Enough of one to scatter the enemy . . . and buy him time.
A fantastic strategy. Wonderful and brash. Now all he needed to do was stick to the plan. And pray his fear of tight spaces didn’t rise up to swallow him whole.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The wall wasn’t giving up its secrets. The pictographs hid every sign of entry. All trace. Leaving Halál no trail to follow. Flexing his fists around dual knife hilts, he took a step back. And then several more, retreating until he stood inches from the top step next to the altar. Destroyed by the firestorm, tiny flames still ate its wooden frame. Smoke swirled, rising to meet the vaulted ceiling, sending an acrid smell across the rotunda.
Caught fast by the slow burn, he stared at the fire, then shook his head. Devil take him, the heat had been horrifying. A real flare-up. One that had left scorch marks on the marble tiles and caused the gold altar to liquefy. Upper lip curled off his teeth, he watched a yellow rivulet flow past the tip of his boot. He swallowed the snarl. Frustration served no purpose. Neither did worry, but . . .
He couldn’t quell either.
Two of his men lay dead, burned to death by magical blue flame. A serious cause for concern. Particularly since Andrei was responsible for the blaze. Aye, he’d seen the flaming swords rise from the assassin’s hands. Hadn’t missed the look of surprise in Andrei’s glow-filled gaze either before leaping out of the firestorm’s path, down the stairs to safety. The skill represented a major shift, one—surprise, surprise—Armand hadn’t warned him about.
He should’ve expected it. Somehow, though, he hadn’t, trusting his new master to tell him all and prepare him in good faith. A mistake. A costly one. Arrogance and trust walked hand in hand with stupidity. His had just lost him two skilled fighters. Glancing left, he stared at the twin piles of black goo on the temple floor. ’Twas all that remained of the pair he’d chosen to initiate into the Druinguari—those he’d turned in the same way Armand had him.
Disappointment tightened his throat. Indestructible, his arse. Armand had lied. His kind could be killed. And now, Halál knew how. He’d seen the magical capsule behind his soldier’s breastbone burst while fire consumed his body and the black fog spill down his chest. Seconds later, the assassin had dissolved, liquefying onto mosaic tiles.
A quick death, but not the least bit painless.
Unease drifted through him. The turn of events—along with the chink in Druinguari armor—worried him. He must find a way around it, a way to protect his budding army. Magical breastplates mayhap, forged in the pit of hell, touched by Armand’s power and imbued with invincibility. As his eyes narrowed on the wall, Halál filed the idea away. Another thing to talk with his new master about, but . . .
Not right now.
First things first. One obstacle at a time.
He refocused on the pictographs. Gaze skimming over the intricate carvings, he searched again for a seam in the stone. Nothing. No break in the design. No obvious keyhole either. Each symbol flowed into the next, burying secrets amid curving lines and intersecting loops. No chance he would find the hidden entrance and slip inside the chamber beyond. Which was—Halál flexed his fists—unacceptable.
Henrik stood mere feet away. His for the taking. His for the torturing. His for the killing.
Along with the betrayers who now fought alongside him.
He bared his teeth. Oh, how he wanted to eviscerate the bastard. An image flared in his mind’s eye—of Henrik strapped to the blue stone inside Grey Keep as his knife drew bloody patterns on the bastard’s skin. A mistake. An error that couldn’t be forgiven. He should’ve killed the assassin when he’d held the chance. He’d known Henrik was dangerous—too skilled, too volatile, a wild card in an organization with room for none.
Now he paid the price.
Assassins he’d trained now stood as his enemy.
Halál shook his head. The irony. ’Twas upside down and backward. The exact opposite of what he’d expected. And yet, even as he told himself to let the past go, he held on tight. Smart or nay, he yearned to make Henrik pay. To exact his revenge and send a message to Xavian and the others. To cut deep with his blades, strip flesh from bone, and take his due. An unbecoming reaction. A dangerous one too. Emotion didn’t belong in the equation. Neither did personal vendettas. Or holding a grudge.
All posed serious problems. Particularly since his mission had shifted. He no longer served the human world and the requests of its kings. Somehow, though, as he stood in the dim light of High Temple, it didn’t matter. The parameters might have changed, but he had not. He still believed in the cause, in the Order of Assassins, and what he’d spent a lifetime building. He’d simply added another dimension, choosing power and youth, deciding to serve two masters: himself and the Prince of Shadows.
And speaking of which . . .
Time to do what his new master expected. He must open a hole in the wall. Or at the very least, find a way around it.
Halál frowned as the thought prompted another. An idea sparked to life. With a quick pivot, he turned toward his men. Lined up behind him, each stood ready, awaiting his orders, eager to serve, the orange flame flickering in their eyes matching his own. The perfect storm. A team of skilled assassins full of dark forces and cruel intent. Satisfaction surged. He’d been proud of his men before, but now . . . Hmm. He reveled in the power each exuded, wallowing in it like a vampire in blood.
So nice to have adequate playmates for a change.
Sheathing his blades, he met Valmont’s gaze. Black blood coating his tunic, his lead assassin tipped his chin. The movement smacked of impatience. Valmont wanted a target, awaited his order in the hopes of finding something to hunt and kill. Halál’s mouth curved. Wonderful. Far be it from him to deny one of his best hunter-killers his fondest wish . . .
Henrik on a silver platter. Or rather, pinned beneath Al Pacii blades.
“We split up,” Halál said, rolling his shoulders. “Three groups. V . . . take five with you. Set up on the northeast portion of White Temple’s outer wall.”
Gaze roaming over his assassins, Halál’s eyes narrowed. ’Twas time, but he must choose wisely. He needed the best candidate, a killer of true skill and supreme intelligence. Valmont was a natural choice. Smart, talented, ruthless, the German-born assassin not only obeyed without question, but could also rally the rest. Which made him an excellent first in command. But not all his men were cut out to be captains. Most were sheep—meant to follow, not initiate. The task at hand, however, required a leader of men. Which meant he couldn’t delay his decision any longer. He must set the stage, establish the third pillar in the tripod of power, and propel one of his assassins up the Al Pacii ranks.
He focused on the last man in line. Face wiped clean of expression, the assassin met his gaze head-on. Pure viciousness. Unequaled malice. Perfection wrapped up in a lethal attitude and killer instinct. Halál hummed in appreciation. Aye, he would do.
“Beauvic . . . do the same. Take your contingent and set up on the ramparts to the south.” As his newly appointed captain nodded, Halál turned and, footfalls fast, skirted the ruined altar. “The rest of you, come with me.”
“Hunting groundhogs, are we?” Beauvic asked, anticipation in his tone.
“Tunnels.” Baring his teeth, Valmont checked his weapons, ensuring each dagger slid free of its sheath with ease. “The bastards have found another way out.”
“Aye.” Rumored to be riddled with hidden passageways, White Temple was a veritable warren, full of entrance and exit points . . . with only one way through the maze. Jogging down the stairs, Halál glanced over his shoulder. He met each captain’s gaze in turn. “Henrik holds the Keeper of the Key, and thereby certain knowledge of the maze beneath the city.”