Free Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2) by Ben Galley Page B

man’s temple. He went as limp as a dead snake, relinquishing his gun and bullets to the sand.
    ‘Over here!’ came the startled cry of the next man along the line, already swinging his pistol at Merion. But the boy was faster, ducking just in time. The gun fired at nothing but darkness. Merion spun as he rushed forward, swinging the rock upwards into the man’s groin. The bandit howled and folded in two. There was a dreadful, muffled bang as he fired a round into his own stomach in pain and panic.
    The other five were now all bringing their guns to bear. Merion gulped and blindly hurled himself to the side as their muzzles burst with fire. Though his mind may not have willed any finesse into the dive, his muscles had plenty to spare.
    Merion rolled agilely to his feet and darted from side to side, puffs of sand exploding around his feet. Not a single one seemed able to touch him, though a few came perilously close. Merion just grimaced as he lurched from side to side, ducking and dipping, never in one place for more than a whisker of a second.
    Before he knew it, he was swinging his rock again, swiping another of the guns aside. A blade flashed, and Merion skipped back. A muscle in his stomach spasmed, and for a moment he thought he was done for. But it was Rhin, pouring further chaos on the dwindling pack of bandits. Fae steel slashed through leather and cloth, sliced at calf muscles and tendons. One man went down with a bloodcurdling scream, clutching at the backs of his legs. A sword to the back of his skull silenced him. Rhin, still only half-visible, wrenched his blade free and shook the blood from it. It was hard to keep up the spell in the midst of battle, but Rhin was more practised than most. He held his blades out to the side and began to jog forward. The remaining bandits were now shooting madly at the desert. Far too high, and far too wide.
    Nobody ever suspects a faerie can do so much damage. Rhin raised his knife and threw it hard, catching a bandit in the chest. The blade may have been small, but it was as sharp as a winter wind, and hurt like the depths of hell when it caught bone, which it had. While the man clutched his chest, his face crinkling into a wail, Rhin bounded to the top of a nearby rock and lunged at him, his wings buzzing loud and strong. Rhin sailed through the air, slicing the man’s throat as he flew past his head.
    A few paces away, Merion found himself being grappled from behind. Even while rushing the chipmunk blood, it caught him off-guard. He managed to roll instead of pitching onto his face. A brawny bearded man with wildness in his eyes stood over him. He had a small knife in one hand, and was jabbing it at the boy.
    Merion felt the blade whistle past his ear. He smacked his rock against the man’s ribs, but the other just wheezed and barged forward, pushing Merion off his feet again. They fell as one and the boy felt the breath driven from his lungs. Magick rushed into his arms and hands, wrenching them upwards before the knife plunged into his heart. One hand grabbed the man’s throat, the other his wrist. They writhed and strained, wordlessly, muscle versus magick, with the only prize being life.
    The bandit broke Merion’s hold by ramming his forehead into the boy’s brow. Sparks exploded behind Merion’s eyes and he reeled. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the man raise the knife high for the final strike.
    But whatever luck he’d scraped from the day stayed with him. Lurker loomed from behind, grasping the man’s knife hand with two of his and driving it hard into the man’s forehead as he turned in shock. He was dead before he hit the dust. Lurker raised the Mistress and fired, once, twice, and the desert fell silent.
    Only panting and the ringing in his ears filled the vacuous absence of gunshots and yells. Rhin was busy retrieving his knife from its temporary home.
    ‘Thank you,’ Merion panted, still regaining his breath.
    ‘Don’t mention it,’