Page 29 of Cursed Shadows 4

The battle cries carry, but the direction has shifted.

A frown cuts into his brow. He homes his hearing on the fresh layer of sound—of shouts and strangled cries, of the songs of swords cutting through the air, and of a thunderous break of ice.

Motionless, the shadows tug away from him, drape back into place down his arms and back, melting in with his leathers. Without them coiling near his ears, he better listens to the new battle he’s encroached upon.

And he pins the melody to beyond the greystone hill, through the mist that gathers down there. Whatever is beyond the fog, he doesn’t know. No maps can be drawn of the Mountain of Slumber. Each visit, the terrain has shifted, the topographyhas warped. Lakes change positions, cave systems collapse or disappear entirely, a crevasse on one side of the mountain changes to the other, and perhaps lower down, too.

The rotation of the seasons on this mountain makes too many changes—and so the contenders come in blind.

He feels blind. Blinded by choice.

The risk of running into that battle down there, a mist of uncertainty, is not worth the possibility that he might find a soul brother among the warriors. That is what the iilra told him. It is what General Agnar warned him of.

The mission comes first.

If it means to leave behind warriors, then that is what must be. Sacrifice a few—for the greater power of Dorcha.

Daxeel’s footing down the lava fields was steady and confident. Further down the greystone, ill at ease. But now, facing a mist of battle, his boots are unmoving.

There is something else moving.

A shudder runs through Daxeel, a flutter of his muscles, his instincts prickled.

The faintest shade of pink flickers out the corner of his eye. So pale that it is almost white, not unlike lungs freshly spilled from a chest cavity.

Daxeel’s gloved hand reaches for the weapons belt. He draws the first dagger to touch his palm—and the moment he fists his hand around the hilt, a ferocious roar splits the stagnant air.

He spins around, bringing the dagger with him.

His eyes land on the gaping black mouth of a metal-fanged faerie hound—a beast as large as himself, mid-lunge.

Daxeel moves fast. His leathers are a swipe of black over the rocks; he whirls out of the beast’s path, shadows lashing aroundhim. The chalky black metal of ateralum glitters in his fist as it cuts through the air.

He misses.

The hound lands, hard, on the greystone. Each of its paws strike down on the uneven slope of rocks—and yet it doesn’t so much as wobble on landing.

Its lips curl, and reveal the growing metallic needle-like teeth, longer than Daxeel’s own fingers, that extend from blackened gums.

It soars at him.

But Daxeel is ready this time.

He jolts forward into a kneel. His knees smack down on the hard ice, his spine falls back—and the hound soars over him.

He’s quick to cut the blade right down the gut of the hound. A spray of crimson rains down on him.

Daxeel throws himself up into a crouch. His hand fists onto the ground, the dagger firm in his other grip.

Thump.

His head is bowed, crimson coating the hair that brushes his brow. He waits, still, motionless—

Slump.

Without looking over his shoulder, Daxeel knows that the faerie hound has collapsed behind him. Dead, gutted. No longer an obstacle in his way.

Shoving his weight into his fist, Daxeel pushes up from the bloody rocks. The soles of his boots slip. Just a touch, but enough to halt him.

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