Powerful Magic by Karen Whiddon Page B

could he continue to fight against such unfair odds?
               One of the intruders noticed Kenric's sword and let out an unholy howl.   Whether of pain or of fear, Megan could not tell.   Though Kenric, who until now had been fighting grim faced and determined, grinned. It was the grin of a man who knows the battle is over and he has won.   Seeing it, Megan felt an odd sort of wonder, and relief.
               The two remaining warriors saw it also and backed away.
               " Thunder ."   Said one, in loud voice that contained more awe than contempt.  
               Startled that he had spoken English, Megan crawled to the very edge of the underbrush, wanting to hear should anything else be said.
               Still Kenric waited, legs spread apart, sword held ready.
               The injured man on the ground moaned once, then went silent.
               "We did not know."   The tall man took another step back, keeping his sword lowered.   "My Lord, forgive us.   We thought you were another English intruder."
               "I am."   Pride rang in Kenric's voice.
               The other man shook his head, making a sign in the air.   "You are also of this land.   I beg your forgiveness."   He began to back away.
               Something in Kenric's stance told Megan he did not like the tall man's words.  
               No one spoke.   It was still, except for the snorting of the horses and a quiet whimper from the fallen warrior.
               Finally, the tall man inclined his head.   "There have been strange things happening here.   Lightening during a blizzard, raw power in the air.   Times are changing, the people have been restless, uneasy.   Now they say powerful magic has occurred."
               Glad they could not see her, Megan rolled her eyes.   They were right about part of it - strange things had happened.   Like her being transported nine hundred years into the past, for instance.   But magic?   Next they'd be calling her a witch and ordering her stoned, or drowned, or burnt at the stake.   Whatever they did to so-called witches in early medieval times.
               She shuddered, remembering the witchcraft trials of Salem in her own country.   And Joan of Arc - wasn't that somewhere around this time?   No, maybe that had been in the fourteen hundreds or something.   For the first time ever, she wished she'd paid more attention to history when in college, instead of focusing on socializing.   All the sororities in Texas couldn't help her now.
               Unless she could perform a miracle and come up with a formula to help her pass through time.
               Maybe witchcraft wasn't such a ridiculous idea after all.
               Kenric spoke, drawing her attention back to the tableau in the clearing.   "Take your wounded and go.   I want no trouble."
               "Nor us either, Kenric of Blackstone."   Sheathing his sword, the tall man moved carefully to the body of his fallen comrade.   The shorter, stocky man seemed frozen, undecided.  
               "Come on."   The leader barked.  
               Still the other man hesitated.  
               "If you want to stay and fight, go ahead.   But mark this, no man faces down Thunder and lives."
               Puzzled, Megan frowned.   Why did he speak like Kenric's sword would do the fighting for him?   Did he believe it to be magical, like the King Arthur's sword in that old legend?
               Whatever it was, she couldn't help but be impressed.   This Kenric was brave and apparently skilled.   She couldn't have found a better man to help her, despite his earlier vow to not kill.   How then, she wondered, would he defend himself in a fight to the death?   Would he have let them kill him, rather than take another life?   And