Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows Read Free Page B

the rest learned—that to close with the master was death. Their reflexes always paled in comparison. They needed a stretch of ground—or air—in which to react to his power; to diminish that distance in any way led to injury. In the classroom.
    Here, it was death.
    And when will we be good enough? When can we stand and fight?
    Not in this decade, Gyrrick.
    And the
Kialli?
    You are skilled enough now that you should know on sight who presents a threat… and who is certain death. I am not Magi Mellifas; it is not my intent to rob you of the battles you can win. But my tenure within the Order depends on your ability to gauge danger and survive it. If I had discovered you as a child…
    Gyrrick's hands trembled as he raised them.
    The demons were closing, and not all of them were bound—as Gyrrick and his men were—to earth.
    He barked out orders, reminding his men that distance was-—for the moment—their best defense. But it was only that: defense. All of the stories that he had studied became fodder for children. He gazed upon the enemy, upon their numbers, upon the damage they had casually done to the Common, and he knew that what the master had taught— what had
never
been tested—would either save or damn them.
    But his hands were shaking.
    Hold any other weapon
, he heard the master say,
and you will perish if you close with the enemy. Do you understand? You do not have the fire, cold or hot, to best the
Kialli
in direct conflict. But in your long history
—
much of it forgotten
—
you had the
power.
And you still have it, if you are willing to take the risk of using it
.
    What risk?
    Here, the sound of demons keening like rabid dogs, their language high and sharp and piercing as they rushed in like air filling vacuum, the master's answer returned.
    Of death, of course.
    Gyrrick had fought demons before. But not many, and not
Kialli
. The master had said he would know the difference, and as always, he had been correct. They were closing.
    He could not afford to let them close unhindered.
    Why do you not teach us all this?
    Because, idiot, not all of you are capable of learning. You may not have noticed, but I abhor wasting my time.
    Gyrrick's compatriots knew almost as well as he did that to let the
Kialli
close meant death. Plumes of fire—of human fire—and lightning were coaxed from air and sky; walls of coruscating orange light—if one had the gift and knew how to look—sprang into shimmering life at the command of will and a few hasty words of focus. Meralonne would have failed them in their exercise had he heard those hasty words, because he loathed foci as much as he loathed stupidity. Possibly more. He considered them crutches, not necessities, and he reserved his harshest words for those who could not let go of the security of their use, for they telegraphed much to an enemy. It didn't matter; there was no classroom now; no reprimand to fear.
    There was only death.
    He shouted out orders; the words were short and harsh. If he hadn't felt the vibration of his throat, he wouldn't have known they were his. But his men knew, and they responded entirely by reflex, doing as they were ordered. No consensus, not here. No committees.
    Just his judgment, forced into words as reflexive as his compatriots' response, while they could hear it.
    Meralonne had given them that. Had humiliated them, time and again when they failed to respond as quickly as he wanted (which seemed—which
had been
—impossible), or with the precision he desired. He would not, Gyrrick thought, be satisfied with them now.
    But now…
    The fires cut through the lines of their defense as if orange light and enchantment were spider's gossamer. He saw three men bisected by something that looked like red light. And he heard the enemy laugh. Distorted as it was by long fangs and impossible, slender jaws, by lips that seemed things of leather or steel or jade, he knew contempt when he heard it.
    In the air, in the sky above, there was no