Chapter 6

It was the fortieth night of Kilayel. Under the shelter of a tall pine, Ayana’s horse stood like a statue on a grassy pedestal as she surveyed her twilit surroundings. Her eyes swept across the frothing ford and the wooded slope on the opposite bank of River Endor. A cool breeze whispered and rustled through the leaves like a host of lost souls.

“The Ford of Arnoth,” Iezabel commented, urging her steed toward the shallow waters. “We are crossing into Lycanth.”

Ayana followed, the two vyáha bringing up the rear. The water swirled around the stones and pebbles, tinkling the melody of nature, disturbed only by the plash and clatter of hooves. Icy vapors rose from the river and weaved into a blanket of mist over its surface. The cold tendrils seeped through her clothes, sending sharp tingles along her skin. She braced herself as her white steed heaved and pulled itself onto the rugged bank.

Dry land at last.

It seldom rained in Lycanth. The clouds that veiled the Vanthesian skies during the day did not extend beyond the Endor.

The two vyáha of the Royal Guard pulled on the reins and stopped their steeds. “We have to turn back, Lady Ayana,” one of them said. “It will be dawn soon. Sirena’s cloak will not protect us from Zhurog in the land of wolves.”

She nodded. If sunlight touched the pure-blooded vampyres, it would burn their skin and incinerate their flesh. “You have my gratitude-”

“On guard!” Iezabel’s voice reached them moments before a dark figure dropped to the ground, mere paces in front of Ayana.

She froze, wide eyes fixed on the creature before her—the burned, shadowy mess of a face under that dark tattered hood, and from that roiling darkness, its fiery eyes blazing like molten coal. Fear clutched her heart, turning her insides into liquid. She had seen them once before; on the day her village had burned to the ground.

The vlarik drew its sword, the blade of which was darker than that of Zivnâr. Before Iezabel or her guards could react, two more appeared on either side, detaching themselves from the murky foliage astride their steeds.

Ayana dug her heels into her horse’s flanks, but to no avail. It had turned to stone for all its movement.

She dismounted and edged away from the creature, a trembling hand reaching for the hilt.

“We meet again, Ayana of Iliria,” it said in a voice as smooth as velvet. “Our master sends his regards.”

“No.” It could not be the same one… It could not be…

Ayana’s breath caught in her lungs as the traumatic memories flooded her mind—the bloody standard bearing the dreaded insignia of a crow with an eyeball in its beak, the screams that filled the air as they slaughtered the villagers in cold blood, Keîn Záka reaching for her with a black blade protruding from his chest, and the hooded shadow with eyes of flame standing over his corpse.

The creature pointed with its sword, the tip aimed at her heart. “Your time has co-”

Iezabel’s sleek blade shot out from its mouth like a tongue of steel, a moment before her spiked boot connected with the vlarik’s back.

The dead juniper at the water’s edge groaned under the impact as the creature smashed into its trunk and tumbled to the ground amidst a shower of dessicated branches.

The two vyáha leaped off their steeds and drew their swords. Menacing growls resonated through their helms as they hurled themselves upon the dark creatures, blades tearing through the air like silver lightning.

The black steeds reared in terror, almost throwing off their riders. But the vlarik were quick. With one fluid movement, they were standing on the ground, gloved fists clenched around the hilt of their naked blades as they countered the deadly blows.

The first vlarik was back on its feet, dark blood pouring from its mouth. “We cannot be killed, but by our maker,” all three said in unison.

“We’ll see about that.” Iezabel flicked her sword, shaking off the dark fluid from the blade.

Ayana retreated toward the water, her mind still in turmoil. Zivnâr hung limp in her hand, its tip tracing a furrow in the ground. She had to get away from them. She had to…

She froze when her eyes fell upon the fourth vlarik. It stood on the opposite bank, garbed in its cloak of darkness.

“Iezabel,” she murmured, fear coiling at her heart.

The creature stepped into the freezing water and walked toward her—an accursed wraith of the night.

Ayana shrank back as terror once again wrapped her in its inescapable embrace. She managed to unclench her teeth, but all that came out was a whimper. “Lucien.”

That was when she felt it—the smallest nudge, driving away her darkest fears like the dawning sun. Her hand flew to her abdomen.

I will protect you.

She gripped the hilt of Zivnâr, the black veil of helplessness lifting from her eyes. That monster had killed Keîn Záka. It had burned her village. It had murdered her friends. It had left Iezabel for dead. And now it meant harm for her little one.

The looming vlarik stopped before her, those fire filled pits boring into her skull.

Ayana stood her ground, letting that one image envelop her mind—the dark creature standing over Keîn

Záka's corpse, its blade dripping with his blood.

Hatred and vengeance flowed through her veins as Ayana gripped Zivnâr with both hands and swung. A jarring shock zipped through her arm as the vlarik’s sword caught her blade with a resounding peal.

“Watch out!” Iezabel’s voice rang out through the darkness.

Ayana deflected its sword and ducked, moment before a steel blade buried itself between the creature’s eyes.

It grunted in annoyance, its hand reaching out to remove Iezabel’s dagger from its face. That was all the distraction she needed. Ayana concentrated all her anger into that one thrust and plunged Zivnâr into the vlarik’s chest.

A wicked laugh erupted from the churning blackness of its mouth as iron fingers closed around her neck. “You cannot kill me with a weapon as pathetic as you, Flame Hair.”

Ayana yanked at her sword, but it would not budge. To her astonishment, the sunstone on Zivnâr’s cross-guard glowed like a burning chunk of coal. The creature stiffened and let out a bloodcurdling scream as veins of molten flame slithered along the blade and into its mutilated body, incinerating it from within.

“Agh!” A sharp pang lanced through her core.

She slumped on the grass, Zivnâr dropping beside her. A metallic taste hit her tongue and she coughed, spraying the grass with blood. She steadied herself, trying to hold on to her fading consciousness.

“My lady!” Iezabel rushed to her side.

Her fallen adversary dragged itself behind her, its severed stumps leaving a trail of black blood in its wake.

Iezabel picked Zivnâr and drove it through the back of its skull, pinning it to the ground. The creature disintegrated into a pile of smoldering embers.

She tossed the sword to one of the vyáha. “Kill them!”

The vlarik gave one look at the smoking ashes that were their companions and bolted into the surrounding darkness, the vyáha in hot pursuit. Iezabel grabbed a water-skin from the saddle hook and rushed toward Ayana. She knelt beside her and cradled her shivering form.

“It’s going to be alright, my lady,” she whispered, wiping the blood from her chin. She uncorked the water-skin and held it to her lips. “It’s going to be alright.”

Ayana took a few sips and let out a shuddering breath. “What is happening to me, Iezabel?”