Текст книги "Horns of Wicked Ebony"
Автор книги: Lacey Lehotzky
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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 43 страниц)
43
Blood darkened my hands, but it was nothing compared to how my vision stained red when a raven arrived. The new recruit who dared interrupt my torture trembled at the sight of the half-dead Angel. Shooing him into the hall, I set my tools to the side and wiped my hands on an already dirty cloth. Assyria followed the male, and by the time I emerged, my mate had walked a few paces away from the door.
Leaning against the wall, the back of her head braced on its cool surface, she looked as if she were trying to picture herself anywhere but here. The dungeon of the military academy was dank, musty, and wet, with spray from the ocean somehow reaching inside the tiny crevices of rock and securing its place there. There was no fresh air to be had, and even with the door closed, the stench of our activities pricked my nostrils.
We’d been at this for hours, and she had stomached more than I thought her capable. Despite her injury, she insisted she needed to study this Angel since he held such a high rank. In the Angel army, Mryza was the equivalent of a Parancsok, though they all reported directly to Zahal Ishim. Impersonating him would throw open the door of possibility for us when it came to infiltrating their camp or influencing any Angels we came across.
The garnet-eyed male stood at attention, his back straight and hands tucked. He was bruised, with a split lip and deep gash on one side of his head, but all his injuries would heal by the end of the day.
“Halálhívó,” he said, offering me a quick salute and proffering the message.
A muscle ticked in my jaw as I unfurled the parchment, the thirst for pain unrelenting. Air caught in my throat as I noted the handwriting.
Trol.
Thank fuck he was still alive.
Halálhívó,
A battalion of Angels has split off from the main group, headed east, most likely to Fured. We didn’t notice their departure until I sent a scout on a mission and he spotted them from a distance. They must have used some sort of illusion to sneak away. By our estimates, they should reach you a day after this note.
“Fuck!” I shouted, whirling for the thick stones and punching them, if only to have something to slake an ounce of this rage.
How had they seen us depart? How had they known where we’d go?
Snapping it open again, I kept reading.
We need you to return as soon as possible. The reason I sent the scout is that their forces have begun to pull back of their own accord. As discussed, we have not engaged with them since your departure. From other scouts’ reports, a mass of them are gathering along the wall, both on the border to the north of the Skala Mountains and along the northernmost part of the wall atop the ridges. We aren’t sure how far south they have spread yet or if they will continue to do so.
I am sending a contingent to the wall as a backstop after I finish penning this note. Afterward, I will begin an advance so we don’t lose sight of more Angels. Please send further instruction if you have it.
I hope this reaches you in time so you can prepare your warriors for the imminent attack. I bid you to rejoin the larger force once you’ve routed them in Fured. It is my fear that we can no longer wait for further training and that the Angels are planning some sort of assault now that they know of your absence.
Trol
My hands shook with the force of my fury. Trol had been a day late in his estimate, which wasn’t entirely his fault, but I was still pissed nonetheless. The only mercy offered by his words was leverage. Armed with information about the Angel’s movements, I had a starting point from which to force the Myrza into speaking.
With the Angels spreading like a plague of locusts across Keleti, with my mate wavering on her feet, with how they’d surprised us yet again…I needed all the information I could gather.
“Take this to Hadvezér Rapp and the High Priestess,” I commanded the messenger. “Find Parancsok Olet and tell him to meet us here.”
“Yes, sir,” the male confirmed, offering me a closed-fisted salute. He marched away immediately, leaving me to finish what I started with the Angel Myrza.
“What did it say?” Assyria questioned, her voice threaded with exhaustion.
“Trol warning us of the oncoming attack.” I slammed the door open again, making the Angel jump. The two Vezető assisting me didn’t flinch, though they regarded me with wide-eyed wariness. Assyria closed the door with less roughness behind her, then took her seat in the corner, arms crossed.
A storm clung to me as I stalked forward and braced my hands on either side of the Myrza. “Why are your brethren going to the wall?”
He pressed his swollen lips together, wincing at the movement. Mine curled back, flashing my sharp, pointed canines. Through gritted teeth, I threatened, “Last chance to speak before I start removing your bones.”
His face turned ashen. So far, the damage I had inflicted had been superficial enough that his innate healing abilities would undo most of the damage. But our magic didn’t cover regrowing bones.
I lifted a brow, waiting for a response. He still said nothing.
Shoving back, I said, “Very well then. Hand me that knife.”
One of the Vezető passed me a wickedly sharp bronze blade. I made a show of flashing the edges in the light, gauging the Angel’s reaction. His aquamarine eyes grew large as the balls I threw for Grem and Zeec.
I knelt in front of him—not out of reverence or deference—but because it brought me closer to his hands. Bronze chains bound his wrists to the arms of the chair, and I grabbed his fingers and flattened one out. He twisted, attempting to curl them back into a fist, but I merely smashed the hilt of the blade into the back of his hand, forcing him to relax it. When I had one pinned, I looked him dead in the eye and dragged the tip of the blade along the meaty part of his lower finger.
“Reaper, may your eye watch over me as I spill blood in your name,” I snarled, adding a psychological element to my torture.
“We spill blood in your name, Reaper,” the Vezető and Assyria echoed. Our bond flooded with dark desire, my mate’s attention firmly on me.
This performance was as much for her as it was for the Angel. To show her the depth of my devotion, the dark places I’d crawl to protect her.
A scream tore from the Myrza’s throat as I stabbed all the way through and peeled the flesh from his bone. When he saw white, he turned to the side and retched. I rolled my eyes.
Pathetic, every last one of them.
I let him recover because I wanted him to see, to feel when I ripped the bone from its socket. Distraction simply would not do.
He straightened at last, chest heaving. The moment he looked down, I snatched my opportunity. Grabbing his finger by the tip, I ripped my arm back. The digit separated from his body with a satisfying snap.
The scream he released would have curdled my blood if I didn’t fucking love killing Angels so much. The Vezető laughed, only adding to the torture of the insect who dared think he could take me on and win.
I dropped the severed finger on the Myrza’s lap like a promise as to what would come next. Later, though, I’d strip the rest of the flesh away and add to Assyria’s collection.
I didn’t bother asking him if he was ready to talk yet. I still had some anger to slake. Without waiting, I stabbed into his middle finger, peeling the muscle away. Sweat spilled off him, dripping down his temples onto his shoulders, and the palms of his hands were clammy, mixing with the blood seeping from his wound.
A sigh threaded with annoyance slipped out of me as I ripped the second finger from his hand. Garnet spilled from the corners of his mouth. I shot to my feet and gripped either side of his jaw, forcing it open. Then I saw the deep gouges his teeth had left in his tongue.
I tsked like he was an errant child. “Can’t have you doing that again. I still need you to talk. Get me the gag,” I commanded the Vezető, not even bothering to look away from the Myrza.
When the weight of my new instrument settled in my palm, I dragged it in front of the Angel’s face. Something between a bit for a warhorse and a metal circle, it prevented a prisoner from clamping down on anything that was put in their mouth.
“Open wide,” I taunted, my voice dripping with disdain.
The Myrza attempted to snap it shut. I shook my head, again releasing a disappointed sigh. “If that’s how you want to be.”
Diving into the well of shadows in my chest, I called on the threads of it to take the place of my hands. They thickened until they forced his jaw open, despite his attempts to snap his teeth shut. I adjusted the gag until it was level in my hands and pressed. The cool metal bit into his flesh, and I positioned his lips around the O ring in the center. Then, I secured the buckle around the back of his head. Once I was certain the fit was painful, I released my magic.
“There. Much better don’t you think?”
He attempted to curse me around the gag, but all he succeeded in doing was drooling all over himself. Hate filled his aquamarine eyes—nothing new from these Goddess-loving sycophants. Honestly, it was becoming boring.
“Since you don’t seem to value your fingers, perhaps I should move on to another part of your body?” I asked him like he had a fucking choice.
Grabbing my dagger again, I dragged it along his thigh, knocking his severed digits to the floor. I paused when the tip rested near his dick.
There was a singular, universal way to get males to talk that transcended race: threaten their cocks. Most, despite knowing they had zero chance of living, would still protect the organ until their last breath.
And I was losing both patience and time.
The Myrza thrashed wildly against the bronze chains binding him to the chair. More strangled sounds spit through the gag, and instead of hate, pure, unfiltered fear filled his eyes.
Much, much better.
The primal beast in me purred at the sight. Nothing made me feel more in control than drawing that raw emotion out. And right now, after almost losing Assyria again, I needed that.
The sharp tip pressed in, slicing through the fabric clinging to his thighs. His cries increased, but he stilled.
“What’s that? You’re ready to talk?” I mocked.
He nodded vigorously. I didn’t move the dagger.
He made another noise that sounded a lot like “please” in the common tongue. Calling upon my shadows again, I worked the buckle open. Before the metal in his mouth slackened, I shoved onyx tendrils inside, blocking his ability to chomp his tongue in half.
It wouldn’t have been the first time one attempted such a trick.
I removed the bit, then cocked a brow. “So, why are the Angels gathering at the wall? What is the Zahal’s plan?”
“I only know that I was sent here to eliminate your most powerful magic wielders,” he gasped out in the common tongue.
I forced my expression to remain cold and detached. How the fuck did they know about that? Banand and Zurronar had mentioned the torture the new recruits had endured, which is how they knew about Assyria. They must have gotten this information out of them too.
“That’s not good enough,” I replied coolly, dagger biting deeper. A blot of ruby welled up on his white pants.
“Stop! Wait! I’ll tell you,” he half-sobbed.
The blade halted, still pressed into his skin.
“A Seer told us we had to spread out along the wall,” he gasped. “She saw a great, bloody battle in the mountains. Said if we wanted to win, we needed to change our tactics.”
Interesting.
Kiira’s new vision contrasted whatever the Goddess had offered this female. Yet it was known that Angel prophecies were conjecture and interpretation at best. If the Goddess had offered her this scene, it was a venomous presage, not a saccharine omen.
The Demons would claw a victory from those peaks, one that would lead to the moment Kiira had seen of Assyria and me in Sivy.
“Is the Zahal calling on reinforcements for this?” I pressed. It was what I would have done—had done.
He nodded vigorously. “That’s why I was sent here. He wants to weaken you further while he gathers more. Saw what you did with your numbers and wants to recreate it.”
Of course he did. The fucking leech couldn’t think for himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken my tactic and then turned it against me. By now, he should have learned it never worked.
His arrogance was why our historians would etch my name in their books, laud my prowess in battle, and his would disappear into the ether, lost to time.
A knock on the door stole my attention before I could continue my interrogation. “Enter,” I called out, twisting to see who dared intrude when I was in the flow.
Again.
Olet appeared in the doorway. “You wanted to see me?”
My annoyance dissipated. With protesting knees, I rose, the dagger squelching as I removed it from the Myrza’s thigh. A sob choked with relief escaped him. Until I gave the two Vezető a new command. “See what else you can get out of him. Then kill him.”
“No!” the Angel shouted, and the Vezető chuckled darkly. Grabbing new tools, they flanked him. Panic held his eyes open, but I didn’t deign to offer him more of my time. With a jerk of my head, I motioned for Assyria to join us. She shot one last glare at the Myrza, her assessing eyes searing one last look into her memory, and then ducked under my arm and into the hall again.
His scream was cut short when I closed the door behind us. Olet paced a small circle there, picking his head up at our arrival.
“The time has come for us to leave,” I told him.
The grimness in the set of his jaw mirrored my own internal experience. “What of Hadvezér Trol?”
“He’s alive, so far as I know. He sent a raven warning us of the attack. It arrived only a little while ago.”
Olet snorted and shook his head. “A little too late.”
I grunted my agreement. “He did request our presence at the front again. The Angels are splitting their forces, and he is following. According to that fucking fanatic, they’re spreading along the wall because one of their Seers told them there was to be a bloody battle there.”
Olet shifted from foot to foot. “We haven’t had nearly enough time. Especially not with the females.”
I blew out a long breath. “I know.”
“I think they demonstrated that they can hold their own,” Assyria added. She swayed on her feet. Dark circles lined her eyes, and I wanted to get her to bed immediately. Flattening my palm on her lower back, I offered her support.
“What were our losses?” I asked Olet, my stomach tightening. The aftermath of every battle came with conversations that were tough to chew.
Olet rubbed the back of his neck. “Too many. A few thousand.”
The muscles in my neck bulged with how hard I gritted my teeth. “Fuck.”
His arm dropped to his side, and a heavy sigh followed. “Many more were wounded. Most should be able to travel within a few days though.”
I looked up at the ceiling as if the Fates had written all the future paths there. “Start preparing everyone to leave. We’ll move out in three days. We can spare no more.”
“Aye, I’ll see to it immediately,” Olet affirmed. Like Assyria, he looked exhausted.
“Walk with us. We need to find Hadvezér Rapp and discuss more of our plans,” I told Olet, striding toward the stairs that led up from the dungeon. I’d check on our prisoner later, see if the Vezető yanked any more information out of him.
He followed, matching my quick clip. The remainder of his post-action report he relayed by the time we reached the landing. There, we went our separate ways.
“I’ll escort you to our tower, but then I need to go to my office,” I told Assyria. Because before I could speak with the rest of the officers, I needed to write to Xannirin. This would be the test of his commitment to our new plans.
“Okay,” she sighed, too tired to protest. “You’ll come back soon right?”
“I promise.” When we reached the door leading to the spiral stairs, I opened it for my mate. “You did so well today. You and the females. I think the rest of the army will see that quickly too.”
She offered me a soft smile. “I hope so.” Then, she disappeared up the spiral. The sentries stationed on either side still had blood on their armor and cuts drying on their faces. In an uncharacteristic moment, I thanked them for their duty.
Each stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. Sighing, I left them behind, the trek passing in a blur as I mentally drafted the message I would write my cousin.
We needed additional aid, and quickly. The Angel’s advance, spreading like a rot through the realm, left no room for mercy.
Not for them. Not for Xannirin.
We thought we were preparing soldiers for war here; we were already inside it.
No longer was this a game of strategy. This was divine prophecy, holy vengeance, and sacrificial fire.
Yet the walls of our carefully constructed temple were cracking.
To protect Assyria, to protect the Demons, I’d rip apart the nobility, drag their power into service, and flood the front with bodies.
Not all of us would survive what came next. A great sacrifice awaited us somewhere in the future.
And I would not let Assyria fall. But something deep inside me whispered that the Angels weren’t the only ones spreading ruin.
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***
Bloody footprints marred the marble halls of Gyor Palace as the future Kral rushed along them. Overhead, the barest sliver of a moon stalked him through the windows like a judgmental God, weighing his actions and deeming his worthiness. For this night would irrevocably alter the course of his life—and the lives of millions around the world.
Pools of ruby thickened as he closed the remaining distance to the royal wing. The place he’d been birthed, where he’d spent his youngest years, and where now, his fate awaited him. A tumultuous storm of excitement and dread rushed his steps along. He had to know what had happened. If their plan had succeeded. If his cousin still lived.
At the choke point of the hall, a dozen Kral’s Guard lay scattered, bent, and broken on the ground. Easing toward them, he studied their forms. Their lifeless eyes stared at nothing. Hope soared in the male’s chest.
As nimbly as he could, he leaped over the puddle, not wanting to stain his shoes.
The door to the Kral’s chambers was cracked, yet no sounds came from within. On tiptoes, the future Kral approached, his heart hammering in his chest. Flattening his palm against the wood, he pressed. It swung inward on silent hinges.
The scene it revealed to him left him rooted in place.
The back of a tattooed head greeted him, broad shoulders heaving beneath fitted metal armor. He didn’t tremble, didn’t weep. Merely stood like the eye of a storm, rage and fury twisting around him. At his cousin’s side, a longsword dripped garnet onto the ground. His other hand, though, boasted a spiked glove, bits of gore decorating the tips of it.
Bile rose in the male’s throat, and he pressed his lips together to seal it inside him.
Because that wasn’t the worst of the scene.
Beyond his cousin, three more bodies lay crumpled—if they could still be called that. Heads removed from their place atop necks. Fingers twisted at unnatural angles. Bones fractured out of the skin that should have held them inside. The scene was carnage beyond anything he’d witnessed during his time at the military academy with his cousin.
Yet one corpse bore the signs of a special type of cruelty—his cousin’s father. Missing an eye entirely, jaw hanging open, spine permanently torqued, he wondered at what point his uncle had finally died. The sheer brutality of his murder sent an icy chill through his veins. He knew his cousin had a temper. Fates, he knew that he was the most lethal killer in all of Keleti, if not all of Ravasz.
But this, this was beyond excessive. This went beyond vengeance.
For the first time, he feared his cousin. Feared his prowess. Feared his anger.
Despite his rising nausea, he seared the scene into his memory. The blood. The gore. The twisted bodies. The heaving of his cousin’s chest. The blade with the skull in the pommel, reflecting his terror back to him through rivulets of ruby.
Because deep down, he knew that Rokath had far more power than he did—than he ever would. His future was a glass throne. One misstep, one moment of angering his cousin, and it would shatter beneath him.
Tentatively, he stepped deeper into the room, regarding his cousin with more than a hint of wariness. Only then did Rokath tilt his head over his shoulder and acknowledge his presence. Burgundy eyes burned with hatred still, even after their tormentors lay dead at his feet. The darkness in them sent a shiver down his spine.
Yes, his cousin was someone to fear. His cousin was a potential threat. The moonlight caught on a fractured mirror, reflecting back to him an undeniable truth: his own blood was merely waiting to be spilled.
He swallowed hard and met his cousin’s gaze. Then, in his deep, gravelly tone, Rokath spoke the words he’d been dying to hear for decades.
“Congratulations, Xannirin,” he rasped, his voice like gravel. “You’re now the Kral of all the Demons.”
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