shaman were to play the same game, he would lose face with his warriors, who expect him to be aggressive.”

The Shaman tried another few volleys of those shooting stars, but however thick and fast they came, Darian deflected them without turning a hair. They looked impressive - as most of his magics likely were - but the blazing attacks were treated with such apparent indifference by his opponent, the Shaman must have realized this bit of flashiness was working against him.

The Blood Bear warriors, already keyed up and spoiling for a fight, had no patience with this onesided battle. They had been moving restlessly and muttering among themselves since the Shaman stepped forward. Just as Keisha glanced over at them, alarmed at a sudden rise in their anger, they charged the Raven defenses.

Their screams of battle drowned out her own scream of fear, and she stumbled backwards and would have fallen if she hadn’t caught herself. Steelmind had an arrow on his bowstring and another in the air before the enemy had gone more than a dozen steps.

With her mouth dry and her heart racing, Keisha backed up further, and set herself behind the shelter of a carved pole just as the first set of enemy arrows rained down on their lines. The war cries of the fighters and the screams of the wounded drowned everything else, and her stomach turned over with nausea as the metallic scent of blood reached her.

But something else pulled her out of her shelter; the need of those injured. She darted from cover, grabbed the nearest wounded man, and dragged him back to relative safety by his shirt. Then she went to work, blotting everything else out. Every man, woman, or child she could get back on his or her feet with a bow in their hands might give them a better chance. She couldn’t help Darian, she couldn’t wield a sword, but she could do this much.

And she would.

Darian watched the Eclipse Shaman through narrowed eyes, sensing the ebb and flow of power in the ley-line that the Shaman had linked to. He didn’t think it had occurred to the Shaman to do the same, and that gave him an edge in knowing when an attack would come, if not how. Then again, Darian had the advantage of Tayledras training, and not merely the standard training, but also Firesong’s version of that training. The Hawkbrothers were steeped in the precise and most efficient use of magic, passed on for many generations, and by comparison this Shaman was likely self-trained or tutored in rough skills at best.

The Shaman began to prowl his half of the circle, pacing back and forth, eying Darian with barely suppressed fury. Outside the circle, there was a battle going on; someone had broken the promise the Shaman had made. But neither Darian nor his opponent dared pay any heed to anything outside their wall of power; any distraction would give the other a chance to strike the fatal blow.

Darian began to move warily himself, watching the Shaman and nothing else, keeping the same distance between them at all times. Then the Shaman darted toward him, pushing his hands forward, palms out.

A massive wall of force hit Darian and knocked him backward; he’d have fallen if he hadn’t been moving himself; as it was, he had to dance sideways and fend off a second invisible blow, turning the force aside and into the wall of the sphere. That put him almost within physical reach of the Shaman, who made a grab for him.

He dropped and rolled out of the way, jumping to his feet and putting the fullest possible distance between himself and the Shaman again.

Again he watched the line even as he watched the Shaman, and again, an ebb in the power-level warned him before the Shaman attacked.

Hands blazing with power, the Shaman lunged for him; there was no time to move out of the way, so Darian used the oldest of all of his defenses.

The Shaman’s right foot caught on the earth for a critical moment; he stumbled and fell, catching himself with his outstretched hands. The power he had meant to use to blast Darian discharged into the ground, creating nothing worse than a blackened spot and the smell of scorched dirt.

As he fell, Darian ran out of the way again; the Shaman picked himself up with red rage burning in his eyes. Darian reacted to the immediate drop in power just in time by strengthening his shields; this time the weapon he used was anything but subtle. He lashed at Darian with levin-bolts, whips of power that looked and hit like lightning.