Thumping Andrei on the shoulder with his fist, Henrik pivoted toward the others. He met his comrades’ gazes, each one in turn. “Make it count. Show no mercy.”
“We never do,” Kazim said, his voice little more than a growl.
Shay flexed his fists. “Let’s move.”
With a nod, Henrik walked toward his mount. Ice crunched beneath his boot treads as he left the protective cove of the large spruces. The wind picked up, wiping snow across frozen turf, making branches creak and his violent nature rise. The calm he wore in battle settled around him like a winter cloak, clothing him in silent aggression. Henrik rolled his shoulders, accepting its weight, relishing the emotional chill and the absence of conscience.
His warhorse pawed the ground, snorting in greeting.
Henrik murmured back and, gripping her mane, swung into the saddle. Leather groaned. His mount shifted, muscles bunching in preparation. His need to find a fight as great as his steed’s, he set heels to his horse’s flanks. She leapt forward, strides lengthening, hooves cracking through the underbrush toward the trail beyond the forest’s edge. His comrades behind him, Henrik wheeled around a huge oak, then caught air, jumping over a fallen log. His warhorse landed in the middle of the pathway.
Sharp sound rippled, cracking through the quiet. With a quick flick of the reins, he turned his mount west. It wouldn’t be long now. Gorgon Pass, and the low bluffs rising on either side of the trail, lay just ahead. One more bend in the narrow roadway. A single straightaway, and he’d be in the monster’s throat. No turning back. Little chance of retreat. Weapons drawn for one purpose . . .
Killing the man—minion, beast, bastard turned Druinguari, whatever—responsible for a lifetime of pain. Which meant the more noise he made on approach, the better.
Stealth wasn’t part of the plan. He wanted Halál to hear him coming. Needed his former sensei to make assumptions. Leap to the wrong conclusion. Believe he had Henrik beat so the Druinguari committed to the ambush and entered the canyon. The instant the enemy put boots on the ground, Henrik would make each and every one of them pay. Game over. No mercy. Just death as he brought an end to Halál and those who served him.
Urging his mount to greater speed, Henrik rounded the bend and reached out with his mind. “Tareek, where are you?”
“Cloaked and in position to the east of Gorgon Pass.”
“Garren and Cruz?”
“Same . . . one north, the other south.” Scales rattled, coming through mind-speak. “Xavian and the others await your signal on the west side.”
“Get ready.”
Tareek snorted. “Born ready, fratele.”
In the straightaway now, Henrik leaned in, got low, and unleashed his magic. Cold air snapped. Snow flurries flew, whirling in his wake as he conjured the spell. The cloak of invisibility flared, moving up and over to swallow him whole. As he disappeared into thin air, he tightened his grip on the magical shield, expanding it to include those riding behind him. Senses keen, he heard his comrades murmur in appreciation. Henrik ignored the accolades and, eyes moving over the entrance into the canyon, scanned the forest on either side of the trail. Nothing yet. No Druinguari hidden in the bracken. No intensification of the buzz between his temples. Just a narrow roadway funneling past rocky outcroppings into Gorgon Pass. Worn by weather and time, twin columns rose on either side of the opening, jagged stone teeth rounding the corners into the gorge beyond.
“Almost there. Moments out.”
Tareek growled. “Give me a count.”
Gaze riveted to his target, Henrik kicked from his stirrups. His hand tightened on the reins. His feet touched down, one in the center of the saddle, the other atop his warhorse’s rump. “Three. Two . . .”
Stone columns sped past.
Shaped like an oval, Gorgon Pass opened up, widening in the center only to narrow again at the opposite end. Inhuman snarls erupted, echoing off serrated walls and across the gorge. Movement flashed in his periphery. Sunlight glinted off sword edges as the Druinguari took the bait and gave away their positions along the bluff’s edge.
“One!”
Teeth bared, muscles taut, Henrik made the leap. Wind whistled in his ears. The wide ledge along one side of the gorge rose to greet him. He landed with a bone-jarring thump. The cloak of invisibility warped, contracting around him. Bearing down, Henrik held the spell in place and—sweet Christ. It was working. He was doing it. His magic was holding, rendering him invisible, protecting his comrades, confusing the Druinguari as riderless horses thundered into the center of the canyon . . .
Drawing the enemy’s fire.
Black-shafted arrows flew overhead. Druinguari leapt from their hidey-holes as the first flurry hammered the ground and the stone wall above his head. Ducking the barrage, Henrik skidded across the outcropping and behind a row of rocks. One knee down, the other foot flat on the ground, he palmed his bow and drew an arrow. The shaft rasped free of his quiver. Eyes narrowed on the nearest Druinguari, he steadied his grip and let loose. The bowstring twanged. The arrow flew straight and true, speeding across the canyon and—crack! It stuck hard, puncturing the right side of the Druinguari’s chest. The enemy roared in agony a second before—
Pop-pop . . . snap!
The bastard disintegrated, dissolving into a pile of sludge on the canyon floor. Enemy eyes turned in his direction. Twin swords drawn, leading the others, Xavian charged through the opening at the opposite side of the gorge. Dark-blue scales glinting in sunlight, Garren set up shop behind the group, cutting off all hope of escape from that direction. Cruz appeared at the other end, huge talons ripping up dirt as Tareek flew in and circled overhead.
Perfect timing. Counterattack launched. Plan 100 percent successful. The enemy had nowhere to go and nothing to do . . . but die.
With a battle cry, Henrik let the shield of invisibility go. As it snapped, making him visible to the enemy, chaos ensued. Horses screamed, then bolted. Druinguari shouted and scrambled, looking for a way out. Too little, too late. Henrik loosed another arrow. As accurate as the first, it slammed home. Another enemy assassin fell as the arrowhead pierced muscle and bone, rupturing the empty space behind his breastbone. Black magic spilled out, clouding the air as the capsule exploded, severing the bastard’s connection to the demon realm. Like fuel, the contents of the capsule kept the Druinguari alive, feeding each from the source, binding them to their master: Armand, the Prince of Shadows. Once cut, however, the tie lost its power and the bastards ceased to exist.
In any way, shape, or form.
Excellent information to possess. The sole reason he’d put Cosmina in Thrall.
With a snarl, Henrik launched a third arrow. And then another. Fast and furious. One after the other, each flying with more fury than the last—protecting Xavian, hemming the enemy in, pushing the bastards into the center of the canyon—as he tried to blot out the memory. Goddamned bastards. He wanted to obliterate every last one. Forget his vow along with his allegiance to the Goddess of All Things. Set aside his past and Halál’s crimes. Here . . . right now . . . vengeance had naught to do with it, and duty even less. His rage stemmed from another source. One that struck far too close to home. He’d betrayed Cosmina’s trust, unleashing his magic, using it against her with singular purpose . . .
To find the Druinguari’s weakness.
Now he possessed the knowledge. Had the bastards in his sights and on the run. All thanks to Cosmina, so . . .
No mercy. He’d meant every word.
Stowing his bow, Henrik palmed the hilts rising over his shoulders. With a hard draw, he pulled the blades free. Steel zinged from the twin scabbards strapped to his back. Swords in hand, he leapt over the rock barricade. Free-falling to the canyon floor, he roared at the enemy. Fast strides took him across Gorgon Pass and into the thick of the fray. His sword tasted steel. Three Druinguari turned to repel his attack. Whirling beneath an enemy blade, Henrik spun, feet churning in the dirt, cloak whipping around him. His blade found flesh
. Jamming it home, he cut through bone, bringing death as black blood flew. The enemy disintegrated beneath his sword. He shifted left. A quick jab. A lethal thrust. Another Druinguari down, one more to engage, and—
Christ. Halál.
The enemy leader lay within reach, just ten feet of hard fighting away. The distance, though, didn’t matter. Neither did the assassins standing in his path. He needed to reach his former sensei. Yearned to feel the tip of his blade thrust into the bastard’s chest. Before Xavian reached him first. Before his friend’s blade struck home, and Xavian took what Henrik wanted most.
Halál’s non-beating heart on a platter.
Moving with precision, Henrik kept ahead of his comrades. Two more Druinguari fell. Hemmed in on all sides, Halál pivoted and, swords raised, turned toward Henrik. Flame-orange eyes met Henrik’s over the heads of the soldiers surrounding him. Henrik bared his teeth. The bastard’s mouth curved a second before he sheathed one sword and fisted his hand. Time stretched. Perception warped. Frigid air heated as Halál cranked his arm back and, opening his palm, threw a burst of black mist out in front him. Thick as smoke, fog frothed into the canyon, obliterating his line of sight. Henrik paused mid-swing. Thunder boomed overhead and—
Halál disappeared into thin air, taking the mist and soldiers along with him.
Blade poised mid-strike, Xavian cursed. “Son of a bitch.”
“What the hell?” Andrei muttered from behind him.
“Goddamn it.” Turning full circle, Henrik scanned the canyon. Empty. No Druinguari in sight. Just black blood splattered on the ground. “The bastard retreated.”
“Using an excellent trick.”
“Not so excellent, Razvan. Black magic. Bad enough, but . . .” Trailing off, Cristobal sheathed his swords and stepped into the circle, flanked by two huge beasts. Paws the size of dinner platters, the pair growled, the guttural sound eerie in the silent aftermath of battle. Wariness slithered down Henrik’s spine. Raising sword tips stained with Druinguari blood, he threw his friend a look full of what the hell. With a shrug, Cristobal stroked his hands over the beast’s head and met his gaze. “I’ll explain later. We’ve got a bigger problem.”
“Right,” Shay grumbled, pocketing his throwing stars. “Because disappearing Druinguari just isn’t enough.”
“What kind of problem, Cristobal?” Henrik asked, ignoring his apprentice’s sarcasm.
“There weren’t enough Druinguari here.”
“Rahat.” Pale eyes nearly colorless in the daylight, Xavian joined the party. “How many individual boot prints did you track from the cemetery?”
“Twenty-one,” Cristobal said, expression grim.
“Only fifteen sets here.”
“Aye, Andrei, not nearly enough. We’re six short,” Cristobal said, a growl in his voice. The beasts snarled in reaction, bladed tails swishing, fangs bared, claws clicking as the pair paced a circle around him. “I lost the enemy’s trail in the rocks before we reached the Mureş River, but . . . rahat. I mistook the signs. I thought they were simply covering their tracks, but—”
“Christ.” Hands flexing around his sword hilts, Henrik frowned. Mind churning over the facts, he put two and two together. The news signaled disaster. If Cristobal was right, a group of Druinguari had backtracked, avoiding detection—and his friend’s supreme tracking skills—with singular purpose. “The Blessed have been recalled to White Temple. What if six broke from the pack and circled back, intending to—”
Kazim cursed. “Set up shop inside the holy city.”
“Lay in wait,” Xavian said, sheathing his blades. “And kill them all.”
“A move worthy of Halál.” With a growl, Razvan shook his head. “One that will ensure the Prince of Shadows’ victory.”
No question. Excellent conclusion. And exactly what Henrik thought too. Halál sought to end the war—and eliminate the threat to his master—before it began. All hope rested with the Blessed and his sister, High Priestess of Orm. As servants to the Goddess of All Things, the rituals each Blessed performed would ensure the deity gained strength in the earthly realm. More worship meant greater power. The prayers fed the goddess, and the stronger she grew, the harder it would be for Armand to gain a foothold. Which was where he and his comrades came in. His mission was simple, his goal straightforward: Decimate the enemy before they assembled in great numbers. Ruin all chance for evil to take root and grow. Provide what the goddess needed to secure her hold and protect mankind through her magic.
As the goddess’ conduit, Afina played the go-between, providing the bridge between worlds, spreading the healing energy that touched all living things, ensuring the planet thrived. His sister’s role was an important one. Now so was his. But as Henrik stood in the rising silence, wind whistling through the canyon, the Druinguari’s true intent struck hard. He’d missed a vital fact while pursuing his thirst for vengeance . . . and Halál’s death. Had failed to see the enemy’s real plan. Should’ve realized sooner all of the Blessed—not just Cosmina—had become targets. His heart picked up a beat. And then another, slamming into his breastbone as realization bloomed and all the nasty possibilities rose. Each played like a bloody piece of theater set on a real-life stage.
Sweet Christ. Cosmina was once again in serious danger.
Her intentions were no secret. He knew she planned to return to the holy city. She’d told him as much while they’d lain in bed talking. The ancient rite she’d performed days ago held sway. The magical tether tugged, urging her home—the draw so strong it couldn’t be denied. Which meant . . . God help him. Cosmina might already be on her way back to White Temple.
“Tareek!” Spinning on his heel, Henrik searched the bluff behind him.
Magic snapped in the chilly air as Tareek uncloaked. Red scales and horned head glimmering in the sun, his friend tipped his chin. “What?”
“How long a flight is it to White Temple?”
“Balls out, no holds barred?”
Sliding his swords into the scabbards on his back, Henrik nodded.
“Three hours . . . minimum.”
“Let’s move.” Violence in his tone, his command rippled through the canyon.
His comrades obeyed without hesitation.
Multiple footfalls rang out, obliterating the quiet as his friends sprinted for Garren and Cruz, and he made for the bluff. But as Henrik climbed the rock face, reaching the top and Tareek in record time, worry rose and fear for Cosmina hit hard. Please God, let her be all right. Keep her inside the Limwoods with Thea and out of harm’s way. A plea filled with desperation? A losing roll in a game of chance? Naught more than a shot in the dark? Without a doubt. No question in his mind. He understood her well. Could practically hear her thinking from a hundred miles away.
Abandoned by him. Alone in her cottage. Angry and hurt.
’Twas a nasty combination.
One that made instinct rise and remorse circle. Three full days since he’d left her. She wouldn’t have waited. Not an extra hour, never mind an entire day. Cosmina was a fighter, prone to action, not wallowing. So aye, supposition be damned. ’Twas no longer a guessing game. Henrik knew she was already on the move, headed back to the holy city and into danger. And as he mounted up and Tareek took flight, Henrik sent a prayer heavenward, asking for help, pleading for mercy . . .
Praying he arrived in time to shield and keep her safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Traveling through a cosmic corridor made of black magic and mist, Halál relished the roar of sensation. The whiplash of spine-bending speed clawed at his skin. He hummed, welcoming the rush even though it wasn’t as satisfying as fighting. But Lucifer love him, it came awfully close. A definite second in a powerful pull rife with ferocious velocity. The ability to transport himself—and those who served him—over great distances with the wave of his hand. An excellent trick. Quite the magical coup. A gift courtesy of Armand, Prince of Shadows, and an exceptional skill to possess. Except for one thing . . .
/> He couldn’t control where the mist transported him.
Not yet anyway.
Every time he unleashed it, the magic-filled fog always sent him straight home. To Grey Keep, the Al Pacii stronghold he shared with the other Druinguari. Disappointing in so many ways. Particularly since he didn’t want to go home. He’d wanted to stay and fight—to transport himself out of Gorgon Pass to a prime shooting position atop the ridge instead of deep into the Carpathian Mountain Range . . . and far from the enemy. Not that he was complaining. Not really. He’d been in a vulnerable position inside the canyon, moments from seeing his soldiers slaughtered, and his own death. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. Damn Henrik along with the rest. His defeat at the hands of The Seven surpassed failure. It represented disaster, a debacle of epic proportions.
The realization tweaked his temper.
Fury spiraled deep, making him long to draw his swords and return to Gorgon Pass. He wanted another chance. Needed to strike a telling blow and assuage his pride. But not now. It wouldn’t happen today. Not while the vortex sped him through space, refusing to heed his request and change course. Halál swallowed a growl. Protesting was a waste of good breath. The facts remained. Until he learned to master the skill, the mist would do as it always did—determine the trajectory, control the velocity, set him down where it pleased instead of where he wanted. Which left him suspended in flight with nothing but time on his hands. Time to strategize. Time to imagine. Time to plot his revenge against the warriors who served the Goddess of All Things.
A beautiful death. One that included torture and eventual decapitation.
With a snarl, Halál twisted into a flip mid-flight, testing the confines of the vortex. The walls expanded around him, making room, adjusting its tempo, speeding him toward Grey Keep. Orange light flared along its curved sides, flashing into angry bursts, reminding him of falling stars. All without causing him any discomfort. ’Twas a marvel in many ways. A sight to behold. Just like the bastards at Gorgon Pass.
Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 32
