Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(12)

The mage blinked as he thought that over, which was the distraction Evan needed. He brought his knee up, hard, into the soldier’s groin, folding him over, then followed with a fist to the face.

That combination should have dropped him where he stood, but it didn’t. Though he roared with pain, the soldier kept hold of his knife, flung Evan to the barn floor, and leapt to pin him, but Evan rolled to his feet and sprinted for the door. He was nearly there when the mage blocked his path.

Evan turned and charged to the far end of the barn, the soldier at his heels, though he knew there was no way out that way. He vaulted over the fence into the goats’ pen and crouched between two shaggy backs, trying to get at the knife in his boot. The goats scattered as the soldier landed in the midst of them. Evan stood, his puny knife in his hand, to find himself facing the business end of the soldier’s sword.

“‘Let’s finish this,” the soldier said, his voice clipped, icy. As he came forward, Evan retreated, evading the first thrust of the blade, though it sliced through his shirt. There was limited room to maneuver, though, and he knew his luck couldn’t hold forever.

Evan didn’t consciously reach for power, but it came unbidden. Small whirlwinds erupted all around his feet, sucked up a mixture of sawdust and straw, and flung it in the soldier’s face. He blinked and swiped at his face with his sleeve, while shaking debris from his hair. Evan tried to dodge past him, but he stuck out a foot and tripped him, landing him facedown in the mingled goat dung and bedding. The soldier came down on top of him, pinning him to the floor. Evan could hear his quick breathing, feel him shift his weight. Any second, Evan expected to feel cold steel sliding between his ribs.

A storm surge of magic welled up in him, and electricity crackled across his skin, as if the power that seethed beneath it was leaking out. In desperation, Evan reached for it and called down whatever weather might be at his disposal, figuring he was a dead man anyway.

Momentarily, he couldn’t breathe, as if the air in the barn had been confiscated. Then the barn exploded, detonating with a sound like Solstice fireworks. Wood shards, hay, and clay tiles rained down on top of them. Horses were screaming, pigs were squealing, cows were bawling—it was a cacophony of animal sounds.

The soldier swore and rolled off him, dropping his sword and protecting his head with his arms. Evan scrambled to his feet, waist deep in goats. They were at the center of a maelstrom that sucked up loose objects and flung them in all directions. Evan danced sideways to avoid being sliced in half by the soldier’s flying sword and covered his eyes with his sleeve.

The wind picked the soldier up like a bit of fluff and flung him into the wall. He went down hard, his leg bent at an impossible angle. With that, the twister died.

It was eerily silent, except for the screaming of the horses and the bleating of terrified goats. Evan retrieved the soldier’s dagger and crossed to where he lay crumpled against the wall. His eyes were open, staring up at Evan. Sweat pebbled his forehead and faint freckles stood out against his ashen skin. Given the look of his leg, he must have been in a great deal of pain, but either he was in shock or he’d been taught that screaming was an unacceptable show of weakness.

The soldier licked his lips and said, “But . . . you don’t . . . you can’t . . .” He gripped his pendant as if to reassure himself it was still there. “Magic doesn’t work on you, and you can cast charms without an amulet,” he said, as if confirming that Evan had indeed cheated on the rules of magery. He released a long breath and smiled faintly. “Like I said—let’s finish this, even if it’s not the way I . . . planned.” He looked straight into Evan’s eyes and waited for death.

He offers no mercy and expects none, Evan thought. That’s fair, I guess.

The soldier’s pendant—amulet?—seemed to be the source of much mischief. Evan pressed the tip of the borrowed dagger into the soldier’s throat as a warning and lifted the pendant over his head. Stepping back, he stowed the pendant in his carry bag and slid the dagger into the sheath at his waist.

“Stay there,” he said, though it wasn’t as if the soldier was going anywhere on that leg. He crossed to where he thought his own pendant had landed and began rooting through the debris on the barn floor. He could hear the soldier’s labored breathing, the heel of his boot scraping on the floor, and the hiss of pain as he tested the leg. Evan found the pendant next to the wall and draped the chain around his neck again.

He returned to the soldier’s side. His eyes were closed, but snapped open when Evan approached. Evan wasn’t sure what to do. He had no intention of killing him, but it seemed wrong to leave him lying in the ruined barn with a broken leg.

“Destin!”

Evan looked up, startled into drawing his blade again. A woman in a nightgown and boots stood in the doorway, taking in the scene—the missing roof, Evan standing over Destin with a knife in his hand.

What was he supposed to say—he started it?

“Mother!” the soldier gasped, raising his hands as if he could push her back through the door. “Run!”

Instead, the woman balled her fists and walked toward them, her jaw set with determination. As she drew closer, Evan could see the resemblance between them. They were both fine-boned thoroughbreds, and they shared the same light-brown hair and hazel eyes. She was not a mage, however.

“Please. Just go, Mother,” Destin whispered, without much conviction, as if he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Then he directed a warning glare at Evan that would peel the skin off a Bruinswallow pirate. Impressive for someone flat on his back, with a broken leg.