If Maeve’s eyes were correct—and they usually were—the flames in Brendan’s wall were starting to sputter. Fergal and Brigid split wide to flank the leader again, both parties still separated by the weakening fire.

  She traced the wall toward the forest and found the second sorcerer near the treeline. Forty yards behind them, the second wolf had turned its head in their direction, ready to limp after.

  They found Brendan.

  Stealth now was a luxury beyond Maeve’s station. She grunted as she staggered toward the other side of the field, using her bow as a walking stick. Its wont to flex caused additional problems as she hobbled within range.

  Nothing more than Brigid’s and Fergal’s presence kept the leader from turning around and blasting her with one spell or another. All she could do is trust that they would continue to draw his fire as she knelt on her sore leg. She stabilized her stance and took aim at the last wolf.

  Her next arrow whistled through the air as soon as it cleared her bow. The wolf nearly fell over from the impact. The sound it made was loud enough to draw a backwards glance from the second sorcerer.

  Maeve’s eyes trailed up her bow from grip to tip and noted its green glimmer in the campfire’s light.

  Doesn’t that even up the odds, now?

  She pulled back her bowstring, waiting for the wolf to choose its next path. After a shake of the head, it ran for the other stranger. It never reached them; the creature collapsed fifteen yards away from its master with a final arrow embedded in its upper neck.

  The sorcerer ran back and knelt next to the fallen beast. It was only in their rest that Maeve could see that the second sorcerer was a woman. The lady placed a hand on the arrow that dropped the wolf and turned her head to retrace its trajectory. She found Maeve kneeling in the open field behind their camp.

  The woman turned her body to keep everyone else in front of her and sidled in Maeve’s direction. She pointed her right palm to the forest and her left towards Maeve.

  Maeve scanned the surroundings for cover. The tents were thirty yards away to her front and left. The wall of fire behind them had died. The closest part of the forest was fifteen yards to her right. Even if she reached the forest, she’d be too far from the rest of the fight to—

  Something on her left flashed, closely followed by a popping noise and a cry of pain from Fergal.

  Maeve pointed an arrow at the woman to keep her honest and looked at her friend. Fergal dropped to a knee and clutched his left side. Brigid moved directly in front of the leader with a look of extreme displeasure on her face. She unleashed a flurry of attacks—this time in a precise dance of speed and form. None of her thrusts struck her foe’s body, if only because he backed away from her. A glance back to Fergal found him in the same position: kneeling and upright.

  Grand. He can wait, then.

  The woman was now halfway between Brendan’s hiding spot and Maeve’s location. She trained both of her hands on Maeve.

  Maeve’s best chance lied in facing spellcasts that focused on power. The time it takes to pull the hands back for such a spell would be enough for even her injured leg to push her out of harm’s way.

  Maeve was never a fan of letting the opponent dictate strategy, however. She let fly at the sorceress. The woman raised a barrier in time to deflect the arrow. It rocked its target backwards, but the lady did not stumble.

  Maeve looked at her bow. The glints of green light were fading.

  Don’t fail me now.

  She pulled her arms back. “Nertaid.” Nothing. She tried once more. “Nertaid!”

  She slammed her eyes shut and attempted a few breaths before pulling her arms back. She felt nothing new but tried again anyway. “Nertaid.”

  Whatever had allowed the spell to work earlier was gone.

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  I don’t understand—

  “Torann nert!” yelled the woman.

  A flicker of blue light in front of the lady’s hands preceded a booming noise. The larger blades of grass between the two women bowed away from the sound a split second before an invisible wave threw Maeve backwards.

  Maeve rocked back and forth for a moment as every sense but her hearing returned to her. She rolled to her stomach and pushed herself up to a standing position, bow still in hand.

  Another flash from her left, followed by another loud pop. No cries of pain this time.

  Maeve raised her bow, arrow ready, and loosed it. The woman jumped to her right, barely avoiding the shot and flicked a fireball at Maeve. The hunter pushed off with her right leg and fell to her left.

  Fatigue and the effect of blood loss weighed her down. Lights and shadows blurred at their edges. In the right edge of her periphery a shadow shifted in the distance. On her left side a small flash of lightning flickered. The subsequent boom felt smaller than the first but she assumed her muffled hearing was as much to blame for that. Maeve rolled forward and pushed herself up.

  The sorceress stopped her sprint just a few feet away and readied for another spell, one Maeve would not dodge or deflect. Luckily for Maeve the stranger wasn’t the only person approaching her.

  The shadow on her right was actually Brendan, who apparently had run across the forest once more to emerge behind the woman. He was still thirty yards away, but he slid to a stop once he sensed the moment in which the lady would act.

  The woman’s spoke her next words through a grin of satisfaction as she drew her hands back. There was no need for her to draw that much power; Maeve assumed it was the penalty for defeating their wolves and angering the stranger.

  Maeve heard Brendan yell at the same time as the other sorcerer.

  “Ardú—”

  "Sai?et gealáin!” the woman said as her hands moved for Maeve.

  “—tala?!” Brendan said.

  A pedestal of earth erupted out of the soil directly in front of the woman’s feet. The ground struck her hands, forcing the lightning bolt to sail over Maeve’s head.

  The woman yelped and clasped her hands. The pain distracted her from the man who had resumed his pursuit. He did not stop before his next spell. He raised his right hand above his head, pulled it down below his waist and flung it forward.

  A smaller block of earth lifted behind the stranger, pushing her heels forward and toppling her onto her back. He held the butt of his staff over her head as Maeve limped over to join them.

  “Want me to bury her?” Brendan asked.

  “What is this thing you have about burying people?” Maeve asked. “You’re a bit grim, O’Cahan.”

  Brendan shifted and raised his brows in apology. He gasped between random words as he spoke. “I’ve never actually done it,” he said. “I just read about it and wondered if it might come in handy someday. Just up to her shoulders to keep her restrained.”

  Maeve shook her head and pulled an extra bowstring from a small pouch fastened to her belt. With a loud groan she dropped to her knees and secured the lady’s hands. “Keep her there. I’ll see to Brigid.”

  “Ailill!” the sorceress yelled. “Stop playing with them and help me!”

  Maeve turned to Brigid. To her credit, the man’s clothes were torn in several places, some of them stained with blood. A burn mark covered most of her forearm, her chest and abdomen sported two small scorch marks.

  Fergal’s back hunched as he stood, his movements slow and deliberate. The earlier blast left a fist-sized hole in his shirt and through it Maeve could see a swirling and tangled burn mark.

  His da’s going to scream at us for that one.

  ‘Ailill’ turned back toward his accomplice. Brigid saw an opening created by distraction; instead it was a trap set up by deception. The man smiled at Maeve as he pointed his left hand toward her and then pushed it back across his body, under his right arm, at Brigid. “Pléascadh guirid.”

  A burst of bright orange light struck Brigid near her diaphragm and sent her flying onto her back. Ailill used his right hand to throw a gust of wind toward Maeve, but his preoccupation with Brigid and Fergal lessened its effectiveness.

  Maeve presented her left shoulder to the wind and braced herself with her right leg. She called out as the man set his focus on Fergal. “Oi! Ailill!”

  The sound of a stranger calling his name got the better of the man’s curiosity. He turned back to Maeve in time to watch her let fly another shot. The arrow lodged in his right shoulder. Fergal approached him with his club aloft, ready to drop their foe with a blow to the back of his head.

  “Fergal!” Brendan yelled. “Don’t.”

  Fergal took his left hand off the club, tilted his head and squished his face at Brendan.

  “Just don’t,” Brendan said.

  Brigid groaned and rolled to her side. “Trust us, Ferg,” she said.

  Fergal held up his free hand and squeezed it into a massive fist. “And this?” he asked Brendan.

  Brendan smiled as he pushed out a single laugh. “That’s just grand,” Brendan said.

  Fergal dropped his club and slugged Ailill in the jaw. The sorcerer was unconscious before he hit the ground.

  “Oi, Maeve,” Brendan said.

  “Yes?”

  He pointed to the woman. “You got yer wan down here right?” he asked.

  Maeve rested an arrow on her bow. “Sure I do,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. He threw his staff at Maeve’s feet and fell backwards to the ground.