A single spear came at him from the darkness. He saw the huge man who threw it and jerked his shoulders so that the shaft sailed past him.
Paedrin let out his breath and came crashing down to the ground, his face livid with rage. “Am I a sparrow to be pecked at? Are you the leader of these cowards?”
The man was enormous with graying temples and a long, knotted beard. There was a torc around his neck and the veins standing out on his skin gave him a purplish cast.
“I am Cunsilion Uchitel,” the giant-like man said gruffly. “I defy you, Bhikhu!”
Paedrin had the Sword of Winds in his right hand, the chain rope in his left. He bowed, leaning forward, dropping into a low stance. “I am honored to be the one to shame you in front of your dogs. I serve Tyrus Paracelsus of Kenatos and am his lowliest servant. When I am finished with you, I will gladly defeat any else who dares to face my skill.”
The man lumbered forward, large as a bear. His hidebound boots thudded in the packed earth, with little tendrils of things tied into his braided mustache and beard. Tattoos covered his left arm up to his shoulder and up past his neck, full of designs that offered the appearance of the bark of a tree. His eyes were full of fury and passion. Little flecks of spittle sprayed from his lips as he huffed.
Paedrin felt his muscles soothe and relax. This was what he longed for.
The brute of a man hefted another short spear and Paedrin readied for it. A huge axe was also strapped to his back.
“I do not prick so easily,” Paedrin taunted.
“We shall see,” Cunsilion Uchitel replied in a guttural tone. “Atu vast! Atu vast!”
Then planting his lead foot as if he were about to split the world in half, the giant-man hurled the spear directly at Tyrus.
Annon recognized the Boeotian words. He did not recall what they meant, but he knew they were the precursor of a vicious attack. He had heard those words spoken at Reeder’s death and he had used them himself when a pack of Boeotians had hunted them along the trek to Basilides. He watched the man loose the spear and saw it sail toward Tyrus before anyone could react. Anyone, except for the Cruithne Baylen. He stepped forward and shattered the spear with one of his broadswords. The fragments exploded and the Boeotians whooped and screamed and charged from all sides.
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
The ancient Vaettir words sounded in his mind as Nizeera screamed in warning. He had already summoned the words previously but he wanted to make sure he kept control of them as Tyrus had warned. He saw the flames proceed from Hettie and Phae and Tyrus before loosing them himself. The sheet of flames expanded from their core, as if a large boulder had suddenly been heaved into a pond, sending out ripples in all directions at once. Annon felt his blood start to sing with the pleasure of the magic and knew it would be dangerous to play with the fire for very long. The scrub and brush exploded into yellow, setting the land alight with flames. Annon saw Paedrin rush the Boeotian leader, whipping the chain over his head as he charged. Hearing Nizeera growl, he saw a rush of Boeotians heading right for him.
Turning, he focused the fireblood on the approaching men and watched them become consumed into plumes of ash.
“How many?” Baylen asked.
“At least a hundred,” Khiara said from above.
“Hold the flames,” Tyrus ordered. “Now we can see, and the smoke will add confusion. Bring the fight to them. Now!”
“Was only waiting for you to say it,” Baylen said with a chuffing laugh. The bulky Cruithne rushed toward the advancing foes.
Prince Aransetis put his hand on Annon’s shoulder, looking him in the eye with deep seriousness. “I will keep them away from you.” Then he shot like a lance into the midst of the Boeotians. Annon watched him, no weapons in hand, attacking the larger men with crisp, curt movements, standing like a dam against a flood. Each stroke was painful and Annon could hear the sound of snapping bones. An axe coming down at Aransetis’s skull was caught, ripped loose from the attacker’s grasp and tossed aside, followed up with a sharp kick to the kneecap and an elbow into his nose. Annon watched in amazement as the Vaettir prince struck with brutal efficiency, tossing men nearly twice his weight as if they were nothing. His black Rike cassock clung to him, snapping like a flag on a pole as he whipped from one victim to the next.
Nizeera growled at Annon’s feet, staying next to him in case others broke through.
None did.