A memory I erased.
The black river splashed and tugged at me as I worked. Even now, Reyker fought me. He would not give up so easily; it was not in his nature. It was why I loved him.
As long as there is life left in me, I will always come for you.
To keep him alive, I would have to change his nature.
“Sleep, Reyker,” I whispered, waving my hand over the water. “Shut down your mind.”
The river went still.
“When you wake, you will leave Iseneld’s shores. You will stay far away from the Dragon.” I thought of the seeress’s curse, and added, “You will forget me. You will forget us.”
A shudder rocked the canyon. Fractures spiderwebbed across the cliff face, and the jewels studding it broke free, raining down around me, sinking into the black river. Everything we’d been to each other, every moment we’d shared. Buried. Gone.
A breeze whistled through the chasm, followed by a sigh that sounded like my name. Then, silence.
My wolf, I thought, but did not let him hear.
I’m sorry.
CHAPTER 45
REYKER
His eyes opened to a bleak gray sky.
A young woman bent over him, her hair the deep burgundy of wine, her eyes the bright green of spring. “I only wanted to save you,” she said.
He loved this woman.
And he hated her.
He couldn’t even remember her name. When he reached for her, she broke into pieces and vanished like a startled flock of birds.
A blade swung into view, aimed at his head.
Reyker rolled out of the way. He was unarmed and half blind, one eye filled with blood. The Dragonman’s axe was on him again.
Let me out, a familiar voice whispered.
He welcomed the black river into his muscles and veins, into his mind, more open to it than he’d ever been before.
He ducked beneath the falling axe and punched the Dragonman in the throat, crushing his windpipe. When a second Dragonman came for him, Reyker shifted away from the sword, slipping inside the warrior’s guard, slamming his palm into the man’s face. Nasal bones crunched as they were forced upward, piercing the Dragonman’s brain.
Pure ecstasy sang through his blood, heady and sharp, and he gasped. He smiled.
More, the black river cried.
Two riders were nearing him—Brokk and Alane. The magiska rode atop Vengeance, and Reyker lifted her from the saddle when she was close enough.
“Oh, Reyker,” Alane exclaimed, taking in his bleeding face. “You need a healer.”
“Where did they go?” Brokk was searching the ruins of Dragon’s Lair. “They were just here. Did that bastard take her?”
Reyker didn’t know who Brokk meant, nor did he care. There was a battle happening, and he had to be part of it. He snatched the axe from the Dragonman he’d killed, then mounted his horse and kicked her flanks. Vengeance snorted and bucked, as if the beast did not recognize him. Reyker kicked again, and this time the horse obliged, racing toward where the Renegades and Dragonmen fought. Brokk and Alane shouted after him, but their voices faded quickly under the clang of weapons, the pound of his heart beneath his ribs.
It should have taken longer to cross the snow, but Vengeance had once belonged to a seeress, had lived in a decaying land touched by mad gods—the mare had as much magic in her as Reyker did, and soon he was wading into the clash of bodies. The black river flowed through him, down the arm wielding the axe, and the blade fed his gnawing hunger, splitting flesh, cleaving skulls, spraying blood.
The remaining Dragonmen surrounded him, all of them wanting to be the one to kill the Sword of the Dragon.
None of them landed a single blow.
When it was over, he dismounted and prowled among the bodies, kicking them to see who cried out, finding those who still clung to life. He brought his boot down on their backs, cracking their spines. The feel of these men breaking beneath his foot made him shiver with bliss.
“Enough, Lagorsson. They are dead. They belong to the soul-eater now.”
Reyker looked up at Jarl Solvei. She rode on the back of her skrikflak, dressed in armor and a horned helm. She wasn’t what most people would call beautiful, but she was like that beast she rode—fierce, intimidating, a force worth bowing to. For the first time, he wondered what it would be like to take her to bed, this woman who was as big and strong as he was, who commanded such loyalty and respect.
Her brows furrowed. “Stop eyeing me that way, lordling, you are not my type. Where is your woman?”
“Who?”
She grunted in disgust and turned to address her waiting warriors. “Dragon’s Lair has fallen. Its soldiers are dead. The Dragon has fled with his tail between his legs.” Renegades cheered. Solvei raised a hand to silence them. “But Draki has many tricks he has yet to play. He will return. We must be ready when he does.”
“We must leave Iseneld.” Reyker spoke without thinking, but once the words were out, they seemed right. “Draki will search for us in the Fjordlands. We cannot stay there.”
“Leave the country we are fighting to reclaim?” Solvei’s sharp gaze narrowed on him. “What sort of idiot does that?”
“The one who lives to fight another day. The one who lives long enough to discover the secret to killing the Dragon.”
The Renegades glanced at one another, then at their leader.
“All right, Lagorsson,” Solvei said. “Your last plan was a success, so I will grant you the benefit of the doubt. Indulge us. Where should we go?”
Reyker’s smile was a gruesome thing, his skin coated in blood—his own, and the many he’d killed this day. “Somewhere unholy. The only place the Dragon fears to tread. The Haunted Isles.”
The caravel’s sails caught the wind and launched it far ahead of the other longships as they eased out of the fjord, into open sea, where fog hung over the surface like damp cobwebs. Beads of water clung to Reyker’s hair and misted his skin. He stood at the gunwale, a bandage wrapped around one eye, distorting his vision. The slice on his face and the abrasion on his eye were already healing, another useful aspect of his gift that was stronger in his homeland. A weapon of the gods was no good if it could not mend quickly from the damage it accrued.
The ship passed over Eyvor, and the serpent remained on the ocean floor, not bothering herself with those leaving Iseneld. The sea unfurled before the bow, an endless ribbon of blue-gray frothed with white. Their destination wasn’t far.
Steeped in mystery and superstition, the Haunted Isles were an archipelago a few leagues off Iseneld’s coast. It took a fleet to move an army there, which meant they would see Draki coming.