“Stay behind me, take hold of my cloak, and don’t let go,” Merlin said.
The young enchanter thrust his hand into the air. He shouted words in a foreign language Britt couldn’t understand as the armed men marched against them. He slowly lowered his hand—still talking—until it was level with his shoulder. He clenched it in a fist and brought it back before he shouted one last word and punched forward.
The air around Britt and Merlin seemed to bend and bow in a circle. It shoved Britt to the ground with the force of a tornado as it rushed past them. Halfway across the field it burst into flames. When the fire hit the enemy lines it split like an opening fan, spreading up and down the line with a hungry roar.
Britt stared at the massacre. She could smell fire, ash, and burnt flesh. She raised her eyes to Merlin. He was standing protectively in front of her, his face devoid of emotion as he watched his magic kill.
Britt thought Merlin’s magic was fake. Or perhaps not fake, but certainly not powerful. Of course she had seen him do little things—light fires without any kind of tinder or flint, make wet things dry—but she thought those were just flashy bits of magic he learned to impress people, and that his real power was the cunning of his mind.
As Britt stared at the scorched field she realized she had no idea just how powerful Merlin was.
Merlin took one step forward, speaking under his breath. He reached out with a hand and pulled back. The closest line of trees fell, crushing enemies like ants.
Piece by piece Merlin massacred the enemy using fire, wind, and trees. Men ran for their lives, but Merlin grimly caught them and held them in place with magic for the fire to finish them off.
Britt stared at the violated field as the last of the enemy were consumed. “I won’t have to tell anyone,” she muttered, the grassy area was a mash of burnt ground, bodies, and fallen trees.
Merlin unsteadily sat, putting his head between his legs. “That was hard,” he muttered. “I’m out of practice.”
Britt slowly pushed herself into a standing position. “What will we say?”
Merlin raised a hand and carelessly waved it in the air. “I’ll take care of it before they arrive.”
The dogs growled and Britt spun around. Two men had crept out of the woods behind Britt and Merlin. They had already edged past three of the dogs.
“Why aren’t the dogs attacking?” Britt said, unsheathing Excalibur.
“They haven’t been told to!”
“So tell them to!”
“I can’t,” Merlin said. “They’ll only follow the orders of the kennel master!”
“Sit,” Britt ordered Merlin before she ran at the ambushers, wishing she wore armor—even though it would have been an odd clothing choice for a hunting party.
Britt studied both men for bows or quivers as she charged. They only had swords and daggers on them, which would considerably level the playing field.
Britt descended on the first soldier, mute and deadly as she pushed him back on his heels with the speed of her swings and jabs.
The second ambusher stepped in to stab at her with a dagger. There was a fearsome growl, and the ambusher screamed as Cavall dragged him to the ground.
Sweat dripped off Britt as she attacked. The enemy wasn’t buckling.
She wasn’t fighting a knight who knew the sword, lance, and spear. She wasn’t fighting a common soldier. She was fighting a hardened assassin who lived by killing. He fell back under Britt’s onslaught, but he wasn’t leaving any openings, and he wasn’t letting Britt force any openings either.
Britt knew she had to end it soon. Fighting with the constant push as she did sapped her of her strength and energy fast.
The assassin dodged one of Britt’s swings and swooped forward, slashing at her thigh muscles. Britt redirected her swing into a downward cut, following through so she swung her sword up and behind her as she twisted in spite of the fire that bloomed on her thigh.
Cavall snarled, Llamrei screamed.
“Britt!” Merlin shouted.
Britt and the assassin swirled, eyeing each other. Britt had opened a nasty slice on the assassin’s back, and the assassin had given Britt a deep wound on her thigh. Britt dared not look at it, but she felt it burn as she crouched in one of her attack forms.
The assassin stared at her thigh and cursed, and Britt’s gaze dropped for a brief second. The laceration was deep. Not to the bone, but deep into the muscle. However… not a drop of blood fell from the wound.
Excalibur.
Britt rolled her shoulders as she recalled Merlin’s lectures of the sword’s scabbard. As long as she had it she wouldn’t die of blood loss. The thought heartened her, and Britt smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
The assassin took a step back, but Britt was already lunging forward. She aimed her strike at the assassin’s right arm. He blocked, but the maneuver brought her in close, allowing Britt to plant herself and knee him in the side.