moustache and the robes—some sort of sorcerer, probably—had, inexplicably, taken her farther from the rest of the camp. He had only two guards with him. Suddenly, the situation had become manageable.
Although applying the word manageable to a situation that involved a wizard was dubious at best.
Dumo always asks us to look on the bright side . This often involves inventing a bright side .
The trick was speed. Hark was educated enough to know something about how a wizard’s spell worked. They had to say a litany of nonsense words, and if the spell were interrupted, then it would fail. So . . . kill the bloody wizard first. Simple.
He’d raised his mace, spurred his horse, and ridden like all the underworld blood demons of Hadronetes were after him.
Hark’s steed thundered into the small clearing, the bishop twirling his mace over his head, ready to serve up crushing death to whoever stood in his way. The old man in the robe barked orders at the soldiers, and they drew weapons, moved to take up positions between the bishop and the wizard.
So much for killing the wizard first .
The Perranese wore wide helms that flared outward. Probably good for defending against a rain of arrows. Terrible against anything coming from below.
Hark rode hard at the first warrior, swinging the mace underhanded. He smashed it up into the first warrior’s chink, which shattered, teeth and blood flying, jaw cracking. The soldier dropped his weapon, staggered, and collapsed.
The other warrior swung at him, but the sword glanced off the bishop’s thick breastplate. Hark brought the mace down onto the warrior’s helm. A metallic crunch. The warrior stepped back, shaken, and brought his sword up to fend off the next blow.
Instead, Hark urged his horse forward, slamming into the soldier and knocking him to the ground.
Bishop Hark leapt from his horse before the soldier could recover and brought the mace down hard on the man’s face. He smashed it nearly flat, blood spraying to either side. The warrior’s legs twitched, and then he went still.
Hark turned back to the wizard.
The old man in the robes had one hand lifted, a pinch of some powder between thumb and forefinger drifting away on a mild breeze. His mouth worked frantically to utter the words of some spell as precisely as possible.
Hark sprinted for him, mace raised to stave in the man’s skull.
Dumo, grant me the speed to engage my foe before he’s able to—
The wizard completed the spell and pointed a bony finger at Hark.
The wizard’s hand bucked, and a blue bolt of lightning shot out and struck the bishop in the breastplate.
Hark went rigid, every part of him buzzing with fire, blue light crackling all around him. He trembled violently, halting steps taking him nowhere.
He pissed himself.
He blinked, discovered he was on his hands and knees. He tried to right himself but found his limbs in rebellion. He tingled unpleasantly all over, his hair seeming like it was straining to leave his scalp. He coughed, spit bile.
The bishop found himself frozen like that. He couldn’t stand or move; he just shook and felt sick and knew he was going to die. With enormous effort, he slowly picked his head up, squinted at the wizard. Hark tried to focus on the man, but his vision was a blur. It looked like the wizard was raising his hands, perhaps readying another spell.
I guess I’m just not dying fast enough for the bastard , Hark thought.
Rina pushed.
It was all in her mind, of course, but it helped her to think of it as pushing. She mentally put her shoulder against her willpower and thrust the point deep into the grimy layer that kept her from touching the spirit.
The barrier stretched, growing thin and weak at the driving point of her sheer insistence. Her willpower was like a lance thrusting home.
And then the barrier . . . ripped.
Rina was through to the other side and tapped the deep well of her spirit. The power flooded into every part of her, filled every