Chapter 33
The mountain pass was a throat of darkness, the only light the bobbing, pathetic glow of the caravan's lanterns far below.
Blake watched, a statue carved from the night itself, his red eyes tracking the procession like a hawk.
Lucas had given only two restrictions: the Mayor lives, the key informants live.
He dropped from the ledge.
He landed behind the two rear horsemen with a heavy thud that made them spin in their saddles.
Their eyes widened in the lantern light, mouths opening to shout.
They never made a sound.
Blake's hands moved.
Twin flashes of steel, precise and brutal.
A deep, silencing slash across the first man's throat.
A vicious stab under the second's helmet, through the soft palate and into the brain.
He let the bodies slump, the horses spooking and bolting into the night.
The first blood, hot and coppery, misted the air.
He walked into the pool of light cast by the next pair of foot soldiers.
They fumbled with their magic rifles. "Enemy! Here!"
{Fire Spell: Beastly Flames – Body Enhancement}
Heat flooded him, not just strength, but a fierce, aggressive energy.
The first soldier fired.
The blue mana bolt screamed through the air.
Blake didn't dodge.
He swatted it aside with his dagger, the enchanted steel deflecting the energy with a sharp crack.
He was on the man before the look of shock could form.
A straight-armed lunge, dagger plunging into the soldier's chest, piercing leather and sternum.
He ripped it sideways on the withdrawal, opening a cavernous wound.
The second soldier turned to run.
Blake took two steps and leapt, a panther's bound.
He landed on the man's back, driving him face-first into the jagged rock of the path.
There was a sickening crunch.
Blake rose, leaving the twitching form behind.
Chaos was now total, Shouts of terror replaced orders.
The caravan coiled in on itself, a panicked animal.
Blake became a specter of relentless motion, a butcher in the narrow alley of the pass. He moved through them, and men died.
A horseman charged, sword high.
Blake met the charge, ducking under the swing and burying a dagger in the horse's neck.
The beast screamed and collapsed, throwing its rider.
Blake stepped on the man's chest as he tried to rise, pinning him, and ended him with a quick, downward stab through the eye socket.
A group of three soldiers formed a ragged shield wall, which Blake he burned it.
{Fire Spell: Searing Whip}
A coil of snapping, white-hot flame materialized in his hand.
He lashed out.
The whip wrapped around a soldier's shield, not to pull, but to sear.
The metal glowed red, then white.
The man screamed, dropping the molten shield.
The whip retracted and struck again, this time as a piercing lance of fire that took another soldier in the throat, leaving a charred, smoking hole.
The third broke and ran.
Blake hurled a dagger; it thudded between his shoulder blades.
The smell of blood, burnt flesh, and terror filled the pass.
From the heart of the dissolving army, three auras flared—the cultivators.
The earth-user roared, slamming his hands on the ground.
A wave of stone spikes surged towards Blake.
He sprinted forward, up the rising spikes, using them as stepping stones.
He reached the cultivator as the man's eyes bulged in disbelief.
"Monster!" the earth-user grunted, swinging his heavy broadsword.
Blake caught the powerful blow on crossed daggers, the force driving him back a foot, boots scraping on stone.
He didn't try to match strength.
He flowed with the momentum, spinning and dragging his blades down the sword, throwing sparks, until he was inside the man's guard.
An elbow smashed the cultivator's nose.
A knee drove into his gut.
As the man doubled over, Blake hooked a dagger under his chin and jerked upwards.
The earth-user fell, gurgling, his strength meaningless.
The water-blade cultivator attacked in a flurry, his movements liquid and desperate.
Ting! Ting! Clang!
Their blades met in a frantic, shimmering dance.
This one had skill, but his style was built on defense, on redirecting force.
Blake offered no force to redirect.
He was a barrage of sharp, unpredictable angles.
He parried a thrust, let the follow-up slash graze his ribs—a shallow cut he ignored—and slammed his forehead into the cultivator's face.
Staggered, the man's perfect form broke.
Blake's dagger flickered out, not to kill, but to maim.
It severed the tendons in the man's wrist.
The short blade clattered to the ground.
A cry of pain was cut short as Blake's other dagger opened his throat from ear to ear.
The wind-woman had finished her chant.
{Wind Spell: Razor Tempest}
A whirlwind filled with invisible, slicing blades enveloped Blake, tearing at his cloak and scoring lines on his arms and cheeks.
He stood in the center, bleeding from a dozen minor cuts, and smiled.
It was a cold, empty thing.
"Is that all?" His voice cut through the howling wind.
He plunged both daggers into the ground.
{Fire Spell: Eruption}
The ground at his feet didn't explode.
It imploded, then vomited a concentrated column of pure fire upwards.
The superheated air ripped the controlled wind spell to shreds, bursting it with a concussive whump.
The backlash threw the wind-woman off her feet.
She scrambled up, her hands moving for another spell.
Blake was already in the air, having pulled his daggers free.
He came down on her like a falling star, daggers pointed down.
She raised her arms in a futile guard.
The blades punched through forearms and buried themselves deep in her chest.
He landed in a crouch atop her, feeling the life go out of her beneath him.
He yanked the daggers free.
Silence.
The violent, screaming silence after a storm.
Of the two dozen soldiers, only five remained, huddled near the carriage, weapons trembling in their hands.
The ground was a charnel house of the dead and dying.
The three elite cultivators lay in spreading pools of their own blood.
The carriage door burst open.
The Mayor tumbled out, his fine robes stained with vomit.
He saw the carnage and retched again.
His wife screamed, clutching a young daughter who was sobbing uncontrollably.
Blake walked towards them.
He dripped blood—his own and that of others. His breath came in steady, unhurried clouds in the cold air.
The five soldiers dropped their weapons, falling to their knees, babbling for mercy.
He ignored them.
His eyes were on the Mayor and the man cowering behind him—a thin, rat-faced advisor clutching a ledger to his chest like a shield.
"You," Blake said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
He pointed a bloodied dagger at the advisor. "You come, Now."
The Mayor found his voice, a thin, reedy shriek. "You demon! You slaughtered them all!"
Blake turned his red eyes on the Mayor.
The man flinched as if struck. "You ordered the attack on Lady Natalie," Blake stated, as if discussing the weather.
"You provided the path. Your men carried it out. This…"
He gestured with his dagger at the slaughter around them. "…is the invoice. Your life is a credit on her account. Do not make me reconsider the balance."
He took a step forward.
The advisor squealed and tried to run.
Blake didn't even look.
His left hand flicked.
A dagger spun through the air and thudded into the man's leg, pinning him to the ground. He shrieked in pain.
Lucas dropped from above, landing lightly beside Blake.
He surveyed the scene, his expression unreadable behind his mask.
"Thorough," he remarked, his tone approving.