(Chapter Eleven: Wildmen, cont)

  The Wildmen raised their weapons, shouted their defiance, and rushed to meet him.

  Wind Dance. The setting was perfect for it, a large clearing, firm ground, and enemies primarily armed with melee weapons. He changed his footfalls, no longer thundering towards the bandits, but springing up from the balls of his feet. Wind Dance stretched out as needed and then collapsed back in. It fluttered about the enemy, changing direction on a whim, impossible to predict.

  He sidestepped the first bandit to reach him, bounding away with a leap and turn, and launched himself at the second man instead. He never saw Ean’s blade coming. It sliced across his neck, and he dropped. The first bandit rounded, driving out with his sword. Ean twisted to the side and danced in close, closer than the bandit was expecting because most men jump back from the thrust of sword. He couldn’t raise his arm in time to stop the knife Ean speared through his throat.

  Ean slipped away from the dying grasp of his arms and met the third attacker, a large man with an even larger mallet. He swung from over his head. Ean blocked the strike with one knife, though the force of mallet sent him to one knee. He slashed out with his second, cutting deeply into his opponent’s thigh. Blood sprayed; he’d cut an artery. He spun away and up to his feet. The fourth man was as short as the mallet-man was tall. He whipped out with his mace. Ean vaulted over the spiked ball, once, then twice, then lunged in and raked his knife deep under the man’s arm. More blood spray.

  The fifth bandit fell upon him with a broadsword, striking fast and clean. Ean backpedaled, twisting left and right, until he saw an opening and punched his knife into the man’s chest. He didn’t have time to pull the knife out. The sixth man was already leaping towards him. Ean hurled his second wrist knife. It sank into the bandit’s gut, and he fell to his knees. Ean wasn’t sure if it was a mortal injury, but it was an incapacitating one. He flipped backwards under the axe of another bandit and whirled away to get some space.

  The throng of Wildmen took a brief pause, their eyes darting from Ean to the six men they’d lost in a matter of seconds. They didn’t rush in again, but closed ranks, circling around him. Ean turned to keep them all in sight and drew his short swords.

  A shout and an explosion drew all of their attention to the edge of the cliff. Ean caught a glimpse of a man on fire, and Chadwick and Leo fighting side-by-side, and then several bandits rushed him.

  Ean seamlessly shifted into Whirlwind dance. It was more stationary that its partner, comprised of spins and turns, making good use of high and low positions. He went low first, somersaulting to the ground and slashing out at unprotected legs. If the right tendons were severed, a knife slash would cripple an opponent. If the femoral artery was cut at the same time, the enemy would bleed out in seconds. Two bandits fell back from his onslaught. Ean kipped up to block the strikes dropping towards him, then jumped high, slicing down at an unprotected head. Another bandit fell.

  Ean couldn’t completely block the thrust from the next bandit. He shoved the blade away from his chest, but it still nicked his shoulder. He plunged his sword into the bandit’s side in retaliation and left it there, dropping to the ground to avoid the swipe of a machete. With his free hand, he grabbed a handful of grass and dirt, and when he sprung up again, he threw it into the faces of the Wildmen closest to him. Whirlwinds did the same thing—blind people with dirt and debris. It was a dangerous maneuver, because the dirt got into his eyes as well, but he was trained to memorize battlefields and fight without his sight. He bent backwards under the swipe of an axe that he more felt than saw. He shoved his second blade into that bandit’s gut and then flipped over his crumpling form to escape the circle.

  Two Wildmen ran at him, not wanting him to slip away. Ean threw two throwing stars. One hit a bandit straight in the eye and he collapsed. The other cut a gauge across the bandit’s temple. Ean’s aim was off because he was still blinking dirt from his eyes. He threw another and got him that time.

  More enemies rushed in and Ean didn’t have time to draw a knife. He danced around the thrust of a javelin and twirled underneath the swing of a mace. He grabbed the arm of a bandit striking out with a knife and twisted it away from him. Ean kicked him into his friend and then darted in to stab the bandit with his own knife. The man behind him tried to shove the body away, but Ean lashed out with a few quick punches and smashed his nose in. He stumbled, Ean crushed his larynx with a high kick, and then more Wildmen closed in. Ean counted twelve of them. He unsheathed his long knives.

  Shadow-walkers weren’t invincible. Bring enough men and he would fall, but twelve wasn’t enough. It was enough to cause damage though, because he couldn’t avoid all the blows, but he could choose which ones to take. He took a shallow slice to his cheek to avoid a deeper cut to his neck. He allowed a graze to his upper arm in order to get in close and slice his knife across that bandit’s throat. He chose a punch to the jaw instead of a dagger in the gut, and then took another punch to slide his blade across the exposed underarm. He twisted to take a blow from a mallet to his shoulder instead of his sternum and then put his knife straight through that man’s eye. He allowed a bandit to scour his dagger along his side because he was able to spin out of the worst of it and then drove his knife through the bandit’s neck in retaliation. And then, finally, the bodies on the ground started working in his favor. A bandit lost his footing. A weak point.

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  Ean pushed forward, got him while his sword was still down, and then had enough room for Lightning Dance. It was one of his favorites. It jumped and leapt and struck as it pleased. It was fast, vicious, and acrobatic. And it was designed for uneven surfaces, like fighting on a battlefield covered with the dead.

  The Wildmen wasted precious seconds glancing at their feet. Ean got two that way. He got the third when he slipped and the fourth when he hesitated between fighting and running. The fifth made a lunge at him—sloppy and desperate. Ean leapt over his spear and struck out with his knife, piercing him in the soft spot underneath his sternum. He dropped, taking Ean’s knife with him.

  The sixth got an arrow through his chest. As did the seventh. Ean looked over. Asali had her bow drawn, a third arrow nocked and ready, but there were no more combatants. The field was still and silent, broken only by a few spasms and moans from the dying.

  Ean quickly scanned for Leo. He stood beside Chadwick, his sword red with blood. There was a blood on him as well, but only a little, and Ean could see no signs of pain on his face. He was fine.

  Ean let out a breath of relief and turned to the only Wildmen still standing—the chief. He’d hung back on the hill as his men fought, and now he was the lone survivor. His eyes were wide with fear. Ean took a forward; the chief turned tail and started to run. An arrow sprouted from his shoulder before he took two steps. He fell, sprawling to the ground with a shout of pain. It wasn’t a kill shot. Asali was choosing to take him alive.

  She strode over to him and Ean followed. The bandit chief struggled for his axe; Ean kicked it away. Asali searched him for more weapons, tossing away two daggers and a pocketknife. She grabbed his arms, ignoring his curses, and expertly tied his hands behind his back with a length of rope.

  “I had those men,” Ean told her.

  She tugged on the bonds, checking her knots before sparing him a glance. She tipped her head at the bodies. “You had enough.”

  Ean followed her gaze. What had Flora asked him? How many men had he killed?

  Ean didn’t count the men after a battle finished, but there were a lot of bodies on the field. And he was covered in a lot of blood. It was all too visible on Leo’s borrowed clothes, and it was attracting a lot of attention.

  Flora didn’t look scared anymore; she looked disturbed. Chadwick was tensed. Leo was staring at him, seemingly half-amazed and half-concerned. Roarke was… well, Ean couldn’t quite read his expression. He could have been stunned. He could have been pleased. He could have been contemplating philosophy.

  Asali pulled the chief to his feet. She wasn’t stunned or shocked or concerned. She nodded in pragmatic approval. “You’re a useful person to have on this quest after all.”

  Ean barked out a startled laugh. She pushed the chief over towards the others and he walked back to the field to retrieve his knives. He took the time to hasten the deaths of the bandits who were still breathing. He was a shadow-walker, not a sadist. There was no honor in letting a man bleed out for an agonizing hour.

  He got all his weapons back, pleased that none of them were damaged, just messy, like himself. He could feel the blood on his skin beginning to cool and get tacky. And the cost of battle was catching up with him. His muscles crackled like static before a lightning strike. His legs shuddered. His arms felt like lead.

  He’d exhausted himself, an after-effect of extended fighting. The teachers at Haven said that the dances, when they were performed correctly, enabled shadow-walkers to borrow speed and strength from their future selves. It was that ability that made them so fast and deadly. But it came at a cost. The longer the battle, the more energy was borrowed. And Ean was completely drained.

  He needed to lie down. He needed a bed and a meal, maybe a hot bath. He suddenly missed Felix. He was used to his care. Felix always got them a room at an inn. He would pay several days up front so Ean could sleep and eat and sleep again until he had recovered. Felix would take watch, or if the job had required both of them, they’d take turns sitting up to guard the room.

  There was no bed now. No inn with a meal or a tub. But there was a river. The embankment was a cliff here, but down the hill he’d seen a gentler shore. He could wash, get the blood off him, get some privacy. He eyed the distance. It seemed a league and a half away. A tremor started in his fingers.

  “I trust you’re not mortally wounded?”

  Ean whirled around, a knife in his hand before his foggy brain recognized Roarke standing beside him. He hadn’t heard the General approach.

  Ean shook his head, trying to clear it and in answer to his question. “No, I’m fine.” He gestured at the river. “I’m going to wash up.”

  He took a step forward and stumbled over a dead bandit. His side throbbed. Perhaps he hadn’t turned away from that sword as much as he thought.

  Roarke steadied him, his grasp surprisingly gentle. “Careful.”

  Ean blinked, off-put at the open concern he saw on his face. He didn’t think Roarke cared that much about his well-being.

  “Is Ean okay?” Leo called, like he couldn’t answer for himself.

  “Fine,” Ean shouted back, irritated at the question. The shout stole all the air from his lungs. He had to work to pull in the next breath, and it sounded ragged, even to his ears. The wound in his side flared with pain. He dropped a hand over it. It was hot and slick with blood, more blood than he was expecting. “Fuck.”

  “In so many words,” Roarke said mildly. “Let’s get you clear of this mess, shall we?”

  He tugged Ean’s arm, guiding him away from the bodies that littered the field. Ean followed a few steps and stumbled again, this time over nothing at all. Roarke hoisted him up, but his footing was shaky. The tremors had spread to his arms and legs, a common symptom of overexertion.

  “Ean?” Roarke asked, gripping him tighter.

  “Tired,” Ean said. As if in agreement, his legs folded beneath him. Roarke helped him to the ground. He hunched forward, clutching his side. “Just tired.”

  The world was quickly losing focus, but he wasn’t alarmed. The slash to his side was deeper than he wanted, but it wasn’t life threatening. This wasn’t blood-loss causing unconsciousness; it was exhaustion, like a racehorse that was pushed too far, too fast. Felix would know what to do—patch him up, put him to bed, let him sleep. Ean was pretty sure he could expect the same from Leo and the others.

  Darkness rose up. He didn’t fight it.