The portal was now closed; the ancient Id had been purged into the physical realm.

Plan A was now irrelevant, as neither Bjarke nor Kulum managed a fatal blow against their respective ancients.

With Kulum’s demise, Bjarke was their last best chance, yet even he was no match for the red-eyed monk. All he had to show was a brow full of sweat and seeing sunspots from Kulum’s last-ditch effort. But the tides were turning. He could feel it. Even as his adversary made a slow, taunting walk around the demon slayer. Bjarke could see the monk’s link to Id weaken. The red-eyed glow had dimmed, and the black-ink expulsions had turned into steady streams that in time would drain his adversary dry.

The monk’s slack-jaw screams were deafened by the need to inhale air. Its ancient had been wounded by Kulum, and its disciples were now malnourished; Bjarke had but to hold out. To allow the flow of energy from Id to the Gutians to dwindle enough for his battle-axe to claim a single blow.

Then out of nowhere, the hairs on his neck inverted to the innate instinct to duck and weave. Three blind, sword-wielding monks and their destructive balls rained a shower of explosive destruction around his position. For Bjarke, the war of attrition quickly inverted into a concentration of forces. The three monks moved in sync, permitting their red-eyed leader to turn away and focus on younger prey: Anneliese and her attempts to co-ordinate an offensive on the now-reforming Serpent Dragon.

The three monks attacked Bjarke from all angles, using projectiles and hand-to-hand combat. Each monk took their turn to preoccupy Bjarke’s attention, while another focused it’s magical energy, and the third circled around him, creating a flanking maneuver that kept Bjarke in a constant backwards shuffle to try and keep all three in front.

But the monks were too fast, too well coordinated, with every swipe of the monk’s blade, Bjarke responded with a quick riposte and immediately repositioned himself. A kick to one was followed by a duck and weave to dodge the magical balls of destruction. Evade and move; evade and move. Until the soft soil fumbled him into a punch-drunk sway that rendered him unable to evade the explosive discharge beneath his feet. His one good fighting arm was caught and contorted. The legendary green axe was lost – imbedded in the soft ground.

Restrained by the blind monks, Bjarke was dragged back to the pack, where the hungry wolves summoned their magical balls of destruction, ready to feast on their subdued prey.

Bjarke mouthed words that his non-existent tongue could not make. His eyes were a drowning pool of tears. His purpose, unfulfilled. In the distance, he saw the ghost of Anyata, helpless and ashamed, unable to bear witness to Bjarke’s last moments, which played out in slow motion like a lifetime within his dying seconds.

And then the explosions misfired, ejecting the monks in different directions. Bjarke himself was ripped and pulled under a tidal wave of destruction. His body was bruised and scared. Every muscle felt yanks out of place, while ground zero became cluttered by dust and ruin. The sound of a distressed horse gave way to a faint figure who called out his name – discernible only by the white and red cross.

Amos, crook-legged but sword-drawn, scampered with sheer determination to the closest and partially crippled blind monk. An easy victim, to Amos’ hard-flung sword, which separated the monk’s neck from torso, and with it unleashed the harrowing full-pitched scream as the monk disintegrated to ash. Its sooty remains puffed a putrid black coat upon Amos’ face, which he immediately spat clean, before awkwardly staring down at an equally battered Bjarke. It was a moment of solidarity as the templar leader limped past his despised nemesis. ‘I ain’t here to save you, so get up and make yourself useful,’ said Amos.

Bjarke’s inaudible murmurs spoke loud of gratitude as he and Amos broke off in opposite directions. Bjarke to his axe; Amos to the two shaken but not nearly as impaired monks.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Though fewer in number, the monks lost little in effectiveness, as losing one dispersed its Id’s magical energy among the others. Where three could outmaneuver, two simply overwhelmed. And overwhelmed, they did. Able to deflect Amos’ initial strike barehanded and reply with open palm to Amos’ exposed chest, they dislodged the human from his sword and Amos’ feet from the ground.

A little winded, but none the less quick to his feet, Amos drew his daggers. A dead-man’s grin was upon his face that read martyrdom with an open invitation, which only the sword-wielding monk dared to accept. For Bjarke was closing in on his axe, requiring the unarmed monk to break step and pursue in an intercepting trajectory towards the demon slayer. If not for Amos’ fast-twitch reaction and steady aim, his offhanded dagger found a home among the unarmed monk’s upper tight. Not a killing blow, but enough to draw its attention.

The unarmed monk turned in retaliation. The divide between it and Amos cleared in mere seconds as it crash-tackled its weaker foe to the ground. With hammer fists, it bashed Amos into submission before contorting his body under a loose chicken-wing hold and disposed of him with a half-hearted explosion to the lower back.

The blast left Amos numb, lacking any sensation below the waist, incapacitated and with a pain-ridden grimace upon his face. His days were done; his fight was over. All he could manage was faint words of forgiveness to whoever could hear him – memories of past hatreds flashed before his eyes. The slight impression of his own blade preceded to then trace a diagonal line that was soon to cross his mail amour from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.

Then out of nowhere, the monk pivoted and parried.

A flash of green severed steel in two. A clean strike went straight into the monk’s torso. Bjarke’s blade imbedded and inched itself further and further into the demon’s belling as the monk squealed and clawed. Its every effort further sped up the disintegration through contact with Bjarke’s legendary battle-axe. The monk’s black ink then withdrew back under the cloth eye cover. Blood was drawn from face and limb as its black spirit separated from its being, consumed by the axe, until the evening breeze had only the snow-white soot to disperse unnoticed against the frost-covered ground.

Then there was one, whose black ink ran heavy. Its soaked cloth eye cover drooped to nearly below eye level. To where Bjarke could see the cracked black flesh indentations across the monk’s eye socket. The unarmed monk tossed the feeble-bodied Amos back into the dirt. It’s presence of mind was focused on Bjarke as it softly stepped and slid one foot after the other into position, the middleman between the demon slayer and his axe that was still imbedded in the dust ridden remains of the felled monk.

Bjarke approached slowly with long-swept angles to keep the blind monk distracted as he allowed longevity to play out in his favor. Inside, he was hoping Anneliese could hold her own. ‘Stay, stay,’ Bjarke told himself as he ignored the cries of anguish while the Serpent Demon reaped havoc behind him.

His every movement was mirrored by the blind monk. And it pivoted back and forth, tied to the center point of Bjarke’s battle-axe.

The blind monk, still with Amos’ dagger embedded in its thigh, yanked the protruding blade from its side. Not a flinch nor sign of pain or grievance as it tossed the blade from hand to hand in line with whichever direction Bjarke lead.

Their spiraled convergence had them at a near-striking distance. Close enough for Bjarke to inhale the foul odor of the ill-tempered demon’s breath. An odor that twitched his nostrils like the smell of an infected wound. Drips of black ink drew a crooked spiral upon the ground as Bjarke teased the monk further and further away from his battle-axe. One slow step closer than one hot step back, each time continuing the circular rotation.

A few lucky nicks from a thrusting monk were the price he paid as he completed the full three sixty and took one last deep inhale of the monk’s foulness as an all but forgotten Amos – down but not out, and with one good arm and a stub-ended sword – struck fast, fierce, and low, resizing the monk a foot shorter.

The moment of vulnerability permitted Bjarke a free kick, the free-falling monk’s sternum, which left a splatter of black ink from foot to Amos to the monk’s impending demise upon Bjarke embedded battle-axe. The customary squeal and dust made a messy end to the ordeal.

The demon slayer was still undefeated as he crossed paths once more with his templar nemesis.

Amos squirmed to a near-seated position, elbow in the dirt and a face discolored by soot covered bruises. ‘Come closer and I’ll show you what I really think?’ In Bjarke’s direction, he spat the inhaled black mucus.

The demon slayer shrugged it off as he wondered towards his battle-axe. His bare foot brushed the white soot, before a slow, strained descent had him questioning how much more he could take. Like an old man needing a walking stick, he leveraged the axe to find his feet. And then he turned to Amos and said, ‘Thanks.’