He leans down, speaking near my ear. “Always.”
ChapterTwenty
We travel with a fiery vengeance burning inside us. As the flames leap higher and higher in our chests, we crest the last hill, and spot the Malachites camping in the valley below.
I count the twenty tents and exhale. There aren’t too many of them. Still, it’s my first real battle in many months.
I take slow, steadying breaths as Everly and Mildred smear black paint below the eyes and mouths of the Bloodstone barbarians. As I stare at Hector, my chest squeezes at his battle marks. I jerk my gaze to my feet, yet the images of the way Mother died still fill my thoughts. The horror from that day will never fade.
Everly paints her face last, carving those thick black lines beneath her eyes and mouth. The moment she glances at me, I shake my head.
The entire world will freeze before I allow them to smudge that black paint on my face. She shrugs and swipes her hands across her surcoat.
I allowed Hector to pull me aside earlier and provide me with armor. Even though it’s stiff and foreign on my body, I’m thankful for its added protection.
The moon still clutches the Malachite’s camp in her embrace when we slip from the shelter of the forest. Hector leads the way with Hero to his right. Luc to his left.
I clutch my fingers around the hilt of the broadsword they gave me and take in gulping breaths. It does nothing to stave off the need to avenge those who fell in Tarra. To avenge Praxis’ wife. To avenge the sorrow glinting in his eyes.
Cenric sneaked into the Malachite camp before us and slit the throats of the night watch. We slip around one of their bodies, and I inhale at his vacant eyes. The sight of death never gets easier.
Hector, Hero, Luc, and Praxis attack the first five tents without anyone hearing them. The Malachites with their blue face paint don’t have a chance to reach for their weapons before a sword is plunged through their bodies.
I join the assault as a wave of angry Malachites run toward us—those awakened to the horror of our vengeance. My nerves fade as a Malachite warrior meets my steel. I find my rhythm, deflecting, attacking, and ramming my blade through his throat.
Over and over again, I meet the weapon of a Malachite. And over and over again, I send them to their graves. Blood splatters my face, my clothes, my arms, but I keep fighting.
Praxis roars as he cuts down the last standing Malachite. As the sounds of battle dim, a thunderous noise splits the night—hundreds of horses riding toward us—enough to annihilate us.
Horror slams into my chest as the riders crest a hill and race toward us. At least two hundred angry Malachite warriors.
I jerk my eyes around. We’re only thirty-three people, including the old Bloodstone woman, Mildred. She stood in the center of the action and didn’t raise a finger to help us. Somehow, the carnage never touched her. Not a single drop of blood mars her skin or clothing.
“Hero,” Hector shouts over the roar of the incoming Malachites.
The Carnelian spreads his arms wide and chants in his people’s tongue, his words rising over the thundering vengeance riding toward us.
Storm clouds appear over the Malachites and rain on them. The Malachites lose their hold on their reins and clutch feebly at their throats as they choke on the Carnelian’s water magic.
The Malachites keep coming. Too many to control.
An arrow splits the air and collides with Hero, sending him sprawling backward. I gasp and slap a bloody hand against my mouth.
Mildred moves to stand directly in the path of the approaching Malachites. She throws one of her relics to the ground, shattering it. As a thick gray smoke rises around her, she murmurs in her ancient Bloodstone dialect. “Thunder. Darkness. Skies. Mud. So much mud.”
As she repeats the words, her voice rises louder and louder. “Thunder. Darkness. Skies. Mud. Mud. Mud.”
The earth shudders beneath the Malachites. The grass disappears, leaving behind deep mud. It grabs the horses and riders, pulling them into its clutches. Down, down, down they sink until they are swallowed by the ground.
I gasp at the power behind her magic. It consumes. Devours. Annihilates.
Mildred throws her arms high and screams again. “Thunder. Darkness. Skies. Mud. Mud. Mud.”
The trees uproot and evaporate as she pulls from them to create more mud beneath the approaching Malachites. As quickly as they fall, more Malachites appear. The one in the lead yells out words in his ancient Malachite tongue, and a vine whips around Mildred and squeezes her throat.
My gaze jerks to my left as Everly lifts her broadsword, and a massive Malachite warrior knocks it away. I cry out, lurch forward, and ram my sword through her attacker’s back.
He spins around, and I scream. Louder and louder, I yell until the darkness I suppressed overtakes me. It blinds me with its fury. Its anger. Its vengeance.
