CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It had taken Keen longer than he’d liked to requisition a horse from the station’s stables, and by the time he’d mounted up he’d been champing at the bit as badly as the animal.
The quick-stepping roan gelding was responsive to his commands and carried him swiftly from the brick streets of Havenside, over the iron rails into Otherside and along the country road to Bright Renewal Academy.
This time, there was an actual sign marking the distance to the mysterious school – innocuous, perfectly ordinary, yet it made his hackles rise and he kept his saber loose in its scabbard.
His mother’s warning rang in his head, along with the image of Hero’s face pinched with suspicion and doubt.
Neither of them know Abigail like I do. They’re wrong about her, I swear to the Goddess.
But Demonhunter First Rank Oleander Keen was no fool.
He eased his horse into a ground-eating trot between the rows of towering pines, planted as windbreaks along the road, keeping one eye on the rutted track and the other on the trees.
Cropland stretched away beyond the pines, open land providing little cover to potential assailants.
It was only when he reached the tangled woods at the base of the knoll upon which Bright Renewal perched, the sun dipping behind the looming hill and casting the road in deep shadow, that he slowed his horse to a walk, every sense alert.
His heart thudded in his chest as he scanned the dark woods.
If anyone was going to ambush him, it would be here.
His anxiety spiked, sensing danger lurking near, though he had no fear for himself; it was for Abigail that his heart pounded so fiercely.
She’d taken refuge within Bright Renewal.
Had her husband threatened her? Had he hurt her?
The possibilities whirled in his head, each more disturbing than the last. If Dirk had laid a single finger on her, he would kill the man and be justified in doing so. It was his duty as a peacekeeper!
As keyed up as he was, and as afraid as he was for Abby, it didn’t stop his mind from conjuring the sweetest scenario: him, the hero, sweeping the grateful damsel into his arms, her tears of relief and joy falling upon his shoulder, her arms leaping about his neck.
Finally, she would be free to confess her true feelings for him, feelings she’d hidden all these years due to the difference in their stations, their upbringing.
None of it would matter anymore. Not after he saved her from a brutish husband–
An explosion of black wings erupted from a tangle of oak trees, rust-colored leaves twirling through the air as a murder of crows took flight.
His horse startled, dipping and prancing into a sidestep, forcing him to focus on his seat.
The roan whinnied and snorted, tossing its head, and he soothed it as best he could, cursing his inattentiveness.
So much for the conquering hero. He couldn’t even keep his own horse on a steady path.
The birds wheeled overhead, shrieking, wings flapping. What had them so riled?
He’d lifted his eyes to the crows for only a moment, but when he returned his attention to the road, there were men blocking his path – only four of them. He could handle four. He reined to a halt, not making a move for his weapon. Not yet.
The men wore cloaks, their faces shadowed by deep hoods, but he felt their eyes on him, full of malevolence. All of them carried clubs, long and knobbed at one end. He caught the glitter of glass embedded in the weapons. They all had knives in their belts, too. Highwaymen?
He dismissed the idea. These were not mere robbers. Not even the most despicable highwayman would accost a peacekeeper. Keen kept his horse’s nose pointed forward, prepared to charge through them if need be.
“For your own good, you will let me pass,” he said calmly, his hand drifting toward his blunderbuss. “I have business at Bright Renewal Academy. Do not prove a hindrance.”
Silence answered him. A breeze picked up, sending swirling leaves across the road, tugging at their cloaks. He gripped the pommel of his weapon, prepared to draw. The figure standing just in front of the others seemed familiar to him, and he peered at the shadowed face of the apparent leader.
“I see you, Hollander!” His calm vanished and anger sizzled through him. “You won’t stop me!”
Dirk threw back his hood. His expression was pained. “Turn back, Keen,” he said, and there was a shocking tremble in his voice. “For the Goddess’s sake, turn back now!”
“Not until I know she’s safe. Stand aside!”
Dirk grimaced. “I cannot. Go back the way you came, Keen!”
A deep anger filled him, along with a delicious satisfaction. He’d waited so long for this chance. Punching Dirk in the nose the other night had only given him a taste. “Very well, Hollander. You asked for it!”
Keen’s heels dug into his horse’s flanks as he went for his saber, ignoring his blunderbuss – he’d give Dirk a fighting chance, at least. He brandished the gleaming blade as the beast leapt forward, expecting the men to scramble out of the way, hoping Dirk would be stupid enough to engage him–
The men scattered – no, they flowed , with unearthly speed, parting like water before his charge.
He swung his sword through shadows and reined in hard, putting his horse on its heels.
The well-trained roan spun in a tight circle, lashing out with its forelegs, meeting nothing but empty air.
He searched for his opponents wildly, trying to keep sight of all four men, now at the edges of the road, he at their center. How had they moved so fast?
They are not men.
Something landed on the rump of his horse.
Shockingly, it was one of the shadow-men, dropping on him like a spider.
The roan squealed and shivered, attempting to buck the man off.
Keen swung an elbow, twisting wildly to knock away his assailant, and the others swarmed him in a blur and he was dragged from his saddle.
He landed hard on the packed-earth road, breath slammed from him, the reins still in his fist. His horse reared, whinnying in terror, and jerked the leather from his grip.
He rolled, hitting a tangle of legs while the thunder of his horse’s hooves juddered through the ground as it ran away.
Fists pummeled him. A club rose above him, shards of glass catching the evening light.
He managed to meet the weapon with his saber, saving his head from being staved in.
The men closed on him, surrounding him, only Dirk showing his face.
The others remained concealed in their hoods, but strange light gleamed from where their eyes should be, pinpoints of eerie red.
Keen threw the club back and slashed at his attackers to drive them away, at least enough to gain his feet again.
His sword met resistance, slicing deep, but it didn’t slow the rain of blows or cause the men to back away.
A club smashed against his shoulder and his sword arm went numb.
He barely managed to keep a grip on the basket hilt.
He scrambled for a potion with his other hand, but someone grabbed his arm and wrenched it to the side.
“You should have run,” Dirk said in a forlorn voice, his fist driving into Keen’s belly. The air left him in a rush. Someone stepped on his saber, pinning it to the ground. Knees landed hard on his arms and Dirk’s bulk crushed his legs, trapping him on his back like a bug.
They raised their clubs, moving as if one mind controlled them, eerily silent. Keen braced himself for the blows, struggling uselessly. How had the tide turned so quickly? How had he fallen for such an obvious trap? He’d ridden into a nest of demons!
Abigail, I’m sorry.
He expected that to be his last thought, but then a hideous howling erupted from the woods and his attackers paused, heads turning as a pale figure streaked from the trees, lightning quick.
He saw fangs, silver in the shadows, hooked claws and long, sinewy limbs – a nightmare beast, its eyes lit by fire.
And then it was ripping through the gang of cloaked men as if they were paper dolls, tearing through bellies and throats. For all their inhuman speed, their shadowy quickness, Keen’s attackers seemed as defenseless as babes before this onslaught.
Suddenly he was free, the weight on his arms vanishing in a wash of black blood.
He rolled, sending Dirk tumbling. Somehow, his nemesis had avoided the absolute destruction meted out to his accomplices, scrambling back and rising, club in hand, face pale.
Keen grabbed up his saber and advanced furiously.
Dirk parried his first vicious slashes, moving with remarkable speed, but Keen gritted his teeth, keeping Dirk’s mournful visage in his sight.
Something was enhancing his skills; the Dirk he knew had never moved with such grace or swiftness.
Sounds floated to his ears as he fought with his childhood bully: growls, hideous crunches, shrill, inhuman screaming… then silence, but for the thud of steel against wooden club.
“Please,” his opponent said, eyes wide, sweat coating his pale face even as he fended off Keen’s saber with preternatural ease. “Please… help me.”
“ Help you?” Keen gasped, trying again to get past his guard, to no avail. “I’ll kill you!”
“Keen! Stop!”
The voice was an inhuman growl, low and rough and almost at his ear.
He didn’t dare turn around, but he knew it was Hero standing behind him.
Was she mad? She’d torn those men to shreds!
Why should he stop? Dirk deserved to die, deserved to pay for everything he’d ever done to him!
Hatred flooded him and he went at Dirk in a wild flurry of blows.
Finally, the man wavered, the club dipping at just the wrong moment.
With a cry of triumph, Keen ran him through.