Текст книги "Horns of Wicked Ebony"

Автор книги: Lacey Lehotzky

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 43 страниц)

17

Rapp remained suspended between life and death for days. While he fought for each fucking breath, Trol and I planned for the future. With the officers, we decided who needed to remain on the front lines and who needed to travel with us to Fured for a much needed respite. We’d also planned how to dig in and hold this position until we returned. The males boasting powerful eye colors from ruby to burgundy had been training for months and would be an asset to the next phase of this war. And the females who’d be joining their units would be leaders in their own way, ushering in the next phase of our society.

What loomed larger than any single front was that I still had to explain myself to Xannirin and Kiira.

Their joint raven had relayed their imminent departure to the military academy. If the Kral and the High Priestess both thought it necessary to speak in person, it would be a serious conversation indeed. But it was one that needed to happen. Xannirin would be pissed at the loss, of that I was certain. Kiira would be pleased that I’d finally accepted Assyria as my mate.

How they would take to my new plans for integrating females in the army was a mystery. I could see their reactions scattering in a myriad of ways.

At least they are bringing them without much fight.

The sun beat down upon us as we rushed through the camp, the meeting that had been interrupted by a messenger entirely forgotten. A breeze whipped the burgundy scarf from Assyria’s dark hair as she half-jogged in front of me, even more desperate to see for herself that Rapp lived than I was.

All my worries melted as Assyria and I approached the healer’s tent. The canvas was tied back, making it easy for us to duck inside. Fresh air breezed through the space, cooler with the approaching season change.

Propped up by a handful of pillows, yet still so fucking pale, Rapp grinned as we approached. The close crop he kept on either side of his scalp had grown out, and he needed a shave. But he was alive, he was breathing, and he was fucking blinking, which was everything in that moment. Assyria bolted to his side, nearly flinging her arms around him before she snapped back.

The thick white bandage over his chest was a stark reminder of his injury.

“Assyria,” he greeted her warmly. Wincing, he grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“You promised me nothing would happen to you,” she said firmly, the curves of her mouth dipping into a frown.

Rapp kept grinning. “If I remember correctly, my promise to you was that the Halálhívó and I would not die. As you can see, that didn’t happen.”

Assyria smacked his shoulder and I had to smother a snicker as I approached. “Don’t twist your words,” she admonished him.

Rapp’s attention landed on me, and the smile slipped from his face. “You saved my life.”

“It’s not the first time,” I said dismissively.

Rapp snorted a laugh. “No, but I’d never been on the brink of death any of the other times.”

My throat worked at the reminder. I cleared it to banish the emotion. “We’re taking you with us to Fured to recover.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days,” Rapp protested, much to the approaching lead healer’s chagrin.

“More like a few months, Hadvezér,” he said, setting a tray of water and food on a nearby table. “Your left lung was severely injured, and it will take time for it to heal enough for you to lift anything, let alone draw a bow.”

Rapp rolled his eyes, then leaned toward Assyria. Whispering conspiratorially, he said, “These healers don’t know what they’re talking about. All of them, overcautious. I’m a true warrior and pain doesn’t bother me.”

“How much poppy have you been giving him?” I asked the lead healer.

Rapp shot me a glare. Satisfaction curled through me at the reversal of our roles. Normally, I was the grumpy one who refused to care for himself while Rapp was the one forcing me to rest.

“Enough,” the lead healer sighed, reaching for the bandage. Rapp winced as he peeled it off, dried flakes of blood coming with it. The thick lines of stitches stood angry against his skin.

He glanced down at them and whistled. “That’s going to scar.”

“You’re alive,” the lead healer quipped, bringing a wet cloth to the wound and gently dabbing it. It smelled slightly of aloe, which grew abundantly at the mouth of the canyon that led from Ustlyak and into Lutsk. At least it was available to use while we waited for more pium.

When the lead healer finished, he went to the tray and tried to feed Rapp. The Hadvezér shooed him away. “I can do it myself.”

“No, you can’t,” he grumbled.

“I’ll do it,” Assyria jumped in. “Surely you have other patients who need tending. We can speak with Hadvezér Rapp while he eats, catch him up on everything he’s missed?” She glanced at me as if she was waiting for me to confirm that was okay.

I nodded, pride blooming in my chest at how hard she was working to take charge. It was foreign to me, not being the one to lead the conversation and make the rules. But I found myself loving Assyria harnessing her fire more with each passing day. It had been a struggle at first, but she fought to stand beside me with enough fervor that I relented.

Mostly.

The lead healer acquiesced, promising to return later to rebandage Rapp’s chest.

Assyria propped herself on a sliver of space beside Rapp. I pulled the table closer to her so she could easily reach the food, then fetched myself a chair.

“This is such horseshit,” he muttered as Assyria lifted a bowl of clear soup to his lips. She grinned widely at him.

“Take a sip and I’ll tell you what happened while you were out,” I offered, trying to hide my amusement as I baited him.

“Fuck you, Rokath,” he grumbled, then did as I bid.

“Good boy,” I said, leaning back and crossing my arms.

He glared again. I was starting to see why Rapp enjoyed teasing me so much. “Assyria was successful in rescuing Banand and Zurronar, along with a few others. She also burned about a quarter of the Angel’s camp to ashes.”

Rapp slurped the last of the soup, brows raising. When Assyria took it away, he said, “That’s badass. Who knew you had it in you to be so vicious?”

She shrugged, then grabbed him a roll and tore a piece off. “I suppose you and Rokath are rubbing off on me. But I did kill my husband and then snuck into the army to avoid being executed, so I think it was there all along.”

Rapp laughed, then his brows pinched. “Fuck that hurt. Try not to be funny.”

“Sorry,” Assyria said, giving his good shoulder a gentle squeeze. That primal protective part of me thrashed to the surface, wanting to snatch her away from him because she was mine. I smacked it away and reminded it that Rapp was no threat to my mate.

“The camp now refers to Assyria as Szélhámos,” I added.

“Guess you should tell Kiira to add her to the prayers now,” Rapp said around a mouthful of food.

“You can tell her yourself when you see her in Fured,” I commented.

Rapp quirked a brow, causing the studs pierced above it to flash in the light. “She’ll be there?”

“The Kral too,” I noted. Assyria fed him more bread, and color returned to his cheeks.

“I think that’s all I can handle for now,” he said after the roll was gone. “Apparently it’s been days since I’ve eaten and my stomach is reminding me of that now.”

“Do you need to rest?” I asked him.

He shifted against the pillows as Assyria rose. “Some water, and then yes.”

Assyria squeezed the end of an aloe arm into the cup waiting for Rapp, then lifted it to his lips. He drank three gulps before sitting back again. “So when do we leave for Fured?”

“Have you come around to the idea then?” I questioned, cocking my head to the side.

“I don’t think I have much of a choice, do I?” he sighed, his tongue digging into his cheek.

“No,” I told him. “We’re leaving tomorrow now that you’re awake. I’ll have a special wagon prepared for you since you’re incapable of riding.”

Rapp muttered some choice words under his breath but finally nodded. “I hate being an invalid.”

In that way, we were extremely alike. I rose from my seat and approached him. Assyria backed away to give us some space. “I know. But I’m so fucking glad you are alive.” My throat thickened, and again I cleared it. “I couldn’t win this war without you.” My mind flickered to the days after I’d been forced to kill Thast and how Rapp hadn’t left my side. How he’d forced me to eat, to drink some water. To find purpose in swinging a sword again. Before that, he’d been my friend. And after? He’d been the brother I never had.

“Aw, Rokath, don’t get all sentimental on me now,” he teased, and a low growl rumbled in my chest. The tables were once again turning, and not in a way I appreciated. “But you’re right, and you definitely need me. So I’ll recover and then we rip Zaph’s head from his shoulders along with the fucking Zahal’s. Deal?”

The words were as much reassurance for him as they were for me. “Deal,” I agreed, straightening his tunic for him. “Rest now, and we’ll fetch you in the morning.”

Nodding, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. We departed the healer’s tent in silence, both of us unable to tear our gaze away from him until the darkness of the space swallowed him.

The sun blazed overhead as we trekked down the main thoroughfare. Assyria halted midstep, and I slowed, facing her. She adjusted her scarf, her gaze lifting to meet mine.

The fire in her eyes was renewed, reinvigorated, and ravenous.

In them burned a promise: we’d burn whatever stood between us and victory.

And from the ashes, we’d build a world where no female ever had to hide who she was again.

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***

The Kral perched atop his throne, his crown glittering as light spilled in from the opulent windows. Beside him, the Halálhívó stood, arms crossed over his armored chest. Since the death of their fathers, he’d remained by his cousin’s side, providing protection until a suitable unit to guard him could be trained up to his high standards.

The newly-appointed High Priestess swept into the room a moment later, her long, modest black dress swishing over the polished floors. A sheer black veil hid her features, while a circlet atop her brow held it in place.

“What do you think?” she asked her cousins, giving a slow twirl to reveal her ensemble.

“Stunning,” the Kral said, running his fingers over his bottom lip.

The High Priestess stopped, the fabric gathering around her ankles before she shook it out again. “All priestesses will now wear black, like a crow’s feather. Others will have their choice of colors, but all will wear veils like this.” Her smile—tight, cracked, brittle—was a mask with little difference from the sheer fabric covering her face. Gone were the days of her revealing summer dresses. Of showing her toned arms and lithe frame. Now, she and all females of the realm needed to hide behind dark fabric.

At least she was still her male cousin’s equal in this new world, even if her flock was not.

“Nayúr Ollmund Varrir should be here any moment. With the Fates on our side, he’ll prove less of a snake than the others,” the Kral told her, gesturing for her to take the place on his left. “You can explain your clothing plans to him once we have his agreement. He is, after all, the premier textile producer for the Demon Realm.”

The High Priestess settled into place. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she waited for the noble they all hoped would assist them in swaying the rest.

At the door, a page knocked, announcing the Nayúr’s arrival.

“Enter,” the Kral called out. The doors opened, revealing the maroon-eyed noble. While he was far older than any of the cousins, he still retained the vibrancy of youth. Yet the cunning curve of his lips as he knelt before his new Kral lodged a pit of worry in the High Priestess’s stomach.

The Halálhívó merely looked down on the Nayúr through the slits in his new helmet. Only one class of people drew his ire—the nobility. He’d much prefer if they could keep the sycophants out of their plans. At the military academy, the noble’s sons had all attempted to curry favor with the Kral and him, and he’d hated every moment of it. Hated every ball he’d been forced to attend at Gyor Palace by his father. Hated the shallow conversations, the false flattery, the deals done in the dark.

None of them understood the true cost of power. Because none of them possessed it. What they had was merely a grand illusion.

But the Kral had insisted time and time again nothing could be done without their aid.

“My Kral,” the Nayúr purred as he straightened. “How may I serve you? That is why you called me here, is it not?”

The Kral didn’t respond. With practiced slowness, he dragged his gaze over his noble. The Nayúr merely waited, unfazed by the untried Kral’s assessment.

“By now you have heard of the battle of Kraskiv.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“I have heard whispers, but I would love to hear a full account from the male who managed to survive such an assault,” Nayúr Ollmund replied, his attention settling heavily on the Halálhívó.

His fingers tightened behind his back as he prepared to offer the rehearsed statement he’d crafted with the High Priestess. Stories, she’d told him countless times these last few weeks, held immense power. Moving people to emotion was what would drive quick change. Their fervency, their outrage, their indignation, was all key to selling the three’s newfound statuses.

“A horde of Angels dared to enter our sovereign territory along the Kraskiv outpost. At the time, I happened to be inspecting fresh construction along our wall. I never expected such a force to attack. It was far larger than I’ve seen in my time serving the Demon army. Thousands upon thousands at the very least. We were overwhelmed immediately, and only a few managed to escape the initial onslaught. Yet instead of shoving their blades into our bellies or slicing them across our necks, the Angels strung ropes from the wall and looped them around each captured male’s neck. We watched on as they proceeded to keep them alive and allow the birds to pick out their eyes before they let their entrails spill for feasting.”

At that grotesque picture, the Nayúr paled. The High Priestess watched his reactions intently, for this was the first test of her carefully crafted tale.

“Those of us who survived refused to leave until we could burn the bodies of our tortured comrades. Yet that itself was a carefully laid trap. Once the fires took hold, they attacked again. We filled the Fates’ greedy bellies with Angel blood that night. I called upon my deceased soldiers to help us, their bodies still blazing. It is only by the will of the Weaver that I stand before you now.”

Nayúr Ollmund’s face reddened as the Halálhívó relayed the reattack. “The Reaper’s eye passed over you. Tell me you slaughtered them all.”

“Aye,” the Halálhívó confirmed, his tone laced with dark intent. “The Giver endowed me with Calling for a reason. To lead the Demon army.”

“We are blessed that the Fates shine so brightly on you,” he replied, straightening and turning his attention to the veiled female. “And you, High Priestess.”

“Do not forget your Kral,” he tsked, rising from his throne, “for my Speaking powers have brought me great insight.” He stepped down the dais and approached the Nayúr. “How many years has it been since you ascended?”

“Centuries, My Kral. It has been long enough that the exact count eludes me,” the Nayúr replied.

“And in that time, a male such as yourself has built strong relationships,” the Kral ventured next.

“Certainly. Though that doesn’t mean I am set in my ways.” His attention flicked between the three cousins. “I am always open to building new ones. So long as the relationship is mutually beneficial.”

The Kral circled the Nayúr like a predator circles its prey. His polished boots clicked against the floor. “And what sort of benefits do you seek?”

He let out a low chuckle. “What male doesn’t want gold? Power? Prestige?”

“It seems we have that in common. And isn’t that a great foundation for an aligned relationship?” The Kral tossed out the statement like it was a fleeting thought and not a well-executed plan.

The High Priestess stiffened. Had he said that to manipulate Ollmund, or did he truly mean it? Doubt about his intentions clawed up her spine. Yet she couldn’t voice them—not here, not now.

“I’m inclined to agree, My Kral. So why don’t you tell me what it is you seek?” The Nayúr raised a brow, staring down the highest ranking Demon in all of Keleti.

The gemstones scattered flits of light around the room as the Kral stepped into the streaming sun. “It is our belief,” he gestured to his cousins flanking him, “that Demon society is in dire need of a change. The people need to eat. They need to work. They need to serve. Males, in the army and the fields. Females, in increasing our population. We’ll need all of that if we are to straddle both sides of the Skala Mountains.”

The corners of the Nayúr’s mouth rose. “I see you offer a mix of all three.”

“Aye,” the Kral replied. “So long as you can guarantee the support of the rest of the nobility.”

“You know as well as I that there are factions within us, all vying for more,” the Nayúr said, his head tilting ever so slightly. “So what makes you think that I have the power to unite them if you yourself—no offense meant, of course—cannot?”

The previous ruler had been cruel, wicked even, and had to be dealt with a delicate hand. His son was proving to be no different—though he hadn’t the centuries of experience the Nayúr did in such matters.

It was the Kral’s turn to chuckle. “Oh, Ollmund. I could easily bring them to heel, should I choose to do so. But that would require force I do not wish to use so early in my reign. Relationships—hard won as some may be—are the true way to install order.”

The grin on the Nayúr’s face widened, but it wasn’t born of friendliness or amusement. He had underestimated this new Kral’s cunning. Where he had expected a male easily manipulated from inexperience, he was instead met with political power in the making. “You are quite right, My Kral. The promise of additional lands and opportunities to build wealth will certainly sway many to your plans. As well as this horrific incident in Kraskiv.”

The Kral studied his noble servant in turn. The story of the battle had gotten the Nayúr invested—emotionally at least. Convincing him to participate fully would require other means of persuasion. He wasted no more time in attempting to discern what leverage the Nayúr wanted over House Vrak. “Who will be the easiest to sway?”

“Ah, not so fast,” the Nayúr said, raising a hand. “I have not yet laid out my terms.”

The Kral smiled, having pushed the Nayúr into revealing what he wanted to know. “Name them.”

“First, the best lands in the Angel Realm will go to House Varrir. We need ample space to grow the materials for our fabrics.”

“You have it,” the Kral agreed. “Name your others.”

“I have but one other,” Nayúr Ollmund paused, dragging his attention over the High Priestess. Unease curled in her gut with the way he looked at her. The veil, at least, hid her swallow, even if she wished she wasn’t forced to cover herself for their new order.

Tension hung thick in the room as the three cousins awaited his next request. “For my continued support and sway with the other nobles—because we both know I am influential, otherwise you would have sought out another—I require one favor which you cannot refuse me, to be claimed at the time of my choosing.”

A muscle feathered in the Halálhívó’s jaw. This was exactly why he didn’t like the nobles. Always scheming for more power. Always ready to drive a knife into the back of another to supplant themselves.

“No,” he growled, taking a half-step forward. “You can specify your terms or you can add caveats. We will not leave it open for you to claim the throne for yourself once we’ve shed our blood to conquer the Angel Realm.”

The Nayúr’s maroon eyes glittered. “You make a fair point, Rokath.”

A snarl tore from him and he advanced on the noble. “That name no longer exists.” At first, he’d resisted his cousin’s suggestion that he hide beneath the mantle of the Halálhívó. Yet after they’d crafted the story of the battle of Kraskiv, he’d welcomed the added mystique and anonymity. The helmet too allowed him space to hide in plain sight. It also allowed him to show parts of himself he’d always been told to suppress.

Like his infamous rage.

The Nayúr refused to tremble under the male’s wrath, despite his massive frame towering over him. Without looking away, he said to the Kral, “It seems you have more information to reveal yet.”

“Name your second and only other condition and we will explain more,” the Kral replied, his tone level and cool where his cousin vibrated with barely restrained fury.

“I will caveat my terms. I will not seek to request House Vrak to relinquish the throne. Nor will I request that all the noble houses save for mine be extinguished. I do agree that we need to save our race from those zealots. This favor will not hinder the efforts of our shared goal—more land, more gold, and more power for the Demons. So long as I am pleased with the direction everything is heading.” Each word was carefully chosen to protect House Varrir’s interests.

The Kral and the Halálhívó knew it too. To be beholden to such a male was a massive risk, yet they needed his support to accomplish their goals. “Fine,” the Kral finally agreed, hoping he hadn’t put his fate in the hands of the Reaper.

“Seal it with a blood oath,” the head of House Varrir said, drawing a short, ceremonial knife from his belted sheath. The Halálhívó’s hand immediately flew to the sword strapped across his back as he stepped forward.

“There’s no need for violence. I have no intention of harming my new partners,” the Nayúr said, disdain dripping in his pointed look at the Halálhívó.

The Kral clenched his teeth, indecision warring through him. Swearing to uphold his terms before the Fates ensured they’d have to act upon whatever the head of House Varrir wished. And yet, it would prevent the Nayúr from forcing House Vrak to relinquish the throne. He drew a blade of his own and sliced into his palm.

“Your terms shall be kept,” he said, reaching for the Nayúr. The male cut his own skin and then pressed his wound to his Kral’s.

“I am at your service, My Kral.”

After the Halálhívó and the High Priestess made similar professions, they wiped their hands clean, the wounds already closing.

“Let’s begin weaving our future.”

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