Chương 3

Elara had been looking at the severed trace when Cal Rook moved. One instant, the mercenary stood behind Voss with his hand near his belt. The next, his arm locked across the driver's chest and his dagger disappeared beneath Voss's left arm. Voss bucked violently. Cal held on. For several seconds, Elara could not understand what she was seeing. The struggle possessed none of the clean certainty of a duel. There was no warning, no challenge, and no separation between attacker and victim.

The two men staggered together beside the horse while Voss tried to tear Cal's wrist away from his body. Then Cal forced the dagger deeper. Voss stopped fighting. Both men fell into the mud. Mana surged instinctively through Elara. The shadows beneath the coach answered first. They stretched toward her in thin, eager lines, responding to fear before conscious thought could restrain them. Elara crushed the impulse and reached for Water instead. Cold mana gathered behind her ribs.

Moisture in the roadside ditch trembled. The leather water cask beneath the coach gave a faint creak as its contents shifted toward her. Elara dragged open the coach door.

"My lady, stay inside."

"No." She stepped down. Cal was already pushing Voss's body off himself. Blood covered his right hand to the wrist. His dagger remained buried beneath Voss's arm. He looked toward Elara. His expression was as half-lidded and unreadable as it had been for the entire journey — bored, angry, stupid; she'd never been able to tell. Elara moved between him and Mirelle. She kept her hands low, one slightly forward, and held the gathered mana without shaping it. If Cal rushed her, she might be able to respond in time.

If he threw the dagger, she might not be quick enough. Mirelle reached beneath her cloak and produced a small knife with a narrow blade. It was not a weapon meant for fighting armoured men. Mirelle held it steadily anyway.

"Behind me," Elara said.

"My lady—""Behind me." Mirelle stepped back, though not far enough. Cal planted one boot in the road and pulled his dagger from Voss's body. The sound was wet and intimate. Elara drew more mana, allowing it to pool in her palm, cool and familiar. Cal wiped his dagger on Voss's cloak and rose. Elara brought one hand up. Water tore free of the ditch and coiled along its bank. Footsteps struck the road ahead. Harl emerged from around the bend. His gaze found Voss's body, then Cal.

"What in the black hell are you doing, Rook?" Cal said nothing. Harl's face twisted.

"You stupid, greedy bastard." He spat.

"You think you can cut us out and claim the whole purse for yourself, is that it?" Elara's mana flickered. …What? Harl drew his sword.

"The factor's men are barely a mile ahead. One damned mile. We hand over the girl alive, collect the rest, and leave." He pointed the blade at Voss.

"Instead, you gut him in the road because you've grown greedy at the last moment?" Mirelle's free hand found Elara's sleeve.

"We must leave," she whispered urgently. Elara did not answer. These were Martial Warriors. Elara was a First-circle Water Mage with next to no mobility spells, and Mirelle was unsouled. It would be silly to think they could outrun either man. The best she could do was try to fight off whoever survived this exchange. Harl advanced.

"Put the knife down, Rook. We can still finish this." Cal looked at him. Then he sheathed the bloody dagger and drew his longsword. John had no useful answer to offer Harl. He could explain that he had died in another world and awakened inside Cal Rook three days ago. He could explain that Elara would become a mass murderer, save the world, and die sealing an ancient gate unless somebody altered the course of her life. Harl was unlikely to find any part of that persuasive.

More importantly, Harl already had his sword out. John shoved himself upright. Mud covered one knee and the left side of his brigandine. Voss lay behind him with one arm folded beneath his body. The older man's eyes remained open, but there was nothing left in them. Elara stood beside the coach, her mana roiling uneasily. She had not decided whether John was the greater threat. Fair enough. Harl closed the distance.

"Last chance." John spat to the side, glaring at the other man. A snarl formed on Harl's face as he attacked. The first cut came down toward John's head. His hands moved before thought could interfere. The sword rose in both hands and caught Harl's blade above the crossguard. Steel struck steel hard enough to jar John's shoulders. Harl disengaged immediately and cut from the opposite side. John got his blade across in time, but the edge glanced from his guard and slammed into the plates over his ribs.

The impact staggered him. Harl stepped after him. John retreated around Voss's body. His boots slipped in the churned mud. He managed a thrust, but Harl slapped it wide with contemptuous ease. Cal's body knew the positions. His feet sought balance. His hands adjusted the sword's angle. When Harl's point moved, John experienced flashes of physical certainty—turn the edge, move outside, strike from the bind. The certainty vanished whenever he tried to examine it. He was thinking about every motion. Harl was not.

The next thrust came at John's face. He jerked aside, felt the blade scrape his helmet, and swung too broadly in return. Harl stepped out of range and let the sword pass.

"You've gone slow," Harl assessed with a frown. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. John reset his stance. His breath was already coming harder than it should have. Fighting was not like drilling a movement alone. Harl did not stand where expected. He interrupted, changed angles, and made every mistake immediately expensive. John reached for the mana inside him. It gathered below his chest, dense when he refined it into Martial Aura.

Heat flooded his limbs. The world sharpened. Harl's next cut no longer seemed impossibly quick. John saw the shoulder move before the blade followed. He stepped inside the arc, knocked the weapon aside, and drove Harl backward with enough force to make the man's boots slide. John cut for his neck. Harl twisted. The edge missed his throat and opened a shallow line across his upper arm. Blood darkened the sleeve. John had him retreating. For several seconds, that felt almost like skill.

He pressed forward, Aura flooding every muscle rather than only those he needed. His body became fast, powerful, and wasteful. Mana burned through his reserve. Harl gave ground. John cut again. Harl caught the blow, broke contact, and stumbled half a step. John saw the opening at his ribs. He lunged. Harl's stumble vanished. His sword snapped upward beneath John's blade and beat it aside. Harl pivoted around the thrust, shortened his grip, and drove his point beneath the lower edge of John's brigandine.

The blade entered John's right side. There was no clean sensation of steel moving through flesh. It felt like being struck with a maul. Then Harl ripped the sword free. Heat poured down John's flank. His right leg folded, and he found himself on one knee without remembering the descent. His longsword slipped from his fingers and landed in the road. The Martial Aura went out of him. John clamped a hand against his side. Blood forced itself between his fingers. He did not know where the blade had gone.

Liver, kidney, bowel—he possessed just enough anatomical knowledge to name the ways he might be dying and none to distinguish among them. Harl stood over him.

"You should've taken your share." He raised his sword. Water struck him from the side. A pillar as thick as a man's torso erupted from the roadside ditch and slammed into Harl's chest. It lifted him from his feet and threw him across the road. He hit the ground shoulder-first, rolled, and lost his sword. John stayed on one knee, trying to breathe through the pain. Elara stood beside the coach with both arms extended. Water streamed around her hands. Harl coughed and forced himself up. Elara made a second gesture.

The water coating Harl's boots flashed white. Ice spread over the leather and fused it to the muddy road. Another coil of water wrapped his sword hand, freezing around his fingers and wrist before he could reach his fallen weapon. Harl pulled once. The ice held. John looked at the blood covering his hand. Then he looked at Harl. Fear had become anger somewhere between the sword entering his side and his knee striking the ground. It was not thoughtful anger.

It did not care that Harl was immobilised or that a living conspirator might answer questions. Harl had put a blade into him and had been about to finish the work. John reached for his sword.

"Rook," Harl said. John closed his hand around the hilt.

"Wait." He used the coach wheel to drag himself upright. Harl strained against the ice. Cracks spread around one boot, but it had not broken yet. John crossed the distance.

"Rook, wait!" John set the point of his sword against Harl's chest and thrust. Leather resisted. The point caught on something hard, skidded, then punched between the reinforced layers. John drove it in with both hands. Harl's mouth opened. The breath came out of him in a wet grunt. John pushed until the blade entered deeply enough to reach the heart. Harl's body sagged against the ice holding him upright. For a moment, nothing moved. Then John pulled his sword free. Harl collapsed as the ice around one boot broke.

John stood over him, breathing hard. There had been practical reasons to kill him. The bindings might not have held. The buyers were close. John had no proper restraints prepared, no time to conduct an interrogation, and no assurance Harl would not shout a warning. There had also been anger. John did not waste time deciding which had moved his hands while blood continued running out of him.

"Do not move." Elara's voice was quiet. John turned his head. Water hovered beside her in the shape of a thick spear. Mirelle stood behind her with the narrow knife still drawn. Both women were staring at him. John cleaned his sword on Harl's coat, sheathed it, and limped toward the coach. The water spear shifted to follow him.

"I said do not move."

"I heard you."

"Then stop."

"I need to staunch my bleeding." He reached the coach door. The spear tightened, its point narrowing.

"You just murdered two of our escorts."

"Yes." John climbed one step and pulled open the compartment beneath the forward seat. His fingers found a leather field kit among the tools and spare tack. Mirelle watched him take it.

"You were paid as well," she said, before clarifying.

"To kidnap Lady Elara?" John set the kit on the coach floor.

"Yes." Mirelle spat in his direction. Elara's frown deepened. John reached slowly beneath his brigandine. He removed the coin pouch and dropped it on the floorboards. The metal struck wood with a dull click.

"Advance payment," he said. Mirelle stared at it.

"And why are your partners dead?" she asked.

"I decided not to finish the job."

"Don't tell me you discovered a conscience?" John shrugged. Really, what did she expect him to say to that? Elara's eyes remained fixed on him.

"Why?" John thought for a moment. He surely couldn't tell her the truth, but none of the answers that came to him was satisfactory.

"I don't know," he said in the end. Grunting, he lifted the armour enough to reach the wound. The padded coat beneath it had been cut open. Blood soaked the cloth from his lowest rib to his hip. John peeled the fabric away. The wound sat along the outer portion of his right flank. Harl's blade had entered at an angle and torn a deep channel through the muscle. John could not see an exit wound. Blood welled steadily but did not pulse. That was the extent of the good news.

He opened the field kit with wet fingers and found folded linen, a roll of bandage, a curved needle, and two stoppered bottles he did not recognise.

"You may have been struck through the abdomen," Mirelle said.

"I noticed."

"If the bowel is pierced—""Then I'll die unpleasantly later. Cloth." Mirelle looked at Elara. Elara kept the water spear trained on John but gave a slight nod. Mirelle retrieved a second roll of linen from the coach's travelling chest and threw it to him. John caught it against his body. He folded a thick pad, pressed it against the wound, and nearly lost his footing. Pain spread across his side in a hard white sheet. He planted one hand against the coach until it receded enough for him to work.

Growing up on a ranch had not taught him anything about sword wounds. But he had seen his fair share of injuries to know what to do when something bled and professional help was not close. Pressure first. Keep it there. Do not waste time admiring the damage. He wrapped the bandage around his waist, passing it beneath the raised brigandine. On the second turn, he pulled it tight enough to make his vision narrow. The bleeding slowed. John tied the end and let the armour settle over it.

"Can either of you ride?" he asked. Mirelle's eyebrows rose.

"Ride?"

"We're leaving the coach." Elara glanced toward the bodies.

"Why?"

"Because it's expected at the tollhouse, it can't use the charcoal track, and one of the traces is broken." Elara looked toward the narrow track entering the trees.

"Where does that lead?"

"East. It loops around the tollhouse to a charcoal kiln and rejoins the Academy road." John pushed away from the coach. His right side protested every step. He knelt beside Harl first. The dead man's purse contained ordinary copper, several small silver pieces, and a second black pouch of gold identical to John's. John removed the dagger, sword belt, and scabbard. Harl's longsword was decent steel and likely worth enough money not to leave in the road. The women watched him as he moved to the other body.

Voss carried more money than Harl, a folded route map, and a whetstone. Also taking the other mercenary's sword and his hunting knife, the only other items of value John chose to ignore were the men's brigandine. Stripping them required time, and armour was difficult to carry without a pack animal.

"Inside the coach," John said.

"What can't be replaced?" Mirelle looked at Elara.

"My lady?" Elara's gaze remained on John for another moment. Then she let the water spear collapse into the road.

"The blue document case," she said.

"The seal casket. Money."

"Nessa has already taken the residence inventory to Asterhall," Mirelle said.

"We need the admission packet, letters of credit, medicines, and enough clothing to arrive respectably."

"Respectability lost its priority around the first corpse," John said.

"Take one change each. Warm layers. Some food." Mirelle sheathed her knife. She quite clearly still did not trust him. She had merely accepted that whatever was beyond the crest of the hill was most likely worse than any threat John could pose in his current state. That was enough. The two women entered the coach. Mirelle emerged with a blue leather packet pressed to her chest and a small ironwood casket bearing House Vey's crest. Elara brought the money purse, two cloaks, and a compact travelling bag.

John went to the horses. The bay gelding trembled as he approached. Its eyes showed white, and blood scented the road. John kept his movements slow.

"Easy, boy." The horse knew Cal's voice, or perhaps tone mattered more than identity. It allowed John to take the bridle. He removed the loose trace, unhooked the remaining fittings, and released the pole straps. His hands worked through the harness without conscious instruction. Some of the knowledge came from Cal. The rest came from years of repairing tack after horses and cattle found inventive ways to break it. The bay was broad-backed and strong enough to carry two riders for several hours.

The grey mare beside it was slightly smaller but steadier. John stripped away the heavy collars and hames, leaving their bridles in place. He folded harness padding and a travelling blanket over the mare's back, then secured them with a length of trace leather passed beneath her belly. It was not a saddle, but it was certainly better than bare spine.

"Which one of you can ride?" he asked. Elara raised her hand.

"Take the grey."

"Mistress Mirelle," he continued, turning to the chaperone.

"You are with me."

"You expect me to sit in front of you."

"Can you ride? Or catch me if I fall off?" Mirelle paused.

"Then get on." Mirelle gave him a flat look, handed the sealed casket to Elara, and approached the bay. She gathered her skirts without ceremony. John offered his linked hands as a step. Mirelle hesitated only briefly before placing one boot into them. Lifting her pulled at his wound. Warmth spread beneath the bandage, but he got her onto the horse without dropping her. John put his left foot into a loop of harness leather and hauled himself up behind the woman. The motion tore another grunt from him.

The bandage shifted, and fresh blood pressed hot against his side. Mirelle went rigid when he settled behind her. John reached around her for the reins.

"If I go slack," he said, "take these and keep the morning sun on your right until the track turns north. I'd also prefer not to break my neck in a fall so try not to drop me." Elara guided the grey alongside them. John looked once at the abandoned coach. Voss lay near the bay's discarded harness. Harl's body remained farther up the road, one boot still surrounded by broken ice. It was still surreal, the realisation that he had killed two people today.

He had expected some emotion, like in the movies and light novels, but in reality, he didn't feel anything in particular. Perhaps he was in shock? John couldn't tell. Shaking his head free of these idle thoughts, he turned the bay toward the charcoal track. Low branches crowded its entrance. The ground beneath the trees was black with old soot and soft from rain. His heels pressed against the gelding's sides, and the animal obediently entered the woods at a hard trot, the grey following close behind.

Within seconds, the trees closed around them, and the road disappeared from view.