The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,99

cold and resolute, cleared Serovek's vision and pumped renewed vigor into his limbs. He beat back Chamtivos's next attack, fierce enough that the other man staggered, nearly losing his footing. Serovek saw his opportunity, pulled one of the rocks from the pouch at his belt and pitched it straight into Chamtivos's face. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. The warlord screamed and staggered, clutching his face one hand.

Serovek followed him, circling to the side to slash at the warlord's leg, severing the tendon behind his right knee. Chamtivos howled and fell, holding his crippled leg.

The ragged gray edges once more began their creep across Serovek's vision. He struggled to maintain a grip on his sword. He stared at Chamtivos, feeling no pity or mercy for this creature who murdered his own family to rise in the world.

Every breath he took felt as if he inhaled broken glass, and he spoke between exhalations that made a mule's kick seem gentle. “I rode into battle against the galla with a man who is king in all but name. A man who stood tall under the weight of a heavy crown. Who sacrificed much to save many. That man understands the meaning of kingship.” He raised the sword, heavier than a blacksmith's anvil now. “You know nothing of kingship.”

He swung the blade with the last vestiges of strength still in his arms. The sword, slick with Anagan's blood, offered mercy in its sharpness. It effortlessly cut through flesh and tendons, bone and arteries, with one strike. Chamtivos's body fell to one side while his head bounced once on the ground before tumbling in the opposite direction.

The scenery in front of Serovek melded together in a watery mural of greens, grays, and blacks. He blinked several times, ignoring the sharp agony in his eyelids each time he did it. He wove a meandering path to Chamtivos's head, lifting it up by the hair before staggering to the closest tree where he dropped down to recline against the trunk.

Footsteps sounded nearby, but he remained where he was, finished. If this was more of Chamtivos's lackeys, he was easy pickings. At least once he was dead, he wouldn't hurt or feel like retching up his insides.

He peered at the two figures striding toward him, one a tall gray-skinned woman with yellow eyes and a mouth he'd sell his soul to kiss one last time. The other figure he didn't know but recognized the clerical garb. A Nazim monk. Before passing out, Serovek lifted Chamtivos's head and tossed it toward the monk. “A gift,” he said, slurring the words. “You're welcome.”

Chapter Eleven

She had never been, and would never be, a prey animal.

The island's rugged terrain provided numerous opportunities to hide, to slip away unnoticed, and especially to ambush. What it didn't offer was the ability to easily escape its confines. It boasted only one patch of beach and sat in the middle of a lake patrolled by large serpentine shadows, discouraging anyone from swimming in the waters.

Anhuset shrugged off her grim thoughts and took up a lofty post that gave her a bird's eye view of the beach where she expected Chamtivos to return with his party of bloodthirsty minions in a couple of hours. She'd used the time to create false traps, lay down more misleading spoor, and make a strap in which to keep the makeshift spear Serovek had made for her tied to her back until she needed it. Three throwing were tucked into her tunic for easy reach.

Things could be worse, she thought. She could be waiting on an open plain, easy pickings for anyone who could draw a bow and hit the side of a castle wall. At least the warlord liked a challenge when it came to stalking his quarry, and she intended to give him one he wouldn't forget. Or survive.

Leaving Serovek behind to act as a distraction didn't sit well with her, even when she acknowledged—and he agreed—that it was the most practical thing to do. He was too injured to go running about the island like she could. He was also more valuable to Chamtivos than she was. Killing the Beladine margrave of High Salure was a notch on the belt and would raise his status among his followers. Killing the Khaskem's sha would only sweeten the triumph.

“I will bury you, warlord,” she said, watching as long, sinuous shapes glided just below the lake's surface, following the paths of fading moonlight plating the water.

If she knew how many men would

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