When Brennik stopped, the caravan went on alert. What could have caused him to halt so suddenly? Elowen thought it was another of his divagations, but the other three mercenaries escorting the caravan realized it wasn’t something so trivial. They placed their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw them.

  Brennik took a deep breath, removed his cloak, cut his thumbs with his index fingers, and marked his arms with a line of blood.

  It was the combat mark of a weaver.

  The opponents were far off. By now, they had already surrounded the group, watching their movements. They were startled by the weaving marks.

  Blood weavers were feared by the populace—if there were demons in this world, people believed weavers were their descendants.

  The mercenary concluded that they were waiting for the caravan to reach a spot more favorable for an ambush. The conclusion was clear: if this wasn’t the ideal place for them to attack, then this should be where the confrontation happens.

  “Stay alert, we're surrounded,” Brennik said to everyone in the caravan.

  A murmur spread among them as the mercenary moved closer to the cook, where the watchers wouldn’t be able to see him.

  “There are about twenty-two of them, seem to be raiders, moving in pairs,” he continued, then addressed the cook, “Excuse me, mind if I borrow these utensils?”

  Before the cook could respond, the mercenary grabbed two high-quality knives from the poor man’s collection and, with a swift spin, threw one with his right hand and the other with his left.

  None of the caravan members could see, but one of the knives struck the middle of a raider’s forehead, the blade embedded in his skull, killing him instantly. The other wasn’t as fortunate—it found the ear of his partner. They couldn’t see it, but the scream of pain that erupted after the severed ear was enough to confirm to everyone that they were indeed surrounded.

  The raiders exchanged glances, unable to believe what had just happened. It was expected that a weaver would be a tougher victim, but a throw from a hundred meters away at a partially hidden target? That wasn’t something they had anticipated.

  A trumpet sounded, breaking the tension in the air. It was the raiders’ signal for a full attack. A pair of archers were hiding in the high ruins of a tower. As they reached for their quivers to string their bows, they saw the silhouette of a tall, brute man leaping in front of them. The blood marks on his arms and face left no room for doubt: it was the weaver.

  Brennik had supernatural strength since weaving his arms with his blood. After throwing the knives, the extraordinary power of his muscles allowed him to move to where another pair was even before they could register his movement. He climbed the tower swiftly and appeared before the archers who were positioned at the highest point among all. He judged them to be the most dangerous.

  The mercenary didn’t hesitate. As soon as he appeared before the archers, he swung his blade to decapitate the first. While the blood spurted and Brennik readied his next strike in quick succession, the other archer pulled the bowstring back to its maximum and, as he turned to face the mercenary, his bow was struck with a kick that disarmed him.

  The archer trembled, his eyes wide. Panic took hold.

  “Please! Spare me!” the archer begged, as Brennik prepared his strike with the dagger.

  In vain. Brennik wasted no time; he drove the dagger into the archer’s throat, piercing his skull and lifting him as he died. He discarded the suspended body from his blade and assessed his next target. Brennik had led many battles, his tactical mind was sharp, though he feared it had grown rusty after so much time away from the army.

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  Fourteen raiders advanced toward the caravan, three archers had been eliminated, and one fled after having his ear cut off. There were still four archers firing at the caravan.

  Brennik judged that the three mercenaries guarding the caravan wouldn't be able to handle fourteen men alone, and the approaching raiders were far more threatening than the arrows coming from a distance.

  The weaver, determined, grabbed an iron rod exposed in the ruins of the tower and broke it in half with a single movement. He threw it like a javelin. The rod struck the chest of one of the raiders charging toward the caravan, the dry sound of impact, followed by the terrible snap of breaking bones, terrified his companion. Searching for another target, he aimed to do the same. This time, the piece of rod hit a raider’s leg, pinning him to the ground while a scream of pain was heard.

  Another hail of arrows struck, and more members of the caravan were hit.

  “Tsk,” a dissatisfied grunt from Brennik.

  He wasn’t good with a bow, and it was limited to the strength of the bow’s string and arms, not to his own. Brennik quickly thought of a solution: with a punch, he broke the remains of the tower wall, smashing them into several stones.

  He began firing a hail of stones, halting the raiders’ advance and forcing the archers into a defensive position. The stones shattered upon hitting the ground, turning into dust. Some hit their targets, and when he stopped throwing them, people could hardly see through the dust formed by the stones fragmented upon the impact.

  Perfect.

  Brennik jumped from the tower straight into the caravan, and before the dust settled, his blade had already claimed half of the raiders who had charged toward the caravan.

  Those who survived swore they had seen a demon. No, not a demon. Death itself. More than half of the men were dead. Obviously, the raid had failed. It wasn’t worth running toward death anymore—and, with fear now instilled, they probably wouldn’t have been able to even if they wanted to. They fled.

  Brennik was tired, very tired. He needed rest. But there was still a mission to complete. The mercenary had seen many situations like this; he knew the raiders wouldn’t attack again. Fear was a great shield. Now, he needed to check on his troops—or, in this case, his employers.

  The cook was dead—well, I won’t need to go after his utensils, he thought—and an elderly woman was gravely wounded. One of the three mercenaries had a deep wound, but it didn’t seem lethal. Aside from them, there were only minor injuries.

  Should I conserve my energy or weave the mercenary’s wound? I didn’t have the chance to assess him in combat. Maybe it’s more useful for me to recover first…

  “No!” Elowen cried out in desperation. “Grandma, you can’t go now… No!” She repeated no after no, between sobs and tears.

  Brennik stopped his thoughts as he observed the scene. Something was wrong with his reasoning.

  “Weaver! You can heal her, can’t you? Please!”

  Elowen turned to Brennik. Though she was a young adult, for some reason, her gaze reminded him of the children from the Massacre of Kynnyav. Brennik noticed his eyes begin to tremble. That suffocating sentiment he used to feel when he was under the command of Sadorn.

  Of course! Again! I’m thinking in military terms. The priority of life isn’t what will bring the best martial result. Maybe the priority of life is life itself…

  “Of course, lady,” Brennik replied.

  The wound was deep. The damage was severe. It wouldn’t be long before the lady passed away.

  Brennik cut the palm of his left hand with his dagger, then cut the palm of his right hand with the other, staining the dagger’s sheath red.

  He placed his bleeding hands above where the arrows had pierced her. His blood began to flow in an abnormal volume, twisting its way through the air, entering where the arrows were lodged. The entire caravan gathered to witness the scene. The weaver’s blood was poured into the wounds, and, as if the blood had a life of its own, it began a healing process for the woman.

  When the old lady opened her eyes, the people of the caravan were certain of one thing: they had witnessed a miracle. Maybe he wasn’t a demon, nor death. Maybe he was a savior, maybe life.

  It was an intense healing process, and Brennik was beginning to lose his strength. He saw the joy with which Elowen embraced her grandmother. There were tears in her eyes, but it seemed like this time they were tears of joy. Brennik smiled, he couldn’t remember the last time he smiled, it had been a long time. His vision started to darken gradually, and his body began to soften. He saw the young lady turn to him, her almond-shaped eyes shining, but this time they were filled with gratitude. What a strange feeling, have I ever felt this before?—wondered the mercenary, just before his vision darkened completely and his body gave in, cradled in Elowen’s arms.

  Burm has definitely felt this... It would be nice if he were still here...