“You see,” Talan explained, “our mother gave up her life for us. And now she risks her life, every day, not just for us, but for her entire queendom. The least we can do is help her succeed. Not only to keep her reign, but to keep her people safe.”
“And if that means,” Talwyn went on, “that we need to drink from you like a piglet draining its mum’s teat, we will. Leaving nothing but your fucked-up eye and your tail. So whatever you know, bitch—”
“—you better fucking tell us!” Rhianwen finished on a bellow.
Brigida studied the three of them and realized that she’d underestimated the little shit stains.
“Yeah,” Brigida finally admitted, “I know what they’re looking for.”
“Tell us and we’ll go get it first.”
“Do you think if it was that easy, I wouldn’t have done it by now? Even just to have that power in me claws. But we can’t. No witch or shaman or priest can. It would just absorb our magick, trap us. Kind of like you’ve done to them over there.” She pointed at the shamans, who were reaching out to Brigida, begging for help. Any other time, she’d drain the bastards dry. But this place, with all its beautiful greenery, wasn’t a safe place for her. It was a safe place for these three. Created by these three.
They were Abominations, all right. Brigida had her own safe place, just as she knew Rhiannon, powerful white Dragonwitch that she was, had as well. But it had taken them centuries to create a sacred space of their own.
But to hold one, to keep it at the ready for any time they had need of it, like a bloody vacation home? To keep souls trapped in it for their own use? Brigida knew that Rhiannon had nothing like that. And it had taken Brigida more than centuries to build that kind of power. It had taken her eons.
Yet these . . . offspring . . . the youngest was not even thirty winters yet.
For the first time. For the first time ever, Brigida felt . . . defeated.
“We’ll need someone else to track it down. Someone with no magicks at all, who can track it down and destroy it.”
“My mother—”
“No. Gods swirl around her. And your father’s bloodline is filled with magick, even for them that don’t use it much.” She let out a breath. “We need a warrior. Because this won’t be an easy get. A warrior with no magicks in her blood.”
“Her?” Talan asked, understanding immediately whom Brigida had in mind. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Her. Because I only know of one that has all them requirements.”
Chapter Nineteen
It had become a ritual for them. Cooking a meal, eating heartily, then using the ash from the cooking fire to cover their faces, hands, behind their ears, and their necks so that they blended into the darkness when the suns went down. They even covered the steel of their weapons so that their blades and arrow tips didn’t flash in the night.
Then, before they moved, they waited. With no light, they waited for about thirty minutes, until their eyes could see in the darkness. Until they became one with the night.
Once they were ready, they moved with stealth—yes, even Zoya—easing through the trees and brush. Bows strapped to their backs, swords and daggers at their waists, spears in their hands. The Khoruzhaya siblings split off and circled around the temple. Each of the siblings always seemed to know where the other was, so Kachka worried less they’d accidentally kill each other.
Tatyana still remained a safe distance away with her bow nocked and ready while Nina Chechneva lurked in the trees, keeping lookout and using magicks if necessary. When the heat of the battle was over, she would come in and take the souls she deemed worthy. Over the months, she’d become quite . . . choosey.
Zoya came in from the rear while Marina and Kachka went in head-on.
Once they were all in place, Kachka watched and waited.
They hadn’t had the chance to warn the temple priests as she often liked to do. But, to be honest, Kachka worried less about what she’d find when walking in on an attack on an all-male religious sect. True, she often walked in on torture and abuse, but with the women . . . there was worse waiting for them and Kachka refused to allow that. She refused. So, when she could, she always warned the all-female sects. She had to.
She watched as these priests were dragged from their religious home and tossed to the ground.
“Tear the place apart,” the gang leader ordered. That’s how Kachka thought of them now. Not as soldiers, but as gangs of crazed cult members, running around, destroying everything, sometimes searching the temples. Kachka often kept one alive to find out what they were looking for. And every time she got no answer. Some killed themselves. Others allowed Zoya to twist them like bread dough until they died from the agony. But none of them ever talked.
Kachka would be impressed if they weren’t such self-righteous bastards who believed their way was the only way. Their god, the only god.
And, again, tonight, she would try to find out what these men could be looking for. And, again, tonight, she’d probably fail.
Glancing at Marina, Kachka nodded, and Marina let out what sounded like a crow caw. As soon as she did, the first javelin shot out from the darkness and slammed into one of the cult members’ chest. Then another. And another. The Khoruzhaya siblings had become unbelievably skilled in the javelin and spear. They practiced every day, for hours. And, in battle, all that work paid off.
After the first javelin attack, Kachka, Marina, and Zoya moved, charging into the midst of the confused men, using their spears to quickly kill them. There was no time for torture or fancy moves. They were almost always outnumbered. So they had to move with speed and efficiency.
With their spears, they attacked one of five spots on the body: through the chest to the heart; through the neck to the main artery; through the inner thigh to the main artery; through the back to sever the spine; or under the arm to another main artery.
Whichever was available, they hit it and they hit quick. They didn’t bother with disembowelings—as many Riders liked to do during big battles when they had unlimited backup—since it took too long for the victim to die and they were often still able to fight for quite a bit.
The priests, who had been waiting for death, backed up, clinging to each other and praying to their gods, most likely. Kachka was always fascinated how these sects were quick to thank their gods when it had been she and her team who’d saved them. And, last she looked, there were no gods helping. Even the horse gods didn’t leave the Outerplains for all this human drama, so she never bothered to call on them for assistance.
A flash of steel came at Kachka and she spun to the left, rammed her spear into the armpit of one man, tore it out, and rammed it into the chest of another.
She’d just turned to go after a different man when Tatyana sent out a call.
Kachka knew that meant more men were coming. It was a trap. She wasn’t surprised, and it wasn’t the first she’d encountered. The better they got at this, the more pissed off Duke Salebiri became.
However . . . she’d expected a few extra men. A squad. Maybe two. Even a platoon. The six of them could easily handle fifty fanatics.
But the Duke hadn’t sent a platoon of mad fanatics.
He’d sent a battalion of his troops. At least three hundred well-trained, well-armed men. And all of them running right toward Kachka and her team.