Shadow and Ice Page 2

  Now, Ansel used freedom to motivate Knox. Win five All Wars in my name, and I’ll free you from your slave bands.

  Those bands ringed his neck, wrists, and ankles. Upon each vertebra of his spine, he bore an X. But whether rings or Xs, each mark had been made with mystical ink similar to what the High Council used to create the tree of life. This particular ink compelled Knox to do everything Ansel demanded, zero exceptions.

  Knox had no choice but to continue on, as if the king had spoken true. What else could he do?

  If Ansel had lied... He bit his tongue until he tasted blood. If Knox won a fifth war—this war—and wasn’t freed...

  A sharper pang tore through him, cutting so deep he doubted he would ever recover. I’ll just have to find another way to gain my freedom.

  The moment he succeeded, Ansel would die. Badly. People would hear stories for centuries to come and marvel at Knox’s cruelty.

  He almost smiled, anticipation dancing with fury.

  Focus. Emotion of any kind would only distract him; distraction would get him killed.

  “How can you be so callous about the death of another?” Shiloh asked.

  “Because I want to live, and mind-set is everything. While you will hesitate to end a friend, you will eagerly take out an enemy. These people are our enemies.”

  Wearier by the second, Shiloh scrubbed a hand down his face. “This is my first All War. I knew it would be tough, but I am my home’s strongest competitor, and I believed I could do...anything. I was wrong.”

  “You sound as if you’re eager to die. Good news. I’m happy to help.”

  “I’m sure you are, but I don’t want to die. I don’t want to kill, either.”

  “Ah, I see. You’d rather make your people suffer.”

  Shiloh glowered.

  For the “privilege” of participating in an All War, a realm’s sovereign had to give the High Council thousands of children. The exact number depended on a combatant’s order of elimination. The faster you were eliminated, the more your realm had to pay. But in order to forfeit a war entirely, sovereigns had to hand over even more children.

  From infancy to the age of eighteen, boy or girl, children were chattel, commodities raised to be Enforcers.

  Only the winning realm was exempt.

  “My people already suffer,” Shiloh said. “Our realm is overcrowded.”

  Iviland was overcrowded as well, more and more immortals born or created every day. New realms were desperately needed.

  In the beginning, whenever a new one was discovered, multiple armies invaded at once. Battles raged, the trespassers hoping to seize control. Violence spread far and wide, ultimately destroying everything, leaving the lands uninhabitable.

  Under the guise of saving future domains, ruling factions created the High Council and All War—an ongoing battle between a single representative from each otherworld, the new realm acting as the arena.

  In the past few months, the people of Terra had begun fighting back and setting traps. Not a first, but definitely a problem on days like today. The citizens weren’t bound by assembly rules. But then, they had no supernatural abilities and were no match for immortals.

  Knox had seen no sign of a human army today. Maybe they’d fled in fear? To them, combatants were gods.

  Knox, they’d nicknamed Loki, the “evil trickster.” A moniker he bore with pride.

  “When I killed a woman I respected, a part of my soul died,” Shiloh said, pulling him from his thoughts. “Why can’t the realms reach terms without bloodshed?”

  “Greed.” Why else?

  Movement at the side of a mountain. Knox slid his gaze across the ice—at last. Zion. A man of six and a half feet, like Knox, with dark hair, wide shoulders and a body honed on the most savage battlefields with no hint of softness. Also like Knox.

  But unlike Knox, he refused to use the weapons he won. Reasons unknown. The choice angered Knox, even though it aided his cause. Such a waste.

  He tightened his grip on his most prized possessions—the daggers he’d taken from his first victim. The blades were serrated, hooked at the tip, and had brass knuckle hilts. With a single blow, he could slice, dice and pulverize.

  Zion reached the check-in point and spread his arms, all Here I am, come and get me. Embedded in his arms were jewels, each one set in specific patterns, as bold as the man himself. On his hands, a pair of spiked metal gloves able to punch through anything.

  I want. I take.

  Locked on tonight’s target.

  Anticipation resurged and redoubled, burning inside Knox, and growing hotter by the second. Zion was a warrior he would gladly slay.

  “Come.” Knox jumped from his perch, falling down, down, landing a few yards away from the check-in point. Though the impact jarred him, he walked forward without a hitch in his step, boots crunching in the snow.

  Shiloh jumped, as well, and hurried to catch up.

  As they passed the invisible wall that sealed them inside the clearing, Knox experienced a familiar and abhorrent vibration from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. His ability to control shadows had just been neutralized.

  “So nice of you to join us,” Bane said, his tone as smug and condescending as ever.

  Like most Adwaewethians, he had pale hair, golden eyes—and a beast trapped within. When the creature took control of his body, his appearance changed. He became a monster, hideous beyond compare, strong beyond compare, and developed an appetite for blood. No one and nothing was safe.

  Bane’s greatest vulnerability was light. Adwaeweth was a dark realm, shrouded in gloom and without a sun. The very reason he’d brought a pair of goggles as his weapon of choice. Like Shiloh’s lenses, those goggles allowed him to see everything.

  Knox tipped an invisible hat. “Glad to see you left your balls at home.”

  As Bane cupped the balls in question and made a lewd expression, a chorus of insults erupted from the others.

  “May you die bloody today, Knox.”

  “I won’t just remove your heart. I’ll eat it.”

  “Hope you’re ready for some internal body bling, murk.”

  “Murk” was another derogatory term used for Ivilandians, but only those like Knox, who commanded shadows. He’d been called worse, but insults of any kind tended to burn like acid in his ears.

  Ignore.

  “Where are Major and Cannon?” Emberelle of Loandria waved a deceptively delicate hand to indicate the group, the rings on her fingers glittering in the moonlight. With hair like snowflakes, skin a pale shade of blue, eyes the same green and purple as the glowing skylights, and delicately pointed ears, she looked as fragile as glass. A deception. Of the females, she was the deadliest.

  “I took out Major,” Ronan of Soloria replied, not exactly proud, but not exactly remorseful, either.

  Knox added a notation to his mental file. Now, twenty-three combatants stood between him and victory.

  “What of Cannon?” Ronan asked. “Is he dead?”

  Silence reigned, no one taking credit for a kill.

  A clock continued to count down in Knox’s head. Thirty-two seconds until Cannon of Dellize missed today’s check-in.

  Thirty...twenty...ten...five...

  Still no sign of the male. Three...two...

  The ground shook. The Assembly of Combatants had just begun.

  Only twenty-two warriors stand in my way.

  From his position outside the circle, Seven slammed the end of his scythe into the ice. The ground shook harder, shafts of light spraying from the curved blade to shower over the combatants.

  “Would anyone like to volunteer for a merciful death?” Zion asked conversationally. He couldn’t bring himself to fight the fairer sex, and constantly looked for ways to prevent an all-out battle. “My offer will expire when the meeting ends.”<
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  Prickles erupted on the back of Knox’s neck. He scanned... Celeste of Occisor gave him a come-hither smile.

  He scowled. Trying to curry favor? Impossible!

  Despite the fact that she’d won an All War, he’d never considered her a threat. He’d seen no evidence of combat skill, only a knack for seduction. To his knowledge, three males had succumbed to her allure, and each had possessed a supernatural ability the female had exploited for her own gain. Of the three, only one still lived—Ranger of Jetha.

  Zion and Bane had killed the others, and Knox had often wondered if Celeste had helped.

  Another warrior—Gunnar of Trodaire—glared daggers at him and inched closer to Celeste’s side. A fourth conquest? Who had time for such drama?

  Emberelle shifted into Knox’s line of sight to flash her pearly whites in a parody of a smile. “You trolling for a date, murk? Because my sword is interested in getting to know your insides. Care to arrange an intro?”

  Teeth, grinding.

  Darkness slithered across the ice, catching his notice. He’d left shadows stationed throughout the mountains to act as scouts. This one entered the clearing and ghosted through him, leaving an image branded in his mind. He stiffened. Hundreds of humans had crossed the northern border. They were running, running, closer and closer, their swords raised.

  “Vikings,” he shouted. A word meaning “native dwellers” in the All language.

  The other combatants quieted, a stampede of footsteps echoing through the mountains. War cries erupted.

  “They’ve come to avenge their fallen,” Bane said, practically foaming at the mouth with eagerness.

  “End the assembly,” Zion commanded Seven. “If the energy wall comes down, our powers will be activated, body and weapon. If not, the mortals will have an advantage.”

  Wind blew back the Enforcer’s hood, just an inch, but enough. Knox caught sight of a flawless face seething with hatred. For combatants?

  Seven remained silent, sparks still shooting from his scythe.

  The wall of energy endured.

  “We must work together, then.” Guess he had a temporary alliance, after all. Knox squared his shoulders. “Form four lines of five, each one facing a different direction.”

  “So a square?” Emberelle asked, her tone suggesting he was an idiot.

  “Do it,” he snapped. “As close to the Enforcer as possible.”

  Warriors raced into position, armaments at the ready. Knox stood between Zion and Bane and scrutinized the approaching enemy. Mostly males who topped out at five-nine or ten. All had mud smeared on their faces, fury in their eyes, and fur draped over bodies built for combat. Some wore helmets made of iron.

  Knox couldn’t help but respect the army. These soldiers defended their homeland and protected their people. But they threatened the All War, therefore they couldn’t be spared.

  “Twenty seconds,” he shouted.

  “Females, move to the center of our—”

  The females in question interrupted Zion with threats to remove his testicles.

  “If you want to know how I’m going to kill you, Knox,” Bane said with a cold smile, “watch me kill the vikings.”

  “How adorable,” he replied, his tone dry. “You think you’re going to survive the night.” Addressing everyone, he counted down. “Five seconds until impact. Four. Three. Two.” He braced—

  Vikings breached the circle.

  Knox ducked, avoiding a sword swipe to the throat, then spun and straightened—and punched a dagger into the offender’s side. His daggers had no special powers and worked the same as always.

  When the weapon exited the man’s body, pieces of liver dangled from the hook. A pained grunt blended with a macabre chorus of groans, wails and curses.

  He spun once again, stabbing two more mortals. As warm blood sprayed over him, he lost track of everything but battle. Adrenaline revved him up, taking his heart for an impromptu joyride, the world around him seemed to slow to a crawl. He stabbed, head-butted, elbowed and kicked, bodies quickly piling up around his feet. More blood sprayed. More internal organs shredded as they met his daggers.

  Any viking who dared approach Seven immediately fell unconscious without ever making contact. Neat trick.

  Laughing, Bane picked up a discarded sword and cut through two men with a single swing.

  With one metal-gloved hand, Zion lifted a viking by the throat. With the other, he punched, his fist coming out the male’s other side.

  Another viking sneaked up behind the Taverian, a mere blink away from landing a blow. Lunging, swiping out, Knox hacked through his wrist, the sword and hand plopping to the ground.

  “I won’t thank you,” Zion told him while cutting through an opponent’s neck.

  “I wouldn’t accept, anyway,” Knox replied. Jab, jab. He ended another challenger with a double-tap to the heart.

  No match for me, even when I’m unable to summon shadows.

  One shout drowned out all the others, causing vikings to rush from the circle to form a wider ring around the combatants. Then a male splattered with blood stalked forward. He stopped just short of the invisible walls. He was the tallest of his brethren and the only one wearing a horned helmet. Scars littered one side of his face, and a thick black beard covered his jaw. He’d paired a fur-lined tunic with sheepskin pants, neither of which protected vital organs.

  He held the Rod of Clima, Cannon’s weapon.

  Knox tensed. If the viking had killed Cannon after check-in, he had entered the All War, gained immortality and the ability to activate the rod without being placed on Seven’s kill list. And since he wasn’t within the check-in circle, the rod remained active.

  Timing was everything in an All War.

  The sea of vikings split down the middle, allowing two males to drag a headless, bleeding body closer. A fresh kill. They dropped their cargo, and someone else threw the head, pitching inside the circle. Cannon’s lifeless eyes stared at nothing, his features frozen in an expression of horror.

  Curses and threats spewed from the combatants, some even throwing themselves against the invisible wall, only to bounce back.

  “You invaded our land and killed our men because you did not fear us.” The one with the horned helmet raised his chin, pride and strength in his bearing. “I am Erik the Widow Maker, and I will teach you to fear us.”

  Erik of Terra. A new name to add to Knox’s list of combatants. Twenty-three warriors stand in my way.

  The leader lifted the rod high in the air, then slammed the end into the ice. The ground juddered so violently, hunks of snow tumbled from the mountaintops. In seconds, an arctic blizzard blew in, howling wind seeming to bristle with thousands of nails and glass shards.

  Next, a hill of ice grew beneath Knox’s feet—then swallowed his feet. He kicked...tried to kick, but couldn’t. Wasn’t long before his boots were fully concealed.

  Panic stole his breath as the ice spread up, up, winding around his calves, slithering past his knees, and there was no stopping it. Ice spread up every combatant’s legs, even the Enforcer’s.

  Knox fought harder, fought with all his might. His torso—covered. His shoulders...neck. Shock set in. Defeated? By a much weaker Terran? No!

  Grunts and groans filled his ears, the other combatants fighting the horrifying entombment just as fervently.

  When the ice reached his chin, he lost the ability to move.

  This is a minor setback, nothing more. I will overcome, and I will repay. Then the ice grew over his face, entombing him, leaving him aware but powerless.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Present Day

  Somewhere in the Arctic Circle

  “HEADS ARE GOING TO ROLL.”

  Sore, tired and chilled to the bone, Vale London dropped her ten-thousand-pound backpack, leaned against a wall of ice and scanne
d her surroundings—a sea of snow broken up by mountains and seracs that looked like ocean waves had flash-frozen just before they’d come crashing down. Subzero wind blustered, screams of pain and helplessness seemingly echoing within.

  “Are we talking literally or figuratively?” Her beloved foster sister Magnolia “Nola” Lee dropped her pack as well, sat atop it and drew a thick flannel blanket around her shoulders. “With you I never know. You aren’t known as a street-tough scrapper for nothing.”

  Vale savored the flavor of sweetened brown butter that coated her tongue. At some point in her childhood development, wires had gotten crossed in her brain, leaving her with a severe case of synesthesia. She heard sounds, just like everyone else, but she tasted them, too. Letters also registered as colors, and numbers appeared as a three-dimensional map inside her head.

  The more nuanced the sound, the richer the flavor.

  “Figuratively...maybe,” she replied, then sighed. “The next time I see our guide, he’ll be lucky to walk away. Or even crawl.” The POS had ruined what was supposed to be the vacation of a lifetime.

  Dang it, Nola hadn’t needed this kind of stress. The girl worked two full-time jobs. If she wasn’t baking and selling the goods at local offices, she was writing How To copy for a dating column on the Oklahoma Love Match website.

  Vale had hoped to enjoy one last hoorah—or maybe a first hoorah—before she and Nola settled down and opened a fancy-schmancy gourmet doughnut shop slash catering center slash speed dating and bachelorette party hub, with Vale on paperwork duty and Nola behind the oven and the counter.

  And okay, okay. She supposed some of the blame for this situation rested on her shoulders rather than their absentee guide’s. She’d booked each of their excursions with the cheapest companies available, hoping to do more stuff on a very limited budget.

  Well, quality beat quantity every time. She understood that now. So how about a break, world?