Knight Avenged (20 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The trail dead-ended at the river’s edge. Just like he knew it would.

Crouched on the lip of the ravine, Halál pivoted on the balls of his feet and looked down on failure. On the tumbling rush of water. On the break in the trees. On hoofprints left in the narrow strip of sand flanking the Mureş River. Aye, he could see the trail. His vision was pinpoint sharp, the dark and distance no impediment to his enhanced eyesight. Black magic afforded him all sorts of interesting tricks.

A perk of leading Armand’s budding army.

Eyes narrowed, he searched the smooth stretch of pebbled beach and sandy bank flanking the Mureş again. He bared his teeth on a snarl. Clever bastard. Henrik had done it again. Evaded him. Thwarted him. Mucked up his plans. The assassin was more trouble than he was worth. His former pupil never said quit or gave in easy. Admirable traits most days. Halál had enjoyed that about him at Grey Keep. His stubborn nature and ironclad will had made torturing him a joy.

Now the bastard wore the stain of Al Pacii on his ski
n . . .
the mark of ownership.

Halál huffed, acknowledging the lie.
Ownership.
Ha. Right. A nice, if somewhat foolish, thought. Even so, he would’ve liked that—to own Henrik. Somehow, though, it hadn’t happened. Aye, he’d marked him well enough, cutting into him, leaving scars with well-used knives. In the end, the trail of physical damage hadn’t been enough. Or proved anything. No matter how many times he’d strapped Henrik to the blue stone and made him bleed, the bold bastard had defied him, refusing to beg like his other assassins.

Something to be respected. Mayhap even celebrated.

But not tonight.

Particularly since he couldn’t follow Henrik across the river. Not without entering the Limwoods. A place he refused to get anywhere near. Which explained a lot, didn’t it? Like why he crouched on the ridge, three hundred yards upslope instead of making his way down to track the traitor into the forest.

Halál pursed his lips. Time for a new plan. One that bagged him his quarry and ensured success. Another failure, and his window of opportunity would close. He knew it well enough. Henrik wasn’t stupid. The bastard would regroup inside the Limwoods. Which would make him harder to kill and the woman less accessible. Not acceptable by any means. He needed the Keeper of the Key along with the information she possessed. His mouth curved as his imagination took flight. Be damned, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.

So many possibilities. Untold pleasure. An equal amount of satisfaction.

She’d provide it all before he handed her over to Armand.

Anticipation grabbed hold as Halál pushed to his feet. A gift. His master would no doubt be pleased to receive a member of the Order of Orm.

Turning away from the ridge, he surveyed his soldiers. As his gaze skimmed each one, he swallowed a curse. His assassins looked a touch worse for wear. Soot marred their skin, smudging faces and bare arms. The smell of burnt hair and leather drifted, clouding the air around them as he glanced down at his chest. Halál shook his head. He looked just as bad. Scorched by fire, burn marks dotted the front of his jerkin. And his trews? Holes peppered the leather, leaving raw patches of skin exposed.

Halál scowled. Damned dragon.

The beast had taken its pound of flesh, unleashing hell, ripping tombstones from the ground, setting trees alight with his nasty exhale before flying off agai
n . . .
denying Halál a clear shot. Another failure to add to the growing pile. The kind that tweaked his temper. He despised the disadvantage along with the weakness. Two more Druinguari lay dead, burned alive by magical fire. Halál snarled, the low sound more hiss than growl. His assassins shuffled, unease rising like perfume from their skin. Good. He wanted them on edge. Sharp. Hostile. Willing to do anything for revenge. Comfort of any kind wasn’t part of the plan. It wouldn’t be, either, until he found a way to even the score.

Incapacitated. Maimed. Dead and gone.

The method didn’t matter. Not with his target list widening to include Henrik, those who fought alongside him, and no
w . . .
a dragon. So aye, some in-depth research was now in order. Well, that and a serious chat with Armand. If anyone knew how to kill dragons, it would be the Prince of Shadows.

Unfurling his fists, Halál glanced at his first in command. “V.”

“Aye, master?”

“New plan.” Mind churning over multiple avenues of attack, Halál frowned. “Take your men back to the holy city. Set up out of sight and wait. The call has gone out. The Blessed will return to White Temple.”

Valmont hummed. “Capture or kill?”

“Catch and keep if you like,” he said, giving his assassin some leeway. Loyal and stout of heart, Valmont deserved the reward. Gifting him with a Blessed or two would serve well enough. “But when you are done, kill them all.”

“Their blood will blacken the earth,” Valmont said, anticipation in his low tone.

“Excellent.” Stepping alongside his assassin, he treated Valmont to a slap of affection. His palm cracked against leather. Harsh sound echoed as he nodded to his second in command. “Beauvi
c . . .
you and I will travel west to Gorgon Pass.”

Beauvic’s mouth tipped up at the corners. “The high cliffs at the foot of the Carpathians. A good place for Henrik to escape into the mountains.”

He nodded. “Exactly. I want him cut off from all help.”

In other word
s . . .
Drachaven and Xavian.

He didn’t want the entire group of traitors together. The bastards fought too well as a unit. ’Twould be easier to pick them off one at a time. Which meant he must keep Henrik contained. The longer his quarry stayed isolated, the more vulnerable he would be.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The dirt trail narrowed on the downward slope, fishhooking into a tight curve. Another blind corner. Another potential pitfall. One of many over the last few hours.

Eyes scanning the foliage on either side of the path, Henrik slowed his mount to a walk and adjusted his hold on Cosmina. Snug in his lap, fast asleep in his arms, the gentle bobble ’n’ sway didn’t bother her. She resettled with a sigh, then snuggled in as though she belonged against him. A perfect fit in every way. He blew out a pent-up breath as insight reared its ugly head. So tempting to indulge. So dangerous to want. So foolish to dream. All perilous endeavors, ones that would bring him low if he allowed it.

Naught good would come from encouraging the fantasy.

Henrik knew it. He’d witnessed the aftermath—the trauma too—time and again when a man overreached, longing for a woman he held no right to hold. But accepting the truth and putting it into play were two very different things. Point in fact? He couldn’t set Cosmina aside. Oh, he’d tried. Had toyed with the idea of handing her over to one of the others and riding on ahead. But each time he opened his mouth to call Shay forward, he lost his voic
e . . .
and then his nerve.

Henrik huffed. Goddamn need. Stupid yearning. Miles ahead of common sense, both ruled at the moment, setting him up for a hard fall. Knowing it, however, didn’t change a thing. Or set him straight. He wanted her too much. So he cuddled Cosmina close instead of pushing her away, condemning himself with action and a cartload of compelling what-ifs: What if she liked him back? What if she desired him as much as he did her? What if she accepted him for who and what he was—an elite assassin with too much blood on his hands?

Excellent questions. None of which he had any right to ask.

He’d given up the possibility of closeness eons ag
o . . .
the instant he’d chosen a killer’s path. So nay, he didn’t deserve happiness or a second chance. And Cosmina? Hell, she represented everything he refused to entertain—love, acceptance, a chance at normalcy.

Mayhap even a family of his own.

A little boy with her eyes. A little girl with her spirit. Henrik’s throat went tight. God, the image had the power to slay him where he sat. Shifting in the saddle, he shook his head as his gaze strayed to her face. Unable to help himself, he watched her sleep. The shadows thickened around him, painting the Limwoods with a black brush. Lightning bugs lit up the path, showing the way, dancing against the darkness, making him wish he could be as carefree. But then, easy wasn’t his style.

He preferred hard to wholesome, s
o . . .
no question in his mind. Cosmina didn’t belong in his world. He didn’t want to live in hers—a place where the goddess ruled and old wounds festered. Which left him with little choice. He needed to do the right thing and walk away. Take her home, leave her behind, and never look back.

’Twas a solid plan. The best, really, but for one thin
g . . .

He hadn’t even done it yet, and it hurt like hell.

Dragging his gaze from her face, he refocused on the road, and with a flick of his reins, guided his warhorse around the next bend. Ancient trees stood sentry on either side of the lane, acting like soldiers, creating a tunnel through the forest. Most would’ve called it beautiful. Enchanting. Symbiotic even, the way massive oaks leaned in and stretched, closing the distance to create a tangled canopy over the trail. Too bad all he saw was danger. A warren full of dark shadows and ominous intent.

Paranoid much? Absolutely. He had every right to be.

The Goddess of All Things never let up. And the magic? Christ, it never went away. Or got any more amenable. Thea and the vines roaming the underbrush proved that well enough. So did the awful prickle of unease. With each mile, it slid over his skin, winding him tight, raising the hair on his nape, telling him to get the hell out of the Limwoods. An excellent strategy. Brilliant by all accounts, excep
t . . .

’Twas easier thought than done. Naught but wishful thinking.

Turning back now wasn’t an option. Deep in the forest, the chime and rattle of enchantment closed rank, hemming him in. Now he was surrounded on all sides by supernatural forces. The kind he tried hard to avoid, but somehow never managed to escape. Tied down. Locked up. Nowhere to go. The feelings of isolation were ever present. To be expected, he guessed. Especially with the goddess breathing down his neck. It was eerie. His resistance to her plan didn’t matter. Not to her. She pursued with purpose, refused to leave him alone when anyone else would’ve given up by now and given him his way.

Which was what, exactly?

Peace. Soul solace. A chance at self-fulfillment.

And yet, destiny wouldn’t allow it. Henrik sighed. Mayhap ’twas his fault. Mayhap his refusal to fall into line made him selfish. Mayhap all the uncertainty and pain was a side effect—punishment for his aversion to magic. Henrik didn’t know. Particularly since he’d never been given a choice. Or seen the other side of the equation.

Born of a High Priestess, magic ran in his veins. It didn’t matter whether he liked it or not—or that he longed for something different. Something better. Something
more
. Freedom to choose his own path, perhaps? The belief that he could control his own life? Without a doubt. Not that any of it mattered. It was what it
was
. No negotiating with it. No circumventing what he was or who the goddess wanted him to be. Lord knew he’d trie
d . . .
over and over, time and again.

Yet nothing changed.

Fate fought on, placing a target on his back.

Disquiet itched along his spine. Rolling his shoulders, Henrik shrugged off the discomfort and tightened his arms around Cosmina. Ah, and there it was agai
n . . .
the urge to turn toward her instead of away. A strange reaction. Stupid in so many ways, and yet he brushed a kiss to the top of her head anyway. He couldn’t fight the awful tug of attraction.

Or his need to get closer.

Hmm, she was something. So relaxed against him. Such a sweet fit in his arms—head on his shoulder, body snug against his, each breath deep and even—trusting him enough to sleep in his presence. ’Twas a gift, an incredible source of comfort too, helping him stay steady as the Limwoods breathed around him. Alive with magic, the sizzle writhed in the chilly air and his restlessness shuffled into full-on dread. Like dice, uncertainty rolled in and instinct piped up.

Mayhap it was time.

Time to stop fighting and accept his legacy more fully. Blame and hatred only got a man so far. Aye, he could go on despising the Goddess of All Things—for abandoning him as a child, for all the torture and pai
n . . .
for the death of his twin sister.

Most days, he tried not to think about it. Usually, he failed. It was his fault, after all. If he’d been there—instead of in Poland, seeing to Halál’s greed and Al Pacii business—he might have been able to shield her. Not that anyone else agreed with him—Afina, in particular. She’d been present during their sister’s illness—when the blood disease had taken hold, decimating Bianca after the birth of her daughter. His chest went tight. Beautiful Sabine, his niece and pride and joy. The two-year-old was a lot like his twin—gentle, full of grace and a keen wonder for the world. He wouldn’t trade her for anything. Loved her more than he did himself. And yet, he mourned Bianca, even though wishing his twin were still alive meant Sabine would never have existed.

He shook his head. God, what a tangle. But even as Henrik recognized the dichotomy in his thinking, he acknowledged the truth. The past couldn’t be changed. And honestly, it took too much effort to hate someone. Even more to resist what Afina already embraced: the truth of their history. The purpose bred into his bloodline.

Henrik frowned. It seemed counterintuitive. A classic case of insanity. Nothing else explained his willingness to accept his connection to the goddess. He’d never acknowledged it before, not even when he pledged allegiance to her. The vow had been made for his brothers-in-arms, not her. Never
her
. But curiosity called and knowledge equaled power. Accurate information kept a man alive. How many times had he said that? Too many to count or remember, so the hell with it. He’d made his decision. Was now headed straight into the belly of the beast. Into an unwise—and no doubt deadly—confrontation with the Goddess of All Things. He wanted answers. Needed closure. Planned to get both, bu
t . . .

Not yet.

First things first.

Cosmina needed care, and the rest of them required a reprieve. From constant threat. From all the fighting. A day or two of lying low was a necessity now. Halál wouldn’t quit. The bastard never did, so after being denied entrance into the Limwoods, the Druinguari would circle around. Set up somewhere north of Gorgon Pass, wait until he entered the Carpathian foothills, then move in to cut him off.

A sound strategy. No guesswork involved.

He knew his former sensei. Understood his methods and had studied his ways. Certain knowledge coupled with brutal experience. So now he must decide. Henrik shifted in the saddle, adjusting Cosmina in his lap as two options played tug-of-war. What to d
o . . .
what to do? Which route should he take? Avoid his former sensei, make for Drachaven, and gather the others? Or scout Halál’s position and attack in the hopes of killing the Druinguari leader?

Cut off the head of the snake. Watch the body die.

Seemed like the best plan. Hunting and killing, after all, suited him better than running and hiding. He’d done enough of the latter tonight. Way more than he ever wanted to do again, but that didn’t solve the problem. Two options: attack or evade. Different strategies dependent on the same things—his ability to ensure Cosmina’s safety and the Goddess of All Things’ cooperation.

Neither of which were sure bets.

Nudging his warhorse into a canter, Henrik upped the pace. Halfway down the laneway, a ping echoed inside his head. The prickle ghosted over the nape of his neck, then skittered down his spine. His gaze narrowed on the trail end where the trees thinned and branches lifted, funneling into what looked like a clearing. Wind blew in, rattling low-lying shrubbery. Old leaves tumbled over frozen dirt, kicking the smell of must into the air. The scent and brittle crackle joined the rustle of slithering vines as he sensed Thea rise.

Habit made him reach for his knife.

Sliding one arm from around Cosmina, his palm settled on the hilt strapped to the outside of his thigh. Ears tuned, eyes narrowed, he adjusted his grip. Leather creaked, and the warriors riding behind him shuffled, the thump of horses’ hooves loud in the silence.

Steel zinged, leaving multiple sheaths at the same time.

“H?” Sword in hand, Shay came alongside him.

“What is it?” Kazim asked, deep voice full of menace.

Andrei rode up on his other side, bumping him with his knee. “Trouble.”

Henrik shook his head. He didn’t know yet. The vibration seemed familiar, and yet felt foreign too. More than out of line. A touch left of center as though the buzz played jackrabbit inside his head, jumping all over the place. As it spun into a death skid between his temples, he bared his teeth and bore down. Something was off. By a lot? By a little? He couldn’t tell. Not with his magic skipping from one mental node to another, defying his ability to get a read on the approaching threat.

“Something’s headed our way,” he said. “Something big.”

“
Merde
.”

Kazim palmed his throwing stars. “Not good.”

Not even a little, but—

Vibration erupted into a roar inside his head. Henrik frowned and, using a hand signal, told his comrades to settle. All went quiet as he unleashed his magic, trying to get a hold of the signal, hunting for trouble as moonlight broke through the thicket of branches overhead. Illumination spilled between the cracks, joining the glow of fireflies. Iced-over evergreens sparkled in the burst of moonglow. His focus narrowed on the trail’s end. Aye. Definitely. Trouble. The kind that carried static and—

A dark shadow flew over, staining the ground black.

Henrik glanced up. “Tareek?”

Blowing out a ragged breath, Andrei sheathed his weapons.

Kazim grunted. “About time.”

“Thank God,” Shay murmured.

“Finally,”
his friend growled through mind-speak
. “I’ve been searching all over for your sorry arse. Flipping Limwoods. There’s too much magical interference. Couldn’t connect or track you from a distance.”

“Likewise. Been trying to reach you for hours. Are you all right?”

“Better now that I found you.”
Wings spread wide, Tareek banked into a tight turn overhead. Moonlight bounced off blood-red scales. Squinting to combat the glare, Henrik watched his friend circle back around.
“We need to talk. Got some information. You stopping soon?”

“What’s up ahead?”

“Naught. A small clearing, no more.”

“We’ll rest there.”

“Good,”
Tareek said.
“I’ll find a spot to land.”

“Not the best idea.”
Henrik glanced left. Thea stared out of the shadows, unearthly gaze fixed on him, snakelike tentacles slithering alongside the path. She wanted blood. Then again, mayhap that was simply paranoia talking. Not a bad way to lean. He had every right to be leery. The thing loved Cosmina. One false move, and Thea would act. Tear him apart. Scatter his remains from one end of the Limwoods to the other. But not before causing him a serious amount of pain.
“We’re not alone down here.”

“Vines?”

“Aye. Nowhere near friendly either.”

“Hell.”

An understatement. A dangerous one considering Thea’s violent disposition and nasty skill set. She wouldn’t welcome Tareek, never mind permit him to land. At least, not without attacking. The Limwoods liked to keep what it found and kill what it caught. Instinct raised the warning. Knowledge clanged the bell, presenting him with two options. On
e . . .
wake Cosmina. Or tw
o . . .
put Kazim’s gift to the test.