Corrupted blood lord

Count Veyron waited until the treasurer carried the payment chest away before speaking again.

"I have another offer."

Teclos had already turned toward the doors. He stopped but did not look back.

Axel stood several steps behind him, the dark chain hidden beneath his cloak. The mercenary captain had left with the other survivors, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and the severed head lying on the hall floor.

Veyron leaned forward in his chair.

"The werewolves were not the only creatures choking my roads."

Teclos finally glanced over his shoulder.

"More monsters?"

"Men."

That answer interested him less.

Veyron gestured toward the map still spread across the table.

Red marks covered the roads running between his villages, mines, and farming settlements. Some were small, no more than crosses beside narrow paths. Others had been circled repeatedly.

"Bandits," the count continued. "Some are deserters. Others belong to companies that discovered robbery pays better than honest contracts. They attack merchants, raid farms, and disappear into the hills before my soldiers arrive."

"And you want me to remove them."

"I want the roads cleared."

Teclos looked over the map.

"How many?"

"We stopped counting."

Axel gave a quiet laugh.

Veyron ignored him.

"My patrols cannot be everywhere. Every soldier sent hunting bandits leaves a village or section of wall unguarded. You, however, appear capable of dealing with large groups alone."

The count’s gaze moved briefly toward the alpha’s head.

"You will keep whatever personal possessions you find. Coin stolen from my people returns to the treasury. For every confirmed camp destroyed, you receive an additional payment."

Teclos studied the marks again.

Weak opponents would provide little mana individually.

There were many of them, though.

And hunting them would allow him to learn the territory while searching for stronger prey.

"How long?"

"Until the roads are safe."

Teclos reached for the map.

"Then prepare the payments."

—

The first camp lay north of the fortress, hidden inside an abandoned quarry.

Twenty-three bandits lived among the broken stone shelters. They had positioned lookouts along the cliffs and blocked the only visible entrance with stolen wagons.

Teclos approached at midday.

Axel followed behind him, still chained.

A man on the ridge noticed them and raised a horn.

He never managed to sound it.

His shadow climbed the rock beneath him, wrapped around his throat, and pulled him over the edge.

The bandit fell without making a sound.

Teclos continued toward the entrance.

"You could at least pretend to be careful," Axel said.

"Why?"

"There may be archers above us."

"There are."

Axel looked up.

Six bowstrings released at once.

Teclos did not slow down.

The arrows reached the air above him and disappeared into a patch of darkness. A heartbeat later, they emerged inside the quarry.

Cries followed.

Three archers fell immediately. The others abandoned their positions and shouted warnings to the camp below.

Men rushed between the shelters, grabbing swords, axes, and spears.

Their leader climbed onto one of the wagons.

"Kill them!"

Teclos raised his hand.

The shadows beneath the stolen wagons moved.

Wood groaned.

Every cart lifted from the ground and turned sideways before crashing into the men gathering behind them. Bodies vanished beneath shattered wheels and spilled crates.

Those who survived tried to scatter.

Dark tendrils rose between the stone shelters.

They caught ankles, wrists, and throats, dragging men into walls or lifting them from the ground. One bandit managed to reach Teclos and swung a heavy axe toward his neck.

Teclos caught the handle.

The man pulled.

It did not move.

Teclos looked at him.

"Finished?"

He drove the handle backward.

The metal end struck the bandit’s face and dropped him instantly.

The remaining fight lasted less than a minute.

Axel stood at the entrance while pale streams of mana rose from the dead.

"So this is your grand hunt?" he asked. "Killing frightened men hiding in a hole?"

Teclos searched the leader’s body and removed a key.

"They chose easier victims."

"That does not make this impressive."

"I am not trying to impress you."

The key opened a storage room carved into the quarry wall.

Inside were sacks of grain, tools, weapons, jewelry, and three heavy chests filled with coin taken from passing merchants.

Count Veyron received all three before sunset.

—

The effect was immediate.

The northern road reopened.

Merchants who had been waiting inside the fortress began moving again, first in guarded groups and then in ordinary caravans. Grain reached the town without half of it disappearing on the journey. Miners returned to settlements they had abandoned weeks earlier.

Taxes followed.

So did tolls.

Every wagon entering Veyron’s lands paid at the gates. Every merchant who sold goods in the town surrendered a portion of the profit. Every reopened mine sent ore toward the fortress.

Gold began pouring into the count’s treasury.

Veyron gave Teclos another map.

Then another.

—

A group of deserters controlled the western bridge.

They wore pieces of Tessanian military armor and charged travelers for the privilege of crossing. Those who could not pay were thrown into the ravine.

Teclos arrived shortly before dawn.

The deserters had built barricades at both ends of the bridge and stationed crossbowmen in the rocks above it.

Their commander stepped forward when he saw Teclos approaching alone.

Axel had been bound to a tree farther down the road, close enough to watch but too far away to interfere.

"This bridge is closed," the commander called.

Teclos kept walking.

"I said stop."

A bolt struck the road in front of his boot.

Teclos looked down at it.

Then darkness spread beneath the bridge.

The commander’s confidence vanished.

Black tendrils climbed over both sides, twisting around the supports and the men standing above them. Crossbowmen were pulled from the rocks. Guards disappeared over the edge before they could raise their weapons.

The commander drew his sword.

Blue mana gathered around the blade.

Teclos reached him before he could swing.

He seized the man’s wrist and twisted.

Bone cracked.

The sword fell.

Teclos caught it with his other hand and drove it through the commander’s chest.

The deserters behind the barricade tried to surrender.

Teclos looked at the bodies caught between the rocks below.

"So did they."

Darkness swept across the bridge.

When Teclos returned to Axel, blood covered the stolen sword in his hand.

Axel stared at him.

"Did any survive?"

"No."

"Were all of them guilty?"

Teclos cut the darkness binding him to the tree, leaving only the chain around his neck.

"They were standing on the bridge."

"That was not my question."

Teclos pulled the chain and started walking.

The bridge reopened that afternoon.

—

Weeks passed.

Teclos traveled from one end of Veyron’s territory to the other.

He cleared a ruined fort occupied by more than sixty bandits. They tried to trap him inside the courtyard and pour burning oil from the walls.

He sent the flames back through their own windows.

In the southern hills, a band called the Red Knives hid among narrow caves and used captured villagers to warn them of approaching soldiers.

Teclos entered through the shadows cast by their cooking fires.

By the time the guards realized someone had breached the camp, their leader’s severed head was already rolling between the tents.

Near the eastern mines, a former mercenary mage had gathered nearly a hundred men beneath him. He surrounded the camp with earth walls and believed himself untouchable.

Teclos walked through the gate carrying the bodies of both sentries.

The mage raised an entire section of the hillside against him.

Teclos split it with darkness.

He crossed the camp without hurrying, breaking every formation sent to stop him. Men vanished beneath their own shadows. Others were thrown into the walls they had built for protection.

The mage tried to escape through an underground tunnel.

Teclos was waiting at the other end.

The stolen wealth recovered from that camp required six wagons to transport.

Count Veyron watched them roll into the fortress from an upper balcony.

His treasurer stood beside him, barely able to conceal his smile.

Trade across the territory had nearly doubled. Mining caravans no longer needed expensive escorts, and farmers who had once hidden their harvests were bringing them openly to market.

Every road Teclos cleared added more coin to Veyron’s coffers.

The count reduced several local tolls and still earned more than before.

Merchants began choosing his territory over neighboring routes. New mercenary companies arrived, filling the taverns and paying for contracts, lodging, supplies, and repairs.

Veyron had found something more valuable than a strong fighter.

He had found a man capable of doing the work of an army without demanding land, soldiers, or political influence in return.

All Teclos wanted were names, locations, and worthy enemies.

Veyron provided them gladly.

—

The final group hid in the northern marshes.

They were the last organized band known to operate within the count’s borders. Their leader, Marak the Hound, had survived three military campaigns and spent years building a network of spies across the nearby villages.

By the time Teclos reached the marsh, Marak knew he was coming.

The bandits abandoned their camp and scattered into smaller groups. False trails led toward flooded ground. Archers waited inside trees covered with hanging moss, while men with spears hid beneath the shallow water.

Axel noticed the first trap.

"They have prepared for you."

Teclos looked across the mist-covered marsh.

"They should have prepared to leave."

The first arrow passed through his hood.

Only darkness waited beneath it.

Teclos emerged behind the archer and pushed him from the branch.

The marsh came alive.

Men rose from the water. Bolts cut through the mist. Fire spells struck the narrow strips of dry ground, attempting to force Teclos into deeper mud.

He simply stepped from one shadow to another.

Every time he appeared, someone died.

A bandit drove a spear toward his back.

Teclos caught it beneath one arm, pulled the man close, and drove his elbow into his throat.

Another charged with a shield.

Teclos kicked through it.

Wood shattered. The man flew backward into the water and never rose again.

The bandits retreated deeper into the marsh, but the darkness followed them beneath the surface. Hands caught their legs and dragged them into the mud.

Their screams faded beneath the water.

Marak waited in the ruins of an old shrine at the center of the marsh.

He was a large man wearing black scale armor, with a curved blade in each hand. A dozen of his best fighters stood around him.

Teclos entered alone.

Marak looked past him toward the mist.

"Where are my men?"

"Behind me."

The bandit leader tightened his grip on the blades.

"You think Veyron will reward you forever? Men like him use dogs until their teeth break."

"I am not his dog."

"Then why are you here?"

Teclos glanced at the fighters surrounding him.

"I was bored."

Marak attacked first.

He was fast.

Both curved blades came from opposite directions, one aimed at Teclos’s throat and the other at his stomach.

Teclos stepped between them.

He caught Marak by the face and drove him through the shrine wall.

The others rushed him.

Darkness filled the ruin.

Steel rang once.

Then the screaming began.

When the shadows receded, Marak crawled through the broken stones alone. One arm hung uselessly beside him, and blood ran from beneath his armor.

Teclos followed.

Marak reached for a hidden knife.

A dark spike passed through his hand and pinned it to the ground.

He screamed.

Teclos crouched beside him.

"You are the last one."

Marak looked up through blood and mud.

"The last what?"

"Bandit in Veyron’s territory."

Teclos placed one hand against his chest.

Darkness drove through him.

Marak’s body went still.

Pale mana rose from the corpse and flowed into Teclos. It was more than the others had provided, though still nothing compared to the werewolf alpha.

He stood and looked across the marsh.

No more heartbeats.

No more footsteps retreating through the mist.

The hunt was finished.

Axel waited near the edge of the ruins, the chain around his neck trailing through the mud.

For weeks, Teclos had barely touched him beyond dragging him from one camp to another. There had always been another target to hunt, another payment to collect, another road to clear.

Axel had begun to wonder whether Teclos had forgotten his promise.

Teclos turned toward him.

The expression on his face told him otherwise.

He wrapped the dark chain once around his hand and walked closer.

"Now it’s your turn, old man," Teclos said. "I’ve had enough fun torturing you."