Текст книги "Horns of Wicked Ebony"
Автор книги: Lacey Lehotzky
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 43 страниц)
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Contents
Content Advisory
Pronunciation Guide
Deathcaller Duet Playlist
***
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
***
Part II
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
***
Part III
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
***
Part IV
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Epilogue
Sylaira
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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This book is written in American English.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2025 by The Lehotzky Group LLC
ISBN 979-8-9915584-7-1 (paperback)
ISBN 979-8-9915584-6-4 (e-book)
Book cover by Beholden Book Covers
Published by The Lehotzky Group LLC
www.laceylehotzky.com
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Content Advisory
If you are expecting to read about a war where there is a clear good and bad side, then An Age of War and Prophecy is not for you. The Great War between the Angels and Demons deals with genocidal intent and the religious fanaticism driving it. This series also explores religion as a means of social control, akin to the Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood.
If reading about women being treated as second-class citizens, forced to carry children they do not want, and forced to wear clothing to hide themselves will trigger you, do not continue reading.
The following trigger warning list is not exhaustive. The most up to date version can be found on my website.
Graphic violence, including extensive torture and dismemberment
Genocidal war
Death of loved ones
Religious trauma & fanaticism (think Handmaid’s Tale)
Mentions of rape and sexual assault
Mentions of physical & mental abuse
Panic attacks & PTSD flashbacks
Nightmares
The sexually explicit content contains: primal play, shadow play, blood play, and punishment.
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Pronunciation Guide
Assyria – uh – seer – ee – uh
Banand – bah – nahnd
Bassi – bah – see
Birtok – beer – toke
Daarx – dahrks
Dromak – dro – mack
Fured – fure – ed
Grem – grim
Halálhívó – halal – hiv – o
Hadvezér – had – vez – ere
Ishim – ee – sheem
Issaraeth – iss – uh – ray – eth
Izgath – is – gath
Izzenna – ih – zen – nuh
Jaku – yak – ooo
Kiira – kira
Kohszak – kohz – zahk
Kormánzó – core – man – zo
Kraskiv – krah – skiv
Kral – crahl
Lutsk – luh – tsk
Maariya – mah – ree – yah
Myrza – meer – zah
Nayúr – nigh – ur
Olrus – ole – russ
Padisa – pah – dee – sah
Parancsok – paran – choke
Trol – troll
Rapp – wrap
Rokath – roe – kath
Stryi – stree
Sylaira – see – lair – uh
Százados – sah – zah – dosh
Ustlyak – oost – lee – ack
Uzadaan – ooze – ah – dahn
Uzhhorod – oosh – hor – ode
Vaeron – vay – ron
Vezető – vez – ehtt – too
Vidék – vee – deck
Vokkia – voh – kee – uh
Xannirin – zan – eer – in
Zahal – zah – hahl
Zeec – zeke
Zurronar – zurr – oh – nar
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Deathcaller Duet Playlist
I’ll Make a Man Out of You – Peyton Parrish
NUMB – Ryan Oakes
Like a Villain – Bad Omens
Blake Hole – We Came As Romans
Right Now – Fire From The Gods
Just Pretend – Bad Omens
Reincarnate – Motionless In White
Disguise – Motionless In White
Face to Face – Citizen Soldier
Kryptonite (Reloaded) – Jeris Johnson
Chokehold – Sleep Token
The Safety of Disbelief – Light The Torch
The Worst In Me – Bad Omens
Sign Of Life – Motionless In White
Always – Saliva
The Diary of Jane – Breaking Benjamin
I Hate Everything About You – Three Days Grace
A Grave Mistake – Ice Nine Kills
Sinner – Of Virtue
Carnivore – STARSET
When The Darkness Comes – Jeris Johnson
Rain – Sleep Token
Alkaline – Sleep Token
Iris – DIAMANTE, Breaking Benjamin
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7xckoeJ5s89yB3kwmTzyvO?si=MBVcH0NrTV66iX1e4QO5oA
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To the women who were silenced, softened, and shamed for their power. Who dared to desire, dared to destroy, and dared to love. Let them call you wicked. Let them bleed for it.
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***
Three Centuries Earlier
Sharp spice overpowered the metallic tang of blood as the three cousins sat in a potent silence. The pot of soup rolled to a low boil, so much like the simmering tension building on their continent. All were reeling from the occurrences of late while they waited for their dinner. In the lifespan of a Demon, it was merely a blink. Yet, so much had changed, and needed to continue to change, to save their race.
The Angels had increased the frequency of their attacks since Koron Stadiel slaughtered his competitors to seat himself on the Angel throne. The Kral and his two brothers had stood by while more and more skirmishes took place. His nephew with the tattooed head knew better than anyone just how bloodthirsty the Angels were. The latest attack was what had him calling the others to meet in his palatial home in Uzhhorod.
As he looked down at his hands, bits of dried ruby flaked off. He hadn’t bathed yet, wanting the two to see the full impact of what he had endured. They both eyed his blood-soaked form as he reached for a glass of scale—a spicy alcohol that he both loved and rarely indulged in—and drank it to the dregs.
“The time has come, Xannirin. We need you on the throne,” he said with a hiss once he finished.
Xannirin didn’t tear his gaze away from the boiling soup, merely sat with numb detachment. Bits of his long hair had come loose from its band, and he made no move to clear them from his face. He had known this day was coming—after all, they had been planning this since that fateful day their fathers had forced Rokath to kill their friend.
That it was finally here was still a shock to him.
Their female cousin shifted in her seat, rearranging the sweep of her dress. Like everything she wore, it was feminine, flirty, and showed off her tan skin. She pinned the bloody, broody warrior with a hard stare. “Will you make it hurt, Rokath?”
“Aye, Kiira. They deserve it,” Rokath rumbled. Her father had beaten Kiira to the brink of death only a week prior. The bruises on her ribs, arms, and face were still a fat purple. Sweeping his attention over the marks made him grind his teeth again. His uncle’s actions had only further solidified his plan to slaughter the three eldest members of House Vrak.
Rokath was protective by nature, and anyone who hurt those he deeply cared for faced his infamous wrath. Even now, all the nobility was firmly aware of just how cruel he could be if pressed the wrong way.
It was still far better than their fathers’ tempers.
Xannirin finally lifted his gaze from the steam. “We need to talk about the changes we want to implement upon my ascension. It’s better to hash them out now before I am crowned rather than after people have settled into the new regime.”
Then, he pinned Kiira with a serious look. “I want to elevate you to High Priestess.”
Their cousin flashed her gaze between the two, brows pinching together as her mind worked over the proposition. Her mother—a commoner—had not been the wife of her father. Despite her shameful status, she’d grown up under his too-watchful eye with riches and a modicum of influence. To raise her to the position of High Priestess was an enormous leap.
“But I’m a bastard,” she protested, like she could sway Xannirin when it sounded like he’d already made up his mind. “I can’t possibly accept the position.”
“We’ll bury your bloodline like we’ll erase Rokath’s name from common memory,” Xannirin said, straightening and rolling out his shoulders.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” she replied with a frown. “Besides, I’m not worthy.”
“Well, I say you are. And I will be the Kral.” A cunning smirk rose to his lips. “The three of us will become the three Fates that walk the earth.”
Kiira’s teeth raked over her bottom lip. “The Kral, the Halálhívó, the High Priestess. The Speaker, the Caller, the Seer.”
As a Seer, the Fates offered her direct access to their weavings, unlike the Angel Seers who only glimpsed what could be through their Goddess. She was the only Demon in recorded history to be given such a gift, the uniqueness similar to her cousins. Their fathers’ powers were all duplicates of prior members of House Vrak.
“Exactly,” Xannirin replied, leaning forward. Excitement sparked off him like the strike of a hammer against forged metal. “Our power, our story has to be as hallowed, as fearsome as the myth of the Fates themselves. You are the key to swaying the people to believe in us like they believe in the Weaver, the Giver, and the Reaper.”
Across from him, Rokath shifted in his seat. Attention was not something he handled well. He much preferred to remain private about his life and his accomplishments. To be thrust into the notice of the masses was not something he desired. Every action picked apart by clueless, primped nobles with nothing better to do. Every decision questioned by those lacking the knowledge to comment on the matter at hand. Every set of eyes on him, judging, seeking weaknesses or shortcomings.
No, he’d rather remain in the shadows.
Another smile pressed Xannirin’s lips into a wicked curve. “Have I told you about my most recent encounter?”
“You went into the beyond again?” Rokath groused, reaching for the half-empty bottle of the spicy alcohol and pouring himself another glass. Irritation nipped at him as he recalled how many days it had taken for his cousin to return to their world on his previous trip. He’d made Xannirin promise never to use his Speaking powers again without telling him first.
Clearly, he’d gone against Rokath’s request.
“I did,” he said slowly, gauging Rokath’s reactions. By the tense set of his jaw, Xannirin knew he was angry. But he didn’t care. His cousin would let go of the transgression eventually. Especially with the information he had gleaned.
“And I know exactly how we’re going to beat back the Angels.”
That seemed to cool some of the embers of his rage, as Xannirin had predicted.
“How?” Rokath asked with no inflection whatsoever, but the stillness of his posture told Xannirin he’d captured his interest.
Xannirin spoke of his experience with a great king from another world who conquered vast swaths of territory. Rokath and Kiira listened with rapt attention, asking questions here and there. When he finished, Kiira slumped in her seat, while Rokath rubbed the stubble across his jaw.
“So we declare war on the Angels then?” Rokath clarified, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side.
“Not quite. We’re not ready for that yet. It’s true that Koron Stadiel will not stop until all Demons are dead, but for now he can be mitigated. First, we need the nobles on our side. They have far more influence in the countryside than we do, and they’ll help us shape society to serve the end goal. Then, we start bolstering our defenses,” Xannirin explained, stealing the bottle of scale from Rokath and splashing it into his cup.
“And what is that?” Kiira asked after sipping from her wine glass.
Xannirin laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “What better way to protect the Demon race than to conquer Keleti for ourselves?”
The question hung in the air like smoke—stifling, inescapable, and already clouding their futures.
“For that to happen, we need more bodies,” Rokath growled. Their fathers had allowed the military to shrink dramatically while they ruled, preferring to spend coin on their own indulgences while the populace suffered. Poverty had bloomed. The people were growing restless. None of that would serve Xannirin’s ambitions.
“Which is where Kiira comes in.” Xannirin returned his attention to their cousin. His heart twisted as the embers highlighted the split in her lip. Like Rokath, he wanted to protect her from further harm. “As High Priestess, she spins tales about the Fates. She leads spiritual life in the Demon Realm. She can encourage more marriages and more coupling to produce more offspring. By the time we’re ready to launch a full-scale war, you’ll have the bodies you need to lead the entire army, Rokath. And we’ll have high-powered nobles to maintain order in conquered territories.”
While he didn’t head their forces—yet—Rokath had studied military strategy since his first day at the academy as a youngling. He’d always had a mind for it, which complimented his cousin’s cunning and manipulation perfectly. Rokath raised a brow, crinkling the inked snake fang that stretched onto his temple. “You’d want me in charge?”
“Who else?” Xannirin said. The legs of his chair smacked against the ground. “Come on, we’ve whispered of this for decades. Once you kill our fathers, we will have snatched all powers for ourselves. Let’s make it happen. Starting with society. Kiira, what do you say?”
Kiira blew out a long breath, twisting the end of her long, straight, hair around her finger. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
Xannirin grasped her free hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “The Demons need to worship the Fates with the fervor the Angels worship the Goddess. They need to venerate us to the point where they trust what we say no matter what. In return, we’ll give them a better life. More food. More coin.”
“You want worship, not devotion. That’s not faith, not as we practice it now. That’s obedience,” Kiira pointed out, withdrawing and sinking back into her seat.
“We need their obedience to make the necessary changes to protect us—to protect them,” Xannirin argued. “Tell her, Rokath.”
Their warrior-cousin, still covered in blood, nodded. “He’s right. In the military, too many questions delay action, and that often comes with severe consequences. Implicit compliance can be the difference between life and death.”
Xannirin only grew more animated as he pounded out his other points, fueled by Rokath’s affirmation. “Females will be worshiped for their ability to bear children for our future. They won’t need to work, merely embrace their femininity. They’ll be taken care of, placed on a pedestal. Protected from all the evils of this world.”
Kiira stiffened more and more as he continued speaking of their new society. Finally, she sat forward, interrupting the future Kral. “I don’t like how this is unfolding. Surely there is another way than removing autonomy from females?”
“Don’t frame it that way, Kiira,” Xannirin crooned, snatching her hand back into his. “We’re empowering them in a different way. Asking them to contribute to our collective future in a way only they can.”
Kiira dragged her palms out of her cousin’s, looking across the steam at Rokath’s blurred form. “What do you think?”
He rubbed his temples, drawing her attention to the blood caked on his scalp. “Xannirin’s points are solid. As much as I don’t like it either, I don’t see a way to do it more quickly. Look at how fast Koron Stadiel turned the Angel race into a bunch of overzealous insects.”
In fact, it had scarcely been a century and their militant fanaticism had rooted itself in society deeper than the massive trees in the Eső Forest.
Kiira was silent for many minutes, staring into the distance. When it was clear she wouldn’t soon speak, Rokath and Xannirin took the raw food around them and dipped it into the boiling liquid. Spice wafted, meat hissed, vegetables wilted, all while they waited for their third to shift, to move, to do anything other than sit with an utterly blank expression.
Finally, she lifted her glass and drained it. When she placed it on the table, the clang shattered the quiet. “I have conditions.”
“Name them,” Xannirin said without hesitation.
“First, bastards acquire full rights of their father’s houses. Second, priestesses will remain unmarried.” This caveat she added should any female wish to avoid contact with males altogether. “Third, I retain equal status with the two of you.” She lifted her chin and straightened in her seat. With her body decorated in bruises, she exuded power with the posture. “I will never be beneath a male again, vulnerable to his whims. You will not force me to marry against my will. You will allow me to build a temple in equal splendor to Gyor Palace.” She continued to list off her requirements, refusing to bend under the males’ heavy stares.
“You have all of them,” Xannirin pronounced immediately upon the end of her soliloquy. “However, I need to approve any marriage you should want to make. Same for you, Rokath, though I doubt it will ever come to that.” Kiira opened her mouth to protest, but Xannirin cut her off. “I don’t expect to need to intervene for you either, Kiira, but I must also protect House Vrak from outside harm. Someone far beneath our station would not suit the High Priestess. You will be a Goddess to the Demon race, remember?”
Kiira huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. Beneath the table, her foot swung in an erratic rhythm as she considered the amendment to her condition. She stilled, then returned her attention to her cousins. “Fine. We have a deal?”
Xannirin picked up a wickedly sharp knife, letting the edge flash in the low light. “Aye.” With it, he sliced into his palm, then offered it to Kiira. She did the same before they clasped hands and spoke the words to solidify their alliance. Rokath drew a dagger from his thigh and drew ruby to the surface of his skin, making the same oath to each of them.
Once their wounds had begun to heal, Xannirin poured another round of drinks. Then, he made a daring toast. “To the future of the Demon Race. To us, who will rule as Gods. And to a painful death to our fathers.”
The three smacked their glasses against the table with resounding thuds, the effects of which wouldn’t be felt for centuries to come.
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1
Pillars of twisting flame speared into the sky, sending the souls of the fallen soldiers onto their next lives. My nose had long since numbed to the scent of scorched flesh. I paused atop a rocky ridgeline, still stained ruby from the slaughter a few days prior, and surveyed the scene we left behind.
Nausea churned my gut at the sheer size of the blazing war camp. So many dead; so many sacrificed so I could live. But my resolve to whet my own blade in blood, my determination to seek vengeance, hardened with each step, with each glance at Rokath’s broken hands.
The silver stakes Zaph had used to pin him in place weighed heavily in my pack. I didn’t carry them as relics. No, I had plans for them. A promise to keep—for myself if not for Rokath.
Day by day while we worked, I imagined the moment I’d drive them into the fucking Angel. They wouldn’t lock down his magic like they had Rokath’s; that was what the bronze blades were for. But the pain as I separated the bones of his hands with them would be enormous. Especially since Rokath had promised that he’d torture him—excruciatingly slowly—for daring to take me from him.
“The bodies will continue to burn for a while,” my mate told me, coming to a stop and following my line of sight. “With the number of them, probably until we reunite with the rest of the army.”
Rokath tugged on Blaeze’s reins, leading the small wagon over bumpy gravel and blood-caked sand. The earth crunched beneath his boots and the wheels. Rokath was enormous, built like the craggy Skala Mountains at our back, but now, he carried far more than his powerful presence. Zeec, still too weak to walk, hung limp against his chest. Another pack on his back, the worn leather one falling apart at the seams, held our clothes. In his still-healing hand, he hefted a bag brimming with food.
“Let me carry something else,” I offered, jogging to catch up with them, Grem at my side. Barrels of water filled the cart, braced against a few more of our belongings and the throne of bones. We each hauled as much as we could to save Blaeze from pulling any more weight.
Rokath shook his head, burgundy eyes focused on the path ahead. “This is my penance for the deaths of nearly a third of my army. And I will not risk more injury to your shoulder.”
Molten anger flared down our bond, burning hotter than the pyres at our backs. Yet tumbling with it was a heavy mix of guilt and trepidation.
What would the reactions be when we returned alone?
In silence, we trudged past the remnants of the Angels’ camp. The sun beat down with an almost judgmental air throughout the rest of the day. Not for the first time, I wished we’d been able to find more horses than just Blaeze. A stampede of hoofprints led away from the camp, so at least I knew that none had fallen to an Angel blade. My reliable mount had wandered back the day before we decided to leave, three crows resting atop his back.
They’d squawked and flown away as I’d raced to his side and thrown my arms around his neck. I’d never been more relieved in my life—except for maybe when we knew Zeec would live. His reappearance meant we’d be able to survive longer in the inhospitable Paks Desert while we attempted to rejoin the larger force.
We rose with the sun, opting to break our fast later in the day. I resisted the call of my insistent thirst for as long as I could. We packed dozens of skins onto our bodies and in our bags, yet with five thirsty mouths, especially the one pulling most of our belongings, it disappeared faster than ever before.
Days passed, and finally, Zeec joined Grem on the ground, easing some of Rokath’s burden.
More followed, and the pain pulsing down our bond lessened as Rokath’s hands continued to heal and my shoulder ceased aching. Yet we remained silent in our march, our thoughts drifting, drifting, drifting…
At night, Rokath held me in his arms like I was the last star in the sky, and without me the heavens above us would collapse in on themselves. Which with the way he continued to care for me at the expense of himself, I knew was true. Despite the dry, rocky earth on which we slept night after night, he drifted off with ease.
The end of the seventh day arrived, taking with it the final drop of our water. Rokath let me have the last of it. My lips cracked and bled any time I attempted to move them.
Any conversation we attempted to have was kept purely mental for that reason.
The following morning, we stumbled across a trickle of a stream and managed to refill all our skins, though it was slow progress. The barrels we abandoned completely, barely managing to fill half of one with the odd angle we had to hold it beneath the flow.
The two of us, plus the dogs and Blaeze, were haggard, hungry, and desperate to find the rest of the army.
Surely when the other Hadvezér’s ravens go unanswered, they’ll send someone in search of us.
Rokath rested on his back and stared at the brilliant, vast expanse of sky night after night. He told me he’d learned to navigate by the stars during his time at the military academy in Fured, but with our slow progress and the endless wasteland in front of us, I began to wonder if we’d gotten lost somewhere along the way.
Rather than voice my concern—mentally or otherwise—I remained silent. Rokath already knew, and I didn’t want to pile onto his guilt.
The ninth night swallowed us in hot, arid air. Dust blustered around us as we collapsed against a rocky outcropping. At least by the way the sun had disappeared over the Skala Mountains at our back, we were still trudging in the right direction. But whether we’d angled ourselves too far north or south was a different story entirely.
At my feet, the dogs panted, their tongues dry and fur matted with dust. Blaeze sank to his knees, then flopped over on his side. I wondered if he’d ever get up again or if we’d have to leave him out here.
Rokath squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his head back, waiting for white pinpricks to blink into existence. With no energy to speak, we sat in stillness as night settled with an ominousness that unsettled my stomach. Like if we didn’t find the rest of the army the next day, that might actually be our last night together.
I wanted to laugh at the irony of it all.
Zaph would have snatched the most massive victory for the Angels since the war had begun. Killing fifty thousand men, then not even having to lift a finger to end the Halálhívó and his mate.
The memory of the moment our bond snapped into place flitted through my addled mind. What I wouldn’t give to return to that day, and the days after. The luxury of Gyor Palace. A soft bed. The food.
Something shimmered in the distance, like the heat that licked over the sand in the hottest hours of the afternoon.
I was really starting to lose it if I was seeing things in the dark too.
Slumping into my mate, I closed my eyes, seeking what comfort he was capable of offering. He pressed a tender kiss to my temple that felt more like an apology, a goodbye, than anything.
“Are we going to die out here?” I asked him through our mental connection.
“I will not let you die,” he growled back with more force than I’d been capable of even days ago.
My head lolled forward, and I snapped to attention again. Vision blurred with sleep, I curled into a ball at Rokath’s feet. He reached for me, stroking his fingers over my tangled, tattered braid.
“I am so, so sorry, Assyria,” he said. His expression was tortured, as if seeing me so weak and close to death was the greatest pain he’d ever experienced.
“Why?”
“For everything. For not loving you as I should have immediately. For getting us lost out here. For not protecting you from the Angels in the first place. I should have trained you from the beginning. I should have done so many things differently.”
“Stop talking like we’re going to die out here when you told me we wouldn’t,” I bantered back, but the playful bite I was aiming for fell short.
We lapsed into quiet as darkness closed in.
A weak bark jolted me awake. I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep again. Grem and Zeec shot to their feet on either side of me, hackles raised. Rokath still sagged against the rock. I nudged him with my foot, and with a groan, he opened his eyes.
Somehow, I managed to turn myself around, and then I spotted that shimmering movement again. Energy spiked through me at the thought that Zaph might have followed us out here to witness our demise. His light magic danced over the barren expanse, illuminating our misery from afar. But as quickly as it appeared, it dissipated, along with the remnants of my reserves.
Great, the dogs are losing it too.
But then, a fire flickered, highlighting studs glinting in someone’s face.
Studs glinting in someone’s face.
My brain, starved and slow, struggled to piece the male together. Rokath did, faster than me, and was on his feet, though he swayed so violently I was certain he’d collapse.
The beat of hooves against the hard-packed earth quickened, and then a rider was upon us, leaping from his horse and racing to our sides.
“Rokath! Assyria! Thank the Fates you’re okay,” the person exclaimed. From his side, he pulled two skins and shoved them into our hands.
I wasted no time in wrapping my lips around the lid and chugging. The cool, crisp liquid was everything.
Rokath yanked the waterskin away from my mouth. “You’ll get sick,” he rasped.
A moment later, all the liquid I’d just consumed heaved up from my gut. Pitching to the side, I retched all over the dusty ground.
“Reaper, what happened to you two?” the person asked, and then I finally recognized the voice—one who had kept me company many nights before Rokath finally accepted our situation. Who had helped me win back my mother’s ring while playing cards. Who had cheered us on as we navigated our complex feelings for one another.
Rapp.
If I had tears to shed, I would have cried at the sight of him. Wiping my mouth, I turned back to Rapp, one of Rokath’s Hadvezér and his best friend. Squatting down, he tipped water into the mouths of Grem and Zeec. Blaeze too picked his head up, and Rapp went to him next, offering my faithful mount what he so desperately needed.
Rokath sipped slowly, and I mimicked him, my stomach still churning.
After a few more pulls, he rolled his parched lips. “The Angels killed everyone but us, Rapp.” While his voice normally held a low gravel, days in the desert without sustenance had taken it to new depths.
The torch Rapp planted in the ground beside him flickered ominously. “How?” he asked, his dark eyebrows shooting up his forehead. While he normally would have made some joke about Rokath being unbeatable, we were clearly too worn out for such an exchange.
“They took Assyria.” Rokath glanced at me, a mix of rage and guilt furrowing his brow. “Their bargain was her life or theirs.”
Rapp blew out a long breath, running a hand over the hair on the top of his head. “The rest of the army isn’t too far from here, camped outside Lutsk. Let’s get you there and then you can tell us everything.”
The animals now satisfied, he tucked the skins into his belt. Grabbing Blaeze’s reins, he attempted to coax him to his feet. But my mount’s legs wobbled, and shadows sprang from Rapp’s hands and wrapped around his belly. With the aid, my horse staggered upright, but his head hung, heavy and exhausted.
Rapp hitched him to the cart again while Rokath dragged forward, leaving thick boot marks in his wake. Seeing his friend struggling, Rapp raced to his side and shoved his shoulders under his arm.
