by Jen McIntosh
The Nightwalkers guarding the boats were a mixed bunch. In the torch’s flickering light, she could see tattoos of crimson and azure, gold and even one with the stark black markings of the Kah clan. She vowed to herself that, if she could get loose, she would kill that one first. There was only one member of her grandfather’s clan she could forgive for bringing the curse down upon themselves. All others deserved to die screaming for the shame they’d brought to their clan.
But regardless of their clan allegiance, the Nightwalkers all seemed to answer to Lorian. Their commander barked orders to stand down as she approached. Lorian’s warriors obeyed, but there was no avoiding the hatred in their black stares as they eyed the Darklings who followed.
Drosta left Keriath with Dell while he and Maren went with Lorian onto the barges to inspect their ‘livestock’. The word made Keriath’s guts heave with disgust, though not as much as the gleeful expression on Maren’s squashed face when they emerged once more. Keriath’s fury must have shown because Dell laid a restraining hand on her shoulder and shook his head in warning.
There was the clink of gold changing hands, and it was done. Two hundred human lives sold. Just like that. Drosta snapped his fingers and ordered the Hunts to load up into the barges – they would sail them down the river to Dar Kual – tossing a set of jailer’s keys to Dell as he did so, despite Maren’s objections. Keriath was vaguely aware of the big Darkling asking for instructions on what to do with her, but the roaring in her ears was too loud for her to take it in. She fixed her baleful eyes on Lorian, letting all her rage and hatred shine through. The Nightwalker had the sense to look unnerved as Dell hauled his prisoner onto the barge.
Keriath heaved against him as she passed the Nightwalker, stopping long enough to snarl at her. ‘When I am free – and don’t think for a moment that there is any force in this world that can hold me forever – I will find you. And you will pay for what happened here today.’ Lorian flinched from the fury and violence lacing Keriath’s voice, a kernel of fear glinting in those black pits she called eyes.
Her hand shot out, gripping Keriath’s wrist. ‘This isn’t my doing,’ she insisted in a hushed voice. ‘We are not always the masters of our own fate. But if you give me a chance – perhaps I can save you from yours.’
‘Fate and destiny are for those too weak to forge their own path,’ Keriath spat, wrenching free. Dangerous words. But she was beyond caring.
Lorian’s gaze tightened in recognition, but she didn’t press. ‘We don’t all have the luxury of your strength,’ she murmured, her gaze flickering over Keriath’s scars. ‘It’s a Shade Prince your Darkling deals with. A Shade Prince who reared those people like lambs for the slaughter. I was just the shepherd he paid to watch over them. Prince Mazron holds my heart in his fist, girl. He’ll hold yours too before the end.’ Then she turned around and stalked off.
Keriath let her go. It was just as well that ruan held her power in check. Magic was tied to emotions, and right now, her rage was strong enough to level mountains.
Lorian was worse than a murderer. She was a traitor. The Graced were born with a single purpose in life: to wipe out the Darkling scourge. They’d been made – crafted like weapons for their Immortal creators to wield – during the Rebellion, a thousand years ago at least. It didn’t matter that there were hardly any of them left. Every fibre of Keriath’s being screamed at her to destroy the stain that surrounded her. It was an urge, a compulsion they all shared. That Lorian could not only ignore it but see fit to help the Darklings … a snarl of fury and disgust ripped out of Keriath at the thought.
Dell had the sense to keep her away from the slaves. He stood with her at the prow where the wind could caress her face and whip her hair about her shoulders. He hovered nearby, keeping a watchful eye on her while the fresh air and soft rushing of the river beneath them soothed away her rage. She glanced back as they pushed off, watching Lorian and her men disappear back into the night to which they were eternally cursed.
Then they were moving, the boat rocking beneath her as it drifted with the current. Her fury had cooled, but it had hardened into something else. Determination. There were a hundred mortal souls, chained and bound, in the hold beneath her. They sailed to a fate worse than death. Doomed to spend the rest of their miserable lives locked in darkness, their life-force stolen from them by monsters that had no right to this world. Monsters she’d been born to kill.
She leaned over the edge of the boat, watching the water churning alongside. Her frustration had her clenching her fists so tight her nails cut bloody furrows into her palms. Blood dripped like tiny, glittering rubies from her hands, splashing into the rushing river to be lost forever. She heard Dell’s sharp inhalation as the smell of it reached him, but he said nothing. He moved a little closer, but she got the feeling it was more for her protection – or perhaps even a sign of solidarity – than anything else. They stood together in silence for a while, side by side, and she found a strange comfort in his presence. Perhaps he too mourned for the lives below.
Well, she would not let them be taken. Not without a fight. Her chin lifted, and she breathed deep the chill of the river, caught the scent hidden beneath it … and smiled.
Waterhorses. Drawn in by the blood she’d spilled over the side. Blood charmed by their ancient power, blood that carried the same magic that made them so deadly. She could hear the first murmurings of their songs, a music to which she was immune. All Unicorns were. Waterhorses had no true voices – the music they used to ensnare their prey was whispered into unsuspecting minds, drawing them into watery graves. A vicious, elemental, unsubtle form of the Enchanting. A ruthless grin touched Keriath’s lips when she saw Maren step from the crook of Drosta’s arm and walk towards the edge of the barge, her eyes wide and vacant.
Keriath stepped back, lifting the keys from Dell’s pocket as she slipped past him. To leave them within her reach was the first stupid thing Drosta had done. Her chains she dumped in the river with a smirk of relief. Let them try to hold her without them.
She chanced a glance into the river. Dark, liquid eyes stared back at her. An elegant, noble head rose out of the water, the proud curve of a powerful neck following as the beast crested the current. Its hide was silvery white, with a pearlescent sheen to it that was eerie yet enticing. Its mane was white too, like the pale froth that formed where the river crashed over rapids. These were riverhorses then. Not as savage as their sea-dwelling cousins, but more dangerous than those who lingered in the lochans that scattered the eastern coast.
She looked away. Their ethereal song might hold no sway with her, but to stare too long at a waterhorse was to court death. At least they weren’t fussy eaters. The Darklings had all moved to the edges of the barge and were staring down into the river below – into the eyes of the riverhorses singing them to their deaths. Only Dell was hesitating, glancing in confusion between Keriath and the creatures calling to him.
She paused, frowning as she considered him. But she didn’t have time to linger. It was only a matter of time before the waterhorses convinced the Darklings to leave the safety of the boat. And once they did, the slaughter would begin. She had to get the slaves out, now, before the waterhorses were mad with bloodlust. She turned away. Left the Darklings to their fate.
‘Wait,’ a hoarse voice called to her. Dell. With a glance back over her shoulder, she saw him step away from the waterhorses, step towards her.
Her eyes widened in shock. That wasn’t possible. A muscle was leaping in his jaw as he clenched his teeth against the agony of resisting, but his gaze was clear and steady … calm. She acted on instinct. ‘I have to free them,’ she said. She didn’t need to explain who she was talking about. ‘Help me.’
‘Can’t,’ Dell gasped, tensing against a wave of pain. ‘But … won’t stop you.’
Keriath nodded in understanding. It was all she needed to hear. ‘Don’t bother covering your ears,’ she offered as a parting gift. ‘The song is in your mind. Focus on som
ething else – drown it out.’ His head dipped to let her know he’d heard her, but she was already running.
The slaves were unguarded below deck, their Darkling sentinels drawn away by the ethereal music echoing through their heads. Only the shackles binding them together and chaining them to the boat had kept the mortals from following. Their expressions were vacant as they heaved against their restraints. It was mostly women and children. The former had to be breeding stock to keep up the numbers of the Queens’ herd. She shuddered to consider the latter. Children, with their entire lives ahead of them.
Keriath shoved the thought from her mind as she ran an assessing eye over the manacles. Nothing but cold iron, no spells of containment or binding. She smiled.
‘If you want to live, you have to listen,’ she called, her voice ringing out through the hold. Perhaps a dozen pairs of eyes turned to her, woken from their trance. ‘You listen to me and only me, do you understand?’ More eyes looked her way. She kept speaking, wishing she had power to force them to listen but having to settle for filling her voice with as much authority and power as she could muster. Slowly – painfully slowly – all eyes turned to her.
‘Who are you?’ one of the men asked. He was big and strong, and handsome. Chained separately from the others. Keriath’s stomach heaved as she contemplated why he might have been chosen.
‘I’m one of the Graced,’ she murmured, crouching down beside him. ‘I’m here to help you.’
A small, pale face appeared at her elbow, peering up at her. It was so caked in dirt and grime that Keriath could hardly tell if it was a boy or a girl. ‘Nobody can help us,’ the child whispered. Keriath thought her heart might break from the despair in that voice, but she refused to give in.
‘I can, and I will,’ she promised. Just in time, the screaming started as the boat lurched in the water. The child whimpered, but a bitter smile touched Keriath’s lips. She reached out a hand and cupped that small face. ‘Don’t be afraid. What you hear is the sound of your Darkling masters dying in agony. They just met some of my friends.’
‘You’re a Unicorn,’ a nearby woman breathed, staring at Keriath’s brow in wonder.
The child beamed. ‘Waterhorses!’ Keriath nodded and winked. She stood, scanning the bodies crowded in the hold, making sure that every single one was watching her.
‘The waterhorses’ magic is broken now that blood has been spilled,’ she told them, ‘but they’ll keep the Darklings distracted. I’ll go up first, get the boat grounded on the riverbank.’ She pressed the keys into the young man’s hands. ‘You wait for my signal, and then you run. They’ll be right behind us, so you scatter to the winds. Individuals and smaller groups have a better chance at escape. Keep running, and don’t look back. Do you understand?’
The slaves were silent, hope and fear shining like slivers of silver in their eyes, but they nodded. The only noise was the gentle clinking of the keys passing from hand to hand, the harsh scrape of them turning in rusty locks as the shackles clanked open. Keriath chucked a finger under the child’s chin and winked again. Then she was gone.
Absolute chaos reigned on the deck. It was littered with wounded Darklings. More were screaming as they drowned. Keriath saw Drosta still alive and cursed, but she didn’t have time to think about that as she sprinted towards her goal. The boat was listing to the side. The waterhorses had put a hole in the side, trying to drown their victims.
She slammed into the Darkling holding the wheel, shoving him into the waiting jaws of the waterhorses below. Her joints screamed in protest as she heaved the wheel around, driving for the riverbank. She held on tight, even as Drosta’s eyes fell on her and he began roaring for her death.
The barge shuddered from the force of the rocky riverbed tearing open her underside, crashing into the bank. She screamed for the slaves to run. Now! And like a crashing wave, they broke upon the deck. A hundred souls, racing for freedom. She spared a thought for the rest trapped on the other barge. But she knew all too well, it was impossible to save everyone.
Drosta was howling for her blood as he watched his livestock escape, bellowing for someone to bring her down. But Keriath was loose, her chains in the water below. She vaulted over the edge of the barge, knees popping from the impact of her landing. Then she was sprinting through the shallows for the riverbank. The slaves followed. They were so slow, these mortals. She was torn. She had promised to help them, but her own freedom was on the horizon. With a curse, she slowed, losing herself in the seething mass as they fled.
‘Split up!’ she barked. ‘Scatter!’ They did as they were bid. Just in time. The buzz of an arrow had her ducking for cover, and it sailed over her head. But another followed, and then another. She heard a scream of fury. She glanced back in time to see one of the riverhorses rear up out of the water and take the arrow meant for her.
But its sacrifice was in vain. Keriath yelled, one of the barbed heads slamming into her shoulder. Another followed, slicing into her calf and crippling her. She crashed to the ground, swearing as she ripped the arrow from her leg before staggering to her feet once more – only to let out another roar of agony as an arrow punched through her ribs. And fuck, she realised. They were coated. She could smell the poison in her blood from where she’d pulled out the one in her leg. Still, she could make it. If she could just get out of range—
‘Leaving so soon, sweetheart?’ Keriath stopped dead in her tracks. Drosta’s crooning voice was far too confident. Dread, ice-cold and certain, gripped at her heart as she turned to face him. He stood on the shore, the pale-faced child in his grasp. The child, a boy – in the moonlight, she could see it was a little boy – was whimpering, Drosta’s dagger at his slender throat. Keriath’s gaze flicked up to the Darkling’s smug face, to the body of the waterhorse spread out on the riverbank behind him. She looked back to the child. ‘Stand down, or I kill him.’
She hesitated, hating herself for it with every breath. If she surrendered, Drosta would just kill the boy anyway. But Keriath had enough blood on her hands. She wouldn’t add the blood of an innocent to the list. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, and she bowed her head in submission. Tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t fight as Darklings closed in around her.
Drosta smiled … and dragged the blade across the boy’s throat. Keriath was vaguely aware that she was screaming as blood loss and exhaustion brought her to her knees. But all she heard were the gurgling, wet gasps of the child’s last breaths as he died.
She surged then – a last attempt at escape, at revenge, anything – but it was too late. Something blunt and heavy cracked across the back of her skull, and then there was only darkness.
When Keriath came round, she found she was bound tight – though without spelled chains, nothing would hold her for long. But her body was weak. Whatever they’d coated their arrows with had made her drowsy and lethargic.
Drosta was standing before her, filling her hazy vision. His arms were folded across his chest and his expression was murderous. Maren was nowhere to be seen.
‘I would have let you die,’ he purred, ‘but it would have been too pleasant.’
‘Fuck you,’ she slurred.
Drosta chuckled. ‘Quite possibly,’ he breathed. ‘We’ve got about another hour until we arrive, and the Gods know I’m tempted. But I thought you’d like to see your new home from the outside first. Because I promise, you’ll never see the sky again once you’ve gone inside.’
He stepped aside, and Keriath squinted into the night. Rising out of the darkness, illuminated by the silvery light of the moon, she saw the mountain fortress of the Darkling Queens. Dar Kual. The City of Nightmares.
Chapter Ten
The poisoned arrowheads had done their job – none of Keriath’s wounds had healed. The one in her shoulder had kept bleeding for so long that Drosta had needed to bind it himself so she didn’t die of blood loss. And because it was driving the remaining Darklings mad with thirst.
The waterhorses had decimated the
two Hunts, and at least half of the survivors were injured. It had pleased Keriath to see Maren amongst the fallen, although her second had survived and seemed just as determined to escort Drosta and his Hunt to the city.
Though they’d recaptured most of the slaves, a precious few had escaped. Keriath might have savoured the minor victory, were it not for the screams echoing up from below deck as Drosta punished the survivors. He’d wanted to make her watch, but Dell had talked him out of it. She wasn’t sure what had prompted his mercy, only that it was mercy that drove him and not self-preservation as he claimed.
She was weak and sluggish, yet all too aware of the pain in her body. Drosta was a sick bastard. The poison – whatever it was – appeared to only disrupt the connection between her head and her body in one direction. Her control over her limbs was next to nothing, but she could feel everything with perfect clarity.
Drosta had been nervous ever since they’d been close enough to see the docks. He’d ordered her kept on the barge, under Dell’s watchful eye, while his precious cargo was unloaded. Keriath had been glad they hadn’t allowed her to witness the sight of almost two hundred innocent souls being marched off the barges and into the endless dark. Another of Dell’s mercies. She wondered what she’d done to win over his bitter, twisted heart.
The slaves were long gone by the time Keriath was dragged from the barge and thrown into a saddle. Maren’s second had gone with the slaves, along with all that remained of her Hunt. Nobody was sorry to see them go. They’d ridden in close formation through the city, with Keriath mounted in front of Dell while Drosta took the lead. Each step the beast had taken had sent waves of pain crashing through her. But any relief she felt when they dismounted was short-lived.
Unwilling to commit so much as one of his Hunt to carry her, Drosta had made her walk. Her calf was screaming, and every step sent a stinging jolt through her side. Dell was close behind, his hand within striking distance of her arm. Drosta was in front of her, swaggering through the castle with his brutal arrogance.
