The narrow streak of death flashed toward the Ashen Warlord. A lesser man would have panicked and run, or frozen in fear. Ash did neither. Though, he didn’t move his body, his eyes tracked the steel-tipped wood, facing it with amusement tempered by grim determination.

Maxi heard two wet, tearing sounds as it found its mark, entering and exiting through the thick corded muscles of his target’s neck. Blood exploded out the back in a billowing gout of black and gray particles that swirled on the air currents before drifting down like filthy snow.

It wasn’t blood at all, but ash.

Maxi’s brow creased in consternation .

A hideous whistling noise called to Maxi over the roar of the surrounding fire. Though it was little more than a croaking whisper, Maxi could hear the words clearly.

“I am called the Ashen Warlord for a reason. You can’t kill me. You can’t stop me. You can’t beat me. Ash remains long after the fires that create it have burned themselves out. Go home little mageling, I have a country to run.”