Vow of the Shadow King (Bride of the Shadow King Book 2)

Hot breath blasts in my face. Savage roaring tears at my ears.

I lie on my back, my arm shoved deep into the cave devil’s mouth as its teeth slowly break through my armor. Ribbons of saliva fall in my eyes, burn my flesh. Muscles straining, I put everything I have into forcing that awful maw back. It’s too strong, too mad. My strength falters, will soon give out.

Suddenly, all the pressure in my arm vanishes.

The beast falls away from me, staggers like it’s drunk. It lifts its head, nostrils flaring. Goes still.

I roll. Blood pumping, heart throbbing. Every instinct in my body drives me to action, to escape the devil’s clutches. Pushing myself up, I scramble to my feet, back away. My eyes fix on that creature which had, mere moments ago, threatened to rip my face from my skull. It stands perfectly still, its head lifted, its eyeless face fixed in the direction of the palace.

Slowly, I turn, gaze around at the rest of the torn-apart street. There are other devils within view. Many of them. Some poised above victims, both dead and still struggling with life. Every single one of the woggha stands in the same fixed attitude. All the savagery seems to have drained out from them. They’re like sentinels, on alert, focused on some distant point.

A snarl rasps from my throat. I find my sword, brandish it high, and drive it into the back of the nearest devil’s skull. It drops like a stone. I go on to the next and the next, killing as many of them as I can while this strange stasis holds them at bay. Somewhere, another street over, I hear voices. One of them might be Lur, barking commands, but it feels far away. I’m alone here, alone in this world of horror and bloodshed.

Grimly, I progress from beast to beast, until I’ve slaughtered eight in quick succession. As I approach the ninth, however, its grey skin ripples unnaturally. Then it throws back its head and utters a prolonged, agonized howl. My blood chills. I leap back a step, terror spiking, and brace, prepared for the next attack.

But the beast swallows its voice at last, shakes its head. Then, to my utmost surprise, it turns, flees past me. Galloping on its ungainly limbs, it speeds back down the street. More devils appear moments later, and more and more. That same stream of murderous savagery which had flowed into my city now retreats. Low, slinking, moving like shadows, they flee in total silence.

Footsteps pound on pavement. I turn to see Lur, bleeding badly from a wound in her neck. She catches my gaze, relieved to find me alive. “My King!” she cries. Her voice rings strangely. “My King, what has happened? What are they doing?”

I cannot answer. I do not know. It’s as though the compulsion which had driven them to swarm has suddenly fled their bodies. Not unlike . . . not unlike when . . .

I drag in a ragged breath. Terrible certainty fills my soul.

“Knar!” I bellow and pivot on heel. A piercing whistle, and my morleth steps out of shadow before me, eyes blazing with fire. Lur calls after me, begs for answers, begs for orders. I ignore her, swing into my saddle, and spur my mount to motion. We soar over the street, over the rooftops. Below me, people are still screaming, weeping, and the woggha continue to flee, soundless shadows intent on escape with no interest in fighting back. But the bloodbath they leave behind is terrible indeed. It feels like the end of the world. Perhaps it is. Perhaps my world has come to an end.

If Faraine is dead . . .

I bow over Knar’s neck, dig my spurs into his flanks with more force than necessary. The palace towers rise before my view, white and tall above the stricken city. I soar over the gate, yank on Knar’s reins and point him straight for that small stone balcony extending from an upper story window. Was it really only a few short hours ago when I last made this flight? I can almost see myself as I was then, ignorant of everything to come. Lifting her down from the saddle. Holding her in my arms. I feel again how my blood boiled with the need to kiss her, to caress her. A need I’d succumbed to as we gave in to the craving we both felt. Would those kisses be our last? Would my last words to her be those harsh and bitter barbs I’d flung at her in my anger and frustration?

I don’t wait for Knar to land. I spring from his saddle, land hard on the balcony. Staggering, I push the window wide and emerge into her room. “Faraine!” My voice echoes hollowly. The chamber is empty. The door is open.

I race from the room out into the passage beyond. Her name bursts from my lips, resounds against the stone walls: “Faraine! Faraine!” All around me, voices echo back, weeping, wailing, shouting. Some still screaming. I run. Down the passage, down the stairs. Past the dead, the dying, the wounded and those trying to help them. Past the carcasses of slain woggha. Faces turn to me as I go, hands reach out to me. I feel the pressure of so much need on every side.

Right now, I cannot think of anything else. Only Faraine. Only finding her. My feet carry me to the door of the infirmary. A crowd is already densely gathered here, but at the sight of me and my bloodstained face, people shuffle back, creating a path. I burst through the door, stand at the top of the stair, gaze down into the crush of people below. Ar tends to the wounded. She has several scurrying apprentices hastening to do her bidding, but they are overwhelmed.

I stagger down the steps, push through to the healing ward. The beds are all full, as is the floor. No matter where I look, I spy no glimpse of golden hair or pinkish human skin.

“Vor!” Sul’s voice draws my head to one side. My brother is propped up in his bed, which he now shares with two others. They actively bleed from gashes to their chests and shoulders. Sul does what he can, applying pressure to a wound, using his own wadded up blanket. His face is drawn, his eyes over-large in his face as he gazes across the room at me. “Are you well, brother?”

I cannot answer. I step back into the front room and grab the first apprentice who passes within reach. “The princess,” I growl. “Has the human princess been brought here?”

The apprentice shakes his head. I can do nothing but let him go, let him hurry on to his work. I stand there mute, helpless. Staring around me. Staring at all that pain, which I had failed to prevent. Pain which could have been so much worse, if not for . . .

Cursing, I retrace my way up the infirmary steps, back out into the passage beyond. I run again, suddenly certain of my destination, though I cannot say why. Some instinct, perhaps. Some knowledge imparted by the gods.

The garden feels unnaturally still when at last I step into it. I see a decapitated woggha carcass almost at once. An encouraging sign, perhaps. I know only a few warriors strong enough to accomplish such a feat, and one of them is Hael. Perhaps she is here with Faraine. Somewhere.

I hasten down the winding paths, sprint as fast as my feet will carry me. I’ve shed some of my armor by now, the bracers and chest plate, the heavy boots. Anything that might slow me down. Dimness has fallen, but the living crystals gleam bright enough to guide my way. I never slacken my pace. I try to call her name, but my throat seems to close against it. All is eerily still, without the usual chatter of the mothcats or flutter of delicate olk wings.

A bloody form lies at the base of the Urzulhar rise, surrounded by the bodies of several devils. My heart stops. I spring forward, crouch beside her, pull her onto her back. “Hael!” She blinks up at me, her eyes unfocused. “Hael, are you still alive? Answer me, woman!”

She grimaces, her brow tightening. Then she groans. “I’m alive, my King. And not badly hurt.”

She looks a mess. Her skin is slashed in numerous places, including a great gash above one eye. But she manages to pull herself up into a seated position. “Where is Faraine?” I demand. “You were to watch over her. Where is she?”

Hael shakes her head slowly. Then she twists, grimaces, and looks over her shoulder. “She—she said she needed to—”

I don’t wait for her to finish. I’m already on my feet again, sprinting up the rise. The seven sacred stones are dull this dimness, their brilliant gleam darkened from the inside out. I can almost imagine I feel a vibration emanating from inside them but shove the idea back and hasten on until I step between the towering stones and stare into the sacred circle. Stare down at that small, delicate body. Naked. Lying with her golden hair spread around her.

A little mothcat sits perched on her shoulder, its long tail draped along her ribcage, over her hips. Her skin is untorn, unbruised. White as marble. She is utterly still. One could almost believe she merely slept.

“What have you done?” The words breathe from my lips, phantoms without sound. “What have you done, Faraine?”