“Stand up,” he said. “I will not have my wolf slay you. I will not have any doubt my strength.” He stepped back and sliced the air. “We will face each other on equal footing.”
Their swords clashed again.
They fought, moving in circles, blades whirring, alpha and beta, the two greatest warriors of their pack. Yorashi was aging, his face lined, his voice a rasp, but he still moved fast; he was still the greatest swordsman Okado had faced. The old man kept shuffling forward, slicing, parrying every attack, until his blade found Okado’s arm and ripped off skin.
The pain only fueled Okado’s anger. He roared and lashed forward, swinging his blade again and again. The people shouted around them. Swords clanged against shields. Blood dripped down Okado’s arm, and still he fought, moving faster, and soon he was no longer retreating but stepping forward, step by step, pushing the old man back.
It was all Yorashi could do to parry. Finally, with a great cry to the night, Okado leaped into the air, and his sword slammed down with the might of falling stars. His blade drove through his enemy’s shield, cleaving the steel, and severed Yorashi’s forearm.
Blood sprayed through the night. The arm and cloven shield tumbled through the air. Rather than clutch the stump, Yorashi raised his sword. He stared forward and hissed, blood spilling.
The battle froze.
Okado stood, facing his mutilated enemy.
“Leave,” he said.
Yorashi spat and raised his sword higher. “You will have to kill me, boy. Fight me and slay me.”
“No.” Okado shook his head. “I will not slay you as you slew my mate’s parents. You’ve weakened, but once you were strong. Once you took me into your pack and you taught me to fight. I still have some honor, Yorashi, even if you’ve lost yours.” He pointed his blade southward. “Go to the southern lands that you crave. Go and find your fish and your mushrooms. But go alone. You were a great warrior once. Leave without your arm … but with your pride.”
The crowd had fallen silent around them. Not a breath sounded, and even the nightwolves stared intently.
Okado stood waiting, sword pointing south.
I don’t want to kill you, old man. But if you linger, I will. I will.
Yorashi sheathed his sword. He grabbed his belt and pulled it free. Never removing his eyes from Okado, the old man wrapped his belt around his stump and squeezed. The flowing blood slowed to a trickle.
The wounded man nodded once, then turned to leave.
The pack parted, wolves and riders forming a path. Yorashi walked down the mountainside into the endless, cold night.
Okado remained upon the mountaintop, standing still. All around, his pack stared up at him, silent. Still not a breath stirred.
Finally one rider—a tall woman with one eye, the sides of her head shaven—broke the silence.
“Alpha.” She bowed her head and her wolf knelt beneath her.
A second warrior, this one a bald, bare-chested man, spoke too.
“Alpha.”
His wolf knelt beneath him, and the warrior lowered his head.
“Alpha,” said another.
“Alpha.”
The word swept through the crowd. All the wolfriders, warriors of Chanku, bowed before the new ruler of the pack.
Suntai looked upon him, his mate of years, the brave and noble woman who had hunted at his side, who had loved him through his storms of struggle and now his triumph. She sat tall upon her white wolf, and her eyes gleamed.
“Alpha,” she whispered and bowed her head.
Before her wolf could kneel, Okado approached and held the beast’s chin, keeping the animal standing. He climbed upon his own wolf, the shaggy Refir, and turned so his saddle pressed up against Suntai’s. He looked upon his mate, reached out, and held her arm.
“Alpha,” he said to her.
They turned together to gaze upon their pack. The riders sprawled across the mountaintop, kneeling.
I wish you could see me now, Father, Okado thought, his throat tight. I wish you were here, Koyee, my sister.
He raised his bloodied blade and roared to his pack.
“I am Okado! I am Alpha!”
The mountain shook with a great howl. All roared to the sky.
“Okado! Okado!”
He shouted above them all. “I will lead you out of banishment! I will lead you to our homeland. We will take Pahmey. We are the night!”
Their roars rolled across the land, and this time Okado was sure the distant patch of light heard … and feared them.
CHAPTER TWENTY
FIRE IN THE DARK
As Torin rode his horse into the dusk, his belly twisted and his throat tightened.
“I never wanted this,” he whispered. “I never wanted to fight, only to save Bailey … and now she too is here.”
Nobody could hear him over the roars of the army. Men shouted for blood. Drums beat and trumpets blared. Thousands of hooves beat against the dust, and thousands of boots thumped. They marched through the shadows, trampling the last blades of grass, and emerged into a barren land.
No plants lived here in the eternal darkness. The moon shone overhead and the stars dotted the black sky. The rocky plains flowed into the horizon, rising into distant mountains. Only the river broke the blackness, a strand of silver in the moonlight. A few miles away, beneath the Nighttower, nestled the village. It looked no larger than Fairwool-by-Night, only a few huts and lanterns rising along the riverbank.
For a few heartbeats, the soldiers of Timandra froze. Mumbles of awe rose among the troops. Men pointed at the stars. Some cursed, others laughed, while a few prayed. Horses whinnied. The soldiers stood still, daring not advance farther. Torin had entered this land thrice already, and still it chilled him. He shivered and had to look down, for the endless sky of lights seemed so large, so distant, that it spun his head.
Ahead of the troops, King Ceranor raised his sword.
“Men, light your torches!” he shouted. “Fear no darkness. We will light the night!”
All across the army, a hundred thousand torches crackled to life, a second sky of lights. Smoke plumed and sparks filled the air. The smell of fire rose in Torin’s nostrils, and strangely, it reminded him of his childhood roasting sausages around campfires.
A white horse galloped by, and Torin’s spirits sank even deeper. A grimace tugged his face. Atop the stallion sat Ferius, his yellow robes flapping. The monk raised a torch and shrieked, spraying saliva.
“For the light of Timandra! Take their village. Slay the demons of the dark!”
With roars that rang across the land, the army raced forward.
They had crossed the dusk at a quick march, but now they ran and roared for victory.
They raced down the hillside, a swarm of torches, swords, and arrows. Horses galloped ahead. The ground troops raced behind. Chariots trundled and banners flapped and everywhere men shouted. Torin gripped his reins and galloped with the rest of the cavalry. He bounced in the saddle, nearly fell, and clung on. The world rose and fell around him and the roars nearly deafened him.
“Torin!” Bailey shouted. “Don’t get ahead, damn you!”
She ran alongside him, jumped up, and tried to grab his saddle.
“Bailey, let go!” he said, appalled. “You’re going to get trampled here.”
Running between the horses, she growled up at him. Her arms pumped. Torin was forced to slow his gallop to match her stride. The rest of the cavalry thundered all around, raising dust, nearly trampling the young woman.
“Idar’s beard!” he cursed, reached down, and grabbed Bailey’s arm. He tugged, she leaped, and soon she sat behind him in the saddle.
“I told you!” she shouted as they kept riding, clouds of dust rising around them. “I have to look after you.”
“Bailey, you nearly got trampled to death! I’m the one looking after you so far.”
She gripped him from behind.
“Now gallop, we’re falling behind.” She
pointed ahead at the rest of the horses. “Ferius is there, and I don’t trust him. Go, go!”
Torin leaned forward, dug his heels into the horse, and the beast ran faster. They followed the rest of the cavalry, the lands rising and falling all around. Thousands of troops ran around them, waving their weapons and chanting for blood. The village grew larger ahead, lights like stars; there couldn’t have been more than thirty huts. A dozen boats swayed at the docks, their masts topped with lanterns.
As they drew nearer, a horde that covered the landscape, Elorians emerged from their homes. They pointed, shouted, and bustled like ants from a disturbed hive.
“These are not warriors,” Torin whispered. “They’re holding fishing rods and tools.”
Nobody heard him. All around the soldiers roared, swords flashed, and horses thundered. The smoke of torches covered the sky, crimson and black.
“Take their town!” the king cried somewhere ahead. “Archers, take out their defenders.”
Torin looked around, grimacing. A thousand archers pulled their bowstrings. A thousand arrows filled the night, their tips lit with the torchlight. Whistles filled the air. Elorians screamed and fell, pierced with the projectiles.
“He’s murdering them!” Bailey said, sitting behind Torin in the saddle. She wrapped her arms so tightly around him he could barely breathe. “Those are just … just villagers.”
Torin gritted his teeth and spurred his horse. Ahead, the first lines of cavalry charged into the village. Knights on horseback roared, swung their swords, and cut Elorians apart. A few of the villagers began to flee. They raced across the landscapes; arrows tore them down.
“Your Highness!” Torin shouted, riding through smoke, seeking the king. Finally he saw the man ahead, his torch reflecting against his raven helmet. Torin tugged the reins, directing his horse toward the monarch. He found himself riding through the village, the huts blurring at his sides. Boats were burning in the river to his right.
“Your Highness, please!” Torin shouted, riding toward the king.
Smoke filled his eyes and mouth. Torin coughed. A scream rose. He waved the smoke aside to see an Elorian racing his way.
Torin tugged the reins and his horse reared. The Elorian screamed ahead, white hair wild, eyes wide. For an instant, Torin thought it might be the Elorian girl he had seen, the one with the scarred face. But no—this Elorian seemed older, a woman with pale skin clutching a humble knife. Children cowered behind her against a hut, weeping. With a scream, the Elorian ran toward Torin, knife slashing.
The horse whinnied. The blade sparked across its armor.
Torin clung to the saddle. His horse’s hooves hit the ground. Torin raised his sword above the Elorian, but couldn’t bring himself to land the blow.
She stared at him, eyes wide.
“Run,” he said to her. “Run from this village. Take your children and r—”
With a flutter of yellow robes, Ferius rode by. The monk grinned, swung a mace, and clubbed the woman’s head.
Torin stared, heart freezing, as the woman fell the ground, her skull caved in. With a flash of armor, knights on horseback thundered by, swords swung, and when Torin could see again, the mother’s children lay cut and trampled.
“Winky,” Bailey whispered in the saddle and clung to him. “Oh Winky, they’re killing them all.”
Wincing, Torin led his horse around the corpses. Blood spilled across cobblestones. All around the village the army sprawled like a swarm of insects around a fallen fruit. Torin rode around a hut and saw the king ahead.
“Your Highness!” he shouted hoarsely, smoke in his throat. “These are no soldiers. The village is ours. We cannot butcher humble people. We—”
“They are nothing but creatures,” interjected a voice. Ferius came riding between Torin and the king, smiling toothily. “And they are all already dead. There is nothing you can do to save your beloved monsters, boy.” He smirked, clutching his bloodied mace. “This village is ours, and light shines in the darkness.”
Torin looked around him, panting, and saw nothing but smoke, blood, soldiers, and bodies. The corpses lay everywhere—Elorians of pale skin and large eyes, their bodies pierced with arrows, swords, and spears. The huts and fishing boats burned. Fire lit the night.
A scream sounded behind him.
Bailey leaped from the saddle, ran forward, and lunged at Ferius. She screamed and swung her sword his way.
“Bailey!” Torin shouted.
Grunting, Ferius parried her blow with his mace. The blade rang and chipped.
“Bailey, no!” Torin jumped off his horse and pulled her back. “If you attack him, they’ll imprison you again. Bailey, listen to me! They’re already dead. We can’t save them.”
She was screaming and weeping, her face red, her eyes full of tears.
“I will kill you, Ferius!” she screamed as Torin pulled her back. “You will taste this steel!”
Vaguely, he was aware of Cam and Hem running up toward them. Their eyes were wide, their cheeks flushed. Torin still held Bailey. He began to pull her away, smoothing her hair and whispering into her ear.
“Come with me, Bailey. It’s too late. Let’s get out of this smoke.”
He took her out of the village and they walked across the plains. All around them, soldiers chanted in victory. A few scattered bodies of Elorians, those who had fled the village, lay dead upon the rock, arrows in their backs. Torin and Bailey kept walking until they climbed a dark hill, rising from the mass of steel and smoke and fire.
“Oh, Winky,” Bailey whispered, embraced him, and buried her face against his shoulder. “How has this happened?”
He stroked her hair, held her close, and stared down the hill. The armies of Timandra sprawled across the plains. Within the horde, like a great campfire, the village of Elorians burned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE DISTANT FIRE
The world could be burning, Koyee thought, but inside the Green Geode only light, laughter, and languor would swirl. She stood upon her little stage, barely more than a stone pedestal, playing the beautiful brass flute Nukari had given her. She could barely see through the green smoke that swirled before her, filling this chamber of crystals. All across the floor, the spicers lay sprawled upon mattresses, puffing on their hookahs. Purplehintan bubbled in glass vials, and the smoke formed dragons, warriors, and demons before dispersing into a cloud that forever hid the ceiling. A few men sometimes blinked, seemed to rise from stupor, and tossed a coin her way; most could only lie puffing and drooling.
Perhaps I too am in a land of forgetting here, Koyee thought. She had been here for so long already. She did not know how long. There were no hourglasses here; Nukari forbade them. Time did not flow within the Green Geode, only liquid spice and drool.
But I will soon escape, she thought as she played. Ever so slowly, her coins were piling up. Nukari took from her so much—for her gown, for her new flute, for her meals, and for her bed. Sometimes she thought he charged her for the spice fumes she breathed. Whenever she objected, he threatened to toss her back out into the street. And so she stayed. And so she still stood here, playing the same tune, again and again, coin by coin.
“Madori Mai!” said Lilika, the singer with the golden eyes, when Koyee was done playing. “Madori Mai, come upstairs, it’s a full moon. Time for our Silver Festival.”
The yezyana smiled. Blue paint coated her eyelids, and she wore a silk dress Koyee would have blushed to wear. She was tall and fair, the fairest of the yezyani, her skin pale and pure as moonlight, her hair dyed a gleaming gold. She wore a tiara shaped as Shenlai, the blue dragon of Qaelin, for she was queen among the yezyani, a beauty like a spirit from ancient tales.
“My name is Koyee,” she said to the singer, feeling short and plain beside her, keenly aware of the scars that marred her face.
Lilika shook her head, covered her mouth, and giggled. “That is your outside name. Here you are Madori and I am Lilika. Come, upstairs!”
The other yezyani ran toward her, silks fluttering. Dancers, singers, and professional flirts, they all giggled and grabbed Koyee, tugging her off her stage and onto the stairway.
“Yezyani, yezyani!” shouted Nukari, running around the bar where he was mixing his liquid spice. “Back onto your stages. Move your little backsides!”
They only laughed and waved their hands at him.
“Go dance instead of us, Nukari!” one said, giggling.
The others squealed with joy. “Go, go, you are a beautiful woman!”
“It is the Silver Moon,” said Lilika with a smile. “We yezyani celebrate now.”
Nukari’s face reddened, which only made the young women laugh louder. Confused, Koyee gasped as her fellow yezyani pulled her upstairs in a stream of flashing silks, sparkling jewels, and tinkling laughter.
They pulled her into Lilika’s room, the largest of the upstairs chambers, for she was a first among them, and this room was her palace. Strings of crystals hung from the ceiling, and a great bed covered half the floor, large enough for ten people to sleep in. Koyee’s heart raced. Why had they brought her here? Did they have some … some cruel initiation to inflict upon her? Would they strike her, mock her, or force her to prove her loyalty—to swallow a live spider, shave her hair, or dance like a marionette? Koyee wanted to flee this room, feeling safer in the shroud of smoke downstairs.
Atana, the little puppeteer—an impish girl with large ears and gleaming green eyes—pulled glasses from a drawer. She grinned and filled them with spirits.
“Drink, Madori!” she said, handing her a cup. “Let us drink for the moon.”
When Koyee looked outside the window, she could see the moon, full and silver and shining between crystal towers … and yet it glowed beyond iron bars. For all its light and laughter, Koyee thought the Green Geode little more than a prison.
When I have enough coins to leave, she thought, staring between the bars, will I even find a way out?
She thought of Oshy, wondering if the people there were gazing upon the same moon this night, celebrating its glow. She missed home.
Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels Page 22