He glanced quickly at the Elf. He was back on his knees, he saw, and the second mutant was closing. It was over.
He shifted his attention to the mutant coming for him, drew out a heavy hunting knife, and held his ground. When the mutant was close enough, Stoon feinted and darted inside the creature’s arms and thrust the hunting knife up through the beast’s jaw and into its skull. The mutant collapsed, dead before it struck the ground.
But by taking time to dispatch the creature, he had been forced to shift his attention away from the Elf. Somehow he had risen to his feet. He was every bit as proficient as Stoon with a knife, and his arm was a blur of motion as he flung his blade at the assassin and caught him in the chest. The force of the blow knocked Stoon backward, and he tumbled to the ground.
He had just enough time to realize that the final mutant had shifted its attention back to him—either because of what it had seen him do to its companion or because the blood pouring from its wounds had disoriented it—before it was on him.
Cymrian watched as the man tumbled backward, the blade buried in his chest, his eyes wide with shock and pain. The Elven Hunter was on his feet again, fighting to remain conscious, to stave off the effects of his own injuries, knowing he needed to ignore the pain and the ebbing of his strength if he was to have any chance at all. He saw the remaining mutant close on the man, take him by the neck, and shake him. He had a fresh blade out by then, aware that he was down to his last few, and he flung the knife at the mutant with as much force as he could muster. His aim was true, and the blade caught the beast in the neck, severing vital arteries and cords. The beast hunched over and released its grip on the man, who flopped backward like a rag doll.
Cymrian was already attacking, short sword in hand, swinging for the creature’s head. But he was unsteady on his feet, and the mutant blocked his effort and backhanded the Elf with such force that it knocked Cymrian all the way across the little clearing and left him lying dazed and helpless. He watched as the creature tried to rise and then fell back, jerked once, and lay still.
Everything had gone quiet. No one was moving. The clearing was stained with blood and littered with bodies. In the trees, the heavy mists continued to swirl and the shadows to glide.
Then Cymrian saw the man across the clearing roll onto his side, his eyes finding the Elf and fixing on him. A knife appeared in one hand, drawn out from beneath his dark clothing. Cymrian tried to move, but his body would no longer obey him. Whatever damage he had sustained, it had left him helpless.
He watched with grim acceptance as the man began to drag his broken body across the clearing to reach him, the knife gleaming.
28
Aphenglow raced through the forest toward the sounds of the battle, knowing that she would never forgive herself if Cymrian’s efforts on her behalf cost him his life. She shouldn’t have let him go. She should have made him wait until she was finished working on Arling. There would have been time enough then. Their enemies wouldn’t have reached them that quickly.
But he had felt otherwise, and his judgment in such matters was final. His experience was deeper, and the decision had not been hers to make.
She ran faster, the sounds ahead all gasps and grunts and cries of pain and rage. She was doing nothing to hide her coming, unwilling to slow down to mask her approach, certain that time was not something she could afford to waste—not even a second of it. Mist and shadows swirled about her, creating a confusing miasma that threatened to lead her astray. But the sounds were close now, and she could track her destination by that alone.