Stealing the triumph I’ve enjoyed since joining the Møriør.
Allixta asked, —This army was given a chance to surrender?—
—We always give them that chance.— Sian twirled his ax. —Let’s get this over with.—
Rune nodded. —Good warring, Møriør.— As he awaited Blace, Darach, and Sian’s charge, Rune’s thoughts turned to a memory from long ago.
He’d been target practicing in Perdishian’s training yard, growing more and more frustrated. In the distance, Kolossós, one of the first to join Orion, had been having some fit or another, so the ground—and Rune’s target—had quaked.
Orion had appeared beside Rune. “How fares this, archer?”
“I don’t understand why I can’t take up a sword and leave this bow to another.” He’d pointed an arrow at Blace, sparring with Sian. “The vampire is teaching me.”
If Rune mastered swordplay, then he could fight his half brother Saetthan on equal footing. Saetthan carried the sword of their ancestors, a weapon passed down through generations. The ancient metal had been forged in the fires of a world being born: Titania, the second of the three great fey realms.
Saetthan was rightly proud of that weapon. But then, he’d always enjoyed lording over Rune anything he’d inherited as the legitimate Sylvan heir.
Orion had said, “Could you match Blace’s talents? Become our swordsman?”
Rune showed promise. But he could never be better than Blace.
Just then Uthyr had soared overhead, unleashing a stream of fire. The gigantic dragon had flown into the flames, warming and cleaning his scales. Yet another fantastically powerful Møriør.
Orion had gazed up with his fathomless eyes, musing, “Why not take up fire breathing?”
Rune had scowled. Already he’d felt as if he didn’t belong here. Blace was the oldest vampire, filled with the wisdom of ages. Sian was the prince of hells, son to the first demon, and a second generation Møriør after his sire had died.
Rune? A killer from the shadows and a whore.
“Just as the Møriør are limbs of one entity, that bow must become a part of you.” Strolling on, Orion had said, “Remove the leathers from your hands.”
His archery guards? Rune had called, “My fingertips will be shredded.”
Without turning back, Orion had spoken into his mind. —Did you think to become the Archer without pain?—
Rune roused from his memory when Sian gave his fearsome roar.
Battle on.
Sian and Blace began tearing through that army’s ranks with little resistance. Rune loosed strategic arrows to cover the two, though they had no need of help. From the icy forest beyond, Darach howled, fresh on the trail of something.
Within a quarter of an hour, victory was nigh.
—Shoot the bonedeath, Rune!— Blace commanded. —West flank.—
Rune plucked a white arrow from his quiver.
Allixta warily said, —You’ve configured those magicks to make Møriør immune?— She was understandably nervous.
—You’ll soon find out.— Rune drew his bow to the limit, aiming for a boulder in the rocky field below. He adjusted for winds, gauging the direction with the sensitive tips of his ears.
Silent, he let fly his arrow.
It sliced through the air. When it implanted in stone, the icy rock exploded.
Waves of heat and pressure expanded from the target, scorching snow, striking the closest demons, then sweeping out farther for miles.
All around Sian and Blace, demons fell to their knees with yells of anguish as their bodies broke and broke. Soon their bones were dust, and they could only writhe on the ground. None would regenerate; each would become an immortal burden on what was left of his people.
The battle was over. The bonedeath always ensured a decisive—and talked about—victory.
Watching his enemies helplessly squirm made Rune even more unsettled! He understood why this needed to be done; the show of force would cow enemies and prevent future conflicts. Besides, if the Møriør didn’t prevail, all these demons would be dead anyway.
But he didn’t relish this.
Nïx had described the Møriør as pure evil, an alliance of monsters and devils. That malicious Valkyrie had long allied with the fey; would she have deemed the outwardly beautiful Magh a monster?
Sian and Blace traced from the devastation and rejoined them with grave faces. No one would celebrate this as a victory.
Rune strapped on his bow. —I wonder why Orion didn’t merely destroy this dimension in the palm of his hand.—
Dear gods, had Rune spoken that to the others?
Apparently. Orion materialized that moment, his uncanny gaze boring into Rune. Tonight, the Undoing resembled a demon, a gruesome one like Sian’s twin Goürlav had been. Standing over twelve feet tall, Orion had thick-plated skin, two rows of horns, and dripping fangs. But his chilling black eyes were the same. —This demonarchy has strategic value and is filled with resources. Do you harbor other doubts, archer?—
Feigning nonchalance, Rune shrugged. —None, my liege. If I’ve discharged my duty here, I’ll take my leave.—
—By all means,— Orion said, his demonic expression giving away nothing.
Rune was tempted to return to Josephine, but he couldn’t predict his behavior. His hunt for Nïx wouldn’t resume until night fell in New Orleans. Only one thing left to do.
He traced to the Dryads, his favorite nymph covey. They lived in a hollowed-out tree as large as an apartment building. Each nymph had her own quarters, her “nest.” They were spread throughout the interior of the tree’s limbs. The main gathering area was a bar at the base of the trunk.