41. The Blood Knight (4)
Kuaaaaah!
Just as the demon god's fiends, spawned into the Middle Realm, were raising their cries of exultation, the party found themselves blocked by a band of riders.
Oh, no. Amias, who had glanced back at the ominous sound, quickly turned his head forward again.
The riders ahead showed no sign of being startled by the noise. They simply looked down at the party with cold eyes.
"……"
Amias's knees went weak.
By the reckoning of a man with several years of soldiering behind him, the riders arrayed before them were extremely dangerous beings. Pitch-black warhorses and heavy armor, massive frames and stable seats in the saddle, firmly closed lips and razor-sharp eyes…
Knights. No doubt about it.
He couldn't be sure all eight were knights, but the three in what looked like plate armor were certainly the genuine article.
Who the hell are these people?
The riders had appeared out of nowhere to block their path, saying nothing, simply staring the party down. An odd unease crept over Amias, and he took a short breath.
"Hoo."
Stepping over the responsibility weighing on his chest, he moved forward one step.
"Ahem. Might I ask who you gentlemen are, and why you block our way?"
Amias praised himself inwardly. Not too rude, not too groveling — exactly the right level of address for dealing with knights.
But when all eight riders held their silence, that confidence began to waver.
…Did that come off as disrespectful?
While Amias was sweating over it, Ciren, having waved off Ethan's support, limped forward.
"By your crest, you appear to be from the Ducal House of Lazil. Is there some business you have with us?"
Silence followed.
But Simos, Mira, and Cole — the ones with good instincts — noticed that this silence was different from the last.
Simos and Mira gripped the hilts at their waists, and Cole quietly felt for his quiver.
The riders watched them openly, and still said nothing.
Then one of the three riders in full helms etched with scale patterns — one of the very men Amias had been certain were knights — turned his head to the side.
"Milady?"
His gaze went past the riders.
There stood a woman.
"…What."
Only then noticing the woman, the party gaped, forgetting the situation entirely.
Tap, tap, tap.
She gathered her reins and approached them.
A thick corduroy cloak pinned with an enormous ruby brooch, a vest studded with half a dozen golden buttons, a fine saddle carved with leaf patterns, black leather trousers with a subtle sheen…
None of it registered.
Long black hair, white skin, and red lips dragged every eye to her with violent force.
"Hello."
Seven pairs of eyes should have been an unbearable weight, yet the woman was utterly composed. It was the indifference of innate breeding seasoned by a lifetime of experience.
Her black eyes came to rest on Utekwai, laid out on the litter, then drifted down to Ellen, laid at Mira's feet.
"The Red Bear and the Fire Witch."
Amias, who had been hopelessly transfixed by those thick crimson lips, jolted his shoulders back to life when her gaze swung to him.
"……Uh, yes?"
"The Red Bear and the Fire Witch. Right?"
"Ah — yes. No, I mean—" While Amias stammered, the woman blinked calmly. She waited quietly until he collected himself.
"Th-then, who — who might you be, my lady?"
Of course, that patience was not the same as consideration.
"Where is the blood-soaked swordsman?"
"I'm sorry?" "Phoenix. Where is he?"
"That is—"
Sudden wariness seizing him, Amias set his jaw hard and shook his head.
"Forgive me, but you'll need to tell us who you are first."
Silence again.
But this time, even the oblivious Amias and Steedman could feel the difference.
The riders' eyes had warmed with anticipation. It was no great change, but their faces were so close to colorless that even the smallest shift stood out plainly.
The one to break that taut silence was neither the tense Amias nor the silent beauty.
"Mmm."
"L-Lady Ellen!" Ellen, who had been groaning faintly with her brow furrowed, slowly opened her eyes. Then she pushed herself upright.
"Where — where is this—"
"Lady Ellen. Please, calm yourself."
Cole, down on one knee, lowered his voice to a murmur.
"It's a dangerous situation."
Ellen swept her surroundings with a quick glance, and the focus returned to her eyes.
"Where's Phoi?"
"He went to find Mr. Zanavas and Miss Mungchi."
"…He's come to?"
"Yes. Perfectly fine."
Her blue eyes rippled for a moment.
"…Where are my wand and crystal orb?"
"The wand is here. I couldn't grab the orb in the chaos."
Taking the wand, Ellen quietly fingered her left ear. The feather ornament that had given her wings was gone somewhere, leaving only a searing wound behind.
Ellen rose to her feet with a blank expression.
All the while, the riders simply stood frozen. The woman before them looked down at Ellen and spoke.
"Hello."
"So you're the Fire Witch?"
Ellen quietly brushed back her hair. The drops of blood that had splashed her face had long since dried.
"…Who are you?"
The woman blinked a few times, then answered with the same expressionless face.
"I was told to give you my regards."
"Regards?"
"Mm. From Daria."
"Wh… what?"
Ellen went rigid, as if struck by lightning.
"What is that supposed to—"
She hesitated, eyes narrowed — and in that instant, mana unfurled and rippled out from her. Her pupils flashed blue.
"…What the hell are you?"
"I came to find Phoi."
"To find Phoi?"
"Yes."
Whoosh.
Ellen's enormous mana surged in every direction. A blatant, savage current of power.
The warhorses screamed and thrashed. The riders hauled back on their reins with expressionless faces.
Even amid it all, the black-haired woman remained perfectly calm. Her words were no different.
…What is this?
Ellen, gathering her mind into a single point as she readied her incantation, was abruptly struck speechless. Because the woman before her was releasing mana rivaling her own — no, surpassing it.
The woman, blinking serenely, suddenly spoke. From those red lips came words Ellen could never have anticipated.
"I'm Phoi's fiancée."
"…What?" "You asked, didn't you. Who I am." At that leisurely remark, Ellen's face hardened into a sneer.
Grrrrr—
The two women's gazes crossed, and the air collided. Vast masses of mana pressed forehead to forehead.
"Phoi's fiancée? You?"
"That's right."
After the terse exchange, killing intent seeped into the whirling mana.
Caught in the middle of it, Amias had gone white as a sheet.
…Don't tell me I made a mistake? As he swallowed dryly, Cole regripped his quiver and swept a quick look over the riders.
Twelve, maybe thirteen paces. Put an arrow through that noblewoman, drop her, and take her hostage—
It didn't look easy.
The woman's relaxed manner, her overwhelming mana, and the riders' sharp stares were enough to shrivel anyone's nerve.
Too close. Lady Ellen alone can't handle all of them.
Cole glanced sideways at Utekwai, still laid flat on the litter. It wasn't that his condition looked dire, but he didn't seem likely to wake any time soon either.
The party's eyes darted busily, and the standoff stretched on.
That was when it happened.
From the top of a distant hill, some enormous ball came rolling down.
Kuaaaaah!
No — not a ball.
Dogs, cattle, pigs, rats — beasts of every kind, nothing above the waist remaining, were clumping together and crawling toward them.
They dragged their massive torsos along, arms flailing without pause. Shoving each other, grabbing, trampling, they rolled as one single mass.
The riders immediately drew shield and weapon from their saddles. Four took lances, two took iron flails, two took long cleavers.
A man in a full helm and half-plate, heater shield and cleaver in hand, drew up beside the woman.
"Milady?"
The woman watched the fiends of Ushitu for a moment, then spoke.
"Deal with those things first."
"And these people—"
"I'll watch them."
He was silent a moment, then pulled his reins.
"Understood."
As the man peeled away from the line, the other riders followed.
All eight wheeled their horses in a wide, smooth arc across the grass. Then they charged straight at the fiends streaming down the slope. No battle cry such as men usually roared before a fight — no prayer, no curse, no shout at all.
Watching them, Cole couldn't help but let out a gasp.
"Those are—"
His eyes had landed on the weapons held by the three lead riders. One cleaver and two lances, all sheathed in blackish-red blood.
"Blood Knights."
Ciren, the mage, murmured the words as if she couldn't believe them.
"I'd hoped, but — to run into the Blood Knights of Lazil in a place like this…" Her eyes went wide for an instant, and she turned to Ellen.
"Lady Ellen, don't tell me Sir Phoenix is also—"
At that moment, the mounted riders, led by the three Blood Knights, crashed into the horde of fiends.
CRACK!
A lance punched through a neck, a flail shattered a skull, a cleaver carved a torso to pieces.
Black, viscous fluid sprayed in every direction. Neither horse nor armor suffered a single mark from the pitch-black Blood Knights.
Graaah—! As the fiends shrieked and lunged, the riders handled their reins with practiced ease.
They never met the beasts head-on. They kept the creatures on their right and drove their horses in a slanting line — then simply ground away at the edges, the way one peels the skin from a fruit.
The fiends of Ushitu wielded monstrous strength to match their bulk, and were freakishly savage, throwing themselves at the enemy without a thought for their own bodies. But they could not match the riders' nimble maneuvering, and burst their fluids helplessly as they fell.
Still, the riders were not without losses.
Krwak!
A dog-like beast hurled its body and caught hold of a horse. It was the mount of the rider at the very rear of the column.
Neigh—!
As the bitten horse slowed, the other beasts closed in.
The horse went down hard, and its rider rolled across the ground. A young squire, perhaps no more than twenty.
"Hoo—"
The squire called for no help. He caught his breath and drew his sword from his belt.
His comrades never looked back. They simply drove their horses deftly on, cutting down the fiends.
Steedman, the bald bastard, watched the scene and found his mouth falling open despite himself.
"…What the hell is that."
He remembered the ant wars of his childhood.
Ants neither screamed nor begged their enemies for mercy nor mourned the deaths of their fellows. He had no idea how true that actually was, but at least to Steedman's eyes, that was how it looked.
In an instant, the fallen squire was buried under the beasts.
Ugh—!
He swung his sword to the very last, felling two more ox-sized beasts. A heroic last stand.
"Urgh—"
The resistance did not last long.
The young squire who might one day have made a fine knight had his limbs torn away and vanished into the bellies of the beasts. And that was that.
"Just as the stories say. Horrifying people."
Ciren, her face drained white, murmured — then flinched and turned her head. The woman who rode with those knights was still nearby.
The woman didn't spare Ciren so much as a glance. She dismounted slowly and held out her reins to Steedman.
"Hold these for a moment."
"Huh?"
Catching the reins in a fluster, Steedman stared up at her blankly. Looking again, she was really quite tall — a good head taller than him, whom freckled Mira liked to tease as a runt.
The woman rummaged at her saddle and produced three glass bottles. At the sight of them, Mira let out a shriek.
"Eep, those are—"
Mira clapped a hand over her mouth mid-word, but nobody present failed to recognize that thick, sludgy red liquid.
The woman handed two of the three bottles to Amias.
"……This is—"
"Wound-healing potions. Split them up and use them."
"No, I — I wasn't asking what it was, I—"
Cole waved the flustered Amias silent with a look, snatched one potion, and went straight to Utekwai.
"Ah."
Only then did Amias snap out of it and turn to Jenesser — and then his face twisted into something strange.
Because the noblewoman, who had somehow come to Jenesser's side, had yanked the crossbow bolt from her chest in one clean pull.
"Hnnnngh—"
"Jenesser!"
As Jenesser wheezed like a punctured bellows, Amias bellowed in alarm.
"Goddammit, what the hell are you doing?!"
Ignoring the question, the woman extended her hand forward.
"Ah—ah!"
Someone shrieked. Because a ribbon of blood was rising, reversed, from Jenesser's wound.
"Son of a—"
As Amias bristled, ready to lunge at her at any moment, Ciren stepped in to block him.
"Please, wait."
"Get out of the way! That woman's drinking Jenesser's blood!"
"That's true, but that's not what she's doing."
"What kind of bullshit is that?"
The reversed blood was gathering into a small clot above the woman's left hand — like a ball of thread swelling in size.
"She's draining the blood pooled in her lungs."
"What?"
The woman answered as she opened a glass bottle.
"If you use a potion with blood still left in the lungs, she'll suffer for the rest of her life. She'll be fine now."
"…Ah. I see."
She poured a little of the potion over the wound. Then she cradled the back of Jenesser's head and tipped a few mouthfuls down her throat.
"……"
Seeing Jenesser's breathing return, Amias pulled a sour expression.
"Well…"
While he was still agonizing over what to say, Ellen, silent until now, suddenly spoke up.
"…What exactly is this little performance?"
The woman was idly rolling the sphere of blood suspended in midair. A bead slightly smaller than an egg, spinning busily.
"Answer me."
The woman glanced at the battle unfolding in the distance, then turned her head toward Ellen.
"About what?"
"You come at us like you're about to attack any second, then suddenly hand out potions? What exactly are you playing at?"
Even as she snapped at her, Ellen studied the blood sphere closely.
She had lived alongside Phoenix for a good while now, and had come to understand Blood Craft far more deeply than any book could teach.
Which was exactly why she knew: the sphere that woman had made might look unremarkable from the outside, but it was in fact a tremendously advanced technique.
Controlling someone else's blood, floating it in the air like that. Setting aside the sheer mana involved, her control over blood is on a completely different level from Phoi's.
Whether or not she noticed Ellen's tension, the woman blinked a couple of times and then spoke.
"That's just obvious. A moment ago I didn't know who you were. Now I do."
"And what do you know?"
"You're Phoi's friends, aren't you."
"…What?"
"What? Am I wrong?"
"No, it's…"
Watching Ellen's tongue-tied reaction, the woman added, unhurried:
"Helping the friends of the man you're going to marry isn't a strange thing to do."
"…Honestly, what the— hah."
As Ellen sputtered and managed nothing but a bitter laugh, the woman's head tilted slightly.
Her face was still expressionless — and yet, somehow, Ellen felt as though the woman were smiling at her.
In that moment, Ellen was seized by an inexplicable unease.
…Phoi's fiancée, really? I've never heard a word of that. But if it's true—
The woman watched Ellen's expression shift from moment to moment, then turned her head to the north.
The eight — no, now seven — riders were locked in a desperate struggle. The demon god's fiends, their numbers more than halved, seemed to have changed targets; ignoring the riders' attacks, they were throwing themselves this way.
Watching the scene in silence, the woman drew something from inside her vest.
Revealed with a leisurely motion: a pair of black velvet gloves. She pulled them onto either hand, then happened to glance back at Ciren.
"By the way. You."
"Yes?"
"You talk a lot."
"…What is that supposed to—"
On the back of the gloves, a small pattern had been embroidered. Five white diamonds converging toward the center, like a flower blooming in white.
"I want to keep good relations with Phoi's friends."
The gloved left hand traced a small circle. The blood sphere, no bigger than an egg, spread out in an instant.
"But I have no confidence in keeping good relations with a chatterbox who runs her mouth everywhere."
The blood unfurled thin and wide, draping down behind the woman. It looked like a curtain, or a cloak, or—
"What about you?"
— like wings.
The woman, shrouded in blackish-red blood, stared straight at Ciren.
Those empty black eyes, void enough to conjure every imaginable horror, bored down into the very deepest places…
"I-I'm sorry, absolutely, I won't say anything at all—"
As Ciren's jaw chattered, the woman turned to the others.
"And the rest of you?"
Before that spread-winged shape, everyone dropped their eyes. Only one pair of blue eyes glared back at her, fit to spit fire.
For an instant, the corners of the woman's mouth twitched — very, very slightly.
The woman looked down at Ellen, gave a small hum through her nose, and spoke.
"My name is Heyla. Heyla of Valuin."
"A pleasure, Ellen."
Before the words had even finished leaving her mouth, a blackish-red wave crashed down toward the demon god's fiends.