The demon attacked without hesitation.
It was fast, faster than its shapeless form suggested. Its thin limbs, ending in black claws, sliced the air with a sharp hiss. I dodged the first blow by centimetres – the claw scraped my tunic, not my skin.
"Fall back!" I shouted at Luna.
She did not fall back. The small sword trembled in her hand, but her feet stayed firm in the snow.
The demon attacked again. I blocked with my dark steel blade. The impact echoed in my bones. The creature was stronger than it looked.
"It absorbs mana," said Helena, who stood behind, watching. "Your spells will feed it."
"Then I won't use spells," I replied.
I sheathed my sword. I drew my dagger.
"What are you going to do?" asked Luna.
"What my ancestors did. Kill with iron."
---
The demon advanced again. I feinted a high strike, dodged, and drove the dagger into the creature's leg. The blood – if it could be called blood – was black, thick, smelled of sulphur.
The demon screamed. A sharp sound that echoed in the pines and made the snow tremble on the branches.
"It feels pain," said Helena. "It is not immortal."
"Nothing is immortal," I replied. "Only death."
I stepped back to gain distance. The demon bled, but the wound did not look deep. Corrupted mana was already closing the cut.
"It regenerates," Luna warned.
"I've seen."
I thought fast. 'I cannot use magic. I cannot use spells. The sword wounds, but does not kill.'
'Then what do I use?'
I looked at Helena.
"The heat technique," I said.
"Now?"
"Now."
Helena approached. Her right hand touched the blade of my sword. Her eyes closed. Her golden armour glowed – a faint, reddish, warm glow.
"Focus on the fire," she murmured. "Not on the flame. On the heat that comes from the bones."
I felt the sword warm. It did not become incandescent – just warm, as if it had been in the sun for hours.
"Enough," I said.
Helena stepped back.
The demon attacked again. I did not dodge.
The warm sword entered the creature's chest like butter.
The demon screamed again – louder, longer – and began to disintegrate. The dark flesh cracked, dried, fell into ash. The red eyes went dark. The body collapsed on itself, until only a pile of black dust remained on the white snow.
Silence.
"Is it dead?" asked Luna, her voice small.
"It is dead," I replied.
I sheathed my sword. My hands trembled – not from cold, from exhaustion. The arm where the demon had scratched me burned.
"You are hurt," said Helena.
"It's nothing."
"Sit down."
I did not answer. I just moved away from the ash pile and sat on a fallen log. Luna approached, knelt, and began to clean the wound with a cloth wet with water from the flask.
"You don't have to," I said.
"I do." Her voice was firm. "My mother says that warriors who don't tend their wounds die of infection, not the sword."
"Your mother is wise."
"She is."
The cloth stung, but I did not complain. I just looked at the horizon, where the mountains disappeared into the snow.
"There is still a long way to go," said Helena.
"There is." I stood up. "But the trail is cleaner."
"What?" asked Luna.
"The corrupted mana. After we killed the creature, the trail became more visible."
"So we are close?"
"We are." I tightened my sword at my waist. "Let's go."
We mounted the horses. The snow fell. The wind blew cold.
Luna, at the rear, looked back – at the pile of ash that had been a demon.
'She is afraid', I thought. 'But she fights anyway.'
I tightened the reins and rode on.