Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (12 page)

With an explosion of speed, we tear across the grassy plain, ripping a trench through the earth. We gain height just as we reach the village, ripping shingles from several roofs as we barrel upward. I have no power over this. I am a leaf caught in a hurricane.

We streak south toward Tornelaine and the disaster we know we will find there. 

Chapter 15

THE AIR AROUND Tornelaine crackles with energy. I sense the Old Ones around us, moving through the air and the earth below. Their curiosity brushes over me, but it is Logan they are most interested in. They skim around him, seeking, grasping, possessive. Logan ignores them.

We soar over the city. The currents spiraling away from us whip around the buildings and through the streets. People flee, screaming. A few roofs have been ripped away, some buildings toppled. But the damage doesn’t become severe until we near the castle.

The bridge from the city to the castle is gone, the broken stones scattered and mixed with the debris of shattered buildings. The gates and the courtyard wall have fallen into the trench that the bridge once spanned.

When we reach the rubble-strewn courtyard, I feel Logan draw away from me as my body solidifies. I stumble over the ripped earth, scrambling back from the crater in the courtyard’s center.

Wind swirls and eddies around us.

“Help us,” Logan calls to them. “Belos will bind you, too, if he can. Help us free Kronos.”

The wind drifts away, and Logan’s jaw tightens.

“Will they help?”

“I don’t know.”

I survey the damage to the castle. Some of the upper towers have been broken off, several walls ripped away. Beyond, the ocean crashes with unnatural anger against the cliffs. The wind howls overhead. A boom of breaking stone sounds from the east wing. The ground shudders under my feet as the whole wing crumbles into the sea as though the castle is made of nothing more than sand.

“I have to go,” Logan says. “I’ll try to stop him.”

I slide the knife from my belt. “Maybe you won’t have to.”

For the first time since he killed Koricus, Logan looks at me fully. “Please be careful. I cannot lose you, Astarti.”

My throat tightens. “I can’t lose you either.”

For a second, I see doubt in his eyes, then he nods. Wind stirs around him. His body dissolves, and he swirls away.

I force my thoughts away from him. I cannot worry about him right now. He is on his own, as I am. I tighten my grip on the knife and slide into the Drift.

The physical world fades to dim outlines. What I see from the Drift is the chaos of human struggle—and the chilling sight of Heborian’s barriers ripped to shreds and hanging like broken spider webs. I tune out the frenzied movement at the edges of my sight as people flee the battle within Heborian’s crumbling walls. If I focus, I can feel the roiling elements beyond the Drift, but I ignore all that. I pass through stone walls, their immerse weight and power nothing here in the Drift.

The glowing forms of Drifters and human soldiers batter one another in the hallway near the throne room. Dimly, I see the shattered walls and broken columns.

No one is within the Drift right now, all of them preoccupied with their physical struggles. I take stock of the battle, looking first for Belos. I easily spot his tumultuous energy and the blackened Leash snaking from him to disappear in the direction Logan went to seek Kronos. All his other Leashes are gone. So. He has Taken them all, gathering into himself every bit of energy he can command. This is his desperate push, and I have no doubt that his goal is to Take any Drifters he can. His energy drains constantly into that Leash. He pours himself into it to keep his fingerhold on a power much greater than his own. The Shackle dangles from his wrist, ready to be clamped onto anyone he can subdue.

Heborian sends a powerful blast of energy at Belos, knocking him back. Wulfstan follows that blast with one of his own. Closer to me, Horik swings his axe at Straton, and Jarl strikes at Theron before Theron can stab Horik in the back. Heborian’s human soldiers skitter through the conflict, helping where they can, and dying far too easily.

I start to skim toward Belos, knowing that killing him is the surest way to end all this, when I spot Rood pinned under Maxos’s sword. Rood’s face contorts with pain as Maxos wrenches the blade from his shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I see Heborian turn and yell.

I speed over to Maxos as he raises his sword for a killing blow. He never sees me, never knows he is about to die. Maybe he won’t even feel it.

I drive the knife into his heart.

His energy explodes like sparks bursting from a fire. I am blown backwards by the force of it, cringing as the sick energy washes over me. The sparks swirl and fizzle and fade.

The dim bulk of his body falls to the ground, barely discernible from within the Drift.

I scan the conflict for Belos. I jolt when I see him staring in my direction. Or rather, in Maxos’s. Belos is clutching his chest as though in pain. His energy shudders. In fact, all of the remaining Seven looked staggered, and they are briefly unable to defend themselves.

I push my puzzlement aside and streak toward Belos to seize my opportunity.

Wulfstan also sees the opening and lunges. Belos turns to meet him, but instead of bringing up his sword, he brings up the Shackle. He lets Wulfstan’s blade sink into his thigh.

In the moment Wulfstan is exposed, Belos clamps the Shackle onto his wrist and wrenches him into the Drift.

Wulfstan tries to tear away, but Belos drags his energy through the chain. Wulfstan crumples, fading. I dive for Belos, but Straton bursts into the Drift, blocking my thrust with his sword. Pain slides through my wrist, and I almost drop the knife.

I cannot let go of the knife or put it aside to shape my spear, but it is a terrible weapon to use against someone with a sword. I dodge Straton’s swings, skimming away, hunting for an opening to get to Belos.

The Drift explodes with chaos as one combatant after another follows the fight. Blades flash all around me. I duck and slide, trying to work my way to Belos.

Guarded by Straton, Theron, Ludos, and Devos, he stands calm and exultant, sucking the last of Wulfstan’s energy away. There will not even be a body to bury; Wulfstan simply vanishes through the Shackle until the cuff swings free. The new energy flows through Belos’s form, struggling but forced to submit. The dark tear in Belos’s leg begins to close, filled with fresh energy.

I have to get to him. Devos is closest to me, most in the way. He makes a vicious uppercut at Jarl, who dodges the blow and swings his sword low to catch Devos in the leg. When Devos reels, I seize my opportunity. I dive, skimming past Jarl to drive the knife into Devos’s heart.

Devos’s energy explodes, and this time I pay more attention to what happens to Belos and the others. Light briefly flares before dimming within them. Belos sags, clearly weakened.

Understanding seizes me with icy fingers.

Belos has lodged a sliver of himself in each of his men.

I shake off the numbing grip of horror and gather myself to charge. I spring for Belos as his Leash flares. I am so focused that I do not begin to guess what it means. I fly at him, the knife held before me, an extension of my arm, of my body, of my sole purpose.

Kronos explodes into the Drift.

The wind that screams from him has all the fierce madness of the Hounding. It howls around me until I can’t think, can’t see. I will be blown to nothing, scattered through the Drift like the dust.

A familiar, wild presence surrounds me, and I slowly gather my thoughts, remember myself. The hands that skim my energy form move with a strength I know well. I focus on Logan, let him fill my sight. He is so beautiful here, stripped bare, nothing but wild and ferocious power.

His eyes, bright with color even here, study me. I smile at him, and the worry fades from his face. He looks over his shoulder, and I follow his gaze.

Horror jolts through me, and I whip past Logan to speed after Belos and his remaining men. I have always been fast in the Drift, and I quickly catch up with Heborian and Horik. Heborian’s face is stark with terror, and I soon see why. Ahead of us, bound in ropes of energy, Rood is towed through the Drift by Belos. I ready the knife again and strain for speed.

When Kronos blasts into me this time, I am prepared, and I hold my mind together even as his power tears as me. He is incorporeal, and I slide through the wild torrent of his energy.

Time slips and slides around me. I am barreling forward, chasing Belos. But I am not. I am a child, learning the Drift. Belos looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. He is proud of me. I chase after him, smiling, loving this game.

No.

No!

That is not what is happening.

I force my thoughts to solidify. I must get to Belos. I must get Rood away from him.

Kronos screams as another wild power pummels us. For a second, I am freed, flying after Belos.

Then Kronos howls through me again, as terrible as the Hounding. He
is
the Hounding. I try to hold myself together, to focus on the knife and remember what I have to do. But my hand dissolves, vanishing before my eyes, and the knife is ripped away. The pain sears me. My mind splinters with that pain and with the overwhelming power that envelopes me. I break into a thousand pieces. I am nothing.

The world fades.

Chapter 16

MY HEARING RETURNS first. People arguing, some crying.

My legs are resting on cold stone, but my back and head lean against something warm and solid with the firmness of muscle, not stone. I open my eyes.

Logan’s are a riot of color, staring down at me. A huge breath goes out of him. His eyes squeeze shut. When he opens them again, they are calmer. I watch him for a while, not thinking, just soaking in the sight of him.

He says, “I didn’t mean it, you know. When I almost said maybe we shouldn’t be together. I didn’t mean it at all.”

“I know.” My voice comes out croaky.

His arms tighten around my torso. I try to hug him back, but my right hand is numb.

I sit up with a start, staring at my limp, empty hand. “The knife!”

“Kronos took it from you. I had to choose, Astarti. I couldn’t fight for both you and the knife. Now Belos surely has it.”

The fight comes back to me in pieces. Logan waits while my mind catches up. I squeeze my eyes shut. “He has Rood.”

“The boy is surely dead by now. Or worse.”

“Belos is smarter than that,” I insist. “He will use him as bait, as leverage. He’s worth more that way.” Logan looks skeptical. “I know him, Logan. Trust me.”

“I
do
trust you, Astarti. You know that, right?”

There is more to his words than simple agreement—something deeper, more important. I wish I could talk to him about it, but there is no time. Instead of answering, I squeeze his forearm with my functioning hand. I start to get up, and Logan lifts me to my feet.

I get my first good look at the hall. Fire burns in the sconces where the walls still stand, casting warm light over fragmented stone and dust. The dead, numbering at least two dozen, have been dragged to one side. They lie in a neat row, where they will wait until time and thought can be spared for their burial. Logan makes a sound of protest when I start picking my way through the debris to see them.

I walk along the row, giving them the only thing I can, my acknowledgement of their sacrifice. Most of them wear the black uniform of Heborian’s castle guard. Most of them are far too young to be lying here so cold.

One of Heborian’s Drifters, Ordan, lies at the end of the row. Blood stains darken his tunic and trousers, but the fatal wound is a deep cut across the back of his neck, where a sword bit through muscle and bone. I recognize that signature wound. Theron did this.

Of course, there is no body for Wulfstan. I shudder at the memory of his energy being sucked through the Shackle. Is he still aware, I wonder, within Belos?

Belos always said it was best to Take someone when they were within the Drift. That way, he could get the energy of the physical body as well. “Waste not, want not,” he once told me, smiling at his own joke. By that time, he had already given up on me and had begun instead to delight in my horror.

Maxos and Devos lie a short distance away, thrown carelessly into a heap. We killed four of the Seven tonight. It’s a shame it doesn’t feel like much of a victory.

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

Logan’s question surprises me into glancing down. I’ve been unconsciously rubbing the numb one with the other.

“Damage to your energy in the Drift is real, even if there’s no mark to show for it on your body.”

Logan takes my right arm, cradling my elbow with one hand and gently exploring my fingers with the other. He asks worriedly, “Is it permanent?”

“Probably not, but it will be a while before I can wield my spear again.”

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“I can’t even feel it.”

Logan’s jaw tightens at that.

I ask, “How did you pull me out of the Drift?”

“I didn’t. Heborian pulled us both out.”

“But you got in somehow.”

Logan gently lowers my arm. “I didn’t understand it. I followed Kronos. I don’t think I could have done it on my own.”

“What happened with him? Did the other Old Ones help you?”

“Not really. They darted around, unsure what to do. They didn’t want to fight him. I’m not sure they understand what’s happened to him.”

Fear closes my throat. “I don’t see how we can free him now. I lost the knife.”

“We’ll just have to get it back.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

His eyes flash green. “I am now, when you ask something like that.”

“But I lost the one thing—”

“And I could have chosen to fight for it. But I chose what means the most to me.” He adds tightly, “You can call me selfish. Heborian already has. You can shout it if you want, like he did. But I couldn’t...I just couldn’t—”

I slip my good arm around his torso. I press my face to his sternum, where I can feel his heart pounding with remembered fear—fear for me. He lets out a shuddering breath and lowers his chin to rest on top of my head. His arms tighten around me almost painfully, but it feels so good. I don’t want him to ever let go.

The sounds of voices and footsteps begin to intrude, reminding me that beyond this protective circle of Logan’s arms lies death and destruction and a fight yet to be finished. Reluctantly, I pull away and give myself over to it.

Logan follows me down the hall to where Heborian is issuing orders to what remains of his guard. A disheveled and shaken Captain Inverre nods smartly to Heborian and sweeps away with his remaining men.

Heborian’s eyes have all the same impassivity I’m used to seeing, but there are subtle hints that call it a lie. His arms are crossed, as they often are, but they are crossed too tightly, as though to hold himself together.

“Glad you could join us,” he says. Normally, he would make such a comment wryly, but the words come out sharp.

Horik steps toward me. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. You?”

“Nothing can cut through this thick flesh.” He tries to give me his usual grin. It’s not quite convincing, but I’m still grateful for it.

I take note of our gathering. Lief and Jarl look shaken and weary but uninjured. A terrible thought occurs to me.

“The east wing,” I say. “The Healers.”

Logan assures me, “They’re fine. They helped gather the injured and moved them to an intact part of the castle.”

“And your brothers?” I hold my breath, fearing the worst.

“Alive.”

Heborian interrupts, “And their concerns lie here while ours lie elsewhere. We must act quickly. What is wrong with your hand? Can you fight?”

“It’s numb. I can manage a blade left-handed, but I won’t be able to use my spear.”

“We’ll have the Prima—”

“Healing mends the body. This damage is only in my energies. She won’t be able to help me.”

“Very well. Then this is what we’ll do.” Heborian begins to sketch out a rough plan focused on killing Belos, but he doesn’t get far before I cut him off.

“I don’t think you understand. Belos has lodged fragments of his soul in each of the Seven. Well, the three that are left.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Even if you managed to kill his body, he could slip into one of his men. I don’t know if he’d still have control of Kronos, but we should assume that he would. Our first priority must be to free the Old One. Belos has exhausted himself and his men, but we must take away his greatest weapon before he will truly be vulnerable. Of course, none of this is possible without the knife.”

“Actually,” Heborian says, “it is.”