Book 3, Chapter 17 - The Huntress (1/2)

The barren, arid wastes were home to any number of shocking things. The sudden rise of the highwaymen was an example. For twenty years Cyclops had gone through hell and high water with Blackfiend, and trusted his leader implicitly. Cyclops believed it in the core of his being, one day Blackfiend would turn them into an organization even greater than the Dark Atom. They would all become stronger, and be granted the blessing of the wastes just like their Undying leader.”

Outsiders only saw the Highwaymen as a band of cruel brigands. They thought of themselves as a family. Innumerable murders were attributed to them, but together they feasted, shared of their food and wine and women. This life of crime, lost to a haze of gluttony and sin, might have been deplorable to the self-righteous elysians. But it was exactly the life the Highwaymen wanted.

This was the life they chose, the story they wrote for themselves. This was their wasteland. Only theirs.

Even the likes of Cyclops, an unknown and insignificant worm of the deserts, had his dreams and ideals. He chose to pluck out his own eye as punishment. He wanted to become like Blackfiend the Undying, his illustrious living god. Cyclops was determined to stand above the rabble and cast his sight wide.

People didn’t fear death. They feared what they would lose when they died. So long as desires remained, and so long as there were goals to accomplish, one would not slip easily into the darkness.

As Cyclops fled further into the desert, silence seemed to close in around him. Fear and unease whispered ominously in his mind. Had that piece of shit killed all those idiots so quickly? Useless! And they thought they were worthy of being Highwaymen?

He cursed inwardly at them and quickened his pace.

He saw the sort of speed and power the guy was capable of. So long as he kept his distance he was safe, but the bastard was more than capable of catching up if he slackened. Cyclops had no choice but to push himself as hard as he could and keep running. But even in that moment the one-eyed Highwaymen felt a creeping sense of danger wash over him.

A dark iron staff roared from the darkness, bringing with it a tempestuous wind.

This was no normal staff. Judging by the way the moonlight played off the surface it was made of metal, and one end had been shaped into a three-edged spike. The razor-sharp end was spinning furiously as it bore down on him.

An exorcist staff. Demonhunter!

Cyclops flung his hand ax at it with a roar. The moment they collided the exorcist staff exploded with power. The force of it shattered the axe’s blade and broke his wrist. Shards of metal and the axe handle went flying every which way.

How powerful could a demonhunter’s strike be!

Cyclops was nothing more than a stronger-than-average thug. He couldn’t even compare to a novice martial artist. How was he supposed to compete? However, he was about to give up. Cyclops’ reaction was quick, and though he couldn’t see who was attacking him he flailed at them with his left fist. His attacker answered with a strike in kind, and they met in midair.

His punch was doughty enough to crack stone. However, not only was it ineffectual, he was also knocked back. Struggling to get his feet back under him, Cyclops couldn’t protect himself from the follow-up. A dark figure rose into the air, a dark shadow against the night sky, kicking up a cloud of dirt. A leg whipped at him, fast as a bullet.

It caught him in the chest and Cyclopse was knocked back, head over heels. He hit the ground and had the wind knocked out of him. Eyes wide, he struggled to keep a grip on what was happening. His attacker was not just a demonhunter, but a melee fighter as wel – and stronger than him!

Who? Where did they come from?

An agile figure crept from the darkness like a leopard. Cyclops was halfway to his feet when another kick came rocketing at his face. He managed to throw his hand up for protection but was still kicked nearly a meter off the floor. He fell again with a thud.

Injuries piled on injuries. He coughed up a mouthful of bright red blood.

He still didn’t know who his attacker was, but the two strikes alone proved he was outmatched. There was nowhere to run, no chance to flee. Demonhunters were not normal foes, and even the most inexperienced among them were hard to kill.

Death at the hands of a demonhunter… Cyclops could only accept his fate.

A burning pain shot up his leg as the exorcist staff pinned him to the ground. He screamed into the sand. Blood oozed freely from his mouth and nostrils as he lifted his head. A young woman with short hair came into view.

She wore simple, almost tattered equipment. Tousled hair sat above a face where dirt had gathered around the edges of hideous scars. It looked like she’d been burned. She was ugly, but was likely chosen with the other women and children for her charming figure.