Chapter 37

Baron sprinted down the road, only to be encircled by demon-hunters wearing the Iron Thorn Gang's badges. At their head rode the same familiar blond—arrogant, swaggering, and insufferable.

Sevi sat atop his blood-bay charger, face wrapped in thicker bandages than ever, so that he looked like some mummy resurrected from a fantasy flick.

He smiled coldly at Baron. "I told you I'd be back."

At his words, the Iron Thorn men behind him stepped forward. Their leader was a mountain of muscle nearly two meters tall, hefting a greataxe whose haft crawled with alchemical circuitry. The same green circuits pulsed across his stubbled cheeks and bulging arms; green was the color of Bronze rank. Sevi had brought Bronze hunters this time, clearly determined to wash away his earlier disgrace.

"Cripple him," Sevi ordered the giant.

The bruiser nodded. Beneath the circuits already etched on his forearms, the silver of a Bronze-grade Mithril Hand blossomed, flowing from his palms until the entire iron axe blazed a brilliant argent.

He swept the weapon in a testing arc; the wind it raised kicked dust into the air. His craggy face betrayed a surprisingly delicate wariness. He did not underestimate the youth just because the boy's rank was lower. Anyone who could thrash Sevi's Iron Thorn squad with only two companions and still be up and running two days later was no ordinary foe. With that in mind, his swings became cautious, searching.

Sevi turned to his escorts. "Don't just stand there—join in!"

The henchmen closed in. Sevi himself took a metal arbalest from a servant, loaded it with a vicious iron-thorn bolt, and took aim. The gang had taken its name from this very projectile. The shaft was forged of rare snow-steel, tempered only after four or five strong smiths had hammered it in relays for an entire day. Drawn to the full, the bolt could pierce even a Bronze hunter's silver hand. Barbs flared from the shaft, each etched by Ford City's finest with hair-thin blood-grooves, and the tip bore intricate alchemical runes burned in with copper powder. Their enchantment forced any wound they made to bleed faster.

Sevi's hatred for Baron ran deep; otherwise he never would have gone behind his father's back, hired a Bronze hunter, and stolen the weapon that was the Iron Thorn Gang's pride.

Baron felt the lethal promise of that bolt. He glanced at the ring of Black-Iron hunters—ordinary blades would hardly scratch them, and in skill he knew himself outclassed; the last fight had proved that. Yet if he used Dragonfire now, he would reach the manor drained, with no idea what lay ahead.

He weighed the odds, and a plan formed.

The giant signaled his men to wear the boy down. The henchmen moved in pairs, striking from front, back, left, and right together.

Baron stood still, broken sword trembling in his grip, drew a deep breath—then dove beneath the converging blades like a fisherman plunging into dark water.

His black shape flickered among the steel like a nimble fish—no, like a dancer.

The Bronze giant's Hunter's Eye saw far more than any Black-Iron hunter's. To him the world slowed: every blade or sword that should have pierced or slashed the youth missed by the breadth of a hair. Several times blades came at Baron's back, yet he turned or rolled as if he had eyes behind his head, turning lethal blows into glancing grazes.

The giant's heart chilled. The boy's movements were too crude to be called skill—they were raw instinct.

"Spread out!" Sevi barked from horseback. "I can't get a clear shot with you all bunched up!"

The henchmen obeyed instantly. The giant shouted, "No—"

Too late.

Baron seized the moment. He stamped the ground hard, raising a screen of sand. Blinded, the henchmen flinched; Baron leapt high. Sevi, nerves singing, squeezed the trigger.

The iron-thorn bolt hissed through the haze and struck the dark silhouette.

Sevi's face lit—then froze. The "Baron" drifted down like a scrap of shadow. It was nothing but a black coat. In the instant the dust had risen, the demon-hunter had used his cloak as a decoy. Where was he now?

"Behind you!" the giant bellowed, lunging to shield Sevi.

The sand-cloud split as though slashed open. Out of the gap Baron burst, broken sword aimed for the giant's heart. The fleeting gleam of the blade and the hunter's dead-cold eyes made the giant's blood run.

The giant swung his axe one-handed; with the other he triggered a command sigil, spewing silver mercury that sealed off retreat.

"You think I'm afraid of you?" he roared.

The axe fell. Baron slipped aside; the weapon bit deep into the road, carving a crater. Had that blow landed on flesh, the victim would have been sliced as cleanly as silk under a tailor's shears.

But Baron was already gone, dancing along the haft. He vaulted, kicked Sevi from his saddle, and snatched the reins. Shots cracked; harnesses snapped; the carriage horses bolted in terror.

"You dare steal my horse!" Sevi screamed from the dirt, but Baron was gone, galloping away on the blood-bay worth near a hundred silver.

Sevi watched the scattered herd vanish into the woods. "What are you staring at?" he snarled at his men. "Find my horses—now!"

By the time they rounded the beasts up, Baron would be leagues away.

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Baron reined in, the black horse snorting white plumes. He dismounted, stroked the stallion's neck, and decided such a fine animal deserved to live free. He removed bit and saddle, tucked away three iron-thorn bolts Sevi had not yet loaded, and slapped the horse's flank. The stallion whinnied, wheeled, and thundered into the forest, raising a cloud of dust.

Baron scaled the manor gate and dropped silently inside.

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On the road, the escorts finally regathered the horses and formed up, planning to reach town before nightfall. Sevi, still seething, vowed the Fern would pay.

Then the Bronze demon-hunter at his side narrowed his eyes and signaled a halt.

"What is it?" Sevi asked.

Faliad—veteran of the gang, half an elder—had served since Sevi's father founded the Iron Thorns. Powerful, shrewd, he commanded Sevi's respect.

"Nothing... perhaps my imagination." Ahead, a black-robed nun stood at the bend. "I sensed faint mana, but it's only a Crimson Church sister."

"Move on," he ordered.

The column stirred, but Sevi lingered, watching the figure draw closer, a predatory smile spreading.

"That nun... mm, fine figure."

"Young master, let's go. A nun is God's servant; we must not defile the divine."

Sevi waved him off. "Gods? Rotting corpses, the lot. Relax—just a nun. I'll only play a little..."

Faliad's voice hardened. "Night is falling. My bounty quest is to track bank robbers by the wizard's divination. If you'll waste time on a woman's belly, we part ways here."

"Then farewell, Faliad—see you in Ford City!"

Sevi laughed, snatched a whip, and spurred after the nun.

Faliad watched him go, frowning. This pampered brat, raised in honey, would one day sink the Iron Thorns. Let the boss worry.

He mounted, drew the wizard-enchanted compass from his coat. The needle shivered wildly, then spun full circle and pointed the opposite way.

Faliad frowned—had they passed the target? He wheeled his horse and galloped the other direction.

Sevi closed on the nun. She was tall and graceful, black habit trailing, face an oval framed by the veil—lips like sin, eyes like heaven. The wind pressed the robe against her form, outlining curves as tempting as any devil's, yet her gaze was pure as an angel's reflecting Sevi and his men.

She smiled; a crimson dot appeared between her brows. Sevi smiled back; the same red bead blossomed on his own forehead.

Then he toppled from his horse, thrashed once, and died.

The hunters staggered as though lightning had struck them.

It wasn't only Sevi's death that stunned them; they watched in horror as the nun's smooth forehead split open and a massive white horn burst forth, transforming her into a bloodthirsty blood fiend.