Knight Avenged (32 page)

Particularly if the enemy proved almost impossible to kill.

Then again, he now held an interesting advantage. Something as dangerous as the sorcery Xavian and his other comrades wielded. Two hellhounds. Monsters rooted in magic, packing a whole lot of vicious and even more lethal. A handy pair to own. An even better weapon to unleash when Henrik lit the fuse and the battle got under way.

Hidden within a copse of spruce overlooking the Carpathian foothills, Henrik rechecked his blades and studied the terrain. The winter wind blustered, blowing against his back. Granular snow whipped around tree trunks, leaving bare patches in some spots and piles in others. Not a problem. The day provided all he needed. Sunny afternoon, clear skies, no new snowfall, and all the high ground he needed to set the trap. Scanning the terrain through the spread of branches, he slid his last dagger into its sheath, then tested the tautness of his bow and slung it over his shoulder. Weapons at the ready—check, check, and triple check.

Optimal conditions heading into battle.

Excellent in every way.

The advantage should’ve made him happy. Halál and the Druinguari, after all, lay within striking distance. The buzz between his temples told the tale, helping him pinpoint the enemy’s location—a thousand yards downhill, lying in wait on either side of the narrow trail just over the next rise. Knowing he held the high ground and upper hand, however, didn’t improve his mood. Discontent circled instead, picking him apart, making him ache with the need to go back instead of move forward. Henrik clenched his teeth. ’Twas the height of stupidity. Distraction equaled trouble. Mistakes got made that way. So aye, his lack of focus was a problem—dangerous in more ways than one considering the killer he kept caged rattled his mental bars, begging for freedo
m . . .

Dying to get out.

The mere hint of battle—the pleasure of drawing his blades—always had the same effect. It invigorated him. Cranked the tension tight. Shoved the past back into the box where it belonged, allowing him to stay in the here and now. Excep
t . . .

The usual wasn’t working today.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t put the last few days behind him. His mind remained fixed on Cosmina. On the way he’d left her. On the note and what it contained. On the hurt he imagined flaring in her eyes when she read it. Goddamn it. Not good. He was a bastard for doing that to her. For not making a clean break. For leaving her with the knowledge that she meant more to him than a fast fling over a few days.

For telling her that he loved her.

He never should’ve done that. Never should have opened his heart, never mind admit how he felt about her. But it was too late. He couldn’t go back and unwrite the note. And honestly, Henrik wasn’t sure he wished to anyway. Which made him worse than a bastard. It qualified him as a first-rate fool. Acknowledging the truth, however, didn’t stop the ache. It simply made it worse. Now he throbbed with it, the pain so persistent errant urges rose to taunt him. He wanted to go back. Right now. Say to hell with it, mount up, ride off, and return to her. If only to hold her one more time.

Henrik huffed. God, he was an idio
t . . .
for so many reasons. Not the least of which included—

“Henrik.” Boots crunching through crusty snow, Andrei stopped alongside him. His friend threw him a measured look. “Pull your head out of your arse. We need you focused.”

True enough. “I’m good.”

Disbelief in his expression, Andrei’s gaze bore into his.

“No need to worry,” he said, meeting the death stare head-on while he lied to his friend. Andrei’s eyes narrowed. Henrik ignored the perusal and, rolling his shoulders, glanced behind him. Kazim stood at the ready, dark eyes sharp, body loose. Shay, on the other hand, took a different approach. Wet stone in hand, he sharpened one of his blades. The familiar rasp of stone against steel settled Henrik down, calming him in ways naught else could. Dragging his gaze from his comrades, he met Andrei’s. “We all set?”

“The horses are ready.”

Henrik nodded and went over the plan one more time. Pictured the terrain in his mind’s eye. Thought about each move. Visualized how Halál would react and marshal his assassins when he realized the horses galloped into the bottleneck on the narrow trail. By then, it would be too late. Henrik would already be in position, at the enemies flank, weapons drawn, lethal at the ready while Xavian moved in from the opposite direction. Tareek and the other dragons would seal the deal, cutting off any chance of Druinguari retreat.

A good plan. One that would get him what he most wante
d . . .

Halál dead. And the Druinguari six feet under alongside him.

“Just so you kno
w . . .
” Henrik paused to check his blades one more time. Staring at spruce needles half-buried in snow, he palmed individual knife hilts, sliding each from its sheath, then back in again. Steel whispered against leather. He threw Andrei a sidelong look. “When this is done, I plan to go back for her.”

“And you wish me to know thi
s . . .
” As he trailed off, Andrei raised a brow. “Why?”

Henrik shrugged. He didn’t know. Feelings weren’t his forte. Neither was admitting to having any, never mind sharing them. Years spent in isolation had taught him well. He knew the rules. Had accepted the curse of his kind long ago. Never show fear. Never surrender. Never allow anyone close enough to hurt him. All excellent entries in a belief system that kept him detache
d . . .
out of harm’s way in the emotional realm. With Cosmina, though, he didn’t want to keep his distance. Instinct urged him to get closer instead. To claim her while opening himself up for her to do the same.

Odd in many ways. True in even more.

Which meant he couldn’t walk away. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain. He wanted to give what he felt for her a chance. The why of it didn’t matter. Happiness. Need. Desire. All took a turn, digging in, twisting him tight as hope collected inside his heart, making all the what-ifs stream into his head. What if she loved him back? What if she missed him as much as he did her? What if she forgave what he’d done and accepted him back into her arm
s . . .
into her life?

Excellent questions. Every one of them in need of answering.

“’Tisn’t a good idea, H.”

Of course it wasn’t. Henrik glared at his friend anyway.

“I do not say this to hurt you, brother,” his friend murmured, his accent floating like a fragrance on the north wind. “There is no harm in wanting her. A dalliance is one thing, but claiming her?” Andrei paused for effect, the silence driving the point home before he shook his head. “You are chasing heartache, Henrik. She is a member of the Blessed, meant to serve at White Temple. You are one of us. Your home is Drachaven. ’Twill end badl
y . . .
for both of you.”

Polar opposites. Black and white. Her light colliding with his dark.

Henrik didn’t care. Despite their differences, he wanted her anyway. Staring at the snow swirling between his boots, he sighed. Andrei was no doubt right. ’Twas madness to yearn for a woman he would only hurt in the end.

Thumping Andrei on the shoulder with his fist, Henrik pivoted toward the others. He met his comrades’ gazes, each one in turn. “Make it count. Show no mercy.”

“We never do,” Kazim said, his voice little more than a growl.

Shay flexed his fists. “Let’s move.”

With a nod, Henrik walked toward his mount. Ice crunched beneath his boot treads as he left the protective cove of the large spruces. The wind picked up, wiping snow across frozen turf, making branches creak and his violent nature rise. The calm he wore in battle settled around him like a winter cloak, clothing him in silent aggression. Henrik rolled his shoulders, accepting its weight, relishing the emotional chill and the absence of conscience.

His warhorse pawed the ground, snorting in greeting.

Henrik murmured back and, gripping her mane, swung into the saddle. Leather groaned. His mount shifted, muscles bunching in preparation. His need to find a fight as great as his steed’s, he set heels to his horse’s flanks. She leapt forward, strides lengthening, hooves cracking through the underbrush toward the trail beyond the forest’s edge. His comrades behind him, Henrik wheeled around a huge oak, then caught air, jumping over a fallen log. His warhorse landed in the middle of the pathway.

Sharp sound rippled, cracking through the quiet. With a quick flick of the reins, he turned his mount west. It wouldn’t be long now. Gorgon Pass, and the low bluffs rising on either side of the trail, lay just ahead. One more bend in the narrow roadway. A single straightaway, and he’d be in the monster’s throat. No turning back. Little chance of retreat. Weapons drawn for one purpos
e . . .

Killing the man—minion, beast, bastard turned Druinguari, whatever—responsible for a lifetime of pain. Which meant the more noise he made on approach, the better.

Stealth wasn’t part of the plan. He wanted Halál to hear him coming. Needed his former sensei to make assumptions. Leap to the wrong conclusion. Believe he had Henrik beat so the Druinguari committed to the ambush and entered the canyon. The instant the enemy put boots on the ground, Henrik would make each and every one of them pay. Game over. No mercy. Just death as he brought an end to Halál and those who served him.

Urging his mount to greater speed, Henrik rounded the bend and reached out with his mind.
“Tareek, where are you?”

“Cloaked and in position to the east of Gorgon Pass.”

“Garren and Cruz?”

“Sam
e . . .
one north, the other south.”
Scales rattled, coming through mind-speak.
“Xavian and the others await your signal on the west side.”

“Get ready.”

Tareek snorted.
“Born ready,
fratele
.”

In the straightaway now, Henrik leaned in, got low, and unleashed his magic. Cold air snapped. Snow flurries flew, whirling in his wake as he conjured the spell. The cloak of invisibility flared, moving up and over to swallow him whole. As he disappeared into thin air, he tightened his grip on the magical shield, expanding it to include those riding behind him. Senses keen, he heard his comrades murmur in appreciation. Henrik ignored the accolades and, eyes moving over the entrance into the canyon, scanned the forest on either side of the trail. Nothing yet. No Druinguari hidden in the bracken. No intensification of the buzz between his temples. Just a narrow roadway funneling past rocky outcroppings into Gorgon Pass. Worn by weather and time, twin columns rose on either side of the opening, jagged stone teeth rounding the corners into the gorge beyond.

“Almost there. Moments out.”

Tareek growled.
“Give me a count.”

Gaze riveted to his target, Henrik kicked from his stirrups. His hand tightened on the reins. His feet touched down, one in the center of the saddle, the other atop his warhorse’s rump.
“Three. Tw
o . . .
”

Stone columns sped past.

Shaped like an oval, Gorgon Pass opened up, widening in the center only to narrow again at the opposite end. Inhuman snarls erupted, echoing off serrated walls and across the gorge. Movement flashed in his periphery. Sunlight glinted off sword edges as the Druinguari took the bait and gave away their positions along the bluff’s edge.

“One!”

Teeth bared, muscles taut, Henrik made the leap. Wind whistled in his ears. The wide ledge along one side of the gorge rose to greet him. He landed with a bone-jarring thump. The cloak of invisibility warped, contracting around him. Bearing down, Henrik held the spell in place and—sweet Christ. It was working. He was doing it. His magic was holding, rendering him invisible, protecting his comrades, confusing the Druinguari as riderless horses thundered into the center of the canyo
n . . .

Drawing the enemy’s fire.

Black-shafted arrows flew overhead. Druinguari leapt from their hidey-holes as the first flurry hammered the ground and the stone wall above his head. Ducking the barrage, Henrik skidded across the outcropping and behind a row of rocks. One knee down, the other foot flat on the ground, he palmed his bow and drew an arrow. The shaft rasped free of his quiver. Eyes narrowed on the nearest Druinguari, he steadied his grip and let loose. The bowstring twanged. The arrow flew straight and true, speeding across the canyon and—crack! It stuck hard, puncturing the right side of the Druinguari’s chest. The enemy roared in agony a second before—

Pop-po
p . . .
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.