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Thirteen.
The bronze dagger caught the sunset, filled with flame as it spun through the air, its arc true and brutal. Without thought, Dom reached, and his fingers closed around the black leather grip of an Amhara blade. It was still warm from her body. His arm swept in a broad arc, fast enough to deflect two arrows as they sang from their bows. Four more passed through the air where his stomach had been half a second ago, the Amhara too slow to catch a Veder in motion. Another two arrows went wide, far off target. Their archers collapsed in the trees, clawing at their own openedthroats. The smell of blood spilled through the forest, filling the air with its sharp iron tang.
Dom winced as the last three arrows found their target. One grazed his cheek, cutting a path along the bone. The other clipped his bicep, another stinging flesh wound. The third took his shoulder, the arrowhead embedded in the hard muscle. He wrenched it free without a thought, snapping the arrow like a twig. He growled low in his throat. The centuries welled up inside him, every year of his long and bitter life boiling over.
Luc’s sword met the dagger, metal on metal, a shrieking sound as Dom rose to his feet. He towered over the smirking assassin, his cloak thrown back in a mighty flag of defiance. Dom was a thunderstorm, gathering dark and high, ready to break across the land without thought or mercy. He was a beast unchained.
Luc’s smirk disappeared.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dom tracked the thirteenth heartbeat, a familiar sound after so many days at her side. He knew her gait, knew her breath, knew the small grunt of exertion as she hurtled through the trees, tackling one of the assassins to the ground. Two more lay dead behind her, their blood on Sorasa Sarn’s dagger. She grappled with one of the Amhara women, a short-haired blonde armed to the teeth with knives of all sizes. They matched each other blow for blow, trained in the same movements and defenses. They moved together like dancers. It was a magnificent sight, but there was no time to watch. The other Amhara lunged out of the trees, their teeth and weapons bared. They fell upon them both, the immortal and the exile.
Dom bore down on Luc, using his considerable strength tohold back his sword. He kicked hard and broke the assassin’s ribs. Luc staggered back, clutching his torso, wheezing. Another arrow twanged, this time catching Dom in the meat of his thigh. The pain was fuel, feeding his anger and his resolve. He ripped the arrow out and stabbed it through Luc’s eye. The Amhara’s anguish echoed through the forest in a bloodcurdling scream.
Before Dom could put Luc out of his misery, he ducked, dodging the swing of a massive ax. The immortal whirled to find the biggest assassin in the circle towering over him.
The assassin swung again, this time with Dom’s own sword clutched in his off hand. He was of the Temurijon, alike to Sigil in appearance, and somehow twice her size. Dom caught him around the middle and wrestled him to the ground. The greatsword fell from the assassin’s hand, but the ax remained, pinned flat between them. The immortal wasn’t used to being the smaller one in a fight and found himself thrown back, landing hard on his wounded shoulder. Dom hissed through another sting of agony and straightened just in time to catch the shaft of the assassin’s ax, stopping it short before he could cut him in half. The assassin only grimaced and brought up one giant boot, stomping down on Dom’s chest.
Dom gasped, arms locked to hold the ax at bay. He used his own legs, sweeping them around to knock the Amhara down again. This time Dom got to the greatsword first and swung, severing the Temur assassin’s hands. They fell with the ax, fingers still curled around the grip.
Something cracked through the air. Dom sputtered as a whip curled around his throat, cutting off his breath. He turned, sword in one hand, but another whip lashed around his free hand. Domsnarled at the assaulting Amhara, a smaller woman with a tattooed face and close-cropped red hair. He worked his arm, spooling the whip, using it to drag her forward. She dug in her heels, her boots skidding in the dirt. She shouted something in Ibalet, an appeal for help or a battle cry.
The shape of a bow flashed at the edge of his vision, the familiar curved arc turning to take aim. Dom braced for another arrow, wincing. The bowstring twanged but he felt nothing. The arrow had a different target, skewering the Amhara with the whips, punching through her neck. She gurgled and slumped sideways, her piercing gray eyes fixed skyward. Dom shoved free as Sarn put another arrow to the string, taking aim across the clearing. She fired off the shot before ducking beneath the vicious arc of another sword.
Without thought or hesitation, Dom lunged to her, his blade in hand to defend her back. She did the same, moving in rhythm with him, leaning when he leaned, ducking when he sliced. They muttered back and forth, her voice steady and measured, even as they fought for their lives.
Arrow, sword, wait, go, watch his feet, hold your breath.
Poisons and powders clouded the air, stinging Dom’s eyes, but he fought on.
Sorasa knew each and every trick in the Amhara arsenal. These were people she knew better than family, Dom realized, watching as she picked on their weaknesses. Old injuries, old rivalries. She used everything to her advantage, bringing down one Amhara after the other, until the clearing grew quiet again, silent but for the last rasps of metal and their own harried breath.
“Wait.”
The final Amhara collapsed on shaking legs, one hand raised to protect her face. She lay in a pool of her own blood, a fan of knives around her like a halo. Her other shoulder hung from its socket, dislocated, but her injuries were not severe. She would not die here, not without help.
Dom settled back, his greatsword still in hand. But he could not cut her down, not like this. She was no more threat now than a rabbit in its hole.
Sarn shoved away a corpse, letting another assassin drop with her dagger still buried in his chest. Blood smeared over her face and hands, her cloak a ruin, torn away. With a start, Dom realized her braid was gone too, severed at the nape of her neck. He blinked, spotting the thick black braid lying in the dirt, coiled like forgotten rope.
“Who paid the contract?” Sarn snarled, closing the distance to the last living Amhara. “Who bought the death of Corayne an-Amarat?”
The assassin drew a shaking breath. “You already know,” she forced out, gasping.
Dom glanced at Sarn. She looked back with barely a flicker of her eyes, but he saw the answer in her, as he knew it in himself.
Taristan and Erida sent the Amhara after us.
On the ground, the assassin clutched at her broken shoulder. “Sorasa—”
“Is that mercy you beg for, Agathe?” Sarn hissed. Her eyes were wild, almost manic. When she spoke, Dom saw blood in her teeth.
He hung back, panting. The last rays of the sun filtered throughthe trees as the clearing gave over to shadow.
“Wait,” Agathe said again, weaker now. Her eyes wavered between them. He saw fear in her, fear and desperation.
“Immortal,” she choked out, holding his gaze. “Surely this is not your way?”
Sarn answered for him, her face pulled in disgust. “No, Agathe,” she said, putting a hand into her tunic. She pulled out the jade seal, heavy in her grasp. “It is ours.”
