Page 33 of Blood Slumberm

The Inquisitor’s aura betrayed surprise. Troi would wager this temple sweeper had never fought a Hesperine Gifted by Apollon and trained in combat healing by Rudhira.

Before the man could adapt, Troi yanked a decorative sword off the wall and hurled it at the mage.

The Inquisitor tried to burn through it, but this blade was no dinner knife. The half-melted sword skewered the mage in the chest, and he fell to his knees, clutching at the hilt with a scream.

“I almost have it,” Celandine cried.

Troi landed on the dais, keeping her behind him, and faced Kaion.

“There’s only one Hesperine left in Cordium,” Kaion sneered. “You must be Firstblood Troilos, failed follower of the Blood-Red Prince.”

“I haven’t failed at anything, Kaion. I’ve simply been waiting for this moment for one hundred years.”

“You’re a relic of a past age,” Rixor said, circling with a sword in hand. “No one is loyal to you any longer but the dead. All the soldiers who wouldn’t swear fealty to my forefather were executed like the traitors they were.”

The words struck Troi harder than magefire. He had longed to know his men’s fates, but the truth was far worse than never knowing.

“Time to put you in your grave where you belong,” Rixor snarled.

He lunged just as Kaion hurled a fire spell. Troi danced between the flames and the sword with Hesperine agility. At immortal speed, he crushed Rixor’s wrist and caught the man’s falling sword. Kaion snarled and flung a line of flames between Rixor and Troi.

With Rixor reaching for his dagger and Kaion focused on defending his cousin, Troi stepped. He came up behind Kaion, grasped the mage’s hair, and drove Rixor’s sword through his back.

Troi looked into Rixor’s eyes over Kaion’s head as the mage’s heart stopped beating.

A howl of rage came out of Rixor. Troi had heard that sound on the battlefield so many times, even out of his own mouth—the battle cry for a fallen brother.

“Troi!” Celandine screamed.

Two men in festival clothes held her by her arms. As she struggled, Troi caught sight of the glowing blue flames burned into their wrists.

There had been more than seven Inquisitors, and not all of them had been wearing robes.

“Don’t go—” she cried, but one Inquisitor clamped his hand over her mouth.

Troi flung Kaion’s body at his feet and stepped. Just as he reached Celandine, he felt the pressure in the air of the mages’ traversal spell. They disappeared with her before his eyes.

Her spindle fell to the ground and rolled toward Troi, coming to a halt at his feet.

No cry of fury came out of him. This pain was beyond sound and thought.

Rixor, the last living man in the room, took one look at Troi’s fangs and fled.

eleven

Rixor’sfootstepsrecededthroughthe manor. Troi’s greatest enemy was escaping. He let him go. Kaion’s blood spread across the dais toward Celandine’s fallen spindle.

Don’t go, she had begged.

Troi had failed her. Blinded by his thirst for revenge, he had broken his promise to protect her.

He snatched up her fallen artifact and cast his senses through the manor. He couldn’t feel her aura, only the flame wards unraveling across the deserted estate.

He would find where they had taken her, and he would save her, even if it got him sacrificed on Summer Solstice.

What should his next step be? The answer came too slowly to his mind. Weariness dragged at his limbs. He let out a shout of frustration. Dawn was coming. He would go back to sleep and lie helpless for hours while Celandine suffered in the Inquisitors’ prison.

He had no choice. He had to take shelter at his manor and survive till nightfall. He was no use to her dead.

---