Page 1 of The Savage Vow
Nargol Cydassi movedthrough the halls of Angarth Keep with long, silent strides. Her dark cloak brushed her pants and flowed behind her. The fortress had stood for generations. It was older than treaties and it carried the weight of every chieftain who had ruled before her father. Thick, gray stone walls curved inward to form a maze of corridors and stairwells. Every intricate design of the stronghold was engineered fordefense. Torchlight flickered in the iron sconces, illuminating the way. Banners with the crest of the Nidani clan hung with pride.
She had grown up within those walls. Learned to fight within in those walls and had even been taught to listen to the shadows.
Angarth was more than a stronghold.
Nargol trailed her fingers along the walls as she passed. The faint grooves brushed her skin, and she felt connected to this very building. So many warriors had passed through these same halls. Different chieftains had ruled the lands.
Nargol knew them all.
Her tutors had tried to distract her from her obsession with her lineage when she was younger, but history mattered to her. She understood that from history, one could learn a lot.
It told who had ruled well. Who had failed. Who had been betrayed, and it also revealed the mistakes that were made and should not be repeated.
Servants and warriors stepped aside. They lowered their heads or pressed a fist to their chest in acknowledgment of her. Nargol did not slow down. She had been summoned to the chieftain, and he didn’t like when she was late. She wasn’t surprised her father was calling for her.
When he called on her, it was because something had gone wrong.
And she was needed.
She was the chieftain’s shadow.
When Tulak Cydassi needed answers that could not be demanded openly and he needed blood spilled without witnesses, issues solved, or information, he sent her. He also sent her when threats needed to be issued or to uncover truths that were hidden.
Her jaw tightened at a memory stirring. She had been captivated in watching her sister, Magoza, battle in the arena.She had taken on an orc who had made threats to her mate. Nargol had been the voice of reason for Magoza. She’d told her to handle their issues in the arena—for once, her sister had listened.
But then the roar of the crowd had turned to screams.
She’d been observing the match from the shadows. Pride had filled her as Magoza had fought the massive orc, but then she’d glanced up at the royal box where her parents watched the fights. Chaos had taken over the secured area where they sat with their honored guests.
Chaos had followed. It was too organized to be chance, the orcs too desperate to be a true coup.
Orcs had surged forward and attacked the royal box. They had fought against the guards and swarmed the small area. These orcs had been raiders with one mission.
Overtake the chieftain and his mate.
Nargol had scaled the wall without hesitation. Her muscles had burned when she’d hauled herself up toward the royal box. Fury had flooded her veins when she’d seen an orc go after her sister’s small mate. Her mother, Dura, had kept Amuleta behind her. Nargol had landed on the platform next to Amuleta and shot her a wink.
“I hope I’m not too late for the party,” Nargol said.
“Get over there and help your father,” her mother snapped.
Her father and his men fought back. They were seasoned warriors which gave them an advantage over the orcs who attacked. Nargol joined the fray, and they defeated the insurgents.
She had just come from interrogating the orcs they had captured.
And she had some answers.
She reached the broad doors leading to the chieftain’s office and paused. She steadied her breath. The guards stationed there straightened immediately and slammed a fist above their hearts.
“Shadow,” they greeted.
She inclined her head and pushed through the doors.
Tulak Cydassi stood at the wide stone table that dominated the chamber, his huge arms braced against its surface. Maps, spread out before him, showcased the clan’s borders etched in charcoal and ink. Small, weighted stones marked territories and known movements. Her father was built like the mountains. His long, dark hair was braided back from his face carved by war and battles. A deep scar ran from his forehead down to the right side of his jaw. He was a great warrior, and she was sure that however he’d received that scar, the one who’d given it to him was no longer breathing.
He did not look up as she shut the doors behind her.
“You took your time,” he said.
