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.