Knight Avenged (14 page)

He scanned the edge of the forest again. Revulsion churned in the pit of his stomach. Ridiculous. Completely foolish. Superstitious twaddle believed by dullards and soothsayers, naught more. And yet even from leagues away, he sensed the violence. Felt the unreserved menace as the ancient trees stared back at him, daring him to tempt fate and come within easy reach.

Disquiet rose on a dread-filled wave.

Halál dragged his gaze away. He refocused on the boneyard. Aged by weather, tombstones stood in neat rows, rising like blunt teeth from bleak earth beyond old oaks and bleached beeches. Greyed by the cold, moss feathered the top of each headstone, awaiting the promise of spring and the return of summer sun. Not that anyone would see it. He’d given his word and intended to keep it. The Blessed would die along with the Goddess of All Things. White Temple would never be resurrected. But first, he must see to Henrik. Where the devil was he? What the hell was taking the bastard so long to—

Metal squeaked. Carried by cold air, the soft squeal rolled on the brisk wind.

Halál’s attention snapped toward the mausoleum. The groan of iron hinges came again. Senses sharp and focus heavy, he stared at the entrance. The wooden door cracked open an inch. Snow blew through the crack, cascading into a dancing swirl.

“Master.”

“I see it.” Halál hummed in satisfaction.

Well, well, wel
l . . .
’twas about time. Restless from waiting, his assassins shifted behind him. Blades slid from leather sheaths. The wind picked up the collective scrape, holding it high as Halál raised his arm. He fisted his hand, giving the signal to wait. He needed to be sure. Must see the trio of assassins file out with the woman in tow before he made his move.

Hand engulfed by blue flame, Andrei crept over the threshold. He slid left and, making a quick fist, snuffed out the fire rising from his skin. Shay followed. Halál bared his teeth. Traitor number three. The whelp had betrayed him the moment he set foot outside of Grey Keep. Was the one responsible for a serious setback when he’d disobeyed a direct order and rewritten the incantation. The result had not only released the dragons from their prison deep within the mountain, but also turned The Three against him, binding the beasts to his enemy for all time. Now Xavian held a terrible advantage—the services of the most powerful creatures on earth. Dragons, shape-shifters of incomparable skill. Warriors capable of unequaled violence an
d . . .

Be damned, he might as well admit it. He coveted the dragons for himself. Wanted the beasts chained in his backyard like pets, awaiting his orders.

Shay would pay for the loss. He would take his time too. Tie the betrayers to trees. Render the enemy assassins helpless as he killed the youngling slowly, cutting him apart a piece at a tim
e . . .
while he made Henrik watch.

Ah, and speak of the devil.

Henrik crossed the threshold. Halál’s focus sharpened on him. His mouth curved into a smile. Good. He held the woman. No time like the present to get things rolling.

“Blow the horn. Inform the others,” he said, planting his palm atop the outer wall. “The hunt is afoot.”

As his men moved to obey, Halál pushed off the parapet, propelling himself over its chiseled lip. His boots cleared the highest part of the wall. The horn sounded. Gravity took hold. He dropped like a stone over the side and sighted the ground. The two-hundred-foot drop didn’t faze him. Black magic filled his veins, fusing muscle over bone. Which—joy of joys—made him nearly indestructible. A truth Henrik was about to lear
n . . .

All over again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Boots moving at a volatile clip, Tareek completed another circuit around the clearing. Up and down. Back and forth. Pause a moment, pace some more, do it all over again. He finished the next round and roared into another, blowing past ancient trees. Tethered in the shadow of the Blackwood, the horses shied. Glancing sideways, he soothed the warhorse closest to him, but refused to slow. He rolled his shoulders instead, working out the tension, trying to calm down and clear his mind.

It didn’t help. Naught did. The constant buzz at his temples was driving him daft.

Out of his christing mind.

Now he stewed in sensation, trying to place it. What the hell did it mean? Was it a warning? A signal? Naught but interference, the sizzle and pull of being so close to the origin of all magic? Hristos, he hoped not. But as Tareek wore a deep track in frozen earth, instinct prickled, shoving him toward worry an inch at a time. Muscles twitching, he stomped past a low-lying shrub. Bare of foliage, thin branches bobbed in protest. He snarled at the plant, taking his displeasure out on undeserving vegetation.

Curse and rot the lad. Troublesome wee whelp.

Henrik was late. Again.

Never a good sign. The breach in protocol didn’t bode well. Something was off. Not by much. Just by hair, bu
t . . .
Dumnezeu
, skin him alive and call it a night. He had a bad,
bad
feeling. The kind that poked at instinct and warned of foul play. Unquantifiable. No proof in sight, and yet, he knew—just
knew
—he should be on the mov
e . . .
in dragon form, wings spread in flight, flying fast toward the holy city.

Urgent need jabbed at him. Tareek flexed his hands, then shook his head. Silfer forgive him, bu
t . . .

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go there, back into the belly of the beast.

Too many memories lay in the Valley of the Blessed. His throat went tight as the past rose to claim him. So much disappointment. So much hurt. Way too much rage. All of it originating from one plac
e . . .

White Temple. Wretched, godforsaken city.

Spinning on his heel, Tareek reversed course and headed in the opposite direction. Senses humming, his night vision sparked, allowing him to see everything. Every frostbitten blade of grass. The ridges of rough bark gracing the heavy-limbed trees at the edge of the dell. Each individual crystal in the snowflakes that fell. Like rain, the frosty collection landed on his face, then melted, evaporating into thin air. To be expected. As a fire dragon his internal temperature always ran hot, swallowing the cold, thawing the puddles in his vicinity, ensuring the chill never reached him.

A good thing most of the time. But not tonight.

He needed the cooldown. Enough of one to help him keep a level head. Mayhap give him some perspective too. God knew pacing wasn’t working.

Disgusted with himself, Tareek stopped short. Tipping his head back, he looked up through the snowy swirl to focus on the night sky. No stars tonight. Ripe with heavy clouds, the heavens hid behind thick, grey tumble, violent winds pushing the storm toward White Temple. His heart thumped against his breastbone.

Goddamn the lad and his obstinate nature.

“Call me, H,” he murmured under his breath. “Let me know you are all right.”

The quiet plea drifted. A rustle of movement rose on frosty air.

His focus snapped to the right.

“Relax, Tareek.” Dark eyes serious, Kazim stopped at the edge of the clearing. Stance wide, body ready, he raised his hands and flipped both palms up. The move sent a clear message: I come in peace. An excellent preventative measure. Particularly since Tareek wanted to kill something. “’Tis only me.”

“Anything?”

“Not yet.”

Tareek bared his teeth on a growl. “Something is wrong.”

“Something is always wrong,” Kazim said, stepping over a rotten log. Ice crunched beneath his feet. The soft sound drifted up before escaping through the leafless limbs stretched high above the assassin’s head. “Have you yet to learn this,
fratele
?”

Brother
. Acceptance and support wrapped up in one word.

The reminder should’ve settled him. It cranked him a notch tighter instead. Not that he didn’t appreciate the sentiment. He did, but that didn’t solve the problem. No matter what he tried, the buzz between his temples refused to abate and worry turned the screw, making him bleed concern. The boy he’d vowed to protect wasn’t back yet—might even now be in harm’s way. The situation smacked of another time and place. Of deep trouble and endless pain. Of White Temple and the permanent pinch of the past.

Tareek swallowed a curse. Talk about a ballbuster. Even after all this time, he couldn’t forget, never mind forgive. Couldn’t dismiss a history bound in magic or his mistake the night he’d flown to Henrik’s rescue. So arrogant in his skills. So secure in his position as one of the Guardians of Orm. Foolish in the extreme. He’d trusted too quickly, given the former High Priestess her due, and been betrayed for his trouble. The price had been high: imprisonment without hope, twenty years trapped in dragon form, forced to serve a master without conscience or mercy.

A brutal tangle with unending ties. And epic proportions.

An experience Tareek refused to endure again. And yet, despite all the savage violence, the bond he shared with Henrik remained strong. So powerful, he’d retaken the vows, pledging to shield Henrik as he had in boyhood.

Which explained a lot, didn’t it? Like why he stood in a field less than three leagues from a place he never wanted to see again.

Curse and rot the lad. For the umpteenth time.

Unfurling his fists, he tore his gaze from Kazim and resumed pacing. He kicked at a rock in his path. The stone tumbled, cracking the quiet as it splashed through a slushy puddle. On the final turn of another circuit, he changed direction. Striding across the middle of the dell, he stopped a foot from Kazim and met his gaze.

Back pressed to a stout oak, the Persian raised a brow.

Tareek frowned. “I should have gone with him.”

“Aye, you should have.” Crossing his arms, Kazim leveled him with a look.

Tareek glared back. Christing Kazim. Always so unflappable. The warrior had to be the calmest son of a bitch on earth. Annoying as hell most of the time, but useful upon occasion. Like now, when Kazim called it as he saw it, telling the truth even when the message proved unpopular.

Bowing his head, Tareek fisted both hands in his hair. “Hristos, something is wrong.”

“Has Henrik called?”

The question throbbed between his temples. No, he hadn’t
called
. That was the problem. But then, in all honesty, Tareek didn’t know whether Henrik could connect with him anymore. Aye, he’d mastered the skill as a boy, reaching out with his mind to tell him all was well or to hurry if he needed help. Sometimes the whelp had just wanted to say good night. His mouth curved as he remembered Henrik’s audacity as a child. Boundless courage. Imp to the next level. So full of piss and vinegar, he’d kept Tareek hopping, trying to outsmart a lad who feared naught and liked trouble.

But that lad was gone now.

In his place stood a man. A skilled assassin full of caution and mistrust.

Tareek understood the parameters. He suffered from both himself. Which meant naught came easy. Not for him. Nor for Henrik. Trust required effort. Brotherhood was earned, not given without proof, and a broken relationship took time to rebuild. Aye, it might be frustrating, but slow and steady always won the race. The groundwork must be laid—and the foundation set—before the bond of true friendship returned.

“Kazi
m . . .
”

“Bad feeling?”

“Aye.” Unease tightened its grip, making his stomach turn. Releasing the death grip on his hair, Tareek raised his chin. “My temples are throbbing. The infernal buzz won’t go away and—Silfer’s balls. I’m not sur
e . . .
I can’t tell if—”

“Go Tareek. Call forth the dragon and fly for White Temple.”

Boots rooted to the ground, Tareek didn’t move.

Kazim sighed. An instant later, he pushed away from the great oak and, footfalls silent, walked straight toward him. No hesitation. No fear of the dragon. Just straight courage as he strolled within striking distance. Black gaze steady on his, the assassin halted beside him and raised his hand. Tareek tensed, but stayed true, refusing to bolt. Or shy away. He wasn’t a coward. No matter how much he disliked physical contact, he must stay the course. Kazim was now his brother-in-arms, which mean
t . . .

’Twas time.

He needed to start somewhere. Trust a little further and put himself on the line. A simple touch—no matter how vexing—seemed as good a place as any to begin.

A knowing glint in his eyes, the assassin slapped the back of his shoulder. Skin cracked against leather. The contact made Tareek flinch.

One corner of Kazim’s mouth tipped up. “Do not worry so,
fratele
. I will see to the horses as planned.”

Tareek released the breath he’d been holding. “Where will you be?”

“West of the holy city.” Another solid slap to his back. The love tap rocked him forward. Tareek widened his stance to keep from losing his balance. Kazim nodded in approval, then pivoted, returning the trust by turning his back on Tareek. Twin sword hilts flashed in the gloom, rising over the Persian’s shoulders as he strode toward the horses. “If there is trouble, Henrik will head for cover. The Limwoods provide the best.”

True enough.

Although, it might prove troublesome. The forest wasn’t exactly hospitable. Getting in never presented a problem. Getting out, however? Well now, that would be tricky. Alive with magic, the trees liked to keep what they found. He should know. As a fledgling, he’d gotten caught inside the Limwoods. Or rather gotten his wings tangled up in it and the thick vines that snaked across the turf without warning.

Tareek gritted his teeth. Wonderful. Just terrific. Another experience he’d rather forget.

Not that he could avoid it. Not with Henrik out there—somewhere—doing his usual thing. The thought made him move as Kazim untethered the horses. Standing too close to the forest’s edge wasn’t advisable. Greater space equaled more wingspan and a better launchpad. Backpedaling into the middle of the dell, Tareek unleashed his magic. Muscle expanded and bone grew. With a hum, he transformed into dragon form, hands and feet turning into talons, bloodred scales flashing in the gloom, spiked tail rattling in warning. Loving the stretch, he unfurled his wings. Black webbing slid into interlocking dragon skin, becoming one as cold air flowed, swirling over the horns atop his head.

Baring his fangs, Tareek snarled at the night sky. The poison-tipped spikes along his spine rippled, sounding like wind chimes. Mmm, mmm good. Music to his ears. Better than—

The horses screamed. Multiple hooves left the ground.

Kazim cursed. Hands wrapped in the long tether, the assassin bore down as the small herd bolted, dragging him across the turf toward the trees. More cursing ensued. Tareek sighed. Well, hell. There they went again. Same story, different night. Finicky beasts. It wasn’t as though he planned to eat them or anything. Scales clicked as he shook his head. A smarter bunch would’ve caught on by now.

Resigned to the chaos, Tareek sent magic rolling on a soothing wave. The horses calmed, settling into a sideway prance.

Kazim threw him a dirty look. “Do you mind? Get your scaly arse out of here before I skewer you like a—”

“At River’s Bend, edge of the Limwoods.”

Still pissed off, Kazim’s gaze narrowed on him. “Meet you there.”

Tareek nodded and leapt skyward. Snow whirled, billowing from his wing as he climbed above the treetops. He heard Kazim curse his name, but he didn’t care. The assassin could handle the wind gust along with a bunch of unruly horses. Henrik wouldn’t survive long without him. How did he know? No clue, excep
t . . .

The unpleasant prickle intensified, raising his radar.

His sonar pinged. Locked into the signal, Tareek cast the cosmic net wide. As it settled over rough terrain, he banked hard, coming down out of the mountains as he gathered information. He growled. Aye. Definitely. No doubt in his mind. Something dangerous was afoot. Something dark and unpredictable. Something that smelled far too familiar.

Dread congealed in the pit of his stomach.

His gaze narrowed on the treetops. Naught yet, but soon. Whatever was out there would show itself
soon
. He sensed it in the air. Felt it rise upon the wind. Knew trouble when he found it. Fine-tuning his radar, he increased his wing speed and swung wide. More of the unholy stench blew into his face. Tareek bared his fangs on a curse.

Oh so not good. He recognized the smell now.

Alarm thrummed through him. Tareek inhaled again, filtering the sensory burn, wanting to be sure. Silfer be merciful, let him be wrong. Let him be—

Acrid air washed over his scales. An awful taste rushed into his mouth.

Tareek flinched and, wobbling, lost altitude. With a growl, he tucked his wings and flipped in midair. The twist took him up, then over. Muscles stretched. His body screamed. He ignored the discomfort and, gritting his teeth, rotated into another body-torqueing spin.

Better. Less volatile. Much more even.

A necessary thing. Losing control wouldn’t help matters. But even as his brain relayed the message, his body rebelled, kicking his heartbeat up a notch. Boom-boom-thump. Bang-bang-throb. Tareek shook his head. The sound of catastrophic failure if he didn’t control it. And fast. Necessity dictated the path. He must push aside the past—forget what the terrible smell signaled—and calm down.

Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to get the ball rolling.

Or stay steady enough to warn the others.

Centering himself, Tareek reached out with his mind. Magic writhed around him. His eyes started to glow, washing out in front of him, painting black treetops bright-green. The cosmic cable unwound, bridging the distance to find a connection. Static slithered through the void. The mental hook grabbed hold. A snick echoed inside his head an
d . . .