He lay face down in the thin snow, his rapid breaths shifting it in front of his hazy eyes as he battled to shut down the pain ricocheting through him and tame the darkness that tried to steal control again. This time, he could give in to it, but he wouldn’t. The abyss beckoned if he did. He wasn’t strong enough to stop it from devouring him. He had to maintain control, or he would lose it forever.
Would become not just tainted, but lost.
When he felt able to move, he slowly pushed himself up off the frigid ground and onto his knees. He grunted and gripped his side as pain speared him, thanked the gods for his armour as he felt the bruise there that would have been a hole in him if it hadn’t stopped the branch from penetrating him. His lungs ached as he breathed and he gave himself a moment to recover as he peered into the moonlit darkness.
Distant specks moved like shadows across the blanket of white.
The damned spell had tossed him close to a mile from where he had been.
He started back towards the others, walking at first but slowly building into a run. The desire to teleport was strong, but his will was stronger. He focused on sprinting, covering the distance in a way that wouldn’t drain him. He needed the rest of his strength for the fight ahead.
His eyes darted over the fight and he almost smiled as he saw that Isla had taken down another three mages with the help of Grave and Night, and Frey stood over the body of a fourth as Syn gutted a fifth. With each death, the clones disappeared, improving the odds for his side.
The remaining mages were beginning to look tired, used spells to attack his allies rather than clones of themselves. They were weakening.
Hartt did smile now.
They could win this.
His eyes darted to his left, towards the stronghold, as something moved there. He changed course when he saw what it was.
The black-haired mage.
The other witches were falling back to him, moving within a ring of his clones. There had to be at least twenty of them, all of them armed with silver blades that reflected the moonlight. Hartt could easily handle that many.
The mage’s head swivelled towards him and Hartt could feel his gaze on him, growled as he redoubled his effort, sprinting faster, his boots chewing up the snow.
His eyes widened as the male seized another mage by the back of his neck and shock rippled across the male’s face, his mouth opening on a silent scream. The black-haired mage tugged the blade free of his heart, grinned as he kept his eyes locked with Hartt’s and kept hold of the dead male, his arm lowering with him as he sank to the ground.
The sensation of power coming from the mage’s direction grew stronger, more than doubling, and Hartt couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The mage had sacrificed one of his own side to give himself a boost in power.
At once, twelve new clones appeared around him. They closed in on the other mages rather than moving to reinforce the defensive perimeter the black-haired male had built around him. The remaining three mages tried to make a break for it, but only one of them managed to disappear before the clones were on them, had seized them and were dragging them towards their leader.
A sense of dread built inside Hartt as he raced towards the mage, as the male cut down another of his side, growing stronger still. Another dozen clones appeared, joined up with some of the others to rush towards Isla and the vampires as they closed the distance between them and the mage, coming at him from the other side to Hartt.
The black-haired male lunged for the final mage as his clones dragged him towards him, seized hold of him but struggled to keep his grip on the mage as fire burst from the brunet’s hands and engulfed his arms. The clones howled in pain as the flames licked at them, as they caught on their black robes and spread, and the mage bellowed with them, releasing the brunet.
That male made a run for it just as Hartt teleported, aiming for the other side of the ring of clones. Hartt landed beyond them, skidded on the icy ground and twisted as he barrelled towards the wall of milky-eyed copies who turned as one to glare at him. He called his katana to him and slammed the tip of it into the ground as it appeared in his hand, stopping himself from hitting them. They launched at him on a vicious collective hiss.
That hiss ended in a wave of cries as something cut through the air behind him, and the scent of blood grew heavy in the air. Hartt flinched and grimaced as it rained down on him, splattering the white ground, making it even slicker.
“That counts as my kill,” Syn hollered. “I totally stabbed him first.”
Frey’s only response was a grunt as he tossed a dead clone at the wall surrounding Hartt. It disappeared before it could hit the copies who moved as one to keep the wall around their master strong, closing the gap Syn and Frey had created.
The demon king swept downwards, aiming for the mage.
Hit something around thirty feet above Hartt and bounced off it. A wave of blue symbols swept around the air, forming the shape of a dome before they disappeared. He looked at the mage.
The male closed his hand around the brunet witch’s throat and stabbed him straight in the chest, his eyes never leaving Hartt’s. The power that emanated from him grew stronger still.
Hartt looked around him as the mage tossed the dead male aside, deeply aware that he was now inside a barrier, alone with a hell of a lot of clones and a very powerful witch. That wasn’t good. He had two options—find a way out or fight.
The wall of clones stared at him, strange blue eyes watching him closely, tracking his every move. If he tried to go through them, he might be able to take a few down, but there was a high chance they would capture him.
When the mage began to close in on him and no easy exit presented itself, Hartt focused to teleport.
Nothing happened.
He cursed magic, starting to hate it with a passion as he braced his feet shoulder-width apart and stared the mage down. He flung his hand out to his left, testing a theory. The clone he sent flying hit the barrier and ricocheted off it, landing with a grunt on the ground within the sphere of the spell.
No escape.
Hartt flexed his fingers around the grip of his katana.
No surrender either.
He sent a mental command to his clothing, shirking his protective gear, leaving him in only his black armour. Cold instantly invaded his tired muscles, but it was better than limiting his range of movement with the heavy clothing. He had the feeling he was going to need every ounce of his speed to survive this.
The black-haired male straightened, lifting his chin as he stared Hartt down. Blue light glowed from his palm, illuminating the harsh planes of his face and darkening his crimson eyes.
Hartt kept his focus on the male, ignoring the shouts coming from the outside of the dome as Isla, the vampires and the demons worked to take down the clones and reach him. They wouldn’t be able to breach the barrier if they made it past the clones. Rosalind was the only one who could possibly dispel it. He wanted to look at his allies to silently tell them to go for the witch, but didn’t dare take his eyes off the mage.
Grave must have hollered something abusive in the mage’s direction because the male turned cold red eyes on something off to Hartt’s left.
The mage’s regal English accent was clipped as he growled, “I will kill you next. All in good time, vampire.”
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Hartt snarled and brought his katana up in front of him, gripped the long hilt in both hands and readied himself.