Empire of Storms

by Sarah J. Maas

  The tang of her blood as she sliced herself open on rock and root shoved itself up his nose. She was nowhere near fast enough.

  Lorcan opened his mouth to order her to hurry when the invisible wall snapped.

  Not snapped, but cracked, as if those beasts had cleaved it.

  Impossible. No one could get through those shields. Not even Rowan-rutting-Whitethorn.

  But sure enough, the magic had been sundered.

  The girl hit the gully at the bottom of the hill, near-sobbing at the flat expanse of forest sprawling ahead. She sprinted, dark braid thrashing, pack bouncing against her slim back. Lorcan moved after her, eyeing the trees to either side as the snarling and rustling began again.

  They were being herded, but toward what? And if these things had ripped his magic apart…

  It had been a long, long while since he’d had a new enemy to study, to break.

  “Keep going,” he growled, and the girl didn’t so much as look over her shoulder as Lorcan slammed to a stop between two towering oaks. He’d been spiraling down into his magic for days, planning to use it on the human-but-not girl when he grew bored of stalking her. Now his body was rife with it, the power aching to get out.

  Lorcan flipped his axe in his hand—once, twice, the metal singing through the dense forest. A chill wind edged in black mist danced between the fingers of his other hand.

  Not wind like Whitethorn’s, and not light and flame like Whitethorn’s bitch-queen. Not even raw magic like the new King of Adarlan.

  No, Lorcan’s magic was that of will—of death and thought and destruction. There was no name for it.

  Not even his queen had known what it was, where it had come from. A gift from the dark god, from Hellas, Maeve had mused—a dark gift, for her dark warrior. And left it at that.

  A wild smile danced on Lorcan’s lips as he let his magic rise to the surface, let its black roar fill his veins.

  He had crumbled cities with this power.

  He did not think these beasts, however fell, would fare much better.

  They slowed as they closed in, sensing a predator was waiting—sizing him up.

  For the first time in a damn long while, Lorcan had no words for what he saw.

  Maybe he should have killed the girl. Death at his hand would be a mercy compared to what snarled before him, crouching low on massive, flesh-shredding claws. Not a Wyrdhound. No, these things were far worse.

  Their skin was a mottled blue, so dark as to be almost black. Each long, lightly muscled limb had been ruthlessly crafted and honed. For the long claws at the end of their hands—five-fingered hands—now curled as if in anticipation of a strike.

  But it was not their bodies that stunned him.

  It was the way the creatures halted, smiling beneath their smashed in, bat-like noses to reveal double rows of needlelike teeth, and then stood on their hind legs.

  Stood to their full height, as a crawling man might rise. They dwarfed him by a foot at least.

  And the physical attributes that seemed unnervingly familiar were confirmed when the one closest to him opened its hideous mouth and said, “We have not tasted your kind’s flesh yet.”

  Lorcan’s axe twitched up. “I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, either.”

  There were very, very few beasts who could speak in the tongues of mortal and Fae. Most had developed it through magic, ill-gained or blessed.

  But there, slitted with pleasure in anticipation of violence, gleamed dark, human eyes.

  Whitethorn had warned of what was occurring in Morath—had mentioned the Wyrdhounds might be the first of many awful things to be unleashed. Lorcan hadn’t realized those things would be nearly eight feet tall and part human, part whatever Erawan had done to turn it into this.

  The closest one dared a step but hissed—hissed at the invisible line he’d drawn. Lorcan’s power flickered and throbbed at the poisoned claw-tips of the creature as it prodded the shield.

  Four against one. Usually easy odds for him.

  Usually.

  But he bore the Wyrdkey they sought, and that golden ring he’d stolen from Maeve, then given to and stolen from Aelin Galathynius. Athril’s ring. And if they brought either to their master…

  Then Erawan would possess all three Wyrdkeys. And would be able to open a door between worlds to unleash his awaiting Valg hordes upon them all. And as for Athril’s golden ring … Lorcan had no doubt Erawan would destroy the ring forged by Mala herself—the one object in Erilea that granted immunity to its bearer against Wyrdstone … and the Valg.

  So Lorcan moved. Faster than even they could detect, he hurled his axe at the creature farthest from him, its focus pinned on its companion as it prodded his shield.

  They all whirled toward their companion as the axe slammed into its neck, deep and permanent. All turned away to see it fall. Lethal by nature, but untrained.

  The beasts’ attention diverted for a heartbeat, Lorcan’s next two knives flew.

  Both blades embedded to the hilt in their ridged foreheads, their heads reeling back as the blows sent them clattering to their knees.

  The one in the center, the one who had spoken, loosed a primal scream that set Lorcan’s ears ringing. It lunged for the shield.

  It rebounded, the magic denser this time. Lorcan drew his long-sword and a knife.

  And could only watch as the thing roared at the shield and slammed against it with both ruined, clawed hands … and his magic, his shield, melted under its touch.

  It stepped through his shield like it was a doorway. “Now we’ll play.”

  Lorcan crouched into a defensive stance, wondering how far the girl had made it, if she’d even turned to look at what pursued them. The sounds of her flight had faded away.

  Behind the creature, its companions were twitching.

  No—reviving.

  They each lifted a strong, clawed hand to the daggers through their skulls—and yanked them out. Metal rasped on bone.

  Only the one with its head now attached by a few tendons remained down. Beheading, then.

  Even if it meant getting close enough to do so.

  The creature before him smiled in savage delight.

  “What are you?” Lorcan ground out.

  The two others were now on their feet, the wounds in their heads already healed, bristling with menace.

  “We are hunters for His Dark Majesty,” the leader said with a mock bow. “We are the ilken. And we have been sent to retrieve our quarry.”

  Those witches had dispatched these beasts for him? Cowards, not to do their own hunting.

  The ilken went on, stepping toward him on legs that bent backward. “We were going to let you have a quick death—a gift.” Its broad nostrils flared, scenting the silent forest. “But as you have stood between us and our prey … we will savor your long end.”

  Not him. He was not what the wyverns had been stalking these days, what these creatures had come to claim. They had no idea what he bore—who he was.

  “What do you want with her?” he asked, monitoring the creeping approach of the three.

  “It is none of your concern,” the leader said.

  “If there is a reward in it, I will help you.”

  Dark, soulless eyes flashed toward him. “You do not protect the girl?”

  Lorcan gave a shrug, praying they couldn’t scent his bluff as he bought her more time, bought himself time to work out the puzzle of their power. “I don’t even know her name.”

  The three ilken looked at one another, a glance of question and decision. Their leader said, “She is important to our king. Retrieve her, and he will fill you with power far greater than feeble shields.”

  Was that the price for the humans they’d once been—magic that was somehow immune to what flowed naturally in this world? Or had the choice been taken from them, as surely as their souls had been stolen, too?

  “Why is she important?”

  They were now within spitting range. He wondered how long it�
�d take to replenish the supply of whatever power allowed them to cleave through magic. Perhaps they were buying themselves time, too.

  The ilken said, “She is a thief and a murderer. She must be brought to our king for justice.”

  Lorcan could have sworn an invisible hand touched his shoulder.

  He knew that touch—had trusted it his entire life. It had kept him alive this long.

  A touch on his back to go forward, to fight and kill and breathe in death. A touch on his shoulder to instead run. To know that only doom waited ahead, and life lay behind.

  The ilken smiled once more, its teeth bright in the gloom of the wood.

  As if in answer, a scream shattered from the forest behind him.

  10

  Elide Lochan stood before a creature birthed from a dark god’s nightmares.

  Across the clearing, it towered over her, its talons digging into the loam of the forest floor. “There you are,” it hissed through teeth sharper than a fish’s. “Come with me, girl, and I will grant you a quick end.”

  Lies. She saw how it sized her up, claws curling as if it could already feel them shredding into her soft belly. The thing had appeared in her path as if a cloud of night had dropped it there, and had laughed when she screamed. Her knife shook as she raised it.

  It stood like a man—spoke like one. And its eyes … Utterly soulless, yet the shape of them … They were human, too. Monstrous—what terrible mind had dreamed up such a thing?

  She knew the answer.

  Help. She needed help. But that man from the stream was likely dead at the claws of the other beasts. She wondered how long that magic of his had held out.

  The creature stepped toward her, its muscled legs closing the distance too quickly. She backed toward the trees, the direction she’d come from.

  “Is your blood as sweet as your face, girl?” Its grayish tongue tasted the air between them.

  Think, think, think.

  What would Manon do before such a creature?

  Manon, she remembered, came equipped with claws and fangs of her own.

  But a small voice whispered in her ear, So do you. Use what you have.

  There were other weapons than those made of iron and steel.

  Though her knees shook, Elide lifted her chin and met the black, human eyes of the creature.

  “Careful,” she said, dropping her voice into the purr Manon had so often used to frighten the wits out of everyone. Elide reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling out the shard of stone and clenching it in her fist, willing that otherworldly presence to fill the clearing, the world. She prayed the creature wouldn’t look at her fist, wouldn’t ask what was in it as she drawled, “Do you think the Dark King will be pleased if you harm me?” She looked down her nose at it. Or as best as she could while standing several feet shorter. “I have been sent to look for the girl. Do not interfere.”

  The creature seemed to recognize the fighting leathers then.

  Seemed to scent that strange, off scent surrounding the rock.

  And it hesitated.

  Elide kept her face a mask of cold displeasure. “Get out of my sight.”

  She almost vomited as she began stalking toward it, toward sure death. But she stomped along, prowling as Manon had so often done. Elide made herself look up into the bat-like, hideous face as she passed. “Tell your brethren that if you interfere again, I will personally oversee what delights you experience upon Morath’s tables.”

  Doubt still danced in its eyes—along with real fear. A lucky guess, those words and phrases, based on what she’d overheard. She didn’t let herself consider what had been done to make such a creature quake at the mention.

  Elide was five paces from the creature, keenly aware that her spine was now vulnerable to those shredding claws and teeth, when it asked, “Why did you flee at our approach?”

  She said without turning, in that cold, vicious voice of Manon Blackbeak, “I do not tolerate the questions of underlings. You have already disrupted my hunt and injured my ankle with your useless attack. Pray that I do not remember your face when I return to the Keep.”

  She knew her mistake the moment it sucked in a hissing breath.

  Still, she kept her legs moving, back straight.

  “What a coincidence,” it mused, “that our prey is similarly lamed.”

  Anneith save her. Perhaps it had not noticed the limp until then. Fool. Fool.

  Running would do her no good—running would proclaim the creature had won, that it was right. She halted, as if her temper had yanked on its leash, and snapped her face toward the creature. “What is that you’re hissing about?”

  Utter conviction, utter rage.

  Again the creature paused. One chance—just one chance. It’d learn soon enough that it had been duped.

  Elide held its gaze. It was like staring a dead snake in the eyes.

  She said with that lethal quiet the witches liked to use, “Do not make me reveal what His Dark Majesty put inside me on that table.”

  As if in response, the stone in her hand throbbed, and she could have sworn darkness flickered.

  The creature shuddered, backing away a step.

  Elide didn’t consider what she held as she sneered one last time and stalked away.

  She made it perhaps half a mile before the forest was again full of chittering life.

  She fell to her knees and vomited.

  Nothing but bile and water came out. She was so busy hurling up her guts with stupid fear and relief that she didn’t notice anyone’s approach until it was too late.

  A broad hand clamped on her shoulder, whirling her around.

  She drew her dagger, but too slowly. The same hand released her to slap the blade to the grass.

  Elide found herself staring into the dirt-splattered face of the man from the stream. No, not dirt. Blood that reeked—black blood.

  “How?” she said, stumbling away a step.

  “You first,” he snarled, but whipped his head toward the forest behind them. She followed his gaze. Saw nothing.

  When she looked at his harsh face, a sword lay against her throat.

  She tried to fall back, but he gripped her arm, holding her as steel bit into her skin. “Why do you smell of one of them? Why do they chase you?”

  She’d pocketed the stone, or else she might have shown him. But movement might cause him to strike—and that small voice whispered to keep the stone concealed.

  She offered another truth. “Because I have spent the past several months in Morath, living amongst that scent. They seek me because I managed to get free. I flee north—to safety.”

  Faster than she could see, he lowered his blade—only to slice it across her arm. A scratch, barely more than a whisper of pain.

  They both watched as her red blood surged and dribbled.

  It seemed answer enough for him.

  “You can call me Lorcan,” he said, though she hadn’t asked. And with that, he hauled her over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes and ran.

  Elide knew two things within seconds:

  That the remaining creatures—however many there were—had to be on their trail and closing in fast. Had to have realized she’d bluffed her way free.

  And that the man, moving swift as a wind between the oaks, was demi-Fae.

  Lorcan ran and ran, his lungs gobbling down great gulps of the forest’s stifling air. Slung over his shoulder, the girl didn’t even whimper as the miles passed. He’d carried packs heavier than her over entire mountain ranges.

  Lorcan slowed when his strength at last began to flag, spent quicker thanks to the magic he’d used to get those three beasts into a stranglehold, battering past their natural-born immunity to it, then kill two while he pinned the other long enough to sprint for the girl.

  He’d been lucky.

  The girl, it seemed, had been smart.

  He jogged into a stop, setting her down hard enough that she winced—winced and hopped a bit on that hurt ankle. He
r blood had flowed red instead of the reeking black that implied Valg possession, but it still didn’t explain how she’d been able to intimidate that ilken into submission.

  “Where are we going?” she said, swinging her pack to pull out her canteen. He waited for the tears and prayers and begging. She just unscrewed the cap of the leather-coated container and swigged deep. Then, to his surprise, offered him some.

  Lorcan didn’t take it. She merely drank again.

  “We’re going to the edge of the forest—to the Acanthus River.”

  “Where—where are we?” The hesitation said enough: she’d calculated the risk of revealing how vulnerable she was with that question … and decided she was too desperate for the answer.

  “What is your name?”

  “Marion.” She held his gaze with a sort of unflinching steel that had him angling his head.

  An answer for an answer. He said, “We’re in the middle of Adarlan. You were about a day’s hike from the Avery River.”

  Marion blinked. He wondered if she even knew that—or had considered how she’d cross the mighty body of water that had claimed ships captained by the most seasoned of men and women.

  She said, “Are we running, or can I sit for a moment?”

  He listened to the sounds of the forest for any hint of danger, then jerked his chin.

  Marion sighed as she sat on the moss and roots. She surveyed him. “I thought all the Fae were dead. Even the demi-Fae.”

  “I’m from Wendlyn. And you,” he said, brows rising slightly, “are from Morath.”

  “Not from. Escaping from.”

  “Why—and how.”

  Her narrowed eyes told him enough: she knew he still didn’t believe her, not entirely, red blood or no. Yet she didn’t answer, instead leaning over her legs to unlace a boot. Her fingers trembled a bit, but she got through the laces, yanking off the boot, removing the sock, and rolling up her leather pant leg to reveal—

  Shit. He’d seen plenty of ruined bodies in his day, had done plenty of ruining himself, but rarely were they left so untreated. Marion’s leg was a mess of scar tissue and twisted bone. And right above her misshapen ankle lay still-healing wounds where shackles had unmistakably been.