She wouldn’t bleed, but she would feel.
So when the sword of one of the ghosts laid a shallow groove on her left shoulder, she felt the hot flash of metal slicing flesh.
She fought on.
The first few times she’d fought with pain, the shock of a strike or slash had panicked her mind. And killed her. So she came to understand quickly why Mallick pushed for the progression.
A wound not only shocked, but weakened. He pushed her to train her mind and her body to fight through both.
Sweat ran down her face, and her right leg strained for balance against the pierce of Mallick’s sword. But she defeated two of the four opponents, and battled brutally against Mallick and the remaining ghost.
She sensed her endurance flagging—the adrenaline would only carry her so far, so long. To end it, she hurled a fireball at the last ghost, dropped into a roll, then swept her sword at Mallick’s legs.
When he dropped, she impaled him. And then she dropped down beside him.
“Everything hurts.”
His breath in tatters, he nodded. “Yes.”
Frowning, she looked over at him. His face, sweaty as her own, was considerably pale under the damp.
“You’re fighting with pain, too? Why? I’m the one in training.”
“When your sword strikes an opponent, they feel. So with this progress, I feel.”
She rose, went to the well, pumped water into the ladle.
“Drink. There’s no need for you to fight with pain, or to fight at all. Just use ghosts. And that way you can observe and evaluate.”
Eyeing her over the ladle, he drank. “I’m able to fight, and fight with pain.”
She had learned—and this had been an easy lesson—that her teacher had considerable pride.
“ ‘Able’ is one thing, and you’re plenty able. It’s that you don’t need to. In fact, if you watched instead of fighting, you’d be able to evaluate my skills, and my weaknesses, better.”
He sipped again. “Are you protecting the old man, girl?”
“The old man drilled a hole in my right thigh.” To prove her point, she rubbed at the throb. “I’m just being practical. We’ve gone up against each other day after day, so we know each other’s techniques, rhythms, weak spots. Sure, there’re some changeups, but mostly, if you feint left, I know to guard my right from a back sweep. And you lift your right shoulder, just a little, when you’re going to go for the impale.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” Because she did ache and throb, Fallon dropped down again, lay flat on her back to watch puffy white clouds meander over the blue. “Odds are I won’t fight many enemies I can read as well as you.”
“Next we’ll fight left-handed.”
Her interest piqued, she propped up on an elbow. “Left-handed.”
“There may come a time, and that will, as you said, change things up. But not today. Hand-to-hand, four opponents, no weapons.”
“Right now?”
He handed her the ladle and the rest of the water in it. “Drink. Fight. I’ll take your suggestion, and observe.”
“I’m wounded from—”
“Another excellent suggestion,” he said easily. “You’ve lost your sword in an earlier battle, and now face new foes in hand-to-hand.”
“I’d still have my knife.”
“Assume you don’t for this lesson.”
“My magicks?”
“They’re always with you.”
She gulped down the water, handed him the ladle as she got to her feet. She liked hand-to-hand well enough. Her father had taught her the basics of boxing, street fighting, karate. Mallick had expanded that with different forms of karate, kung fu, tae kwon do.
The katas he’d taught her, insisted she practice, appealed to her. She liked the fluid, deadly dance of them.
He conjured four ghosts, two male, two female. Fallon judged the smaller female as formidable. She looked both springy and fierce.
Even as they formed, she decided to try for the biggest male first. He looked solid, and brutal. He’d be strong, she judged, but likely lacked agility.
Before they could charge her, she charged them, pushed herself into a flying kick, and caught the biggest of them in the throat. Flipping back, she rolled, barely avoided a kick to her head. Whirled a wind to scatter them, and launched at the second female.
Watching, Mallick circled. Not yet, he thought, not quite yet did she have a true balance in her weapons—body, mind, magicks. But he found himself pleased with her progression.
And a great pride in her fearlessness.
She suffered blows—a fist glancing off her right cheek, a vicious kick to her left hip. But she’d learned to use the pain as well as the momentum.
When the smallest woman slid—speed and power—and took Fallon out at the legs, Fallon used that momentum to push up, kick out. And her aim proved true as her boots slammed hard in the remaining male’s balls. As he dropped, she flung power at him, took him out.
Whirling, she spun into the smaller female, managed to catch the boot of the foot that kicked out, flung her hard at the remaining opponent.
The small one proved as agile as Fallon suspected, and sprang back on her hands, gained her feet. But she’d knocked the second woman back, buying some time. She took another kick, saw stars, heard them buzzing inside her head. Spinning again, fast enough to blur.
Back fist, back kick, side kick. Enough to take the ghost woman down. Then crush her hand under a bootheel.
Satisfaction proved short-lived as she flew back under a whip of power. Unprepared, she landed badly, bit back a cry as her ankle turned. She flung up her hand, met power with power.
Through a haze—she had hit her head—she saw the smaller woman leap toward her, a knife in her good hand.
Survival—instinct without thought—snapped in. She pulled power out, yanked in. The knife flew from her enemy’s hand to hers, from her hand into the enemy’s heart.
Furious, flooded with pain, she rose.
“Bitch,” she said as power clashed with power. “You’re done.”
One hand out, pushing, pushing back against power, she cocked the other back, flung forward a blade of fire. It cut through the trembling air, hit its mark. The last of her opponents erupted in flames.
Fallon hobbled a few steps, gave it up, and sat on the ground. “I didn’t know I could do that.”
“We rarely know what we’re capable of doing when cornered.”
“You didn’t tell me one of them would be a witch.”
“Do you think you’ll fight only those without magicks?”
“No, but … fair warning?”
“Battles and wars are never fair.”
He moved to her, crouched down to lift her face.
“My vision’s a little funny.”
“Mmm. A mild concussion. Close your eyes, let me deal with it.”
She did as he asked. “The ankle’s bad. Left ankle. Not broken. Bad sprain.”
“I’ll see to it. Breathe slowly.”
As the ringing in her ears eased, she could. Then caught it again as he moved to her ankle. Pain … a red haze, she thought. Look through the haze to the light. Her stomach wanted to heave so she imagined the sickness as a pool, calming, calming, smoothing, stilling.
His hand skimmed over her throbbing hip, then to her surprise gently over her face.
She opened her eyes, looked in his. “You always say a few visible bruises serve as a reminder to be faster, stronger, smarter the next time.”
“I don’t think you’ll forget. How did you conjure the fire blade?”
“Anger.” Since the healing left her sleepy, she brought up her knees, rested her cheek on them. “The little one had a knife. You said no weapons.”
“She cheated, as will many you face. Stand now, test the ankle.”
He helped her to her feet, watched her walk.
“A little sore,” she told him, “but it doesn’t hurt. I can take full weight.”
“Blurred vision, sickness?”
“No, that’s gone.”
Satisfied, he nodded. “You’ll have an hour free, then you’ll mix six potions from memory, and two more of your own design. If you do well, the rest of the afternoon will be yours.”
“After the potions, I want to use the crystal. I want to go to New York.”
“I can’t permit it.”