Lluava refused to lose her partner. Biting down on Varren’s arm, the tigress jerked him toward herself, pulling him out of range of the blade’s swing. She tasted the coppery warmth of his blood as it oozed between her teeth, and felt his veins pulsing with every heartbeat.
Varren cried out from a combination of shock and pain yet clung to his sword. That was good, she thought, for he would need it in the moments to come. Unwilling to dwell on the injury she had inflicted upon Elysia’s king, Lluava lunged at Níᵭingr.
The brute would have cloven her head in two had she not instinctively skirted the move. The cracking sound of shattering marble reverberated among the stone walls. Lluava and Varren were forced to retreat farther into the temple.
Entering the inner sanctum, they cautiously circled their massive opponent. Níᵭingr spoke again, this time to Varren. His voice was as cold and merciless as an ocean storm. “More’ll come. More’ll always come, ’til th’ land is under th’ rightful rule.”
Sword in hand, Níᵭingr dropped to all fours and charged Lluava. The tigress crouched and sprang over the living battering ram before he could mow her down. With a burst of extraordinary energy, he ran a third of the way up the side wall, pushed off, and flipped backward over his two opponents, landing on his feet to face the perplexed expressions of Varren and Lluava.
Once again, Níᵭingr spoke to Varren, as if Lluava were too bestial to understand language. “When the emperor gets word of what happened ’ere, more’ll be sent, in far greater numbers.”
This news boded ill for Elysia. Lluava hissed, “So you aren’t the only commander of your empire’s armies—there are others. Berserkers and such.” Partly assuming, partly trying to tease out information, Lluava waited to see if Níᵭingr would respond.
He did, but not to her. Níᵭingr’s eyes never left the king. He refused to acknowledge Lluava in any manner. “You’ll be brought down and beaten, and those that survive’ll be enslaved. Your pets’ll all be butchered. Emperor Einherjar’ll not stop ’til he has reclaimed this land. Nor’ll I.”
Lluava took a steady breath and shifted back. She could hear droplets of blood splattering on the polished floor and various heartbeats. Thump-thump. The tang of sweat tickled her nose, along with the pervasive odor of incense burned here days ago. Thump-thump. She ran her tongue over her sharpened teeth. Thump, thump. Her slitted pupils registered everything around them.
Thump. Thump.
Níᵭingr swayed slightly from side to side. His gaze finally focused on Lluava and her gold-ribboned skin. The massive void was unreadable to her, unpredictable. Nonetheless, she formed a plan. Well…more like various plans.
Almost as if she had double vision, Lluava could see every possible move and its outcome simultaneously. Each result birthed other possibilities. Endless choices. Lluava moved toward Níᵭingr, not with a specific path in mind but with every option open. She knew what would happen if Varren struck first, or if she did. She foresaw every variation of movement that Níᵭingr could conceive, spun from innumerable beginnings. Even if she did not know which course of action would be taken, she would still be able to control the outcome.
In a blur of weaponry and skill, the three figures met at almost the same time. Brilliant light poured through the open doors and the small windows that clung to the roofline, casting impressive shadows on alcoves that had once held relics and statues.
There was no flow of movement, no back-and-forth motion like the rocking of the sea, yet a choreographed pandemonium ensued. Chaos to the point of perfection. Varren’s sword just missed the Úlfhéðnar’s Achilles tendon as the king, lying flat on the ground, rolled out of the way of a counterstrike. Lluava’s platinum-blond hair swirled around her eyes as she bent backward to escape the swinging, serrated blade. Níᵭingr skewered only the shadow of a woman turned tigress turned woman again.
Ivar strode forward and Varren retreated. The Úlfhéðnar kicked the weakening man, who stumbled toward the rear of the room. Varren lurched behind the large, three-foot high pedestal that had once held the statue of Giahem, but the giant Raider effortlessly vaulted onto the base and then jumped down on its far side.
Considering the speed of Níᵭingr’s attacks and Varren’s limited maneuverability, Lluava foresaw that all scenarios would end the same way—with the king’s death. What was she missing?
With Varren in the Úlfhéðnar’s line of sight, Lluava could not hesitate. She sprang onto Níᵭingr’s back and dug Issaura’s Claws in deeply behind his shoulder blades. Black liquid oozed from the wounds and soaked into her clothes. Still, the outcome had not changed.
Lluava pulled back on the right-hand Claw, causing Níᵭingr to step back as if pulled by an invisible force. He tried to shake her off and lunged toward the king. Using all her strength, she ripped the left-hand Claw free of the dark musculature. The Úlfhéðnar’s attack slowed, but not fast enough.
There was a clatter as Varren dropped his sword; the useless weapon rocked slowly to a stop. He extricated his wounded arm from the Úlfhéðnar’s serrated blade. The king had not been killed, not yet, but he was bleeding freely, and his fighting arm was all but useless. There was no time to retrieve his weapon. The Raider’s free fist caught Varren on the jaw so hard that he crumpled to the ground.
With a roar, Lluava transformed, clawing and biting her victim. But this creature did not react like other prey. Ignoring his wounds, Níᵭingr reached around with both hands and grabbed hold of Lluava’s large, feline form. His ugly weapon fell to the stone floor. In mere moments, the tigress had been dislodged and thrown backward, slamming into the pedestal. The sharp angle of the marble edge cracked her ribs, then her body slid over the smooth surface.
With thunderous steps, Níᵭingr leaped atop the stone block. Did he have his weapon? Lluava couldn’t see from her angle. There was only one viable option. She sprang up just as the brute reached her; the tigress’s body collided with his, and they both fell. Lluava’s felid form struggled to pin Níᵭingr down.
The glint of a sword was accompanied by the slashing sound of a blade slicing through flesh and cutting through bone. Blood spewed into the air. In the sudden stillness, only the spurting of the horrific wound was heard with each beat of the heart.
Chapter 40
The End of Honor
The bloody puddle grew. Twitching twice, the Úlfhéðnar accepted his fate. The survivors watched, grimly awed.
Varren had severed the head of Níᵭingr from his shoulders. It rolled off the pedestal and into a dark corner of the room, eyes still glaring at a victim never to come. The corpse’s blue-black flesh began to regain its normal hue, revealing black tendrils of stained veins.
Slowly, the tigress moved off the body. Her vision returned to normal, and she shifted.
Lluava stepped closer to examine the heinous weapon left on the pedestal. It took all her might to lift the weighty handle and gruesome pommel of the skeletal sword. Níᵭingr would not take this with him to his hell.
Varren, pale from loss of blood and shock, leaned against the pedestal for support as he struggled to retrieve his blade and wipe it down.
In that moment, the goddess failed her.
Without warning, Níᵭingr’s hands were at Varren’s throat, choking the life from him. In a single fluid movement, Lluava thrust the monstrous sword straight into Níᵭingr’s chest, obliterating his heart. The corpse fell limp for the final time, a blood offering on a makeshift altar.
Varren doubled over, gasping for air and gripping his bleeding arms. Seeing him wracked in pain, Lluava suddenly felt her own. She cried out and almost collapsed onto him. Her shoulder, thigh, and broken ribs were serious injuries, but she had survived the horrid attack.
However, the battle was not over. Beyond the barricade, the Raiders continued to fight, unaware that their commander was dead. More lives would be lost before the war could be ended. Lluava knew what she had to do.
First, she assisted Varren. The large gash in hi
s right arm was severe and would need to be looked at immediately. She tore lengths of cloth from his shirt and applied a tourniquet to the wound. It was hard to tell whether his shirt had been originally red or white. The fang marks on the left arm were not as critical, but she had been responsible and was concerned.
Next, Lluava sheathed Varren’s sword, then found Níᵭingr’s horn. It was ridged and curled like that of a ram’s but far larger. Tiny images had been deftly carved into the surface: monstrous wolves consuming men. Death and blood and doom. On the end of the horn were a golden mouthpiece and a link for attaching the leather shoulder strap.
Together, Varren and Lluava left the temple and began to search for a way to the castle. The temple grounds had remained undisturbed, sealed off from the rest of the city. Although this had worked for their original plan, their current confinement was a problem.
Lluava considered the king’s injuries. His continuing blood loss would be fatal if he did not receive proper care soon. Along with pain, she felt fear take root in her mind—the fear of losing this man who meant so much to her.
“Can you climb?” she asked, as she stared at the wall of debris.
“I can try,” he replied. His determination had intensified with the death of Níᵭingr.
After several failed attempts, Lluava realized that plan was pointless. Without the use of his arms, Varren’s mobility was too limited. What to do? While she pondered her unvoiced question, he asked, “Why not use stairs?”
Turning around, Lluava remembered that most of the barricade was composed of buildings. The simple solution was right in front of her.
Laughing, Lluava nodded. “Stairs it is.”
She selected a building based on its location. The entrances and windows had been boarded up in case any Úlfhéðinn had sought a quick escape route or an easy entry point. Lluava shifted. Using her claws, the tigress peeled back sections of wood until the opening was wide enough for Varren and for her, in human form, to slip inside.
The interior was dark. Little light made it past the shuttered windows. Lluava’s hyperacute eyesight allowed her to steer Varren to the stairwell and ascend to the top floor. They had to get on the roof, where there would be less chance of encountering Raiders. Flinging open a window, she craned her head upward, trying to devise a plan to get the injured man onto the roof.
“Stay here,” she said, as she carefully climbed onto the window ledge. “I’m going to try to signal for help.”
Varren did not complain. Lluava wondered if that meant he was weakening. In a very risky move, she jumped up and grabbed hold of the edge of the roof. The tiles were loose but did not slide off. Hoisting herself up, she scrambled to the peak and pulled out the silver whistle she had been given. Scanning the horizon, she observed various parties of men moving about on rooftops. She blew her whistle as loud as she could and waved her arms, pain wracking her body. Surely someone would see her.
Someone did.
Lluava felt something seize her leg and wrench her downward. She cried out and used the Claws to catch hold of anything to stop herself from slipping off the roof. There was no danger of that. Standing over her were four Úlfhéðinn with weapons in hand. They could have easily killed her already; why did they hesitate? Then she understood. They were all eyeing Níᵭingr’s horn. Did they realize their leader had been slain?
The moment did not last. Abruptly, they fell on top of her. Literally. Lluava felt the wind being squeezed out of her as the weight of the giant men—no, their corpses—crushed her, for each had an arrow protruding from his eyes or chest. Struggling to move, she was helplessly pinned underneath them.
Another figure stepped into sight. With the sun behind him, it was hard to make out who he was, but Lluava could sense him. Aquila squatted down and said, “As I promised.”
After shoving the dead brutes off her, the nomad helped hoist Varren to the roof. The pallor of the king’s face and his reddening bandages indicated that there was no time to waste. Following a route of makeshift rooftop bridges, the trio headed back to the castle and the waiting Obsidian Guard.
Leaving Varren under Holly’s protection, Lluava headed off to perform her final task.
***
Alcove’s room was empty, as she had expected. The ambassador had said he would not need help leaving the premises, and he was right. Unfortunately, that had resulted in two Theriomorph corpses in the hall. If only his guards had known to be somewhere else.
Grimacing, Lluava limped back out into the city and headed toward the prearranged meeting point. The chosen house was one of the taller buildings and easily viewable from Alcove’s window. That vantage point was crucial to the staged production about to take place.
The ambassador was waiting for Lluava in a room on the top floor. The space had been used for storage; furniture and chests were stacked one upon the other. After years of neglect, only a single pair of tracks had disturbed the dust.
“I see you have the horn.”
Alcove’s statement startled Lluava. The goddess within had gone dormant after Níᵭingr was killed, and Lluava’s emotions and actions were her own. She responded by lifting the horn.
“I knew you would be the one,” Alcove stated calmly. A cloud temporarily hid the sun, catching the ambassador’s interest. It was clear he wanted to wait until the light returned.
Lluava used the moment to her benefit. “You told me before that I, specifically, had changed your mind about Theriomorphs. What was it about me that did that?”
“What you are.”
“And what am I?”
“Glorious.”
Lluava did not comprehend his meaning.
Alcove explained, “I am human. Being human, I have personal interests and passions outside my occupation. As ambassador, I have been privileged to travel far and wide to meet and observe many different peoples and experience varied cultures. This is perfect for me, for I have always been fascinated by the mythologies of others.”
Moving around the room, Alcove picked up a four-barred cross representative of the humans’ religion. After looking at the tarnished item, he set it back down. “I collect religious artifacts. Upon each successful mission, Emperor Einherjar allows me to keep any relics I discover.”
Lluava began to understand where this was headed. She inquired, “I ask you again, what does that have to do with me?”
“Because of what you are…” Alcove looked upon Lluava fondly. “Your people, your belief system, is unlike anything I have come across before. In all my years, I have never found a living relic. Sculptures, medallions, sometimes even sources of water, but never a living, breathing being. I have watched you, seen what you are able to do, what you have become.” He eyed Lluava’s golden-striped skin. “You are magnificent.”
The sun returned. Alcove walked to the window, where a rope, the other end of which was attached to a chimney, swayed slightly in the breeze. “It is time.”
Lluava watched him climb up to the roof. A nauseating feeling stirred inside her. Had Alcove saved her, let her live, only so he could add her to his collection of oddities?
Rubbing her eyes so hard she saw spots, Lluava forced herself to follow Alcove. This final act was a trial in itself, as her pain had not decreased. The light was brilliant, the sun almost directly overhead. The remaining cloud cover had relinquished its rule over the sky. Lluava barely had Issaura’s Claws ready when Alcove made the first strike. He smiled at her playfully.
This was all for show, she reminded herself. A sham. Observers would see Alcove battle Theri’s Incarn, supposedly kill her, and take the horn of Níᵭingr. He would blow the instrument and signal the Raiders. They would look to the sound, see the ambassador with the horn, and understand that he was in charge. Then Alcove would collect his men and leave. That was the plan. Right?
With each strike, Lluava felt her body tiring. Her injuries aggravated her movements; the worst were her ribs. She was in no condition to continue the charade, but that had been
her agreement with Alcove. If this worked, the war would end.
By comparison, Alcove had regained his strength and was aggressively testing his skill. Several times, Lluava lost her footing and barely escaped falling to her death. The ambassador could not move to help her, for that would ruin the entire plan.
As they fought, Lluava tried to distract herself from her pain. She confirmed the terms of their agreement. “After this,” she said, dodging a thrust of Alcove’s sword, “you will take your men home.”
“With myself in command,” Alcove responded as he swung at Lluava again, “these men will be forever stationed inside our empire.”
“What of the other armies? Níᵭingr said there were others.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Alcove affirmed, “There are others. Níᵭingr was not the only military commander at the emperor’s disposal, but he was the most vicious.” Alcove must have noticed the worry on Lluava’s face. “Remember, Theri, I am the ears and eyes of the emperor. All that he will know about this voyage will come from my lips. I will make sure he is well aware of Níᵭingr’s treachery.”
The moment had arrived. Alcove drove his sword at Lluava, sliding it between her side and her far arm. From an observer’s point of view, it would look as if he had driven his weapon right through her body.
Alcove pulled his sword back, and Lluava crumpled to the ground without moving. Her assailant bent over, tugged the horn away, and pretended to shove her body off the roof. She slid down the castle-side ledge. Although she was out of sight of those fighting on the ground, she could watch the ambassador to see whether he would keep his word. If only she could keep hers.
As Alcove brought the horn to his lips, Lluava lunged and drove both of Issaura’s Claws into his back. He sputtered, dropping the horn. His sheathed sword would be of no use to him now.
She felt Alcove try to move, but the sickle-shaped blades of her Claws gripped him tightly. She whispered into his ear, “In a way, I can respect your honor. You were not lying to me. You only said half-truths. You were going to keep your word and have these men stay in your empire. But your emperor, and I also suspect you, believe that Elysia is already part of your empire by right. You were never going to leave with your army, because you believe this land is yours.”
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