Damian FINUCANE's Arc

Chapter 4 of 57

Damian left the temple with the gemmed sword wrapped in cloth on his back. The master's warning still rang in his ears. He wanted the masked man to come for him. He had not wanted the rest of them. But word travels fast, and by the third day, the wrong people had heard. His raven found him first. The bird dropped from a low branch and clicked hard, three times, the sound he had learned to trust. Damian stopped on the path. He heard boots in the brush ahead. Then more behind. Four men stepped out, blades drawn. None wore a mask. These were hired hands, sent to take the sword and sell it, or sell him. "Hand it over, boy," the tallest said. "We only need the sword. You can keep your skin." Damian's chest went hot. He wanted to swing at them and clear the path. Then he heard the master's voice in his head. He breathed out. He let the anger fall away and let his mind go flat and cold. He unwrapped the sword. The runes ran clean down the blade, and the gems at the crossguard caught the light. The blue stone burned brightest of all. They came at him together. Damian did not stand and trade blows with four men. He stepped off the path into the trees, where they could only reach him one at a time. The first man rushed the gap. Damian turned his blade and cut him across the arm. The man dropped his sword and fell back, cursing. The raven dove at the second man's face, wings beating. The man flinched and swung wild. Damian slipped past his guard and struck his leg. He went down. Two left. They looked at their fallen friends, then at the calm boy with the shining blade, and their nerve broke. They ran. Damian did not chase. He stood in the trees, breathing slow, his mind still cold. He had held his control. He had not killed. He cleaned the blade and wrapped it again. The tallest man crawled back for his sword. Damian set a boot on it. "Who sent you?" he asked. The man spat blood. "Everyone knows now," he said. "The boy with the runed blade. Word's all over. You think we're the last?" He laughed, ragged. "He knows too. The one in the mask. He's coming for it himself." Damian lifted his boot. He let the man crawl away. He stood alone on the path with the raven on his shoulder. He had won. He had beaten the hired hands without breaking. But he had not made himself safe. He had made himself known. The whole road knew his name now, and so did the one he hunted. There would be no ambush he could plan, no quiet dawn to choose. The masked man had heard. He was already moving.