Page 73 of The Fated and the Damned
Vines snaked around our enemies’ throats, choking them to death or tripping up their feet. I didn’t hesitate to gallop towards them and slice through the subdued cultists, downing every man and woman who dared stand against us.
Arló screamed, and I shrieked as I was tossed off, rolling into a ball to protect my neck. “Arló, no!” I rammed my blade through a cultist’s chest, vaulting over another one’s back and sinking my sword into his gut. My horse’s body heaved with shaking breaths, his nostrils flaring as his wide brown eyes blinked with utter fear. Blood coated his flank, an arrow sticking out of his side. “Easy boy,” I whispered, running my hands over him.
Damn it all, I would not let him die. Snapping the shaft, I pulled the arrow in one quick movement, gritting my teeth as blood spurted out from the wound. I conjured my light—the goodness of my father’s gift—and cleansed the source, spearing healing energy into my horse.
Sweat beaded on my forehead and lip, dribbling down my back and between my breasts. I was exposed and unable to protect myself, but green vines kept sprouting up beside me, forming a protective barrier from any approaching cultists.
I looked through the cracks and grinned upon seeing Erika’s face, one hand splayed towards me, her attention divided between protecting her High Witch and slaying all in her path. A warrior woman … and my bad bitch teacher.
My attention shifted back to Arló, who snuffled at my fingers and jumped up, his side healed. I sighed in relief, then slapped his flank. “Get out of here. Back to the castle.”
Not that he needed any encouragement. He galloped away with flaring nostrils.
I spotted Erika and nodded my thanks; she dipped her head in answer before engaging another cultist, her braids lashing like whips as she swivelled.
Erika’s shield crumpled to dust and I leapt to my feet, pissed and utterly done with swordplay. That was Dante’s domain. My heart was all fire.
Conjuring flames to my fingertips, I let rage bolster my strength, using the rivets in the ground to channel my scorching fire through. Everything it touched instantly lit up and cultists screamed as their robes burst into beacons, their skin purged in my unholy fire.
I lost myself to the dance, letting my beast poke its head out just enough to feel its extra power flood my system. My blood magic shrouded my shoulders like a veil, threatening anyone who came too close. A warning unheeded, apparently, as a group of cultists charged me, their eyes glazed from bloodmorphia, their skin pale and sweaty and pocked with blistering pustules and infection from self-inflicted wounds in the name of their cult.
Fuckers. I clicked my fingers and they disintegrated without a second thought, but not before something sliced my calf. I stumbled as hot blood dripped down my leg, hissing in pain as I turned to find a glaring cultist with sewed lips.
He snatched at my raised hand, curling my fingers into a fist to prevent the blast of my magic, his dark eyes menacing as he stared me down. Our swords clashed and I grunted as we struggled against each other. He was stronger than me, but high on bloodmorphia, the fool. A muffled grunt sounded from behind his lips and I clenched my teeth as I jerked my wrist and slid my sword along his, slicing his hand off.
He fell to his knees and I didn’t hesitate to squeeze with my freed fist, something unexpected happening. The beast inside me growled, the power latching on to, not only the man’s blood, but the organ pumping in his chest. I could feel it beating, feel the hurried strain of panic. So I wrapped my power around that heart and pulled it from his fucking chest.
I tossed it aside and turned.
A cultist in a bull’s head stood over me, his spear angled towards my heart.
I jumped to the side …
And screamed as the tip sank into my flesh.
THIRTY-THREE
Dante
Herscreamrippedmeapart from the inside. It didn’t matter that the battlefield was awash with the roaring of men and the crackling of magic. I’d know her voice anywhere.
I kicked my attacker, sending them soaring into a group of cultists, and swivelled, hacking off the arm of the opponent nearest me, then slashing the throat of another.
My attention honed-in on my wife, somehow knowing where she was in the undulating pit of people. I caught a flash of her red cloak, then glimpsed the bull-headed man towering over her. What was it with these sadists and bulls?
Something careened into my cheek and my head whipped back from the impact. I didn’t even flinch, just turned slowly, eyeing my prey with the biggest death stare I could conjure. The cultist flinched and I smiled darkly.
With my twin blades, I lunged forward and slashed both down, removing his head from his body. The skull rolled along the ground, Lukasz’s boot halting it. My brother’s dark skin was slick with blood, his black armour somehow even darker with the congealing gore.
“We’re losing ground,” he said, panting. “Our warriors are overrun.”
“Fall back. Pull the táltosok into ranks. It’s time.”
He nodded, then crossed the distance between us, clasping my arm. “Don’t die on me, brother.”
I grinned. “And let you have all the fun? Never.”
His answering smile was devious and he shook his head with a raspy laugh. “It’s always a competition with you.”
