Was Nïx steering that faction as part of her Vertas army? If so, she was steering them straight into an apocalypse. Yet she would blame the Møriør and Orion?
Few knew a fundamental truth about the Møriør: The Bringers of Doom didn’t cause the apocalypse; they heralded it.
Sian pocketed his empty flask and stood. “I traveled to that realm ages ago. I know our meeting place.”
“Then let’s be off.” Rune grabbed one of his brawny shoulders, and the King of Hells transported them to the frozen reaches of the ice demons, landing atop a snow-covered shelf.
Chill winds gusted. A waxing moon illuminated lines of warriors below them, stretching all the way to the horizon.
Darach, Blace, and Allixta were already on the ledge, along with the witch’s familiar. Curses’ whiskers were frozen white.
Darach appeared on the verge of turning, his eyes as blue as the glaciers all around them.
Blace looked as impassive as ever. One would never know he prepared to enter the fray.
Rune glanced from Blace to Darach. Had either coveted a female to distraction? Wondered if she might be his mate?
Had either been used by someone he’d desired?
“Oh, it’s the baneblood,” Allixta said as she fought to keep her hat on against the winds. “The assassin who can’t take out a single Val . . .” She trailed off when Rune rested an arrow against his lips, eyes narrowed with threat.
Silence, witch, or die this night. He might be crazed enough to do it.
Though her palms glowed with defensive magicks, she turned away from his challenge. Smart girl.
Blace told them, “We don’t know who’s listening in these rocky crags. Speak silently.” They often communicated telepathically in the presence of others. —The Valkyrie has eluded you, Rune?—
—For only so long, vampire. I have this well in hand.—
Blace raised a brow. —Then why are you in such turmoil?—
Did the vampire recognize that so well in others because he rarely felt it?
—If I am, it’ll be short lived.— Rune would celebrate this victory with an entire covey of nymphs.
Blace drew his sword, then turned to Sian. —You don’t have any hesitation about killing your own kind?— Was the vampire getting soft in his old age?
Sian readied his war ax. —The Møriør are my own kind.—
Exactly Rune’s thoughts! Sian knew where his loyalty lay. Why had Rune allowed Josephine to live after she’d taken his blood?
Because she makes me weak. He’d risked his standing among the Møriør for a female who didn’t even want him.
His alliance meant everything. Rune focused his gaze at the battalions of demon warriors below. Every one of those males was bent on defeating Rune’s brethren. On stealing victory from their grasp.
Stealing the triumph I’ve enjoyed since joining the Møriør.
Allixta asked, —This army was given a chance to surrender?—
—We always give them that chance.— Sian twirled his ax. —Let’s get this over with.—
Rune nodded. —Good warring, Møriør.— As he awaited Blace, Darach, and Sian’s charge, Rune’s thoughts turned to a memory from long ago.
He’d been target practicing in Perdishian’s training yard, growing more and more frustrated. In the distance, Kolossós, one of the first to join Orion, had been having some fit or another, so the ground—and Rune’s target—had quaked.
Orion had appeared beside Rune. “How fares this, archer?”
“I don’t understand why I can’t take up a sword and leave this bow to another.” He’d pointed an arrow at Blace, sparring with Sian. “The vampire is teaching me.”
If Rune mastered swordplay, then he could fight his half brother Saetthan on equal footing. Saetthan carried the sword of their ancestors, a weapon passed down through generations. The ancient metal had been forged in the fires of a world being born: Titania, the second of the three great fey realms.
Saetthan was rightly proud of that weapon. But then, he’d always enjoyed lording over Rune anything he’d inherited as the legitimate Sylvan heir.
Orion had said, “Could you match Blace’s talents? Become our swordsman?”
Rune showed promise. But he could never be better than Blace.
Just then Uthyr had soared overhead, unleashing a stream of fire. The gigantic dragon had flown into the flames, warming and cleaning his scales. Yet another fantastically powerful Møriør.
Orion had gazed up with his fathomless eyes, musing, “Why not take up fire breathing?”
Rune had scowled. Already he’d felt as if he didn’t belong here. Blace was the oldest vampire, filled with the wisdom of ages. Sian was the prince of hells, son to the first demon, and a second generation Møriør after his sire had died.