One of the hooded figures held one hand open. Flames sprouted from it incessantly, which didn't faze him in the slightest. “I won’t miss this time,” he threatened. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Blakespawn. I don’t really care.”

The other man, who was two heads taller, laughed. “It’s always the hard way with these Society fellows.” He brandished a scimitar from within his cloak, which he pointed at Ben and Sybil. “So, let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we?”

“Oh no,” Ben muttered. They thought that he was with her. Whatever reason she was being pursued for, he was part of it for the time being. As if he didn’t have enough on his own plate. Witches and masked strangers, Ben thought. How delightful.

Ben considered fleeing, leaving Sybil to her fate. Whatever she had going on, it had nothing to do with him. But could he even escape from them to begin with? The chances of another magical tramp appearing to save the day were most likely null.

Turning to look at her, Ben noticed Sybil frozen in place, paralyzed with fear. Her whole body trembled. She reminded Ben of Nut moments before the witches killed him and of himself before he foiled Miss Wormwood in her office. That was enough running for a day, Ben decided.

He pulled the knife from his pocket and held it behind his back. He stepped in between Sybil and the hooded brutes, their way obstructed. “Leave her be.”

The assailants looked at one another and sniggered beneath their masks. Ben could not discern their eyes, for they were hidden behind alabaster visors punctuated by two black holes.

“Or what?” the armed one demanded. He nudged the tip of his scimitar at them. “Whatever you’re hiding there, it’s not saving you.”

Ben cocked his head to the side again. Sybil was still transfixed in place, breathing heavily. If they made a run for it, just maybe... Ben’s thoughts trailed. He turned his gaze back to the men before him, and reaffirmed there was no escaping them. A desperate dread sank in his chest. Ben brandished his knife, a paltry utensil next to his foe’s scimitar.

He whistled. “Precious little trinket you’ve got. The question is, do you know how to use it?”

“Enough fooling around,” the burning one said. He clasped his hands together, and the flames quenched for a moment. He breathed in, unmoving. The world around him became more vibrant, richer in meaning. “Blaze, Fire Pilum.”

chapter_img_01 [https://imgur.com/wsnVfkW.jpg]

He parted his hands wide, new flames elongating into the shape of a spear. He spun it around once, twice—then heaved it above his shoulder and hurled it like a missile straight at Ben.

Ben barely registered it. In a fraction of a second, the flame spear traversed the distance between them. Shocked as he was, his body reacted with its only recourse. Ben grasped the knife with both hands and held it before him in a desperate attempt to parry the attack. Ben closed his eyes and braced for impact.

Clang! A steely din echoed across the alleyway. Ben felt pain on his wrists as a wave of hot air buffeted his face. The weight on his hands increased. He opened one eye, then the other. Where the knife used to be, there was now a sword. And unlike its previously unremarkable sheen, this one gleamed with sharpness. The flame spear disappeared into countless incandescent specks around him.

“I thought you weren’t missing again?” the armed one asked his companion.

“Tsk.” He complained. A man of few words.

“Don’t be mad. The boy knows how to use the wyrdknife after all.” He took a step forward, swinging the scimitar with deadly precision. “Let’s find out how much.”

Ben didn’t know what had happened. A wave of fatigue hit him like a hammer. Which means I did this, he thought in marvel. Despite their situation, he felt exhilarated; he ignored his exhaustion and propped the weapon up to eye level, ready for the next attack.

Sybil stepped forward and stood beside him, finally having gained her composure. “We don’t stand a chance, Benjamin; the moment I create an opening for you, get the hell away from here,” she whispered. “This doesn’t concern you.”

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He shook his head. “As if those deadbeats would let me,” he whispered back.

The armed one mocked them again. “There could be three of you for all I care,” he breathed deep, then exhaled a single word: “Quicken.”

His legs became enveloped by a flicker that pulsated with inhuman speed. He took a step forward and closed the distance between them in an instant. Ben gasped in surprise. The enemy stood between him and Sybil, his scimitar raised high and poised to strike. How had he gotten there so fast? Their foe did not seem inclined to explain.

He kicked Ben directly in the chest. He crashed against the brick wall. A searing pain darkened his vision. Without losing momentum, he turned to Sybil and swung down his blade in a downward arc. Ben tried to stand, but his body would not react. He lay crumpled on the floor like a rag doll. Sybil tried to jump out of the way, but it was too late.

Their assailant’s strike stopped midair; the scimitar’s blade quivered like mad. “What in the—”

“I heard you say there could be three of us for all you cared, if I’m not mistaken.”

A voice came from above, startling everyone. A chill ran down Ben’s spine. Below its reserved tone, he could feel its murderous intent. Ben turned his gaze upward. He blinked, incredulous at what he saw. A middle-aged man hovered there, floating as he effortlessly clung to a heather umbrella.

The newcomer held an elegant cane with a winged handle on his other hand. He wore a checkered morning dress and a thick olive trench coat; a top hat crowned his shoulder-length hair, which matched his unkempt mustache and stubble in its haggardness. He looked like the image of an aristocrat in the throes of financial woes.

He closed the umbrella with a pull, and he promptly fell. He dropped into the alleyway without so much as a thud, landing between the armed assailant and Sybil. She took a step back, and her shoulders slumped, as if she could finally relax. “You sure took your damned time,” she said as she collapsed to the floor.

Sybil seemed to know him. His traveling companion? Ben wondered. Their armed assailant seethed. “Release and face me, you coward!” He pulled at his weapon with all his might, but it wouldn’t budge from its stasis.

“If you insist,” the newcomer said, turning to Sybil. “Catch.” He threw the umbrella at her and proceeded to unfold a slender blade from within his walking cane. He now wielded the swordstick in one hand and its empty scabbard in the other. He snapped a finger without letting go of his weapon, and the enemy’s scimitar finished its stroke into the now empty space. He immediately spun to face the newcomer.

“You spoiled your chance.” The armed one said, his legs still an accelerated blur. He did not mince his words further. He dashed straight at the newcomer, scimitar-first. A rush of wind trailed his breakneck course.

“Stop, you fool!” his associate shouted from behind. Ben could feel the fear in his voice.

But there was no stopping the armed one’s rapid advance. He reappeared before the newcomer in a split second, this time aiming to pierce instead of slash.

Sybil’s companion uttered the following words with such an unbothered calm that it was nigh inaudible: “Glow, Red Aura.”

His legs became enveloped in a scarlet light, a coat of crackling energy. He kicked upward, and the tip of his boot pummeled the curved edge of the scimitar, snapping it in two like a twig. He landed on his right leg and whipped his left into a horizontal arc without skipping a beat. The kick landed squarely on the armed one’s side, blowing him away.

Before he crashed, narrow as their stage was, the newcomer teleported behind him like a ruby flash. He held his swordstick forward, and he ran his adversary neatly through the chest. The armed one started coughing blood. His body was seized by spasms as the newcomer pulled the blade out of him. He crumbled, a lifeless corpse.

“Tsk. Headstrong imbecile,” the burning one cursed, regarding his dead companion. He then turned to face them. “We were not told our quarry would be the infamous Lightfoot. A most vexing oversight.”

Lightfoot gave a courteous bow, half-swinging his blade to shake off the blood. “Glad to know I’ve got admirers,” he said as he bent his legs ever so little, ready to pounce at him. “Shame you recognized me, though. I can’t let you leave this place and tattle on us, I’m afraid.”

The burning one let out a bitter laugh. “It’s a shame to see a sorcerer of your caliber reduced to a lapdog of the Society. Truly a shame,” the fire in his hand rekindled with hellish potency. “Just stay still, and I’ll put you out of your misery, mutt.”

“Oh-ho! Let us see what you’ve got, then.” Lightfoot said nonchalantly. The coat of red energy that enveloped his legs spread across his entire body, making it seem as if he was on fire as well.

“Blaze, Fire Pilum.” The burning one clasped his hands and parted them much faster than before. The flames coalesced into the shape of a spear. Its tip shone with an intense golden heat. He twirled the weapon expertly. Flames trailed behind every movement. Each twist scattered sparks into the darkness of the alleyway. With a fluid motion, he shifted his weight, planting one foot forward as he angled the spear offensively in front of him.

He let out a terrific roar, and the spear’s intensity surged. Taking one step forward, he launched the fiery javelin with all his might at Lightfoot. With a white-hot streak, the spear left a trail of scorched air in its wake. The world held its breath, then it snapped back into focus. It was about to hit its mark.

Its mark—that is, Lightfoot—yawned. He formed a cross with his swordstick and walking stick, which he also coated in his aura. With one sweeping motion, Lightfoot sent an X of red energy flying straight at the incoming spell, matching its speed.

A light blinded Ben the instant the spells met. He heard someone collapse into the ground, and the heat dissipated. As his sight returned to him, Ben noticed the burning one on the floor, a cross-shaped gash in his chest. A pool of blood had already formed around him. The other corpse sat next to Ben, broken scimitar in hand. He turned to Sybil; Lightfoot was already reaching out a hand to help her to her feet. The red energy that emanated from Lightfoot was gone, along with his menacing air.

Lightfoot smiled heartily as Sybil clenched his arm. “The sneaky bastards almost got us with that one. Gotta hand it to them, they are getting more creative,” he heaved her up with ease, and she passed him his umbrella. “Turned around, and you weren’t there anymore! Thankfully, there aren’t many places one can go from the Blackwoods. A terribly desolate place. I arrived in the nick of time, though, if I do say so myself.”

Sybil punched him in the shoulder. “In the nick of time? They pursued me for hours!” She pointed at Ben. “If it hadn’t been for him—”

Lightfoot laughed again. He patted Sybil on the back. He regarded Ben for the first time since he arrived. “And who might this be? I can’t tell if he’s brave or a fool, the way he stood up for you back there. Commendable all the same.”

“Hey!” Sybil reproached him.

Ben simply observed their exchange. He couldn’t put a finger on this Lightfoot person, whoever he was. He had seemed serious, intense even, during his confrontation with the masked strangers. But now he was joking around as if he hadn’t just killed two men in sorcerous combat. He realized they were looking at him, waiting for a response.

He used the wall as support to get on his feet. He looked at them, at the corpses, at the wyrdknife on the floor, back to its original form. The extreme fatigue that had overtaken him had not left.

“They’re dead. You killed them.” That was all Ben could blurt out.

"Yes, lad, that I did. The usual outcome, I’m afraid, when magic’s involved. Power comes with a price, and all that,” he said, opening his arms in reconciliation. “Wouldn’t want to trade places with them, hm?”

Ben opened his mouth to argue, but the words simply did not come. He was too tired to reply to anything. Hadn’t he killed Miss Wormwood mere hours ago, albeit in self-defense? He was in no position to judge, he realized with bitterness. His legs wobbled, and a profuse sense of vertigo took hold of him, followed by a wave of darkness. He fell to the ground, losing consciousness as he did.