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.
The warrior must’ve realized it. He launched a counterattack, bringing his sword in a wide arc from the left, blindingly fast. Hugh parried before the sword could bite into his side. The warrior reversed the swing and cut at him from the right. Hugh stepped into it, blocking the swing, his sword pointing down. The warrior lunged at him, closing the distance. The two men struggled, locked, face to face, Hugh’s sword on top of the warrior’s, both pushing, blades immobile.
Hugh planted his feet and shoved.
The warrior stumbled back.
Hugh sliced his opponent’s arm from left to right. The warrior jerked back and clamped his left hand over his shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers. He passed the sword into his left hand and gave it a light swing, his eyes fixed on Hugh.
A furry shape tore out of the bushes. The warrior tried to turn toward it, but it was too late. One hundred and twenty pounds of hound hit him in the chest. Canine teeth flashed and bit down. The warrior toppled over, Cedric on top of him, snarling and biting.
“Damn it,” Hugh swore.
Blood wet the dog’s mouth. He bit the man again, ripping chunks of flesh from the ruined throat.
“Enough,” Hugh ordered.
Cedric ignored him, tearing into the body like he was rabid.
“I said enough!” Hugh grabbed the hound by the collar and hauled him back. Cedric strained, snarling, bloody foam dripping from his jaws. She’d never seen the dog that upset.
Cedric gave up on snarling and howled.
Hugh jerked him upright, stared into his eyes, and said calmly, “Shut up.”
The massive dog struggled a moment longer, then closed his mouth and sat back.
The three corpses lay on the forest floor in their identical armor.
“You were right,” she said. “There is an army out there.”
And they had just killed three of their soldiers. Someone would come looking.