Coreene Callahan - Knight Avenged

The thought sped through his head even as he tried to shut it down. He didn’t want to think about it anymore, but . . . devil take him. He couldn’t let it go. Or live with the humiliation. His lip curled off his upper teeth. What a catastrophe.

The Seven posed a serious threat. They were far too cunning for anyone’s good.

Not surprising. To be expected even. Each warrior had been raised by the Order of Assassins. Fostered inside Grey Keep. Trained by him to be formidable assassins without conscience or mercy. He’d succeeded . . . marvelously. Add that to the magic he’d seen the bastards wield and . . . Halál frowned. ’Twas more than a problem. Set aside the combined viciousness of the group for a moment. Forget about Henrik’s vendetta and the warrior’s drive to make him pay for past pain. Combined, The Seven were impressive. But possessed of unlimited power derived from the Goddess of All Things? Well now, that signaled trouble. Throw a trio of dragons into the mix and . . .

Halál’s eyes narrowed.

Aye. Without a doubt. He needed to find a solution to the scaly beasts. The Seven’s alliance with The Three qualified as a huge advantage and a serious hurdle. One he must eliminate posthaste if he wanted to survive. And the Druinguari to thrive. Armand might accept an occasional setback, but not continued failure. Neither did Halál, under ordinary circumstances. These, though, were anything but ordinary . His former pupils knew his tactics well.

Proof positive lay in the aftermath of battle.

The betrayers had outmaneuvered him inside the gorge, turning his trap into their own. The ambush reeked of Henrik. The son of a bitch knew how to plan and execute, ensuring maximum damage in the process. A worthy adversary. On par with Xavian and just as lethal. He’d always liked that about Henrik. Until now. He’d lost three more Druinguari to the folly and the fight. Which meant he needed to rethink everything. All of his strategies along with how he implemented each one. Otherwise the assassins who now opposed him would gain more ground.

Unacceptable. Nowhere near optimal. Circumstances in need of change.

Mind churning, Halál flipped up and over, getting into position as his flight slowed. The vortex contracted around him. A pinprick of light expanded in the gloom, widening into a circle. Gaze locked on the opening, he spotted familiar terrain beyond the mist. A thinning forest, icy branches reaching for sunny skies. Jagged rock jutting from sheer cliff faces. Sloping valleys rising to meet snowcapped mountain peaks. Thick castle walls came into view. Muscles tense and body ready, he braced, preparing for impact. Any moment now. Just a few more seconds and—

The vortex funneled into a curve over the inner bailey and set down.

His feet thumped against slick cobblestone.

Hitting one knee, Halál bowed his head and waited for the fog to retreat. He heard his soldiers land behind him. Black tendrils released him one finger at a time, leaving him kneeling in the center of Grey Keep’s courtyard. High winds buffeted his back. As it blew across the nape of his neck, he pushed to his feet and scanned the battlements rising beyond the Keep. No one stood on the high wall, awaiting him. Which meant Valmont had yet to return home. Halál nodded in satisfaction. His first in command’s absence was an excellent sign. Adept at carrying out orders—even better at covert missions—Valmont must still be at White Temple . . .

Executing members of the Blessed.

The knowledge reassured him. The sudden urge to return to the holy city almost overwhelmed him. He cursed the vortex again. If only the magic would listen. If only he could find the key to controlling it. If only he could transport himself to White Temple and assist Valmont in the killings. But wishing and wanting never made a thing so. Practice coupled with the mind-ease of meditation, however, just might, so . . .

Time to put the day’s disappointment behind him. And start making plans for the future.

Rolling his shoulders to work out the tension, Halál glanced over his shoulder. Flame-orange eyes met his. He nodded, acknowledging his second in command.

Beauvic tipped his chin. “Your orders?”

“Gather the eleven-year-olds,” Halál said, the need for violence rising. He yearned for it more than an opium addict wanted a fix. Brutality always evened him out, and after today, he required peace . . . if not quiet. Watching the boys battle in the fighting pit would smooth out the rough edges left by a bad day. Well that, and something else too. Aye, he might owe his allegiance to Armand now, but Grey Keep and its traditions lived on. Boys would continue to be captured, kept, and trained as assassins, but for a new aim: filling Druinguari ranks instead of Al Pacii, ensuring his army grew. “Put them through their paces.”

“Hand-to-hand?”

A kernel of excitement bloomed. Halál’s mouth curved. “Round shields and short knives.”

Silent per usual, Beauvic didn’t say a word.

“Time to cull the wheat from the chaff, Beauvic,” Halál said, holding his second in command’s gaze. “Let us see who deserves to remain among us.”

With a nod, Beauvic turned toward the barracks and the boys. Halál strode in the opposite direction, toward the Keep and his bedchamber. He longed to see Beauty. Needed to stroke her fine scales and feel her weight as he watched the fight from the rooftop overlooking the pit. Combat would begin within the hour. He wanted to assess each fledgling. Determine their strengths. Assess the weaknesses. Watch every move and knife slash. Witness all the damage done and each blood droplet fall, but . . .

First things first.

He must send out the call, request an audience with Armand. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but Halál refused to hide the day’s setback. Or avoid his new master. Naught but disaster lay in that direction. The truth must be told. Questions needed to be asked and answered. Insight, after all, led to information. Knowledge equaled understanding, which precipitated power. The kind that toppled kingdoms and brought great men to their knees.

Nothing different there.

He’d lived long enough to understand every man possessed a fatal flaw. A weak spot, whether rooted in the collective interests or individual defects. He must discover each one to ensure he inflected maximum damage. Armand would supply what he required—insight and guidance, power and increased skill . . . all the spells Halál requested. An advantage to be sure, except for one thing . . .

Armand would punish him for his failure.

A great deal of agony would ensue. Halál shrugged off the certainty along with the threat. Pain wasn’t the problem. He could handle anything the dark one threw at him. But as he mounted the steps, he left nothing to chance, practicing what he would say to his new master. Bad news first. Good news second. Aye, ’twas no doubt the best strategy. Particularly since relaying the news that Valmont sat at the heart of the enemy—inside White Temple, doing exactly what Armand expected, decimating the Blessed to ensure the goddess lost ground—would improve Armand’s mood. Which without a doubt would see Halál’s punishment reduced a hundredfold.

Sliding to a stop on icy cobblestones, Cosmina took cover behind a small cottage. Back flat against its stone wall, she paused to catch her breath . . . and prayed she’d gone undetected. ’Twas hard to tell. She couldn’t hear much of anything. Her heart refused to cooperate, pounding inside her chest, making blood rush in her ears and listening almost impossible. Nowhere near optimal. Even more dangerous. Cold nipping at her, she pressed her hand against the wall of her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow.