Kinnivar makes a little sign with his hand. The three big guards close in on me, forming a cage of bodies that I can’t possibly hope to escape.
I know what’s going to happen next. I can sense the terrible resolve of these men. I glare at Kinnivar, who’s standing behind one of the guards. “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to do here, but when he finds out what’s happened here, Corvan’s going to kill you.”
Kinnivar just laughs, long and hard. For some reason, he finds my statement so amusing.
I step forward, trying to force my way through the guards, but it’s futile. Big hands clamp around my arms. I strain against his grip, but the man’s impossibly strong.
“Stop, or I’ll break your wrists,” the guard growls.
I go still.
My arms are yanked behind my back.
Irons are clamped around my wrists. The shackles are wide and cold, and the feeling of metal against my bare skin makes me slightly nauseous.
A thought occurs to me. He’s far away, but with his vampiric hearing, Corvan might be able to detect my voice.
“Corvan!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Help me! They—”
A big hand clamps over my mouth. I bite down. He tastes of salt and bitterness. His hand smells like blade-oil. I nearly retch.
My teeth don’t even break his skin.
They stuff my mouth with foul-tasting rags and tie a strip of cloth across my face to prevent me from crying out.
I can only hope that Corvan heard me.
I can only hope he’s going to destroy these bastards.
I’ve never wished for someone’s death before—not even my father—but now I pray that he kills them all.
Especially Kinnivar. That traitorous bastard.
Anger burns inside me as I think about the way Kinnivar’s betrayed him. His own man, supposedly loyal, has turned around and is taking me to Goddess-knows-where.
Every fiber of my being wants to fight them, but I force myself to be still. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing my distress.
I don’t want to give them any reason to hurt me.
One of the guards pushes me in the back. “Walk,” he grunts.
My arms are secured so firmly they feel like they’re about to be pulled out of their sockets. The rope bindings are uncomfortably tight, putting pressure on my arms through the thick fabric of my jacket.
Where are they taking me?
A dozen possibilities flit through my mind. Is Kinnivar working for one of Corvan’s enemies? Someone in the capital? Corvan had hinted there were people who didn’t want us to marry.
Do they know about my potential?
Do these men want to take me as a hostage, to use me to extract something from Corvan? Or do they want to manipulate my powers?
I trudge forward, acutely aware of the threatening presences behind me.
The floor slopes downwards. We’re going deeper underground.
I glare at Kinnivar’s broad back, despising him. Why betray Corvan like that? After the steadfast loyalty shown by Kaithar and the other men, it’s the last thing I’d expected.
Quietly, I seethe. And I fiercely wish the mysterious powers the Khaturians spoke of were mine to wield. I wish I was strong right now, but I’m not.
I’m powerless once again.
If only I knew how to break the seal.
But for that, I’d need Corvan’s blood.
All I can do for now is follow, and hope that Corvan comes for me before something terrible happens.
41
CORVAN
Tired, my throat burning with thirst, my nostrils filled with the stench of corruption and decay, I make my way through the castle gates, my footsteps heavy on the cold stone.
I’m filthy.
My clothing is stained with debris from undead bodies. Gunk. Serum. Whatever this foul shit is. They don’t bleed, their bodies just turn to mush when you sever their limbs and heads.
I don’t know how many I’ve felled; hundreds, thousands, even.
That’s how many dead men came down from the mountains. After a while, I started to recognize them. The features. The uniforms. My very own insignia.
My very own dead.
They’re the men that were killed in the Northern War. Over the past few years, we tried to retrieve as many of the bodies as we could, but there were those that lay hidden in the snowdrifts, or high up on the mountains.
I refused to send my men to areas that are too treacherous—where the risk of death is higher than the chance of retrieving the bodies.
Now, someone’s animated them.
I’ve read about this. The darkest of all the occult magics.
Necromancy.
Which idiot has dared to animate these bodies and use them against me? Who would be so contemptible as to disrespect these corpses; to use them as puppets against me?
What makes it so much worse is that some of the dead are just killed. My men. Found in the snow outside the castle walls. The first time, they were killed by the undead. The animated dead resort to crude methods. Biting. Impaling. Tearing off limbs and gouging out eyeballs. They’re monstrously strong.
Some of my men were killed.
Not once, but twice.
The second time, they were felled by me. I couldn’t let myself show even the slightest hesitation or shred of misplaced sympathy.
Their bodies were still warm, but their eyes were soulless and unblinking.
I’ve discovered that’s one way to tell the dead from the living. Those whose bodies are still warm and fresh—from afar, it’s so hard to tell the difference.
But the undead don’t blink.
For the first time in a long time, my footsteps feel heavy. My limbs are drained of strength.
I’m weary.
The thirst is growing stronger and stronger, to the point where my vision is starting to blur, and a red haze descends across my sight, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the only thing that can satisfy me right now is her.
And ever since she invited me into her bed, my need to drink from her has been intertwined with my desire to fuck her.
I drop my face into my hand and massage my temples. Goddess, I even have a headache now. The soft, familiar sound of footsteps makes me look up.
“Kaith,” I say softly as my commander approaches. He’s still wearing his steel-plated battle armor. A big war-axe is slung across his back, stained with the grey-black filth of the undead.
“Corvan.” He acknowledges me grimly. “That was hard going. We caught a few stragglers on the way in, but the horde’s been completely wiped out.”
“Are you injured?” I look him over in concern. The armor-plate on his left arm has been damaged. There are puncture marks in the steel, stained with blood.
“Lycan bite,” he grunts. “Bastard’s dead now.”
“Shit.” Almost inevitably, a lycan bite will lead to madness. There’s no known cure, magical or otherwise.
And Kaithar surely knows this.
The only thing I can think of is…
“Quickly,” I urge, reaching for a dagger at my waist. I make a deep cut across my left palm and offer it to him. “Drink.”
Kaithar looks at me with some trepidation. “I can’t—”
“You won’t turn into the likes of me. But this blood heals bodies remarkably fast and counters magic. Better to take rather than be left wondering. I’ll take you to Ciel immediately and consult with the Khaturian shamans.”