The Reawakened

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  As Lycas approached, six Ilions held up their swords. Though they were outnumbered two-to-one, Lycas had no doubt he and his comrades could overcome these scared little men.

  When they were within twenty paces, one of the soldiers in the middle of the pack shouted with triumph and held aloft a round object with long, thick, matted hair. Blood dripped from it, mixing with the sheets of rain.

  The head of Sirin.

  The other soldiers laughed at Lycas. “You’re next, beast!”

  Lycas stared, uncomprehending, at the rugged face of his best friend. A distant corner of his mind wondered how a second-phase Wolverine could suffer such an injury. Had their Spirit weakened that much?

  His mind struggled to form words within the sea of red fury.

  “You take the far left one,” he said quietly to one Wolverine. “And you the far right,” he said to the other. He unsheathed two daggers—a long one for stabbing, and the sharpest one, for slicing. “Give me the rest.”

  The Ilion soldiers stepped forward, and Lycas charged.

  He drove his shoulder into the first one’s stomach before the man could slash with his sword. The elegant but now useless weapon clattered to the ground as they rolled together, tripping the next soldier. Lycas slashed the throats of both while they were off balance, then sprang to his feet to face the onslaught.

  Six of them surrounded him, including the one who had held Sirin’s head aloft. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Tiron Wolverines holding their own with their opponents.

  Lycas slashed and stabbed, and when all his daggers were embedded in soldiers, he seized the dead ones’ swords and kept fighting. He kicked and punched, gouging eyes and cutting throats, crushing rib cages with an elbow or foot.

  When they were all on their knees or writhing on their backs, he dispatched them, one by one. No mercy, no quarter, not after what they’d done.

  He stared at the last one as the enemy’s life poured out in a pool across the stones, diluted by the giant drops of rain. The man gazed back until the light faded from his eyes.

  The twang of two dozen bows shattered Lycas’s reverie. He almost smiled; the Ilion reinforcements arriving by sea would find the garrison less friendly than expected.

  He looked across the top of the tower to see that the fighting was over, and his men had the staircase well-guarded.

  As his two Tiron comrades watched, Lycas knelt beside the remains of Sirin’s body. Bitter tears stung his eyes, but he would not let them fall.

  “Go with Crow, my friend,” he whispered, “and don’t look back this time. Our people will remember you in song.” He laid Sirin’s dagger atop his chest, tucking its hilt inside the leather chain of his Wolverine fetish. “I’ll make sure it’s a drinking song.”

  Half-numb, he collected his weapons and his two Wolverines, then made his way toward the edge of the tower, where the archers were raining arrows upon the Ilion troops landing from the ships.

  “We’ll move out as soon as those ships turn back,” he told the Wolverines. They already knew the plan, but it calmed his mind to review it out loud. “We’ll get our wounded, steal as many Descendant weapons and horses as we can, then head for the hills before more Ilions arrive by road.”

  One of his Bears approached, marching a young Ilion soldier before him at sword point.

  “Sir, this one surrendered. What should we do with him?” Lycas looked down at the blood-smeared face of the soldier, who stared up at him with contempt. “Where’s the garrison prison?” he asked the Bear.

  “One floor down, sir. We passed the entrance on the way up.” “Let’s take him there. I need to check the situation below.” He turned the young Ilion toward the stairs. “In you go.”

  On the next floor, they entered the narrow corridor. The prisoner’s hands shook as he held them above his head.

  “Are you Lycas the Wolverine?” he asked. “Maybe. Why?” “You killed my father.”

  Lycas scanned the hallway ahead of them for threats. “Personally?”

  “Yes. In Ilios fifteen years ago. I was three.” “Did you join the army for vengeance?” “I joined the army for a job. I came to Velekos for vengeance.” “Then I should probably kill you out of respect.” Lycas stopped at an arched doorway that had been knocked off its hinges. “This looks like the prison.”

  At the other end of the hall two Bears were sifting through the dead Ilions, collecting weapons. He called to them to join him.

  When the Bears arrived, he shoved the young soldier through the doorway, never letting go of the uniform’s red collar.

  A desk sat in the anteroom outside the cells, but no guards were posted. They’d probably left to help defend the garrison, or save their own skins.

  Without speaking, he gestured for the Bears to precede him into the cell block. Swords drawn, the three men slid with their backs to the wall, through the doorway and into the main row.

  He saw their stricken faces as they took in the sight. They lowered their swords slowly. The stench of blood slammed his nostrils.

  The tallest Bear turned his head to look at Lycas. “No one’s alive, sir. We can smell it.”

  Lycas entered the block. The floor between the cells ran thick with blood, flickering black in the torchlight at either end of the row of cells.

  The first cell was empty, so he shoved the young Ilion soldier inside and closed the door. “Watch him,” he told the Bear who had spoken.

  Six cells stood open. In front of each, a man lay dead, stabbed, beaten, his throat slit.

  The Bear to his left shouted. “Someone’s alive!” He sheathed his sword and ran toward the other end of the corridor. Lycas followed.

  A man lay facedown near the far wall, dressed neither in prison drab nor an Ilion uniform. A pool of blood spread around him. As Lycas came closer, he saw the man’s left hand twitch, clutching the hilt of a short sword.

  The Bear pressed his fingers to the pulse of the injured man’s neck, then sighed as he sat back on his heels. “Not alive for long.”

  “I wonder who—”

  Lycas stopped, the breath freezing in his lungs.

  He knew this soldier’s scent. It was more like his own than any living man.

  Nilik.

  Rhia watched the incoming Ilion troops fall bleeding onto the sand, their agonized faces lit by the swinging lanterns on the landing ship’s bow. Her Crow instincts begged her to help them, but she and the healers had to stay hidden in the bayside cave or the Ilions would kill them—or worse, hold them hostage.

  The few soldiers who broke through and managed to storm up the beach toward the garrison were cut down by Marek and several other second-phase Wolves who stood invisible at the bottom of the hill.

  She moved back into the shelter of the cave, closed her eyes and prayed her husband would not suffer nightmares. He was a hunter, not a warrior, and each death caused him to die a little inside.

  Someone touched her shoulder, and she yelped.

  “Sorry,” Damen whispered. “It’s unnerving to be so close to them, heh?”

  “I’ll be glad when it’s over and we can head back to the hills.” She let out a sigh. “I’m just glad Nilik’s at the camp, safe and sullen.”

  “He won’t stop trying to avenge Lania’s death.”

  “Maybe her murderers have already been killed in the battle.”

  Damen shook his head. “Our soldiers wouldn’t bother fighting caged men, when there are bigger threats.”

  The corners of her mouth trembled. “You saw the vision as clearly as I did. You know he dies young. It’ll be soon no matter what.”

  “But not tonight.” He took her hand and threaded her arm through the crook of his elbow. “You’ve done all you could.”

  “What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t try?” She leaned against him and wiped a rebellious tear from her cheek. “It feels like I swallowed a brick.”

  “This’ll be worth all the worry,” Damen whispered. “The weapons in that garriso
n could supply an entire regiment.”

  “A lot of men are dying in that garrison. After this, Ilios will squeeze Velekos so hard, you won’t be able to breathe.”

  “Eh. It’s impossible to squeeze a flea.”

  She huffed a semilaugh. “You pay too much attention to my brother.”

  “It won’t be painless. I don’t know if any of us will live to see the liberation, no matter how old we grow.” He touched his wrinkled cheek. “Those of you who aren’t already old.”

  “They’re retreating!” someone shouted. “The Ilions are going back out to sea!”

  Rhia dared to peer around the corner of the cave. It was hard to see in the darkness through the driving rain, but the lanterns on the ships seemed to be moving out into the bay.

  “Thank the Spirits.” She turned to one of the healers. “Light the torches. The wounded will be arriving soon.”

  They hurried to set up lights within the rudimentary hospital they’d constructed inside the cave. It wouldn’t fit many people, so some would have to be treated in the rain.

  Rhia carried a small torch outside to look for a level, sheltered spot where they could treat patients.

  From a distance, her brother roared her name.

  Her heart froze. Without turning, she knew what he held in his arms. Nothing else could put that pain in his voice.

  “No…” She lifted her gaze to the bay’s black horizon. The waves rolled in, relentless. Crow’s wings smothered it all.

  She turned to see Lycas dashing toward her over the sand. About twenty paces away, he stumbled, almost falling to his knees. He lurched to regain his balance, then tumbled in the sand, the body in his arms rolling forward.

  It was as she’d seen it at the moment of Nilik’s birth—her son facedown in the sand, bleeding, a sword near his outstretched hand.

  Crow would not be cheated.

  “Nilik!” Her scream tore her throat as she dropped to her knees beside him. She grasped his shoulder and turned him on his back, her own cry echoing in her mind, mixing with the sound of Crow’s wings.

  Nilik’s shirt was torn to rags. His hair was loose and tangled, its light brown strands streaked with blood. His face was bruised and swollen, almost unrecognizable. She touched his jaw, cheeks, eyebrows, seeing him with her hands, for her eyes blurred with a flood of tears and rainwater. This wasn’t happening.

  To her right, Lycas coughed and choked, struggling to rise to his hands and knees. “He came.” His arms gave way, and his face hit the sand. An arrow protruded from his back.

  “Somebody help my brother!” she screamed into the wind, but Damen was already at his side with a third-phase Otter healer.

  A young Otter woman dashed toward Rhia and Nilik, carrying a roll of bandages.

  Rhia held up her hands. “It’s too late.”

  The girl stopped and stared, as if uncomprehending. Rhia wanted to scream at her, shove her away, make her stop looking.

  She turned back to her son. As if in a trance, she opened his shirt and examined his body. The rain splattered on his chest, washing the stains to reveal three wounds—one large to the chest and two smaller ones to the abdomen. The smallest wound of all gushed the most blood.

  “Nilik,” she whispered, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.

  He opened his eyes, just to slits. “Mama.”

  Her chest felt like it would cave in. He hadn’t called her that since the day he learned to walk.

  His breath heaved and gurgled. “Mama…don’t let Him take me.” Blood dribbled from his mouth, and his hand flailed until it found hers. “Don’t let me go.”

  “You’ll be all right,” she choked out. “He’ll take good care of you. You’re my son.”

  “No!”

  Rhia’s face crumpled at the sound of Marek’s approaching cry.

  He sank to his knees at Nilik’s feet and released a soul-rending howl to the sky.

  Rhia touched Nilik’s cheek and held his blue-gray gaze until it shifted past her. “I love you,” she whispered. “Go now.”

  The fear faded from Nilik’s eyes, then a moment later, life itself. The cries around her peaked to crescendos, but they were swamped by the sound of Crow’s wings.

  Every organ inside her body seemed to twist in on itself, and she doubled over, emitting a soundless shriek of grief. She closed her eyes and formed two useless fists in front of her face.

  “Why?” Rhia rocked forward and back, again and again, each time coming closer to Nilik’s body. Finally she pressed her forehead against his shoulder, still warm with the life that had left him.

  “Why?” she screamed into the sand. Her fists opened beneath her, forming claws that would tear the skin from her own neck, mix her blood with that of her firstborn. “Nilik, why?”

  Marek crawled up to collapse beside her. He uttered an incoherent prayer, his voice soaked in tears. She slid her hand into his and squeezed, as if she could hold him in this world.

  Rhia sobbed out the words with her halting breath. “Had. To be. A hero.” Tears soaked her face and stung her dry lips. “What kind of hero breaks his mother’s heart?” She let go of Nilik and clutched Marek’s arms instead, lest she start shaking their son and asking him if he finally understood that there were more important things than vengeance.

  But to a Wolverine, even a dead one, that was a lie.

  For the first time in decades, Lycas felt a cold fear that gripped his heart like a fist. He couldn’t breathe.

  His fingers dug into the wet sand as someone touched his back, examining the arrow wound and murmuring the phrases punctured lung and we can’t move him.

  Why had he been shot? Had the Ilions regained the tower? Had one of his own archers turned traitor?

  He heard his sister’s wails and knew that he’d been too late to save Nilik. His breath wanted to come hard and fast in grief, but the effort brought only agony.

  “We’ll have to move him soon,” Damen said. “More Ilions will be here within the hour.”

  A female voice answered, ragged with age. “He won’t survive the trip to the hills. He needs surgery, somewhere with good light and clean conditions.”

  “For Spirits’ sake, you have to do something.” Lycas had never heard Damen so angry.

  “I can sedate him. He’ll do less damage to himself that way.”

  Lycas tried to protest, but the silver light of a painkilling spell surrounded him. His eyes drifted shut.

  In the gray haze of semiconsciousness, he felt a presence, one of long claws, sharp teeth and unforgiving temper.

  Wolverine.

  “Am I dying?” he asked his Spirit.

  “Yes.” Wolverine moved closer, a hulking, dark shape in the mist. “And no. Death is the path the arrow put you on. But another force blocks the way of My brother Crow.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Soon you will come into the fullness of your third-phase powers.” He paused. “Hopefully before it’s too late.”

  Lycas tried to comprehend the first statement. “Third phase? I’m a grandfather?”

  “As of today.”

  Sura was pregnant. His fear spiked, for her life and Mali’s life. “Where is she? Is she safe?”

  “I don’t keep track of people who aren’t Mine.” Wolverine came closer, breaking through the mist, His lithe, brown body hunched like a bear. “I’m the one who’s dying.”

  Lycas stared at Him. “That’s impossible.”

  “It happened before.”

  “The Collapse?”

  “I almost died then for the same reasons I’m dying now.”

  Lycas felt a strange desire to protect this fierce creature, though he was sure if he tried to touch Him, he’d find himself with one fewer arm.

  “The Descendants are killing the land. The rivers are dying. The wildest Spirits are losing power here, just like in the cities of Ilios.”

  Lycas remembered. When he’d gone to Leukos to rescue Marek and Nilik, his powers had fallen to a
lmost nothing. He hadn’t been the only one.

  “What about Cougar? Wolf?”

  “Also in decline, though not as quickly as I. That arrow in your back was an accident. It wouldn’t have happened if Cougar were at full strength.”

  So Lycas had been shot by one of his own fighters, but not a traitor.

  “How can we save you?” he asked the Spirit.

  “Drive out these invaders.”

  “I’m trying,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ve piled Ilion corpses at Your feet, by the thousands.”

  “So you have. It’s the other reason why I’m dying.”

  A tearing sensation traveled down Lycas’s chest, as if a giant dagger or claw were coming out of the earth, opening him up. Shrieks of agony tore his mind, but no sound came from his throat.

  “Bear My mark,” Wolverine rumbled. “May it remind you of My new wish.”

  The pain crested over him in wave after wave. “Anything,” he gasped.

  “Have mercy on your enemy. Your tactics are effective, but taken to an extreme, they beget misery and retribution. One day your brutality will bring disaster to your people.”

  Lycas bristled at the reprimand. “Everything I do is for You, and all the Spirits.”

  The claw dug deeper, and he spasmed in pain.

  “Liar,” Wolverine hissed. “You kill for yourself, and for your brother. But Nilo’s death has been avenged a hundredfold.”

  Lycas fought to clear his mind, roiling in anguish that was far more than physical. He had no choice but to surrender to his Spirit’s wish.

  “You have given me life and strength,” he said. “I give You my obedience.”

  Wolverine seemed to find it sufficient. “You will find your greatest strength when you face your greatest weakness.”

  Lycas had no idea what that meant, but he nodded. Anything to stop the pain.

  “Now.” The invisible claw traveled up Lycas’s abdomen and chest, this time tracing and healing the gash. “Find something to live for besides death.”

  Lycas drew in a sharp breath that in his head sounded as loud as the waves. His body gave a sudden jerk.

  Power surged through him, greater than before. The third phase.

  He opened his eyes to see that he’d been turned on his side, and that the rain had stopped. The clouds drew away from the horizon’s stars. The waves of the bay shuffled against the sand.