Wytchfire (Book 1) by Michael Meyerhofer Page A

wore chain mail and tabards emblazoned with Cassica’s intertwined serpents.
    Howling men hacked each other with swords until the earth resembled the crimson of the setting sun above them. The savagery did not make him flinch. Nor did he intervene. To cast wytchfire into such a melee would only strike friend as well as foe—though Shade would hardly refer to the Unseen as his friends. Better to gather his strength, force himself to be patient, wait a little longer until all the Unseen had been slain. Let them kill as many as they can. We’ll kill the rest, Shade vowed.
    The other Shel’ai watched impassively. As the last Unseen fell and the furious men-at-arms closed in, thin fingers rose, unleashing streams of wytchfire. Fresh screams echoed across the plains. Horses reared up, spilling their hapless riders to the ground. Others were turned to cinders in the same fiery maelstrom that claimed their riders as seven grim-faced Shel’ai barred the path of hundreds.
    Men on horses and on foot closed on them from three sides. Violet flames drove them back. Shade added his magic to the torrent, killing and killing. The men-at-arms recoiled, their faces slack with horror. Shade imagined they had heard tales of Sylvan magic, but none were prepared for this!
    Shade singled out another rider. One hand blasted the man from his horse while the other unleashed a storm of flame that lit the earth and drove back the men behind him. He stood at the center of the Shel’ai. On either side, his comrades fought with the same tenacity. They were winning. But it could not last.
    One of the men-at-arms flung himself in front of his comrades, absorbing the worst of a firestorm, shielding the men behind him as he perished. Another threw a spear before he died. Shade screamed a rallying cry. The combined efforts of the Shel’ai drove the men-at-arms back again, but this time at a price. Two sorcerers lay dead, a third cut and bleeding.
    “Hold them!” Shade cried. But even as he spoke, a terrible weariness flooded his brain, numbing his chest and limbs. The wytchfire he cast from his fingertips was like his own blood. If he cast too much of it, the men-at-arms would have no need to kill him after all.
    None of the Shel’ai spoke after that. Brows knit with concentration as trembling hands cast more and more precious wytchfire from their bodies, thwarting charge after charge from the men-at-arms. Men hurled spears, but the sorcerers waved their hands, burning them in midair. Other men flung knives and swords or crawled on their bellies, hoping to avoid the deathly storm above them.
    Then one of the Shel’ai gasped and fell. Shade turned to look. It was Nariel. Though her body bore no visible injury, she had simply exhausted herself beyond all limits.
    Rage quickened Shade’s senses. He did not cry out. Instead, he unleashed another torrent of wytchfire, then another. His comrades did the same. But they were too few. A wedge of men-at-arms broke through. Shade drove them back, so weakened by then that his vision blurred.
    One Shel’ai perished. Then another, gravely wounded, gave Shade a glance of farewell.
    The attack had stalled a moment. Shade thought of Silwren in the tent behind him. He would never see her again—but Fadarah and Que’ann were close. He sensed his master’s reassuring words in his mind. They had more men with them. Silwren would live, as would the other initiates, because of this sacrifice.
    Wide-eyed, reeling in heaps of ashes and acrid, burnt remains that had once been the better half of their brigade, the men-at-arms rallied one last time and charged. Shade thought that the men must know they had no hope of survival and guessed they had gone fey, only hoping to take as many Shel’ai as possible with them.
    Another Shel’ai fell quickly, expending the last of his vital energy in a guttering wash of violet flames. The men-at-arms pressed on. Shade and the last Shel’ai beat them back. They knew they were beyond