Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Read online

  A heavy price to pay. A terrible burden to bear. Halál frowned. Or was it? Pledging himself to the dark one would be no great hardship. Aye, there were risks—the loss of independence chief among them. But as he hung from Armand’s hand—suspended in glory—the path became clear. He wanted it all. Every bit of the magic. All of the acclaim. The magnificence of youth and a strong body. To be part of Armand’s stable, yet free to wreak havoc upon the earth and his enemies.

  “Your decision, assassin.” Flames growing wilder, Armand met his gaze. “Life with me. Or death here and now.”

  “I choose life,” he whispered, welcoming immortal chains.

  “With me.”

  “Aye, master.”

  Approval flared in Armand’s eyes. The inferno in his palm lengthened into a fiery blade. The dark one drew his arm back. Halál arched, twisting as the magical dagger plunged toward him. An awful crack sounded as the tip punctured his breastbone. Fire spilled into the wound. He screamed in agony as Armand tore his chest open and—

  The dream.

  He knew what it meant now—the who and why—as Armand spread his ribs. Blood splattered in an ugly arc, running down his belly, soaking his linen trews, dripping from his toes onto the floor. Armand fisted a hand around his heart. Ash and blood bubbled up his throat and cinders burst from his chest, flying like sparks. The smell of burning flesh putrefied the air. One moment tipped into the next, and yet numbness didn’t come. Anguish ate at him, burning through his veins as Armand consumed him. A black wave rose inside his head. Consciousness expanded into certain knowledge. He was being eaten alive. It had all been a trick. A terrible lie. Armand had no intention of—

  Halál roared as the fire stopped and the black mist began.

  Like an insidious disease, the brume settled in his chest cavity—in the place his heart had once occupied. Armand murmured. The fog solidified, turning to sludge. Moving like a voracious wave, the slime splashed into his veins, then reached out to coat the raw edges of the hole in his chest. Suspended in horror, Halál watched the evil nectar sew the gaping wound closed one demonic thread at a time.

  Armand released him.

  Halál landed with a thud on the hard floor. Clawing at the flagstones, he rolled onto his back. His bones cracked, shifting under his skin. A silent scream locked in his throat, he writhed on the flagstones at Armand’s feet.

  His spine twisted, bending beneath the pressure. “Jesus help me.”

  “Leave God out of it,” Armand said from above him. “That bastard hasn’t been here in centuries.”

  Halál cracked his eyes open. Blurred by tears, he couldn’t see much, but . . . something was different, as though . . .

  He blinked to clear away the moisture. His vision leapt into focus, allowing him to see in the low light. Halál frowned. Odd, but ’twas as though he sat in the light of day, not in the near dark of a windowless room. Struggling to acclimate to the change, he glanced around, then shook his head, noticing the spiders for the first time. Tiny and black, at least twenty of them hung between the ceiling beams, weaving silvery webs.

  Night vision. Incredible. Which begged the question . . . what else had Armand changed?

  Halál looked down at his chest. No wound. Naught but youthful skin poured over hard muscle. Next, he examined his hands. No longer lined with age, both were strong, capable—the hands of a much younger man. His breath caught as he made twin fists. No stiffness. No sound of cracking joints. No pain of any kind. Testing the theory, he popped to his feet. His thigh muscles flexed, and with a growl of satisfaction, he turned to Armand.

  “Signed, sealed, and delivered, assassin,” Armand said, an unholy light in his eyes. “You now belong to me.”

  Eagerness engulfed him. “My first task?”

  “White Temple,” Armand said, a growl in his voice. “The pilgrimage has begun. You will stop it from taking root.”

  Halál raised a brow, asking for details without words.

  “The Blessed return to the holy city. Servants of the Order of Orm and the Goddess of All Things, the women observe the ancient rites,” Armand said. “Each time one of the sacred rituals is performed, the goddess’ grip on the earthly realm strengthens. If the Blessed amass in great numbers, the rituals will be performed daily and her power will increase a thousandfold. This must be prevented if I am to triumph.”

  “You wish me to eliminate the Blessed?”

  “I wish you to make war on the Goddess of All Things. Bring pain to all who follow her. She loves the humans, refusing me my due and her heart,” he said, jealousy seeping into his tone. Rage in his eyes, Armand cracked his knuckles. “You will wipe those who serve the Order of Orm from the face of the earth. Track them down. Leave none alive.”

  “It will be so,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Thy will be done, master.”

  Armand’s eyes narrowed on him. “Do not disappoint me, assassin.”

  He wouldn’t. Ever.

  ’Twas the truth, plain and simple. He’d been given a second chance. The gift of immortality shaped by his favorite thing—black magic. The fact Armand’s agenda complemented his own meant chance favored him. Luck stood on his side and turned against his enemy. Why? Simple. The new High Priestess of Orm called Drachaven home. The mountain fortress might be far away, but news traveled fast. And if rumor held true? Xavian—leader of The Seven and Lord of Drachaven—was now her husband. Halál growled. Two birds with one stone. His master’s word obeyed and his enemies dead.

  Perfect in every way that mattered.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHITE TEMPLE, VALLEY OF THE BLESSED ONE MONTH LATER

  The chill of midnight descended like a wraith, leaving Henrik Lazar alone amid deep shadows and silence. Stripped of foliage, tree limbs creaked above his head as fog curled between the oak’s gnarled feet to reach his own. Just as well. The phantom called night suited him. He belonged in the darkness. The blacker the abyss, the better he liked it.

  Especially tonight. And for the mission to come.

  Reconnaissance at its finest. The wait and see of time spent lurking in shadows, hoping the enemy showed his face. The toil and trouble of tracking those who served the Order of Assassins across the Carpathian Mountain Range. His objective? To put every one of the bastards down and rid his homeland of Al Pacii scum.

  So far, his efforts had all had been for naught. Smart. Combat trained. Well aware he followed in their wake, the warriors he’d once called brethren had been careful, leaving a trail of boot prints in the snow, but little else. Not a good sign. The enemy’s desire to stay ahead of him meant one of two things. Either the group wished to avoid him in order to complete a raid . . .

  Or he was being lead into a trap.

  Fighting his disquiet, Henrik rolled his shoulders. It didn’t help. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the sharp coil of unease. The restlessness wouldn’t let him go, slithering through him like a venomous snake, tightening muscle over bone until his instincts hissed, warning him to turn and walk away. The reaction was an unfamiliar one. All the more unwelcome for the fact he was a seasoned assassin at the height of his game. But a mission was a mission. No turning away. No going back. No room for failure either. Naught about seeing his duty done, however, had ever shaken him . . .

  Until now.

  The fortress he stood inside wasn’t his friend. It hadn’t been during his childhood, and it sure as hell wasn’t now. Abandoned but still intact, the walled city was a beast full of bitter memories.

  Henrik shook his head. So many years. So much hurt, and yet the stronghold he’d once called home hadn’t changed. Thick walls still soared toward pinpoint stars, standing strong to protect the sanctuary at its center: White Temple. He could see the curved dome from his position overlooking the village square.

  Leaping onto the half wall beside the old oak, he crouched low, hitting his haunches to avoid detection. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he stared at the birthplace of his boyhood misery. Less than
a league away, surrounded by a cluster of white cottages, the temple shone beneath fickle moonglow, waiting patiently for order to return and chaos to fade.

  Godforsaken place. The pit of hell would’ve been easier to bear.

  At least for him.

  Some might ask—feeling as he did about the temple—why he’d agreed to the mission. Hell, he was still wondering himself. But despising the Goddess of All Things, and her place of worship, didn’t change his purpose. In the end, it came down to one thing: brotherhood. Loyalty and the common bond he shared with his comrades were more important than holding a grudge against a deity who didn’t give a damn about him. Aye, that and the fact he loved to fight. So, aligning himself with the goddess? Henrik bit back a huff. He might not like it, but his capitulation offered the best of both worlds . . . the opportunity to stay with his brothers and the chance to make war on Al Pacii, the Order that had both shaped and poisoned his life.

  Searching the top of the stone parapet opposite him, Henrik rechecked his weapons. Leather creaked as he adjusted the harness holding twin swords in place against his back. All good. The curved blades were ready to be used, just like him. With quick hands, he palmed his daggers, ensuring all five slid from their scabbards with ease. Steel hummed against his jerkin. His mouth curved. The hiss of knives never got old. Neither did the feel of well-worn hilts against his palms. Or the satisfaction as he threw one and felled his target.

  Strength upon strength. An assassin’s game. One at which he excelled.

  With a hum, Henrik sheathed the last of his daggers. After adjusting his bow and quiver of poison-tipped arrows, he turned and jumped from his perch. Grass frozen by winter’s chill crackled beneath his boots as he scanned the garden beyond the great oak. Nothing yet. But his comrades would arrive soon. They’d taken different directions to cover more ground after breaching the postern gate. Like him, his brothers were efficient hunter-killers, and after an hour spent searching the city from different vantage points, Henrik knew each one would be—

  A whisper of sound ghosted from his left.

  Sensation prickled along his spine.

  Unsheathing a dagger, Henrik shifted right and gathered the gloom, disappearing behind a veil of darkness. The cloak of invisibility was new to him—a skill he hadn’t possessed until a month ago. His grip on the knife hilt tightened. Goddamned goddess. Trust her to meddle—to visit him while he slept and . . . well, hell. He didn’t know what she’d done. Not exactly. The result, however, was undeniable. Quantifiable. Unwelcome too. Particularly since magic now hummed in his veins: enlivening his body, sharpening his mind, making him more lethal than ever.

  Terrific on one level. The added edge of aggression suited him. The downside, however, was one he struggled to accept. Henrik suppressed a shiver. Christ help him, but . . .

  The wizardry fueling the new skill made his skin crawl.

  The goddess didn’t understand his aversion. Didn’t agree with it either. All she saw was his heritage, the long line of sorcerers in his bloodline. But Henrik didn’t give a damn about ancient history. He needed the magic to stay where it belonged, in the maternal line of his family, in his younger sister’s veins, and out of his. Too bad the Goddess of All Things didn’t care what he wanted. She no doubt relished his revulsion as she made him into something he couldn’t abide.

  Curse her . . . and him too for remembering. For reliving the pain of betrayal, and the goddess’ refusal to protect him from his own mother. For wanting something different for the boy he’d been, and the man he’d become. But making peace with his past wasn’t part of the deal. Not for him. Too much had happened. He couldn’t forgive, and if given half a chance, he’d burn White Temple to the ground. Raze the goddess’ abbey until the Blessed’s holy place was reduced to naught but rubble and ash.

  “H?” The soft call drifted, swirling in on the frigid wind.

  Henrik sighed. Goddamned Shay. His apprentice might be whipcord smart, but he had a lot to learn. First lesson among many: never compromise a comrade’s position by calling his name. Unless, of course, you wanted to get your arse kicked by said assassin.

  That lecture, however, would have to wait.

  Separating himself from the gloom, Henrik materialized behind his apprentice.

  “Jesu!” Shay swung around, settling into a fighting stance. His eyes flared with surprise, then narrowed as he debated whether to let his fists fly. Henrik hoped he chose to fight. Being inside the walled city made him ache to hit something, and Shay made an excellent target.

  “Hellfire, H.” Indulging in a huff, Shay lowered his hands. “I hate it when you do that.”

  No doubt. Henrik didn’t like it much either. “And I hate it when you act like an idiot.”

  His apprentice tossed him a perturbed look.

  “You call me out like that again . . .” he murmured, his tone without an ounce of heat. His pissy mood, after all, wasn’t Shay’s fault. Still he refused to let the infraction go. “I’ll cut off your balls and feed them to you.”

  “Stop disappearing into thin air,” Shay said, mouthy as ever. “And I won’t have to break cover to find you.”

  Henrik wanted to roll his eyes. He smacked Shay instead, delivering a gentle cuff to the back of his head. “What did you find?”

  “More wagon tracks.”

  “Fresh?”

  “Less than a day old.” Loosing the tension of a long hunt, Shay rolled his shoulders. “Anything to the south?”

  “Naught.” Leaping back onto his favorite perch, Henrik balanced on the lip of the wall, his eyes on the abandoned blacksmith’s shop below him. Two years after the mass exodus and yet, the town hadn’t aged a day. All the buildings stood as they always had: well trimmed and tidy, without a single stone out of place. No looting had occurred in the High Priestess of Orm’s absence. Not a single squatter had moved in. And no wonder. Magic breathed inside these walls. Henrik felt it in the air—smelled the stench of it drifting upon the winter breeze—and no one, neither criminal nor regular folk, dared steal from the holy city for fear of incurring the goddess’ wrath. “The bastards are covering their tracks.”

  “Good.” A wicked glint in his eyes, Shay joined him atop the wall. “No challenge in easy prey.”

  Unable to help himself, Henrik grinned. “There’s hope for you yet, bratling.”

  “You bet your arse, sensei,” Shay said, returning his smile.

  Henrik gritted his teeth to keep from cringing. Sensei. He hated the title and what it meant. But he’d agreed to teach Shay and complete the younger assassin’s training. So like it or nay, the moniker now fit him like a well-shod shoe. Even so, he couldn’t stop his mind from sliding into the past . . . to a time and place where another sensei ruled. Where all hope fell away, leaving naught but Halál, leader of Al Pacii, and the memory of a boy struggling to survive the brutality of Grey Keep.

  “You two make for a pair of lovely targets up there.” Rich and deep, the quiet voice rolled on a French accent, drifting up from below.

  Henrik shoved the painful memories aside and refocused. His eyes narrowed on the man-size shadow leaning against the smithy’s back wall. “You’re late, Andrei.”

  “Not by much,” the Frenchman said, amusement in his tone.

  “Anything?”

  “Evidence of an encampment near the old stable east of here.” Andrei separated himself from the shadows. Moonlight glinted in his hair, illuminating red streaks within the brown. “A large group . . . at least twenty strong. The coals in the fire pit are still warm.”

  “About goddamn time.” Henrik growled. He couldn’t help it. Finally. At last. After a month of searching and coming up empty, a group of Al Pacii assassins lay within reach. Just beyond the tips of his razor-sharp swords. But not for long if he got his way. “Find a trail?”

  Andrei nodded. “Boot prints in fresh snow. Child’s play to track.”

  “And Kazim?”

  “With Tareek. Awaiting our signal from outside the
city walls.”

  Henrik’s mouth curved at the mention of his self-proclaimed protector . . . and new shadow. Well, at least, most of the time. Tonight, Tareek had opted out, refusing to enter White Temple. For a member of Dragonkind—a man able to shift from human to dragon at will—the action smacked of cowardice. Henrik knew better. He understood the rage Tareek battled day in and day out. Imprisoned for twenty years in dragon form by the former High Priestess of Orm, the dragon-shifter’s history with the Order was as brutal as his own.

  So nay, he didn’t blame Tareek for his decision. Nor the aversion that drove it, as long as his friend kept to the code and provided backup when called.

  With a quick shift, Henrik spun off his perch, falling into thin air. His hands caught on the lip of the stone wall. Dangling two hundred feet about the ground, bitter cold crept into his fingertips. He hung motionless for a moment, letting his muscles stretch, easing the tension before finding fingerholds and toeholds. Using the cracks between the chiseled blocks, he free-climbed toward the smithy’s hut. As he descended the vertical drop, Henrik visualized meeting the group of Al Pacii, readying himself for the battle to come. The images centered him, and he sank into aggression, allowing the predator deep inside him out of its cage.

  Too bad Halál wouldn’t be among the enemy. He never was. The canny old goat didn’t venture beyond the walls of Grey Keep. Not anymore. A brilliant strategist, Halál ruled his assassins with an iron fist—and a sadistic nature—coordinating Al Pacii efforts from afar. Annoying, but effective. Just like the bastard’s assassins. Tonight, though, promised to be interesting. Thank God. Henrik needed a fight. Craved the flex of muscle and the chaos that always followed. Yearned to see his enemies’ blood flow while he completed his primary mission and procured the information he needed . . .

  Answers.

  He wanted some. Before the enemy slithered back under cover. Back into darkness . . . and the silence Halál used to hide his movements.

  The change in tactic was a surprising one. Halál wasn’t one for subtlety. A master manipulator, the bastard always took the most direct route to reach a goal. Brazen. Straightforward. Front and center was more the Al Pacii leader’s style. So aye, the covert activity piqued his interest. Narrowed his focus too. Adjusting his grip on the slick stone, Henrik descended a few more feet, his mind circling the problem. What the hell was the bastard doing? Why stay hidden for over a month? What plan would necessitate such a strategy? The questions cranked him tight. Whatever the reason, it must be notable. Dangerous to the next power. Epic in a way that put Henrik on edge.