Lambert grabbed the first guard from behind and sliced his throat. Blood sprayed across the ground and wall as the cultist gurgled through his final moments. The forceful spray ended and Lambert dropped the man and moved to the next guard.

Every fiber on his body urged him to rush in, to become a whirling storm of death, but they’d taken down one witcher. That forced him to caution. He killed the second guard. The voices inside rose in a crescendo. Eskel’s deep voice thundering back, the desperation in his tone tearing at Lambert, as he found the third man and silently ended his life.

They’d had Eskel for hours before Lambert knew he was missing.

He’d cleared the perimeter. He lit a bomb. It might be bad for Eskel, but his hearing and sight would recover. He tossed it into the ritual chamber, covering his ears as it exploded with a blinding flash and an immense bang. Confused shouting filled the room, and Lambert moved.

He whirled and spun through the cultists, leaving a trail of dead men. The leader didn’t stop his chant. He thundered through the words. Blood trickled from his ears, but he refused to give in. Eskel screamed back at him, twisting like a maddened beast against the ropes that held him to the altar.

The priest raised his dagger high over Eskel’s chest as Lambert reached him. A final, mighty blow sent his head flying across the room.

Lambert turned, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his sword and soaked through his armor. The cultists were dead.

Eskel thrashed against the ropes, yelling defiance against the cult.

Lambert dropped his sword. “Eskel! Eskel, it’s Lambert. Calm down. It’s Lambert. I want to untie you. Stop fighting.”

Eskel’s eyes focused on him. “Lambert?”

“Yeah. Let me get you out of that,” Lambert said, already sawing on the rope.

Eskel’s heart hammered, and his breathing was panicked fast. He was drenched in sweat. The moment Lambert freed one of his arms, he lunged forward with a sob and crushed Lambert in a one-armed hug.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Black sun—Exorcism—” Eskel gasped and gripped tighter.

“They’re dead. All dead,” he said. Worry deepened within Lambert. He’d never seen Eskel react this strongly to anything. What had they done before he even knew the danger?

As abruptly as he’d latched on, Eskel’s arm fell limp to the altar. Lambert straightened up. The distant stare that greeted him worried him as much as the desperate hug. He sawed through the remaining bindings and checked for major injuries.

Finding none, he coaxed Eskel onto his feet. His friend stumbled through the carnage without his customary grace. Lambert got him on his horse with difficulty, but Eskel held on by instinct. They had to put distance between themselves and the carnage. Who knew if more cultists lurked in the surrounding areas?

They rode for an hour until Eskel slipped in the saddle. Lambert caught him and pushed him back upright. Barely.

He dismounted and walked the horses off the road, guiding them with one hand, the other keeping Eskel in the saddle. At a sheltered overhang, he stopped and helped Eskel down.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be forcing us to stop,” Eskel murmured.

“The horses are tired,” Lambert shot back. He spread the bedrolls side by side and helped Eskel over to them.

He made the horses comfortable as fast as possible. Eskel lay curled on his side, shivering with unfocused eyes, when Lambert finished.

“You’re cold.”

Eskel nodded absently.

Lambert scooted in close, pulled the blankets over them and hugged Eskel tight. “I thought I lost you today.”

“So did I.”