Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5) by Sarah J. Maas

They were being herded, but toward what? And if these things had ripped his magic apart…

It had been a long, long while since he’d had a new enemy to study, to break.

“Keep going,” he growled, and the girl didn’t so much as look over her shoulder as Lorcan slammed to a stop between two towering oaks. He’d been spiraling down into his magic for days, planning to use it on the human-but-not girl when he grew bored of stalking her. Now his body was rife with it, the power aching to get out.

Lorcan flipped his axe in his hand—once, twice, the metal singing through the dense forest. A chill wind edged in black mist danced between the fingers of his other hand.

Not wind like Whitethorn’s, and not light and flame like Whitethorn’s bitch-queen. Not even raw magic like the new King of Adarlan.

No, Lorcan’s magic was that of will—of death and thought and destruction. There was no name for it.

Not even his queen had known what it was, where it had come from. A gift from the dark god, from Hellas, Maeve had mused—a dark gift, for her dark warrior. And left it at that.

A wild smile danced on Lorcan’s lips as he let his magic rise to the surface, let its black roar fill his veins.

He had crumbled cities with this power.

He did not think these beasts, however fell, would fare much better.

They slowed as they closed in, sensing a predator was waiting—sizing him up.

For the first time in a damn long while, Lorcan had no words for what he saw.

Maybe he should have killed the girl. Death at his hand would be a mercy compared to what snarled before him, crouching low on massive, flesh-shredding claws. Not a Wyrdhound. No, these things were far worse.

Their skin was a mottled blue, so dark as to be almost black. Each long, lightly muscled limb had been ruthlessly crafted and honed. For the long claws at the end of their hands—five-fingered hands—now curled as if in anticipation of a strike.

But it was not their bodies that stunned him.

It was the way the creatures halted, smiling beneath their smashed in, bat-like noses to reveal double rows of needlelike teeth, and then stood on their hind legs.

Stood to their full height, as a crawling man might rise. They dwarfed him by a foot at least.

And the physical attributes that seemed unnervingly familiar were confirmed when the one closest to him opened its hideous mouth and said, “We have not tasted your kind’s flesh yet.”

Lorcan’s axe twitched up. “I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, either.”

There were very, very few beasts who could speak in the tongues of mortal and Fae. Most had developed it through magic, ill-gained or blessed.

But there, slitted with pleasure in anticipation of violence, gleamed dark, human eyes.

Whitethorn had warned of what was occurring in Morath—had mentioned the Wyrdhounds might be the first of many awful things to be unleashed. Lorcan hadn’t realized those things would be nearly eight feet tall and part human, part whatever Erawan had done to turn it into this.

The closest one dared a step but hissed—hissed at the invisible line he’d drawn. Lorcan’s power flickered and throbbed at the poisoned claw-tips of the creature as it prodded the shield.

Four against one. Usually easy odds for him.

Usually.

But he bore the Wyrdkey they sought, and that golden ring he’d stolen from Maeve, then given to and stolen from Aelin Galathynius. Athril’s ring. And if they brought either to their master…

Then Erawan would possess all three Wyrdkeys. And would be able to open a door between worlds to unleash his awaiting Valg hordes upon them all. And as for Athril’s golden ring … Lorcan had no doubt Erawan would destroy the ring forged by Mala herself—the one object in Erilea that granted immunity to its bearer against Wyrdstone … and the Valg.

So Lorcan moved. Faster than even they could detect, he hurled his axe at the creature farthest from him, its focus pinned on its companion as it prodded his shield.

They all whirled toward their companion as the axe slammed into its neck, deep and permanent. All turned away to see it fall. Lethal by nature, but untrained.

The beasts’ attention diverted for a heartbeat, Lorcan’s next two knives flew.

Both blades embedded to the hilt in their ridged foreheads, their heads reeling back as the blows sent them clattering to their knees.

The one in the center, the one who had spoken, loosed a primal scream that set Lorcan’s ears ringing. It lunged for the shield.

It rebounded, the magic denser this time. Lorcan drew his long-sword and a knife.

And could only watch as the thing roared at the shield and slammed against it with both ruined, clawed hands … and his magic, his shield, melted under its touch.

It stepped through his shield like it was a doorway. “Now we’ll play.”

Lorcan crouched into a defensive stance, wondering how far the girl had made it, if she’d even turned to look at what pursued them. The sounds of her flight had faded away.

Behind the creature, its companions were twitching.

No—reviving.

They each lifted a strong, clawed hand to the daggers through their skulls—and yanked them out. Metal rasped on bone.

Only the one with its head now attached by a few tendons remained down. Beheading, then.

Even if it meant getting close enough to do so.

The creature before him smiled in savage delight.