The Boeotians had elected to swarm them from all sides, offering no way to escape a ring of death except through clashing weapons. Paedrin exulted in the anticipation of a duel with the leader and had practiced his forms well past sundown. He had his chain whip in one hand and the Sword of Winds in the other. Tyrus had positioned the companions around a campfire in a square formation. Paedrin stood in the middle of the square so that he would be the center of all eyes.

The tromping sound of charging men erupted from all around them, making the earth tremble with the force of feet. Spears clashed with buckler shields like thunder cracks. Whoops and shrill cries came at them from all sides.

Excitement thudded inside Paedrin’s heart, matching the quickening pulse. He was ready for this. He felt as if he were a bow flexed near to bursting. He was ready to launch an arrow.

“Not yet,” he heard Tyrus murmur, allowing the Boeotians to surge closer. Paedrin’s lip tasted like salt.

A streamer of blue fire arced into the air, rising high before exploding into a single pulse of white-hot flames. Crackles of energy sizzled in the sky, illuminating the area and revealing the rush of attackers closing in. A deafening boom followed the light flash and its echoes reverberated across every rock and boulder nearby. The Boeotians halted suddenly, shielding their eyes from the glare and the noise, their charge interrupted.

“Now,” Tyrus said.

Paedrin swallowed and then took in a breath of air to begin to rise, becoming the focal point for all eyes as they recovered from the flash. Tendrils of smoke and magic seethed in the air, fading slowly. He raised the Sword of Winds as if stabbing the sky with it and felt his rise accelerate.

“Is there a man brave enough to face me?” he shouted defiantly. “I am Paedrin Bhikhu of Kenatos. You are sorry worms to be blinded so easily. Does a little light make you squirm? Who among you dares to face me? Where is your leader? I will kick him into the dirt and spit on him.”

There was a roar of anger and rage at the insults. Using the sword’s magic, Paedrin swooped toward those coming from the northern side. “Well?” he shouted. “Who leads these quivering pups? Name yourself! I am Paedrin Bhikhu and I challenge you!”

A single spear came at him from the darkness. He saw the huge man who threw it and jerked his shoulders so that the shaft sailed past him.

Paedrin let out his breath and came crashing down to the ground, his face livid with rage. “Am I a sparrow to be pecked at? Are you the leader of these cowards?”

The man was enormous with graying temples and a long, knotted beard. There was a torc around his neck and the veins standing out on his skin gave him a purplish cast.

“I am Cunsilion Uchitel,” the giant-like man said gruffly. “I defy you, Bhikhu!”

Paedrin had the Sword of Winds in his right hand, the chain rope in his left. He bowed, leaning forward, dropping into a low stance. “I am honored to be the one to shame you in front of your dogs. I serve Tyrus Paracelsus of Kenatos and am his lowliest servant. When I am finished with you, I will gladly defeat any else who dares to face my skill.”

The man lumbered forward, large as a bear. His hidebound boots thudded in the packed earth, with little tendrils of things tied into his braided mustache and beard. Tattoos covered his left arm up to his shoulder and up past his neck, full of designs that offered the appearance of the bark of a tree. His eyes were full of fury and passion. Little flecks of spittle sprayed from his lips as he huffed.

Paedrin felt his muscles soothe and relax. This was what he longed for.

The brute of a man hefted another short spear and Paedrin readied for it. A huge axe was also strapped to his back.

“I do not prick so easily,” Paedrin taunted.

“We shall see,” Cunsilion Uchitel replied in a guttural tone. “Atu vast! Atu vast!”

Then planting his lead foot as if he were about to split the world in half, the giant-man hurled the spear directly at Tyrus.

Annon recognized the Boeotian words. He did not recall what they meant, but he knew they were the precursor of a vicious attack. He had heard those words spoken at Reeder’s death and he had used them himself when a pack of Boeotians had hunted them along the trek to Basilides. He watched the man loose the spear and saw it sail toward Tyrus before anyone could react. Anyone, except for the Cruithne Baylen. He stepped forward and shattered the spear with one of his broadswords. The fragments exploded and the Boeotians whooped and screamed and charged from all sides.

Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

The ancient Vaettir words sounded in his mind as Nizeera screamed in warning. He had already summoned the words previously but he wanted to make sure he kept control of them as Tyrus had warned. He saw the flames proceed from Hettie and Phae and Tyrus before loosing them himself. The sheet of flames expanded from their core, as if a large boulder had suddenly been heaved into a pond, sending out ripples in all directions at once. Annon felt his blood start to sing with the pleasure of the magic and knew it would be dangerous to play with the fire for very long. The scrub and brush exploded into yellow, setting the land alight with flames. Annon saw Paedrin rush the Boeotian leader, whipping the chain over his head as he charged. Hearing Nizeera growl, he saw a rush of Boeotians heading right for him.