Everything inside her burned. This was nothing like easing Jayveh’s nausea. The drain on her energy was frightening and fast. That didn’t stop her from going deeper, though. Pulling harder. As Amryn’s lung seared, Sadia’s was slowly knitting together.
She felt a ripple of awareness. A hum so low it was barely more than a vibration.The bloodstone.It was promising her power. Reminding her how much easier it would be to heal Sadia if she used it. The coaxing felt more like a taunt, since Amryn couldn’t access its power unless she was holding the amulet, which was currently buried in Carver’s pack. Close enough she could sense it—feel the emotions that fluctuated almost like a human’s—but she couldn’t truly use it.
Her heartbeat faltered. The edges of her vision wavered.
Too much. You’re giving too much.
She didn’t know where the words came from. The bloodstone? Her own instincts?
It was too late. Her heart seized.
Jayveh’s bodyguard snapped off the end of the arrow, then yanked the shaft out.
Sadia’s strangled scream was the last thing Amryn heard before she fell into darkness.
Chapter 6
Carver
RainlashedCarver’sfaceas he spun, dodging the blade that swung for him. His own sword arced through the air, but his attacker shifted to block it. Their longswords clashed as thunder cracked overhead.
Carver had locked down his emotions the second the first arrow flew. He was wholly focused on the fight at hand. And yet a flicker of cold fear remained.
Amryn’s terror-filled eyes, her face wracked with pain—those were the images that haunted him. It had gone against every instinct he had to leave her, but the carriage was the safest place for her. Jayveh’s bodyguards had formed a perimeter, a final defense.
Carver’s job was to end the threat entirely.
Another boom of thunder, the rumbling explosion echoing all around them.
Carver attacked with furious precision. His opponent grunted as he tried to absorb the relentless blows. As their blades continued to hit and slide, Carver studied his attacker. No uniform, yet he fought like a highly trained soldier. No mask, but he seemed as lethal as any assassin. A rebel, Carver assumed.
Unfortunately, the man had at least a dozen companions, and they all seemed equally skilled in combat.
Arrows were no longer flying. The Esperance guards had at least ensured that much. The attackers had abandoned their bows for swords. They leaped from the mist, turning the muddy jungle road into a battleground. Small skirmishes were happening all around Carver. He caught a glimpse of Ivan when the Sibeten Wolfhad shoved Samuel aside, sending the prince sprawling to the ground—but saving him from an assassin’s knife.
Carver ducked, narrowly avoiding his attacker’s blade. Steel flashed in the rain, and his attacker hissed. The man feinted left—Carver struck, his sword driving into the man’s gut.
Before he hit the ground, another assassin jumped in to take his place.
Carver fought relentlessly. Another kill. Then another.
He sensed the man come up behind him, and he ground his teeth as he swung—
Steel struck steel. Ivan’s cool blue eyes met Carver’s through the crossed blades. “That was the last one,” he said.
Adrenaline pumped through Carver, making it hard to process the man’s words. Danger still tightened the air, and his defenses remained high. But as he glanced around, he saw the Wolf was right. Bodies from both sides of the fight littered the ground. No enemies remained standing.
Carver pulled his blade away from Ivan’s, easing out of his fighting stance. “Take two men with you and scout the area. Make sure there aren’t any others.”
Ivan dipped his chin and strode away, sword in hand.
Carver skirted around the bodies of the men he’d killed, coming to the first he’d felled. As he’d hoped, the gut wound had delivered a slow enough end that death hadn’t claimed him yet. Lying in the mud, the man’s hands were clasped over his sliced abdomen. His chest rose and fell in short, painful bursts.
Carver let the man watch as he wiped the blood from his blade on the body of a nearby enemy. He allowed no expression to mark his face. He could practically feel the man’s fear.
Carver sheathed his sword and crouched beside the dying man. Rain rolled down both their faces, but Carver knew he had the man’s attention. He drew a dagger from his belt, letting a remote coldness take over him as he said, “I can make your death quick, or I can make you beg for the Scorched Plains with every second you have left.”
Terror ghosted in the man’s eyes. “You’re the Butcher,” he rasped.
