Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
The Bog of Revenants
“Use your mist!” Kristoff yelled over the pouring rain as a foot slammed down on his back, brutally shoving him deeper into the mud. Lothaire had used his mist to take them across a field of lava but not in this fight for their lives. Why?
Nearby, massive revenants dragged Lothaire to the ground with inconceivable strength as he tried to defend himself, but he was too weak. Kicks and punches battered his prone body.
Exhausted from fending off undead hellhounds, he and Kristoff had then battled revenants for what must be days.
“Damn you, Lothaire, fight!” Blood dribbled from his nose and ears in the rain. A kick to the temple made his head recoil and his mouth go slack.
A kick to Kristoff’s own head followed, and consciousness wavered. As he dimly watched, half a dozen revenants shoved Lothaire’s face into the mud to starve him of air. Hands atop hands. So much strength.
His half brother thrashed, grappling . . . grappling . . . a last flurry of movement . . . His suffocated body stilled.
A pair of the brutes seized Lothaire’s shoulders. Another gripped his head to twist it free.
After three thousand years of life, the Enemy of Old was about to meet his end.
Furie’s location would die with him. “No, no!” Kristoff was next, and then his Bride would truly be lost. “Damn it, wake. Wake!” Mustering his last reserves, he bellowed, “FOR LIZVETTA!”
Tremors rippled through Lothaire’s frame, then muscles flexed. Suddenly he threw off the number holding him and shot to his feet with a horrifying roar. Red eyes crazed in his muddy face, he snatched at the closest revenant and pulled apart its hulking body like gossamer. Bloodlust of a different kind had overtaken Lothaire.
Kristoff used the creatures’ shock to fight for his own freedom. Making it to his feet, he threw punches, watching out of the corner of his eye Lothaire’s flood of madness. Being facedown in the muck—breathing it—must have sent him back to his burial in the Bloodroot Forest. He’d relived that torture.
Now Lothaire laughed in the rain as crimson sprayed, clearly didn’t feel his many injuries. Using his bare hands and fangs, he tore revenant flesh from their bones.
This is the Enemy of Old. Madness wed to savagery. This is why so many fear him. Lothaire hadn’t used his mist, because he’d wanted this fight—because he was insane .
As he annihilated his way through the throng, the revenants’ howls changed tenor. Their maniacal eyes held fear. One turned and fled. Then another. Soon a stampede of them barreled over each other to escape the frenzied vampire.
He’s their monster. Would they have a primal memory of him passed down throughout time? They crawled back into their underground hovels and mounds until silence reigned. The swamp was still. Only puddles of gore gave evidence of what had happened here.
Lothaire swiped his face with a sleeve and cast him a rictus grin.
Sucking in wet breaths, Kristoff sensed he was about to impart more information. Kristoff also sensed he would not want to hear it.
Lothaire didn’t disappoint: “When I had no breath, do you think I was dreaming of air? Or fire ?”
The unspoken question felt palpable in the storm. When Furie rises, what makes you think she’ll be saner than me?
Lothaire shook his head, sending blood flying from an array of wounds. “Come along, little brother. I suspect we were driven farther away from Mina. We have work to do.” Brushing off his coat with a casual mien and a mangled arm, he added, “And also those rascally hellhounds from before are returning in three . . . two . . . one . . .”
“Ahh-wooooooo.”