Carpathian 20 - Dark Slayer

meticulous in detailing her art, she was the same way with her weapons.
    She forged her own swords and knives. Even the bullets in her gun were made by her. She appeared to be a master craftsman, her weapons as carefully and patiently forged as her carvings on the rock walls. He was amazed at the variety of weapons; some he’d seen before, others he was uncertain how to use. Books were scattered among the shelves of tools, again, well-worn and often read.
    One wall held shelves of books carefully penned in a feminine hand, and, opening them, Razvan recognized mage spells Xavier often used. Beside each one was penned a second spell, countering or corrupting the first. Book after book appeared to be dedicated to finding a way to defeat Xavier’s spells.
    Razvan found it very interesting and became lost for a while, reading her notes, and her conclusions and the twists she put on the words to counter everything Xavier had ever taught.
    She’d obviously spent hundreds of years detailing Xavier’s deeds, poring over the spell books she had used when she’d attended his school so many centuries earlier and working to find ways to defeat the mage at every turn. And it all made sense.
    Excitement coursed through him. He had come to believe, after centuries of captivity, that Xavier was invincible. The Carpathians had failed to defeat him. The Lycans had failed.
    The jaguars. Humans had been trapped and tortured and made into ruthless puppets. And the worst scourge of all—the undead—had made an unholy alliance with him. Razvan had seen it all. Yet, right here in this room, one person, one woman, had dedicated her life to stopping Xavier.
    Razvan looked at the walls, knowing he would find an inscription. Each wall contained a single word and one held three lines. Feldolgaztak. Kumalatak. Kutnitak . Prepare.
    Sacrifice. Endure. There were no fancy letters this time, no vines and flowers interwoven in those stark words. Her mantra.

    He walked across the room and crouched down beside the wall where she had carved her code, using the Carpathian language, deep into the rock wall. Four lines this time.
    Köd elävä és köd nime kutni nimet. Sieljelä isäntä .
    Evil lives and has a name. Purity of soul triumphs.
    Türelam
    agba
    kontsalamaval—Tuhanos
    löylyak
    türelamak sa γ e diutalet . Patience is the warrior’s true weapon—a thousand patient breaths bring victory.
    Tõdhän lö kuraset agbapäämoroam . Knowledge flies the sword true to its aim.
    Pitäsz baszú, piwtäsz igazáget . No vengeance, only justice.
    All of this—everything she did—was in preparation for her ultimate battle with Xavier. This place was a safe haven, protected by extraordinary safeguards with no way to penetrate the miles of rock. The mage books, the weapons. She was assembling every possible weapon against the high mage and waiting patiently to strike while she gathered information against him. The war room was a tribute to her vast knowledge of the enemy, her patience, determination and discipline. A picture of his lifemate was emerging, and he felt a sense of pride and respect for her.
    Razvan lifted his head and looked around the room. A long, narrow table and workbench covered in tubes and handblown glass of all shapes and sizes caught his attention. He recognized herbs and plants, roots, dried and hung around the room. Sage was prevalent, and various plants to ward off evil. What was she making?
    He peered at the book lying beside a twisted tube containing a dark, thick liquid. He sniffed cautiously toward the glass tube as he glanced over the neat, feminine scrawl. The formula had been crossed out and rewritten over and over until she seemed satisfied and had underlined the resulting mixture in thick, dark lines. He couldn’t detect any odor at all. When he lifted a carved, smooth ladle, the mixture was clear, not dark. He frowned and looked at the glass tube, certain it was dark.
    Along with everything else, she appeared to be a chemist. He examined several of the trays and baskets holding a variety of dried herbs. The workmanship on each of them was incredible, the patterns unique. When he touched them, he knew she had crafted each of them.
    He left the room and went back to her family room, trying to think, to form an idea of what he should do. This woman—his lifemate—was patiently assembling the