Lies of Murk by Eva Chase
28
Sylas
“Nothing yet,” August mutters under his breath, as if I can’t see that nothingness just as well as he can. He shifts on his feet next to me, his boots rustling against the dry needles scattered on the forest floor.
Even at this late hour, long after sundown, the summer air is warm against our skin, laced with a sweet cedar scent. I don’t find that smell as soothing as I normally would, not when we’re braced for a treacherous attack.
All around us, dozens of our warriors and other pack-kin August has trained up to competency are waiting with us. With Whitt’s help, we’ve devised a variation on the deflection spells the Murk have been using to avoid notice, ensuring that no one can tell we never ventured much beyond the bottom of the hill when we gave the appearance of setting off this afternoon. We’ve been lurking hidden in one of Hearth-by-the-Heart’s forests with a view of the castle for hours.
“Maybe they’ve thought better of it,” Astrid murmurs at my other side. “Or we’ve misread their intentions.”
I incline my head in acknowledgment. I’m not sure whether I’d rather either of those possibilities were true than see us launch ourselves into battle tonight.
We held back from the larger search effort I’d planned for yesterday after Whitt gave his warning, concerned about an attack from Tristan’s pack. When nothing came of that, we decided to lay this trap.
By all appearances, my castle is currently vulnerable, most of my pack’s warriors absent, only my strategist who’s a fine but not extraordinary fighter as a figure of authority. Whitt even made a show of walking around the fields outside pretending to take swigs from his gifted bottle of absinthe after we left.
If Tristan’s pack means to attack, now would be the ideal time. And if they do, then I need to be here to prevent the violent uprising from succeeding. No doubt Tristan thinks he can slaughter all those of my pack who remain and then catch me and the rest of my cadre by surprise on our return, making it easy for him to claim the domain that was once his cousin’s for his own.
But if they don’t, then we’ve wasted nearly two days that might have brought us closer to finding my mate over nothing.
My gaze slips away from the castle toward the edges of the pack houses that I can make out through the trees. We instructed those who can’t fight to shore up their entrances with magic and stay inside if they hear sounds of a battle tonight. I hope that’s enough to protect them. If Tristan’s forces arrive, they should tangle with our sentries first, but I wouldn’t put it past him to send warriors to quickly deal with our weakest kin who might raise the alarm.
We had the sentries draw back from their typical patrols to remain within our hearing. I have no doubt that any attackers would aim to dispatch them as swiftly and brutally as possible for the same reason they might target the village.
The minutes slip by. An owl lets out a low hoot from a nearby tree. Our warriors stand still and on guard around us, not letting the impatience and uneasiness I’m sure they feel show. Despite my own apprehension, a flare of pride fills me at what an admirable force we’ve nurtured within our pack.
I only have a moment to enjoy that sensation when a scuffling sound reaches my perked ears. There’s a faint noise like a yelp cut off, barely audible unless you were listening for it.
My fangs spring from my gums in an instant. I jerk my hand toward the castle, and we charge forward as one being, leaping into wolf form to make the sprint at a faster pace.
At least a dozen attackers have surrounded the nearest sentry—he might already be cut down. More sounds of a struggle carry from the far side of the castle. There’s already the crunch of splintering wood as the doors are forced down. Rage sears through my veins, pulling my lips back from my teeth in a snarl.
That wretched mangy traitor of a lord. But he misjudged me if he thought I’d make this easy a target. He’ll regret ever threatening my pack, taking advantage of the harrowing situation we’re in. I’m already itching to tear him to pieces myself.
Half of our fighting force, led by August, splits off to fall on the intruders on this side of the castle. Some slash at the warriors in wolf form while others rise up as men and women to fend them off with swords.
I race with Astrid and the rest around the side of the castle, pushing my limbs as fast as I can go. There will be blood spilled here tonight, but I’ll do whatever I can to ensure most of it is on Tristan’s side.
Instead of surprising us, we’ve turned the surprise around on them. The attackers who marched on the front of the castle whirl around and flash fangs and claws, but they’re surrounded in an instant. We plow into them without giving them more of a chance to react.
For the first several minutes in the fray, I remain in wolf form, lunging this way and that, ripping through a throat here and carving open a belly there. When one of Tristan’s cadre-chosen advances on me with sword swinging, I shift with a violent stretch of my limbs, snatching up my own blade from my belt and plunging it into his chest before he can do more than nick my cheek.
One more small scar to add to my existing assortment.
I spin around, panting and gripping the hilt of my sword tight in my hand. Bodies are littered across the field in front of the castle I so painstakingly built. The sight sends a pang through my heart, but there’s no time for regrets now. More of my brethren are still struggling between those bodies.
Tristan brought more warriors than I expected—but I haven’t left anything to chance. As I spring at a woman about to skewer one of my guards, a fierce cry rises up from the lands to the south. A moment later, a brigade of Donovan’s pack-kin rushes in to help us defend our home as I did once for him. The messenger I instructed to race to his castle and raise the alarm made the journey even faster than I’d hoped.
But where is Tristan in all this? I know the assault is his doing because I recognize many of the attackers from his pack, but I haven’t seen the lord himself. Surely he didn’t send forward this offensive without even being here to oversee it?
That would make him not just a traitor but a coward as well.
The scent of blood is thick in my nose, and growls and the clang of blades fill my ears, but as I topple one more warrior, an even more alarming noise pierces through the din. It’s a bark of pain that sounds distinctly like my older brother, coming from inside the castle.
I knew a few of Tristan’s pack had breached the walls, but I’d assumed we’d caught most of them before they’d made it inside and that the guards stationed within could deal with those who slipped past us. As I burst past the front doors, I realize I’ve been at least partly mistaken.
Bodies of both my warriors and Tristan’s lie slumped in the entrance hall, and more sounds of a commotion filter from deeper within the castle. There’s another grunt that I’m sure now is Whitt, followed by a dark chuckle that makes my blood run cold.
“With me!” I holler, summoning any warrior who can break from the battle outside to follow me, and race down the hall toward the fighting.
There are a few more bodies in the rooms beyond. One of my guards is struggling with a fae man who’s slashing out with a dagger in one hand and clawed fingertips on the other. I barrel into him before he has time to register my presence, and my guard stabs him in the heart the second he’s knocked to the ground.
“Thank you,” she gasps, clapping her hand to a wound on her side that’s bleeding.
“More help is coming,” I tell her. “Find a healer as soon as you can.” I have to get to my brother before even a healer won’t be enough.
Blood dapples the wooden floor, mixed with larger smears here and there. I dash along that trail, worry clenching my chest. Then there’s a loud metallic clatter up ahead, and I know exactly where I’ll find them.
I hurtle into the kitchen in time to watch Whitt hurl one of the pots he knocked off their hooks at Tristan’s head. The lord dodges with a sneering laugh, but he stops in mid-step at my entrance, his sword still held at the ready.
August will not be pleased with the mess our intruders have made of his favorite room. Shards of broken glass and china litter the floor. A few of the cupboard doors are bashed in. And there’s blood streaked all over the place.
Perhaps a little is from Tristan, a few small wounds leaking through his clothes on his forearm and thigh, but I have to think most of it is Whitt’s. He’s favoring one leg, his trousers stained crimson from a gouge by his hip, and his opposite arm—his dominant one—hangs limp, the shoulder carved open to the bone. More blood colors his vest from somewhere on his abdomen.
He’s holding himself upright, his teeth bared and his eyes sharply determined, but his forehead gleams with a sheen of sweat. He’s barely holding himself together.
I step forward, brandishing my own sword. “It’s over, Tristan. We saw through your plot. Most of your pack-kin have already fallen. Back away, and you might leave here with your life if not much else.”
Tristan meets my gaze with a wild, vicious light in his eyes, as if the curse has come over him three nights early. But he’s fully coherent when he speaks. “You killed my cousin; you stole his domain. You sent my entire family into disarray—for what? Some dust-destined dung-body with a few pretty tricks?”
I don’t think there’s any reasoning with him, but he’s closer to Whitt than I am to either of them, and I don’t like those odds. I move carefully forward, pressing my advantage without any sudden moves to provoke him.
“Your cousin was scheming to murder one of his fellow arch-lords, as you no doubt well know, since most likely you were the one he meant to put in Donovan’s place,” I have to point out. “Talia had nothing to do with it. Don’t blame me or her for the fact that he faced the rightful consequence for his crime.”
Tristan laughs again, this time more of a sputter. “See it however you want. If I can’t have the throne Ambrose meant to give me, I think I’ll take at least one of your family down on my way out.”
Without any more warning than that, he springs at Whitt.
I fling myself around the island that’s standing between us. Whitt has grasped a heavy pan, which he swings at Tristan’s temple. But this time the lord doesn’t even bother to dodge. He takes the blow with a sharp exhalation and stabs his sword toward Whitt’s chest.
My brother could try to wrench himself backward. But he sees me coming, and he has all the faith in me I could possibly ask for. Instead, he blocks the strike with his good arm, hissing as it chops into his flesh, and shoves Tristan toward me in the same instant.
I slam into the lord and tackle him to the floor. With one harsh smack, Tristan’s sword goes spinning away. Whitt slumps against the cupboards. I bring my own blade to the traitor’s throat.
“You have me at your mercy,” Tristan says with a sickly grin, pinned beneath me. “But what if I say I—”
I plunge my sword straight through his neck before he can say the word yield.
His head rolls back to thump against the tiles. The blood that spurts up and flows out to puddle beneath him looks like justice—for all the ways he’s betrayed our people, for all the harm he’s tried to do to those I care about. Not a speck of guilt settles in my gut.
Whitt makes a choked sound that I think might have been an attempt at a chuckle. If that’s the best he can do, then he’s even worse off than I realized.
I push away from Tristan to kneel by my brother’s side. He’s nearly as bloody as the man I just killed—Heart help me, maybe even more so.
“Technically you should have given him his lawful opportunity to surrender,” my strategist says, somehow taking on his usual wry tone even with the strain in his voice.
“Technically the bastard met a better end than he deserved as it was,” I retort, and get to work muttering what spells I can to stem the bleeding.
“I have no complaints myself, to be clear,” Whitt mutters, and then lapses into silence. He’s starting to fade.
I grit my teeth, speaking the spell words faster, drawing as much of the Heart’s energy through me as I can. Then the sound of pounding feet reaches my ears.
Several of my pack-kin and a few of Donovan’s burst into the room. With a rush of relief, I spot my best healer among them. He’s probably come worried he’d need to tend to me, but I can’t say I feel any better about it being Whitt who needs him instead.
“Quick!” I wave him over. “And anyone else with any strength in bodily magic as well. He’s bleeding out fast.”
“I’ll be fine,” Whitt says, but it’s more of a mumble now.
When I’ve done what I can and have drawn back to let those more skilled do their work, I pace the kitchen, worried it won’t be enough. I have the urge to stab Tristan a few more times for nearly taking my brother from me, not that the treacherous lord would feel it.
But it turns out Whitt was right, as he so often is. By the time the rest of my pack and those of Donovan’s who came to our aid are gathering in the castle, the rest of the attackers now dealt with, all of Whitt’s wounds are sealed, and the healer has rejuvenated him enough for him to look clear-eyed around the kitchen and remark, “You’d better get me to my room to finish recovering, or August is going to finish the job Tristan started.”
“It’s better you don’t move at all for at least an hour or two,” the healer informs him. “Take your rest here.”
And so Whitt sprawls out with a pillow and blanket I have a guard fetch, dozing for a while, as the rest of us deal with the bodies and the damage done.
Tristan and his men we heap at the edge of the forest for the rest of his pack or his extended family to claim. Our own, the fourteen who took fatal wounds in the defense of our domain, we clean as well as we can and lay out by the pack village for their families to say their final farewells through the day. In the next evening, we’ll hold the funeral ceremonies.
Dawn light is just peeking over the horizon when I step back, looking down at the row of the fallen. So many good men and women we’ve lost over that family’s greedy quest for power. The sight weighs on me, all the heavier with the knowledge of how much else we still have to face.
“Come on,” August says to me softly, and leads me back to the kitchen, which looks remarkably like it did before other than Whitt still snoozing in the corner. I suppose the pack-kin August trained know how much this space means to him and took particular care setting it right.
He gets out the fixings for a hot drink, and Whitt stirs from his sleep. Our older brother glances around the room with a smile. “Excellent, I got to skip all the clean-up.”
August snorts, and I shake my head, and for a second the moment feels normal, all the loss we’ve experienced far in the distance.
Then there’s a flutter of feathers by the window. A raven swoops inside, transforming into a man the second he’s entered. Corwin’s eyes are bright with a mix of hope and worry.
“I can sense her again,” he says in a rush. “Talia. It’s not totally clear yet, but—I’m going to her now.”
