him in a sudden burst of speed.
Amric’s hand darted over his shoulder for one of the swords in a reflexive but futile gesture, but the fiery missile was too close. He threw up his hands, as if mere flesh could somehow ward off the thing’s destructive power, and he braced for the impact. To his surprise, the crackling ball struck some unseen barrier mere inches from his hands. The blow sent a shudder of force through him, but the ball deflected aside. His relief was short-lived, however; the orb looped through the air in an unsteady arc and came at him again, picking up speed.
His mind raced, trying to discern how he had defended himself from the attack, but his thoughts were interrupted as something struck him from behind. His back tingled and went numb, and he stumbled forward from the blow. The treacherous ground rippled and rose to catch at his foot, and he was sent sprawling. A flare of instinct warned him of the next attack, and he spun onto his back, thrusting out a forearm to block it. One of the deadly threads landed inches above his arm and pooled there upon an invisible surface. Several more followed, hissing as they struck. They began to spread, seeking the edges of the shield above him.
Amric gasped for breath, his mind muddled with fatigue. The other within him was a constant, frantic presence now, yammering in fear.
If you can do better, he thought in weary frustration, feel free to step in at any point.
A rumbling blow shook the shield around him, and then another, and then another. Three of the blazing orbs wobbled away from him, dim for a moment and then brightening once more. They were expending their energy against his invisible shield, he realized. Their energy for his; small wonder that he felt more tired by the moment, then. How had Xenoth held up so well beneath Amric’s onslaught of magic, then? The Adept had emerged from the attack, uninjured and infuriatingly unperturbed.
Xenoth’s laughter floated to him.
“You cannot keep this up for long, boy,” the man called to him. “You are untrained, weary, slow to react.” As if to punctuate his point, another thunderous blow shook Amric’s shield and the cold, tingling sensation seeped through his right side. The glowing threads continued to fall above him, spreading and probing for weakness.
Xenoth chuckled. “You see, boy, fighting with magic is like using any other weapon. It requires skill and strategy as well as strength. It requires discipline, and a lifetime of practice. To conquer your foes, you cannot simply hoist the largest sword you find and swing it as hard as you can. Victory goes not to he who roars the loudest.”
The orbs blurred toward Amric, and three more crashing strikes buffeted him. His forearms, still raised above him, were quivering and numb. His breath burned in his throat and whistled between his clenched teeth. The presence within had subsided to feverish, insistent murmurings. Through a mental fog, Amric realized there was coherence to what it was saying. It was articulating a desperate plan.
“To be certain, there is a time and place to hold nothing back,” Xenoth continued. By the direction of his voice, the man was moving around Amric in a slow circle. “However, in this case it is hardly required, since you are a minor threat at best.”
Amric ground his teeth at the naked derision in the Adept’s voice. He knew that Xenoth was trying to taunt him, but it galled him that the man was right. Would Xenoth leave once he had slain Amric? Or would the black-hearted bastard feel compelled to finish Amric’s friends as well?
The presence was still adamant within the warrior’s head. I do not like our odds, Amric thought back in grim response, but neither do I have a better plan. Everything in one strike, then. Be ready.
Three more hammering strikes rang against his invisible shield, and the glowing spheres drifted away in unsteady orbits. Amric closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, and burst into motion.
Guided by the mysterious presence within, he pushed outward with explosive force, casting away the clinging energy of the threads. He surged to his feet, cursing both the lethargy of his movements and the way the world tilted and swayed around him. He found the dark figure of Xenoth no more than a handful of paces away, and he gathered his will for a single surprise strike that would encompass the entirety of the strength