Chapter 10 The Hellion #3
Celise’s head snapped up, her senses on high alert. The stallion whinnied nervously, its muscles tensing beneath her hands. She gripped the reins, her knuckles white with effort, as she struggled to keep the animal under control.
From the shadows of the woods, a lumbering brute emerged—Farvi.
Celise went cold.
The thief’s square face was covered in dripping blood from a nasty head wound.
One arm hung limp at his side where the ghost sword had shattered his humerus.
His lips contorted in a snarl of fury when he saw her.
He raised his good arm, his pistol clutched in a shaking fist. He pointed it directly at her head.
“You!” he growled. “You ruined everything, you little whore!”
Celise’s breath caught in her throat, and she froze, her eyes locked onto the black muzzle of the gun. Time seemed to slow as she braced herself for the inevitable.
Then a second man burst from the woods.
The soldier appeared, his purple ghost sword held ready at his side. Silent and efficient, he charged at the bandit, his blade flashing in the moonlight.
The soldier's sword clashed against the bandit's gun just as Farvi pulled the trigger. Cr-crack! The bullet struck the earth and rebounded off a rock. The sword sent the gun flying—and the bandit’s arm went with it.
Celise gasped. Farvi screamed. Blood sprayed the air.
The pistol and the thief’s arm went flying over the side of the cliff.
Then the soldier was on him. With a mighty kick, he sent the bandit stumbling backward.
Farvi teetered close to the side of the cliff. For a moment, it seemed as if he might regain his balance, but the ground was too treacherous. With a final, desperate cry, he tumbled over the edge, his body disappearing into the darkness below.
Celise was too shocked to utter a sound. A dull rushing noise filled her ears, and her vision swam. With an unexpected moan, she swooned. She tried to catch her balance against the horse’s neck, but she found herself sinking down onto her knees.
She heard a distant splash as the thief’s body landed in the river.
Celise remained on her knees, kneeling in the dirt, her eyes closed, shaking from the adrenaline of the night.
Then she heard the sound of heavy boots crunching on leaves.
When next she looked up, the soldier stood on the opposite side of the Hellion, his forage cap slightly crooked, strands of dark hair falling wildly across his face.
He caught the Hellion’s reins in one hand so it didn’t step on her.
Celise squinted up at him. In the darkness, she couldn’t quite make him out.
He was tall, based on how he towered next to the horse, and his boots were spattered with mud.
Blood, too. She didn’t want to think about that.
Far from gallant, the man roared at her, “Damnable dust, you reckless girl! What were you thinking? Why did you follow me?”
“I . . . I . . . .”
“You put yourself at risk for no reason. You . . . you lightless dullspark!”
Lightless? It was as good as calling her a dunslug, the official term for commoners without mana. Reeling from his reprimand, Celise stared up at the soldier, her mouth agape.
“Are you injured?” he snapped.
“N-no.”
“What about your face?”
It took Celise a moment to remember Marcella’s hard slap.
“Oh, no,” she mumbled, pressing the back of her hand against the tender spot along her jaw. “Just clumsy.”
The soldier shook his head again and grumbled, “Foolish.” Then he reached down. Celise stared at his gloved hand stupidly, frozen in shock.
“Come on, girl, make haste! More bandits might be in these woods.”
Without waiting, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her up to her feet.
Celise swayed as the blood rushed to her head.
She swooned again, and the soldier reached out to grab her elbow.
He missed, or perhaps she twisted away, and she found herself gripping the horse’s mane for balance.
She felt instantly better once she felt the heat of the horse’s strong neck under her hands.
She sighed and pressed her face against the stallion’s dark mane.
Inhaled. The smell reminded her of the Dhastel stables. It was a small comfort.
“Tempest is a Hellion bred for battle—he’s not safe for civilians.
Step away at once,” the man barked. He stood nearby, his hand tense on the horse’s bridle.
She couldn’t tell if he was afraid for her safety or simply surprised his horse hadn’t bitten her yet.
He looked like he meant to drag the aggressive beast away from her, but Celise put a hand on his arm.
“It’s alright, you don’t need to worry . . . I’m good with horses.”
The man shrugged her off.
“Tempest is not merely a horse,” he grunted. Still, the soldier didn’t try to drag her away from his steed again. He watched her pet the fearsome stallion as though it were a mere sheepdog. A strained silence fell between them.
Celise took advantage of the quiet moment to regain her bearings. Mud smeared her shift, and her braid was a crooked mess, with all sorts of loose strands and flyaways falling around her face. But she was alive and unharmed. The night was quiet. The threat had passed.
“So what now—?” she started to ask.
Suddenly, without warning, the soldier stepped behind her.
His gloved hands gripped her around the waist. With a gasp, Celise felt her feet leave the ground.
The man easily lifted her up and placed her into the saddle.
She found herself gripping the saddle horn, surprised by her sudden change of position.
“What—?”
“Worse than bandits roam these woods. Griffins are ravenous this time of year,” he said. “Since Tempest seems to tolerate you, this will do. Stay close to my side, little moonflower.”
Moonflower?
Then the soldier started leading his horse back to the quarry.
As the Hellion walked through the woods, Celise found herself studying the man’s back—his broad shoulders and black military coat.
She wondered what color his hair might be under his cap.
In the near darkness, it was hard to tell.
She had yet to get a clear view of his face.
She might have glimpsed the shape of a square jawline and a strong neck in the light of his ghost sword.
The shined rod now hung through a loop in his belt in a nonchalant way, as though he swaggered about with a ghost sword at his hip all the time.
“Is that your horse’s name—Tempest?” She broke the silence.
“It is.”
“Hellions have stormy temperaments. It’s a good name. It suits him.”
The soldier paused at her words, his silence rich with unspoken thoughts. He finally asked, “Are you familiar with the breed?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How would a highborn lady know about Hellions?”
Celise caught herself. In the privacy of the dark woods, she had almost started speaking about the Dhastel ranch, her father’s lands, the expansive stables, and the various different horses she worked with each day.
But she held her tongue. This soldier had saved her life—but if he learned about her family, would he turn her over to Marcella?
The thought was jarring.
“Well?” he prompted.
Celise finished lamely, “I-I’ve read some books about them.” Very much a lie, as reading was hardly her strong suit.
The man grunted. She couldn’t tell if he believed her.
The trees parted, and they reached the quarry.
At the bottom of the rocky hollow, Celise was surprised to see several men lying on the ground under the densely woven net of daemon thread.
They appeared to be unconscious. Each one was stretched flat against the ground as though crushed under a heavy weight.
The soldier led them down a slight hill to the base of the quarry, where he tossed the Hellion’s reins over a fallen tree trunk.
Then he crossed to the pile of fugitives, where he knelt for a moment, tightening their bonds.
He drew his sword from his belt and lifted the shined blade into the air.
A pulse of purple light moved down the rod to the tip, then shot into the sky with a sizzle of power—a flare.
The purple star flew up through the trees.
It hovered about a hundred feet above the woods like a ghostly beacon.
Celise flinched and shut her eyes against the sudden, harsh light.
“What is that?” she asked.
“A sigil. It will help my men find us. They will take the thieves into custody.”
My men.
So he was an officer of some kind? He was Luminous, so he was likely highborn himself, she slowly realized.
“I’ve never seen anyone use a ghost sword before. I heard the Daemonguard use them to fight monsters in the Abyss. Is the blade truly powered by mana?”
“Yes,” the soldier said. He continued collecting his shined weapons from around the quarry. He laid out the stolen items in a row on the ground. It seemed like he was inspecting each rod for damage. They glimmered mysteriously in the soft light of the Kinder Moon.
Surprising her, he began to speak in a low voice, “Each ghost sword is shined with a different dust. The one you handed me is called Dust #120 Diamondrun. It’s not my favorite, but it was useful tonight.
The pommel heats up after a while and can blister the hand.
This one, however, is very rare: Dust #410 Blacklight.
It’s said the artificer was killed before he could write down the recipe.
It’s very effective against shadowhide daemons.
They’re nigh invisible to the naked eye, but the sword emits a strange light that can reveal them. . . .”
As the soldier talked, he collected another sword from around the gully, then another, describing the different properties of each weapon and the daemons they counteracted. He activated each one with his mana, giving it a few swipes as he tested each shined rod for damage.