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So she followed through and plunged her own into the heart.
Capture, she realized, not kill. Of course.
That gave her an advantage.
She used it, fighting with sword, with power, with feet and fists as every hour of Keegan’s unrelenting training had taught her. Using all she had to keep the enemy from breaking through.
But they came and they came, so many.
She beheaded a demon dog, and everything in her shook at the horror of it, at the wash of blood on her hands, at the taste of it in her throat.
She whirled to meet power with power, watched the witch with the dark face, dark heart move steadily forward as she tossed tiny fireballs, small, keen bolts. Breen felt the sting when one slipped through to graze her side.
“Only a little blood,” the witch said, smiling. “Odran wants the rest.”
“He won’t get it.” Breen crossed her arms, pressed a hand to the wound. And when she flung her arms apart, hurled power and blood.
Burning, the witch screamed as she ran, shrieked as she fell, smothered by flame and smoke.
A gargoyle leaped out of a tree, onto her back with claws digging. Too crazed with battle and blood to stop, he bared his fangs to bite.
Before Breen could defend, he fell to the ground, an arrow in his back.
“I’m with you,” Morena said, and nocked another, then another, letting them fly at the gargoyles poised to leap from the same tree.
Bollocks charged through the smoke to finish one that crawled, fangs snapping.
“Marco?”
“Fighting like a mad thing. He got through to Brian. Mind your right.”
Breen spun and slashed what came.
“Brian’s wounded, not badly.” Out of arrows, Morena shifted to her sword. “Harken closed the gash. You’ve one of your own.”
“It’s nothing. There’s too many of them, Morena.”
“Aye. We’ll need to fall back, let them give chase and come against the second line. Keegan— Ah, he’s already thought the same.”
Breen looked up as Keegan, on Cróga again, swooped low. Leaning over, he grabbed Breen’s arm to haul her up. “Now, Morena, fall back now.”
She spread her wings as the horns sounded retreat.
“You’re bleeding,” he said to Breen.
“I’ll fix it.”
“Then fix it. We’ve cut their numbers, and deep.” He spun Cróga, laid a line of fire to slow the enemy advance. “The second line will meet them and cut it deeper yet. You’ll stay behind the line now, as once they hit that line, they’ll know we laid a trap.”
“I can fight.”
“And fight you will, but behind the line. Some will get through, so we have a third.”
He soared over formations of archers, of those with swords, those with spears. On horseback, on wing, on feet fleeter than both.
“Hold!” he shouted. “Hold until they’re clear of the trees. Once they are, take the rescue in to bring out our wounded. Riders!” He whirled again toward the dragons and riders hovering in the air. “No flame until I give the order.”
He dived down. “Off you go. Behind the line, Breen. Stand strong, but behind the line.”
