Captive of the Horde King (Horde Kings Of Dakkar #1) - Zoey Draven Page 0,2

gruff voices that easily penetrated our flimsy door.

I looked at Kivan and then slowly stood from my crouched position.

“Stay in here,” I told him.

“Luna—”

I walked out of our home before he could say another word and closed the rickety door behind me. The village street was empty and eerily quiet. Some villagers had even left earlier that evening, to hide out in the mountains until the horde passed on. But most remained, though their homes were dark and silent.

Through the one small, dirty window of our home, I could see Kivan watching me from the table, his eyes wide. Taking a deep breath, I turned and walked to the center of the single dirt road that connected the entire village together. It was there I waited with a pounding heart.

The creaking of the village gates met my ears as they were forced open, like a shrill cry cutting through the darkness. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of Polin’s voice, perhaps the only person in the village brave enough to meet the Dakkari willingly. He was our leader, however, the head of our small village council. Polin saw it as his duty to meet with the Dakkari, but I had no doubts that he would direct them to our door, to wash his hands of Kivan once and for all.

But I would not give up my brother. Ever.

There were only two possible outcomes I would accept. One being I would exchange my life for Kivan’s. It was simple enough. I promised our mother that I would protect him and I always kept my promises.

The second option…well, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mithelda. Or that the Dakkari male had taken her for an obvious purpose.

It was rumored that the Dakkari sometimes took prizes. War prizes. Females—not necessarily humans—from other villages or settlements spread across Dakkar that had wronged them.

Perhaps they would take me instead of taking my brother. It was a trade I was willing to offer.

The moon was full and bright enough that I didn’t need a lantern to see the Dakkari approaching.

I’d forgotten just how big they were. Readjusting my hood, I blew out a long breath through pursed lips, pressing my suddenly trembling hands flat against my cloak.

As I peered at the small group of Dakkari approaching, I saw that there were seven in total. All were bare-chested, exposing cords and planes of tanned muscle, of gold ink embedded into their skin in intricate, yet bold lines. No one knew what those markings meant. I saw their tails flicking behind them, obviously agitated, restless.

My eyes caught and held on the Dakkari leading the pack, my lips parting unseen within the shadowy confines of the hood. His own gaze was fixed on my cloaked figure, though his alien features were expressionless, those black eyes reflecting nothing in the moonlight.

But he moved swiftly, those long legs eating up the distance between us. Polin was nowhere in sight.

Seven Dakkari suddenly surrounded me in a circle, drawing their blades from the sheaths that crisscrossed their backs with a smooth swish. All except for him and the male next to him.

And I knew right then that he was one of the horde kings, one of the six that led the hordes across Dakkar, keeping order, patrolling their lands, and punishing those that threatened the Dakkari way.

He stood, stance widened, bulging arms at his sides, his long fingers—six on each hand—tipped with deadly claws. His thick, black hair was half-braided down his back, keeping it out of his face, exposing sharp, shadowed cheekbones, a flat nose with slitted nostrils, and wide-set eyes with yellow irises. His hair was decorated with a few gold beads and wrapped metal. On his large wrists—which were the size of my upper arms—were gold cuffs.

I could hear my swallow echo within the small circle, bouncing off their massive bodies as they towered over me.

The Dakkari male next to the horde king addressed me in the universal tongue, the only tongue I could speak, with, “Were you the one who burned our land, who disrespected and defiled our goddess, Kakkari?”

The messenger’s voice was nothing more than a growl, a deep growl that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

The Dakkari revered their land above all else. To destroy their land, especially with fire, was to disrespect them all, including their deities.

I thought of Kivan, sitting just a few feet away at the table in our home. He would be able to hear through the door and I prayed