Reckoning (The Amazon's Vengeance Book 5)

by Sarah Hawke

  Then every paladin in the world would realize that their decadent order was doomed.

  “To arms!” the knight on horseback shouted into the wind. “The Temple is—”

  Marcella thrust out her hand and unleashed an arcing bolt of lightning. The knight was smart enough to have protected himself with magic, but it made no difference whatsoever. The blast of energy effortlessly burned through his barrier, his armor, and then his heart, killing him in a fraction of a second. The residual charge conducted through his body and shocked his horse an instant later, sending the beast into a wild panic. It shrieked and bucked its dead rider from the saddle as it dashed away in a random direction.

  Had the other knights been regular soldiers, they surely would have fled at the sight of their comrade dying to a literal flick of a wrist. But paladins were stubborn by nature, and they drew their swords and charged Marcella instead. The first one died as ignobly as his comrade when she pummeled him with a wave of magical force, hurling him against the temple wall hard enough to crumple his breastplate and crush every bone in his body. The second one she met blade to blade, though he was so rattled and unsteady that she casually countered his reckless assault, seized him by the neck, and drove her glowing blade straight through his chest. She stared into his wide, frightened eyes as his lifeblood drained away, knowing that the Eternal Priestess would be watching.

  “Your paladins are doomed, imposter,” Marcella said. “Order the rest of your followers to stand aside or watch them die upon my sword.”

  She released her grip on his throat and allowed the corpse to slide off her blade. The runes still glowed brightly through the blood, and she strode toward the temple’s towering double doors. The thick wood was bolstered by a powerful protective enchantment just like the rest of the structure, but it couldn’t stop a goddess any more than the knights huddled within. She lashed out with another wave of magical force, smashing the wood with the combined strength of a hundred battering rams striking at once.

  Dozens of men awaited her inside, far more than she would have expected the knights to leave behind under the circumstances. But their simple armor marked most of them as aspirants, still untethered to the Aether and its corruption. She held out hope that some of them might still be saved, but the trio of paladins leading them—true veterans, given the insignia and commendations upon their armor—immediately rushed forward to confront her.

  “Stay back!” one of them warned the aspirants as he raised his flail and shield. A gust of frigid wind surged through the splintered doorway, stirring up a vortex of dust and snow in the otherwise pristine foyer, but when the cloud cleared and the man got his first good look at the Raven Queen, he stiffened and nearly dropped his weapons. “Oh, gods…”

  “Just one,” Marcella said, lifting her sword in a salute. “Me.”

  She lunged at the knight and hacked straight down at his shield with a two-handed grip. The steel bulwark shattered as if were made of rotten wood, as did the bones in the plate-clad forearm beneath it. The knight only had an instant to scream in anguish at the sight of his broken limb before Marcella slashed open his throat with her backswing. His body hit the ground with a dull clank, and he spent his last few seconds of life choking on his own blood.

  Like the men outside the temple, the other knights could have fled but didn’t. They rushed forth to avenge their fallen comrade, and Marcella couldn’t help but admire their zeal. In a different lifetime, she and her amazon sisters would have stood their ground against impossible odds as well. The bond between true warriors was as strong as any Conduit’s tether.

  But courage alone couldn’t save the wicked from the righteous. The paladins fought valiantly and furiously, but they died as unceremoniously as the rest of their kin. Her runic blade bathed in their blood one after another, and she left their bodies twitching on the floor as a warning to the aspirants cowering behind them. They shrank back as the last paladin fell, and she swept their ranks with a pitiless gaze. She could have killed them all, too, of course—a single stroke of lightning could have snuffed out their lives in a fraction of a second—but most of them weren’t tainted by the false Conduit’s power.

  “Run back to your families,” she snarled, the claws of her left gauntlet crackling with electricity. “Tell them that Highwind is about to be reborn.”

  Marcella didn’t wait for them to scatter—which they did. She strode across the foyer and into the main hall, her lips curling in disgust at the shameless wealth and decadence on display all around her. The temple was every bit as ostentatious as she had been led to believe, from the marble statues of fallen Highlords to the sprawling murals depicting their many victories over the orcs of the Shattered Peaks during the Winter War. The Order’s arrogance might have been even more damning than the tainted power they had channeled for so many years. The Tel Bator Templar in Darenthi—warriors who also claimed to dedicate themselves to Escar the Guardian—had won victories against far more implacable foes without the corruption of magic.

  The priestess draws close. You must find her. You must harvest her power if you wish to destroy the dragon!

  Marcella winced at the sound of the voice inside her head. It seemed to grow louder every time it spoke to her, and it was becoming more ravenous by the second—ravenous…and desperate. Only her Sanctori and Senosi ever experienced this kind of primal hunger for magic.

  “Halt!”

  Her mind snapped back to the present as another paladin appeared at the end of the hall in front of the doors to the main sanctuary. The man was close to her own age, based on his graying hair and weathered face, and his resplendent armor marked him as a Knight-Commander. Given what her Senosi had told her about the current state of the Order, she knew exactly who this was.

  “I always assumed you were insane after hearing of the tortures you’ve wrought on your own people,” the knight said, shaking his head. “But attacking the Silver Temple all by yourself…you truly are mad, aren’t you?”

  “Knight-Commander Nathan Crowe,” Marcella said, slowing her gait. “A rare member of your Order without a drop of noble blood in his veins. You’re a veteran of the Winter War who was appointed to represent the Order on the Highwind Council after the death of Highlord Kastrius. You have a reputation for honor, dignity, and fairness.”

  She snorted and swept her gaze across the hall. It was narrower here than the foyer but still quite spacious, and the doors along the sides led all over the sprawling temple. But she could feel the power of the Eternal Priestess somewhere behind Crowe, and nothing was going to stand in her way.

  “My Senosi could have assassinated you a hundred times by now, but they assured me that the Echo would destroy you,” Marcella went on. “Clearly, you are stronger than they believed.”

  “Strong enough to put down a murderous despot, anyway,” Crowe said. “You underestimated us at the Silver Tower and then again with your pathetic little siege. Surrender now, and I might even ask the dragon to spare your fleet.”

  Marcella grinned beneath her mask. He was terrified of her, of course; she could feel his dread rippling through the Aether. But his bluster was meant to slow her down, not stop her. The false Conduit had assuredly summoned her servants back to the temple already. Crowe probably hoped he could delay Marcella long enough for his comrades to overwhelm her.

  He didn’t understand the power she wielded—he couldn’t understand it; not really. He was merely a mortal man, after all, and she was a goddess.

  “If you truly are a man of honor, you will order your men to stand down,” Marcella said. “I will spare as many of them as I can. Any who willingly offer themselves to me—any who cast aside the promises of false gods and false Conduits—will be reborn in righteous flame. Only I can save them from the Echo…and only you can save them from my wraith.”

  Crowe snorted contemptuously. “You honestly expect me to hand over this city to a butcher and a tyrant? After everything you’ve done? After all the innocent people you’ve sl
aughtered?”

  “There was nothing innocent about the men who ruled Vorsalos when I arrived,” Marcella said. “Or the ones who preyed upon its people from the shadows. I have brought order and justice to my city. You have brought nothing but corruption and debauchery to yours.”

  She raised her sword and pointed the tip directly at him. “Stand aside, paladin. I will not ask again.”

  “You won’t need to, trust me,” Crowe said, raising his own blade vertically in a duelist’s salute. “I will not allow you to violate Escar’s sanctum.”

  “Then you will die,” Marcella said. “Just like every other man who has tried and failed to stop me.”

  ***

  Fire rained from the sky as Selvhara prowled through the debris-ridden alleyways of the Iron District. The storm had prevented a true conflagration so far, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Aetheric flames couldn’t be quenched easily, and least not without proper magic—magic the Knights of the Silver Fist would soon lose forever.

  It amazed her that she was still able to think clearly. The moon curse had been unleashed, but it hadn’t eclipsed her reason—yet. Not that it really mattered. Elf or werewolf, she was still a prisoner in her own body, and Dathiel had no intention of letting her go.

  She could feel her master’s rage—his hunger—growing by the second. Soon Dathiel would harvest the Godsoul from the Eternal Priestess, and after an eon of imprisonment within the walls of the Pale, one of the Valathrim would finally be set free. Only the Dragon of Highwind could possibly stop him now.

  Find the amazon. Destroy the Wyrm Lord!

  The One God’s voice was like thunder exploding inside Selvhara’s skull. Even the bestial fury of the wolf’s blood couldn’t liberate her from her master’s control now; she was little more than a helpless passenger. But while she couldn’t control her own limbs, she could still feel Kaseya’s presence through the Dal’Rethi collar. In a few minutes, the amazon would be dead, and instead of nurturing and protecting the last Wyrm Lord, Selvhara would be the agent of his demise.

  She tried to scream, but nothing escaped her wolfish muzzle. Instead, she silently crawled forward until she reached the end of the alley and caught her first glimpse of the chaos engulfing the streets near the southwestern wall. The Senosi Huntresses had already assassinated several paladins and brought down a few of the protective barriers shielding the city. The wyverns had dropped crates filled with soldiers through the gaps, and Highwind’s defenders—mercenary and militia alike—were battling in the streets amidst a flurry of sleet, fog, and flame.

  For an instant, Selvhara was overwhelmed by a memory of Tir Lanathel’s fall. The attacking armies, led by an alliance of Conduits and their fanatical followers, had attacked the glorious, ancient city in a final, desperate push to end the Dragon War. She could still remember the buildings burning around her and the terrified screams of the Faetharri servants trapped inside them. She could hear the pounding boots of the human soldiers storming through the streets as they cut down every elf before them. Men and women, soldiers and laborers, nobles and slaves…

  I doomed the Wyrm Lords then, just like I will doom them again now. When I joined the Sarodihm Kalefarr, I only sought to learn the truth about the past; I had no idea what I was about to unleash. The Empire was already crumbling by the time I was born, and accurate recollections of the Godswar and the Reckoning were as rare as they are today. Back then, I truly believed that restoring the knowledge and history of the Fallen Gods would save the Empire, not destroy it.

  Her reverie shattered when Jorem flashed overhead in pursuit of more wyverns. Flames spewed from his mouth, consuming the beasts and their riders. The dragons defending Tir Lanathel had fought just as hard, and they also might have prevailed if not for her foolishness. Now, a thousand years after the fall, Jorem was destined to suffer the same fate.

  And once again, Selvhara would unwittingly destroy everyone and everything she loved.

  “Watch out, Red!”

  Valuri’s husky voice rang through the streets, and Selvhara turned just in time to watch the Huntress leap off a burning roof and fire her twin repeating crossbows in midair. The bolts rained down upon a group of Vorsalosian soldiers, piercing their hearts and throats with brutal precision. Valuri landed on her feet with the same cool grace, seemingly unaffected by the ice or wind. Her glowing green eyes pierced through the fog like twin spectral lanterns.

  About ten yards behind her, Kaseya was busy battling a woman clad in full golden armor, their duel lit by the glow of the blaze. The Inquisitrix’s Sanctori fought with spears rather than swords, and ostensibly she possessed the same strength and powers as the Senosi. Even still, the amazon was holding her own; the two women clashed back and forth down a narrow street while flames engulfed the rooftops and wyverns streaked by overhead.

  Selvhara crouched behind a pile of smoldering timber. Her bestial claws curled at her side, and her hind legs coiled like springs as she waited to leap into battle the instant she spotted an opening. If not for the fog and fire and general chaos, a werewolf would have been incredibly easy to spot, but no one seemed to have noticed her presence yet. The wolf’s blood boiled inside her, hungry for a kill, driven near frenzy by the scents of death all around, and she found herself hoping that Dathiel would lose his patience and strike. Valuri’s silver blade was the only hope of saving Jorem now…

  But the Huntress had problems of her own. More soldiers rushed down the street to engage her, and after firing off a few more bolts, Valuri holstered her crossbows and flicked out her claws and wrist-blade. She lunged at the enemy with a ferocious cry, as fearless as any dragon, and soon she was little more than a blur of silver steel and black leather. Yet for every soldier she cut down, five more seemed to emerge from the darkness.

  Kaseya had better luck. Despite the Sanctori’s superior strength and reach, the amazon quickly took control of their duel. Time and again, she slipped inside her enemy’s defenses, scoring hit after hit until the Sanctori’s golden armor was stained with blood. The vatari dust tattooed into the woman’s flesh beneath the armor kept her on her feet, however, and in theory she could eventually regenerate, while Kaseya could not. The only way for the amazon to prevail was to score a quick, clean kill.

  And that was exactly what she did.

  The maneuver was so flawless, so precise, that even a true Dal’Rethi Blade Dancer would have been proud. In one moment, the Sanctori was driving the amazon backward with her spear; in the next, Kaseya dropped into a crouch, rolled across the frozen street, and then sprang back to her feet. Her sword cleaved flesh from bone in a single sweeping slice, and the Sanctori’s golden helmet rolled across the street while her headless body clattered listlessly onto the snow-covered ground.

  Now, Sarodihm!

  Selvhara’s body leapt out of her hiding spot before her mind fully realized what was happening. The smell of blood in the air brought the wolf’s hunger to a fever pitch, but the One God was still in full control. She sprinted forward, the yellow glint of her bestial eyes reflecting in the darkened windows as she moved. She could feel the amazon’s fatigue and relief through the collar, and between the crackling flames consuming the rooftops, the clashing of swords down on the street, and the roar of wyverns in the sky, Kaseya didn’t have a chance in the Pale of hearing Selvhara coming.

  Unless I do something.

  Selvhara couldn’t control her body—fighting the One God’s will had proven futile time and again, and the wolf’s blood demanded a fresh kill as vehemently as her master. She couldn’t fight Dathiel and her curse at the same time…but perhaps she didn’t need to. What if she encouraged the wolf’s blood frenzy instead of fighting it? What if she fully surrendered to the madness of her curse?

  She had only an instant to choose. And though it went against every impulse, though part of her screamed that it was yet another foolish mistake, Selvhara reached for the place where the wolf’s curse resided…and embraced it.

  Mere seconds befo
re Selvhara pounced upon the amazon, the wolf’s blood took over, howling through her like a searing hurricane. She snarled in anticipation of a feast, and her muzzle opened and unleashed a bestial roar so loud it cut through the din of battle—and alerted Kaseya to her presence. The amazon whirled around at the last moment and raised her shield—

  Just in time. Selvhara slammed into the steel bulwark like a battering ram. She bowled the amazon over but couldn’t strike with her claws or her teeth; Kaseya rolled onto her back and kicked up her knees, effectively turning Selvhara’s momentum against her. The druid flipped head over tail and crashed down onto the street several yards away.

  “Zor kalah,” Kaseya breathed, her blue eyes wide in horror. “Selvhara?”

  Her ambush had been thwarted, but Selvhara was out of tricks. The wolf wouldn’t relent until its prey was dead, and she couldn’t stop her body from lunging forward to strike a second time. Kaseya sprang to her feet and expertly blocked slash after slash with her shield, but she was no match for the power and fury of a lycanthrope. Selvhara was faster, stronger, and virtually invincible—every time the amazon’s sword sank into her flesh, the wound healed mere seconds later. Only silver or sorcerous flame could stop the wolf now, and Kaseya had neither at her disposal.

  Thankfully, Valuri did.

  The Huntress came flying out of the fog, her silver wrist-blade glinting, and she would have impaled Selvhara right then and there if not for the druid’s heightened senses. The blade still slashed across her shoulder as she attempted to dodge, however, and pain seared through Selvhara’s body as if she had just dipped her entire arm in molten lava.