to be fended off by an errant gesture. The two wizards stared at one another as all around them men and women scrambled back to give them space.
‘This is terrible. What a thing to happen!’ The colonel was abruptly beside Emily, sounding as though some social gathering had been rained off. Before she could reply, the real fight was on. Lascari lanced a spear of fire at Scavian, who sidestepped it, blasting fistfuls of flame back. The searing heat slid off both men, not even smouldering their clothes. But they were only starting. Emily remembered Scavian on the battlefield, tired and drained by his exertions, and she knew that this battle would be one of stamina, which of them could shoulder aside the other’s attacks for the longest, holding back enough in reserve for the final killer blow.
She watched as they circled, the flash and roar of their parries and ripostes lighting up the camp, singeing the nearest tents. Lascari was backing up now, running and hopping across the camp, hurling blazing handfuls at Scavian, who pursued ferociously, driving him forward.
‘Water! Someone draw some water!’ Emily shouted. ‘Three buckets at least! Caxton, come here!’
As the new-made sergeant ran up, a wave of heat washed over them, sending them both crouching to the ground. She could hear the colonel calling out something, still trying to reason with two men now beyond it all. In her mind’s eye was, all too clearly, the image of Scavian faltering. Lascari was older, more experienced; all Scavian had was the knowledge that he was in the right. How could that prevail against the skills of a man like Lascari?
Damn fool Giles! How could he . . . and for me? Am I worth his life, or is it his own honour he’s fighting for, or the King’s?
‘Here, Lieutenant.’ Caxton crawled closer to her.
‘Get your musket, load and prime it,’ she told her and watched her eyes widen in the leaping, spreading firelight.
‘But . . .’
‘Damn his honour,’ Emily hissed. Scavian and Lascari were further away now, moving out towards the edge of the camp, still trading bolts and balls of flame that would have roasted any ordinary man in a second. Caxton ran off for her gun and Emily ran to keep the fighting wizards in view. All around her, men and women were staring in fascination or fear, or hurriedly putting out newly started fires. The colonel kept shouting at the pair, but they were beyond hearing him. She caught a glimpse of Scavian’s face, all bemused concentration like a man wrestling with a riddle. Lascari’s was a mask, untenanted save for the eyes. He shrugged off the firestorm Scavian sent against him, shoulders hunched like a man in a high wind. He was shepherding his strength, letting Scavian’s best efforts slough off him. Still, they battered him, though, rocking him on his feet as he retreated and retreated. Scavian fought to press home the advantage he saw, trying to crack Lascari open with the force of his onslaught, beating repeatedly at the older man’s iron resolve. He was overextending just like a fencer, so that Lascari’s counterattacks came in beneath his guard, a succession of near misses to be read in his gritted teeth and wincing eyes.
She had to do something to separate them. She saw Scavian falter for a second, as another vast sheet of fire enveloped him. His eyes were narrowed now and he gave ground as Lascari stalked forward. The older man kept pushing his attack, conjuring arrows and scythes and great shapeless masses of incandescence to pummel Scavian, over and over, until it seemed there could not be so much burning in all the world, and yet there was always more. Scavian’s counterattacks glanced off his rival’s dark robes, or vanished into them and were extinguished. The younger man lost a step, then half a dozen steps, as Lascari drove him along the perimeter of the camp. It seemed all too obvious to Emily that Scavian was getting the worst of it, and yet his face never lost hope or the belief in his own right.
He put both hands together and directed them at Lascari with a great yell, bracing himself on feet wide apart. The thrust of fire thundered into the robed man’s defences and rocked him, almost spun him round with the force of it. Fires sprang up and were extinguished across the darkness of the Warlock’s robe. Scavian tried to follow up, to batter him again,