Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 10

  War on the earthly plane.

  Battle lines drawn between two powerful deities fighting for territory and ultimate control.

  Which meant he needed answers. Ones that would give a method to the madness and show him how to kill the Druinguari. There must be a way. Some implement of destruction to not only wreak havoc on the enemy but also ensure the bastards stayed dead.

  Putting his boots to good use, he pivoted toward the megaliths. “We need to go home.”

  “To Drachaven?” Footfalls soundless, Andrei followed in his wake.

  “Aye. I need to talk to my sister.” A good plan. An even better start. Afina might know something about the Druinguari. Or, at least, be able to find out. As new High Priestess to the Order of Orm, she shared a direct link with the Goddess of All Things. Not that Henrik liked it. He loved his little sister but didn’t trust the goddess. The deity was selfish. Brutal. Without conscience or mercy. Which made her more than just untrustworthy. It made her as much his enemy as Halál. A fact Henrik never forgot, even though his sister often did. “Afina might—”

  “Home.” Cosmina hummed, the sound full of longing. “Will you take me?”

  “Where is home, iubita?”

  “The Limwoods,” she said, head bobbing against his chest. “Not far from Gorgon Pass.”

  The news stalled his forward progress. Slowing to a stop between two megaliths, Henrik absorbed the information—the tidbit at the edge of Cosmina’s secret. Mind churning, his eyes narrowed on the symbols carved on the face of the stone uprights.

  She lived inside the Limwoods. Intriguing.

  Rumored to be enchanted, the ancient woodlands frightened people the same way wolves did rabbits. Then again, common folk spooked easily—lords and ladies too—refusing to speak of the dark forest for fear of revenge and warrior fairies. Complete nonsense. Superstitious drivel. But an effective deterrent nonetheless. No one entered the Limwoods, much less followed another soul over its threshold, and returned unscathed. So aye. All things considered, it made for an excellent place to hide.

  Especially for someone who didn’t want to be found.

  More secrets. Another mystery to solve. One with Cosmina’s name written all over it. And knowingly or not, she’d just given him another piece of the puzzle.

  “Hey, H,” Shay said, frustration in his tone.

  “Any luck?”

  “Nay,” A frown on his face, Shay glanced over his shoulder. “I cannot find another passageway. The pictographs hide all trace of another keyhole.”

  “Merde.” With a growl, Andrei strode into the wide aisle ringing the megaliths. “No escape.”

  Turning sideways to avoid bumping Cosmina’s feet, Henrik stepped between two uprights and followed his comrade. Boots brushing over mosaic tiles, he scanned the wall carvings and clenched his teeth. Escape. He despised that word. It signaled retreat. Meant evasion, backpedaling instead of facing the enemy head-on, and . . .

  Ah hell. He hated to do it.

  Didn’t want to turn tail and run. Would prefer to fight his way out. But with Cosmina injured and half-conscious in his arms, no better option existed. Not while outnumbered with a pack of undead stalking her. He couldn’t keep her safe—never mind alive—if he didn’t find another way out. Halál wouldn’t miss a second time, so . . . nay, Shay’s assessment of the situation wasn’t welcome news. Which left him with little choice. Time to trust that Cosmina knew White Temple better than he did.

  “Cosmina . . . wake up, iubita.” She grumbled in protest. He crouched, lowering to one knee in the middle of the aisle. Ridged stone pressed into his shin. Balancing Cosmina on his thigh, he jostled her, needing her conscious enough to answer his question. “I need your help.”

  “With what?”

  “You know this place.” Cupping her nape, he lifted her head from his chest. His gaze on her face, he held her upright, refusing to allow her to fall back asleep. “Is there another way out of here?”

  Her brows puckered. “Dragon statue. Beside the pool . . . back of the chamber. Where’s my key?”

  Henrik regained his feet. “Shay?”

  Footfalls quiet, his apprentice turned away from the wall. Reaching into the pouch at the small of his back, he pulled out the round key. The necklace rattled, metal links tinkling as Shay jogged past them. Without a word, Andrei followed, allowing the younger assassin to lead. Eyes scanning the space, Henrik turned and headed for the rear of the room. Three steps down and he stood in a small alcove. Circular in shape, the chamber looked more like a chapel—or mayhap the nave of a church—with high walls arching up to meet the vaulted ceiling.

  Water splashed in the silence.

  Henrik glanced right. Impressive. Beautiful even. A bathing pool, clear blue water lapping at the stone sides, the golden dome above it reflecting its rippling surface. The smell of stale jasmine in the air, grey ash lay in the incense holder next to the tub’s fluted lip. Keepers of time, protectors of White Temple, seven stone dragons looked on, standing sentry at equal intervals around the water, holding up half columns that rose in an impressive sweep against the back wall.

  Henrik glanced at the woman he cradled. “Which dragon?”

  “Middle one.”

  “The lock?”

  “Inside its mouth.” Reacting to the deepening chill, she shivered in his arms. With a curse, Henrik caught his comrade’s eye. Andrei nodded and, sidestepping the pool, stopped in front of him. A quick flick. A firm tug, and Andrei loosed the tie of his cloak. Henrik shifted his hold on Cosmina, allowing his friend to tuck the heavy wool around her slight frame. “Henrik?”

  “Aye?” Gaze glued to Shay, Henrik watched him peer into the dragon’s open mouth.

  “Careful with the combination,” she said, her voice wavering as sleep threatened to pull her under. “Five clicks to the right, three to the left . . . twelve back the other way.”

  Shay nodded in acknowledgment. “What’s beyond the door . . . a tunnel?”

  “Aye. Narrow . . . dark, but good.”

  Andrei breathed out in relief. “Where does it lead?”

  “The mausoleum.”

  “North end of the cemetery?” Henrik asked.

  Closing her eyes, Cosmina dipped her chin.

  “Perfect.”

  And it was—except for one thing. Henrik disliked tight spaces. A throwback to his mother’s cruelty and White Temple’s burning secret . . . and the Order of Orm’s hatred of men. But even as the brutal memories circled—and he remembered being locked in the dungeon—he refused to back down. His aversion to dank passageways didn’t matter. The hidden tunnel was the only way out. A better option than heading back into High Temple, where Halál and the Druinguari awaited.

  Particularly since the mausoleum sat outside the city walls.

  Surrounded by massive trees and row upon row of tombstones, the crypt possessed thick walls, a single entrance, and the possibility of multiple vantage points across rough terrain. His eyes narrowed as he drew a mental map inside his head. Tareek and Kazim stood sentry to the west, watching the mountain passes. He needed to reach the pair. Kazim’s sword would be welcome. And Tareek? Hell, a fire-breathing dragon with a bad attitude constituted an excellent asset.

  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.”

  “The woman.” A twang sounded as Beauvic restrung his bow. “Right hand to the High Priestess of Orm.”

  Halál nodded, his mouth curving in approval. Trust Beauvic to know that. A bookworm with a real thirst for knowledge, the assassin read everything he could get his hands on, so the comment came as no surprise. Neither did the intelligent gleam in his eyes. Or the fact Beauvic understood the woman’s importance to the Order of Orm. As Keeper of the Key, she stood at the top of the hierarchy, helping the High Priestess lead the Blessed. Which meant she knew everything. Every bit of history. All the secrets. Was tasked with performing the ancient rituals as well as guarding the goddess’ sacred spells. Throw in the fact she possessed the key—and the combinations—that unlocked every door, hidden and otherwise, inside White Temple and . . .

  Aye. Without a doubt. She was an excellent pawn to control.

  An even better one to kill.

  A frisson of excitement raced beneath his skin. Be damned, but he could hardly wait to get his hands on he
r. Although, now that he’d discovered her position within the Order, she wouldn’t die quickly. With agonizing precision, he would do what he did best—put his knives to good use and wreak maximum damage. Draw her death out. Make it last. Force-feed her pain until she gave him what he wanted: information, every last scrap of knowledge she secreted away inside her mind.

  All while making her bleed.

  Excellent incentive. An even better plan, but for one rather large wrinkle. Henrik. Taking what the betrayer protected would be no easy task.

  One of the most exquisite hunter-assassins he’d ever trained, Henrik stood as a shining example of what was possible. Of Al Pacii prowess and skill. Of Halál’s ability to take a boy and turn him into a first-class killer. Although not as skilled as Henrik, fifteen of the same breed filed in behind him, footfalls silent on stone. Halfway across the rotunda, he paused beneath the golden dome, then looked back. His gaze found the pictographs once more.

  Secret doorways and hidden passages. So many options. So many places for Henrik to pop his head up. Too many avenues to get the woman to safety.

  Unsheathing the sword on his back, Halál strode on, his attention fixed on the high archway that served as High Temple’s only entrance. Steel glinted in the moonlight as he swung his blade full circle. “Bring me the woman.”

  “Dead . . .” Valmont cracked his knuckles. The sharp sound ricocheted, echoing across the vast space.

  “Or alive?” Beauvic’s voice slithered in like a viper, deadly undertones hissing in warning.

  “And kicking.” Increasing the pace, Halál bypassed the last pillar and trotted down the shallow staircase. He stepped off the last tread and into the corridor. Denied the light of the moon, the gloom thickened, descending from high ceilings. His senses sharpened, propelling him down the dark passageway. “Get to your positions on the wall. The instant Henrik sticks his head up, blow the horn, then shadow him until the rest of us catch up.”

  Valmont murmured in assent.

  “Strength in numbers.” Reaching over his shoulder, Beauvic slipped the bow back into the quiver on his back.