They swam back to the southern riverbank, joining the rest of the pack. Okado dismounted and laid the man down, where he shivered and coughed up more water.
Around him, the clan riders grumbled.
“This one is a soldier of Pahmey!” said the beefy Juro. “He wears the silver tunic of their pikemen. He is the enemy.”
Others shouted and pointed their swords at the man, threatening torture or death. The half-drowned soldier shivered, grabbed Okado’s wrist, and stared into his eyes.
“You are Chanku riders,” he said. “But you are no longer our enemies. Help us, riders. Help us.” His lips shook and he could hardly speak. “Timandra attacks! The sunlit demons swarm. They seek to slay all Elorians. They seek to light all the night. Help us … help us…”
Okado looked at his fellow riders. They stared back, swords ready, eyes hard. Their wolves bared their fangs, lusting to taste the blood of their enemies. But behind them … far beyond the miles of rock and shadow, Okado imagined their wives, their children, their elders. And he saw them waiting for warriors who would not return. He turned to look at Suntai, and their gazes met. His mate’s eyes did not crave battle; they were soft, understanding, and wise.
I love you, Suntai, he thought—words he would never dare speak, words an alpha, strong and feeling nothing but bloodlust, would never utter. We will forever ride together.
He climbed back onto his wolf and the beast reared. Okado called out to his people.
“The demons of sunlight fight our enemies in Pahmey. We rode here to find a war not ours. The Chanku Pack will return home. We will not help the city that exiled us. We return to our crater. We return to our families.”
He looked again at Suntai and saw her eyes dampen. She nodded in approval, a small smile trembling on her lips. She knew what this cost him.
The rest of the riders showed no such understanding. Their lips peeled back in snarls. They bellowed. Their wolves cried out as if they too had understood his words. Swords rose tall.
“Does an alpha cower from battle?” demanded his beta, the towering Juro.
“We are Chanku riders!” shouted another, a wild woman of the blade. “We do not flee battle. We will charge the enemy.”
“Our alpha is weak!” cried a third rider.
“Let us storm the enemy for glory, for the honor of the wolf!”
Okado wheeled his wolf from one rider to another, curling his lip. “You will not disobey me. I am Alpha Okado. I defeated Yorashi. I rule this pack. We will not die in a war not ours. We return to—”
“I will not return as a coward, tail between my legs,” said Juro and spat. “Okado, you are weak. You are a pup. What kind of alpha turns away from a battle of glory?”
A wise one, Okado thought. A leader who cares more for the life of his people than death and honor. He gripped his sword as the horror surged through him. A leader like the one I cast out. A leader like Yorashi … like the one I must become.
Yet how could he speak these words to men who lusted only to kill, to die, to fight though no hope shone? He rode his wolf away from the riverbanks, moving through the pack, heading back south.
“Follow, riders!” he said. “We will leave this city to its fate. We return home.”
Faces dour, some still grumbling, the riders parted, letting him move through the pack. All but Juro. Snarling, the beta rode to block Okado’s path.
“No,” he said. “No, Okado. I will not follow you. You are weak. You are no alpha.” He brandished his sword and roared. “I challenge you! A battle of wolves.”
The clan raised their voices, forming a ring around the two. “Battle of wolves! Battle of wolves!”
With a caustic grin, Juro spurred his mount and came charging toward Okado, swinging his katana.
Okado hissed, charged upon his own wolf, and swung his own sword.
The wolves and blades crashed together.
Fangs bit into fur. Steel rang.
The largest rider in the pack, Juro laughed as he fought. He swung his sword down, a great cleaver, and Okado—strong but slimmer—blocked the blade. His rage blazed.
I will not let this man usurp me. I will not let him kill us all. He swung his blade; it clashed against Juro’s armor, raising sparks but doing the man no harm. I will not see our clan destroyed for his pride.
Juro’s wolf lunged. Claws dug into Refir, and the wolf fell. Okado fell with him, raised his sword, and parried another blow. Upon his wolf, Juro was laughing, scales missing from his armor, his blade slamming down again and again. Lying on the ground, his wolf whimpering beside him, Okado blocked the blows. Juro’s wolf clawed at his chest and arms. The crowd roared and somewhere in the distance Suntai cried his name.
Suntai …
Okado knew what would happen if he fell. Juro could claim Suntai as a second mate. She would have to endure him, to serve him, to mate with him, even bear his children, until another defeated him.
As claws and blade lashed down against him, it was the thought of Suntai that pulled Okado to his feet.
Juro’s sword cut into his shoulder, spraying blood.
Okado leaped onto his enemy’s wolf.
The beast bucked below them. The two men fought upon the wolf’s back. Juro reached out, clutched Okado’s throat, and squeezed. His sword clanged against armor. Okado couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe, but he kept seeing Suntai’s eyes … eyes that loved him, eyes he would not see darkened.
“Yes, suffocate for me, coward,” Juro said, grinning as he squeezed. “I will not give you the honor of dying upon the blade. Warriors die upon steel. You will die like an omega.”
As Juro squeezed his throat and darkness spread across the world, Okado tossed down his sword.
Stars shone before his eyes.
He drew his dagger and drove it forward.
The blade slammed into Juro’s chest, punching through armor and into flesh.
The fingers loosened around his throat.
With a great breath of air, Okado twisted his blade.
“But you, Juro,” he rasped, “you I will gladly kill with steel.”
The beta gasped, eyes wide, blood spilling. Okado shoved the blade deeper, and Juro tumbled off his wolf. He thudded against the ground.
Breath heavy and his own blood dripping, Okado dismounted and knelt above his foe. Blood splashed his fingers as he worked, cutting and digging. When he ripped out his enemy’s heart, the clan roared and chanted his name.
“Feast upon his strength, Refir,” Okado said, offering the heart to his wolf.
Refir still lay on the ground, wound bleeding, but he ate and the heart gave him strength. The nightwolf rose to his feet, and Okado sat in his saddle again. He looked upon his clan and saw approval in their eyes. Suntai stared at him, chin raised and eyes bright.
“Chanku Pack!” Okado shouted, voice hoarse, a mere rasp like steel on leather. “I am your alpha! I will slay any who challenge me. I will lead you to thrive, my pack. I will lead you to strength. Our glory lies upon the horizon, but not here. Not now. The city we craved is sacked; our old enemies, the elders of those towers, are fallen. We are avenged. We leave with heads high, our honor intact.” He began to ride south. “Follow, Chanku riders. We are the night!”
They rode south, away from the city of Pahmey, taking with them its wounded soldier but leaving the dead Juro. As he rode ahead of the pack, his mate at his side, Okado thought back to their council upon Wolfjaw Mountain.
I thought you weak, Yorashi. I thought you a coward. Okado squared his jaw, eyes burning. But you are not. You were a leader. Perhaps a true leader needs less blind strength … and more wisdom.
He hoped that Yorashi would find another pack somewhere in the wilderness, another place to belong, to grow old, to survive. So few survived in the wildness of endless night.
“But we will,” Okado vowed into the wind. “I will lead my pack not for glory and honor, but for life.”
The city vanished behind, and the distant sounds
of war drums and screams faded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
OLD GHOSTS
The gateway loomed above him, carved of indigo bricks, their facades sporting golden reliefs of moons and stars. The walls towered above Torin, a hundred feet tall, ending with battlements scarred and smashed by war. The doorways, forged of bronze, lay shattered and bent, mere scrap metal. Ahead of Torin, his fellow soldiers marched into the city, boots thudding in unison, banners and swords raised.
“Victory!” they shouted. “The city is ours! Slay every enemy soldier you find.”
Torin stood in the wreckage of the docks, covered in blood and ash, arrows in his shield. After losing his armor in the river, he now wore a new, ill-fitting breastplate; he winced to remember pulling it off a corpse. His friends stood beside him, similarly clad in scavenged armor, their faces sooty and their wounds dripping.
“Torin…” Bailey said and clutched his arm, fear in her eyes. “Will they kill everyone inside? Will they attack only soldiers, or will they destroy the city?”
He swallowed, throat tight. “I don’t know. But we must enter with them. We must do what we can to stop this city from crumbling. I cannot let this be another massacre … not as I wear this armor, bearing this sigil.”
Bailey lowered her head. A tear drew a line through the dirt caking her cheek. “Are you sure? Maybe we should just run. We can grab a boat. We can sail home.” She looked up at him, eyes damp. “You don’t have to do this. You can still turn back.”
He stared at the smashed gates and the soldiers marching through. From within the city, he heard the clanging of swords and screams of dying men. They were still fighting in there, the last survivors of the Elorian defense clashing against the enemy, fighting even now with the gates smashed, with all hope for them lost.
“She’s in there,” he whispered. “I saw her, Bailey. I saw her on the walls and she met my eyes. The girl with the scarred face.”
Bailey shook her head, braids swaying. “What girl, Torin? Who?” She clutched his hand. “Who are you talking about?”
She no longer stood upon the walls, but Torin could see her again in his memory. A young woman, hair long and white and smooth, eyes large and lavender. Three scars rifted her face. The pain seared through him.
“It was last spring. Do you remember when I wheeled the bones into the dusk, the remains of the Elorian our village burned?”
Bailey nodded. “Of course.”
“I saw her then. A young Elorian woman. I left the bones near her, and she seemed … haunted, in mourning. I’ve often wondered if she was the daughter of the man we burned. Bailey, I cannot let more die. Part of this blood is on our hands. I must do what I can to protect that woman … to protect everyone I still can.”
She grabbed his shoulders and stared into his eyes. “How?”
“The greatest danger to Eloria is not swords, not arrows, not catapults—it’s words. Words ignite the fires of war. Words kill more innocents than swords. Those evil words still spill from Ferius’s lips into the king’s ears.”
“The king will not listen to you,” she said. “If Ferius urges genocide, the king will obey … like in the village.” She shook her head. “How can we stop this?”
Torin looked at the bodies that lay around the city walls. His voice was low.
“If I cannot preach peace, I must silence the words of war. I must kill Ferius.” He looked back at Bailey and saw the horror in her eyes; the same horror churned in his belly. “In the chaos of battle, if Ferius sends soldiers to slay the innocent, I must slay him. I must.”
Bailey touched his cheek, and tears streamed from her eyes. “You’re not a killer, Torin.”
He looked at the blood on his sword. “I am now. Will you come with me?”
She dug her fingers into his shoulders. “Always. Into this city and into the very heart of the night.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “Then come on, lazy! Into the city. Let’s find that bastard and stick a sword in his gut.”
Torin looked back at the walls, hoping to see the woman again, but saw only blood and smashed stones. He walked forward, sword drawn, stepping over debris, shattered shields, and corpses. He joined the marching troops. Among the thousands, covered in blood and dust, he entered the city of Pahmey.
This ends now, Ferius, he thought, gripping his sword to stop his hand from trembling. I will find you in this city … and I will kill you.
* * * * *
She stood, shaking, sword in hand. Around her stood a hundred Elorian warriors, scale armor chipped and swords dented, the last defenders of Pahmey. All others lay dead in the Inaro or the rubble along the walls.
Koyee held her blade tight as before her the hordes marched, ten by ten, a formation of perfect precision, a machine of metal and fire. Into Pahmey they came—the sunlit demons, as plentiful as stars in the sky. A hundred yards separated them from Koyee, then ninety, and soon they moved only heartbeats away.
“Be brave, my friends,” Koyee said softly. “Be brave for Eloria.”
One man at her side, a tall Elorian with a scratch along his face, turned and fled. Another joined him and a dozen followed. Yet still Koyee stood on the street, awaiting the marching enemy. Her sword had not yet quenched its thirst.
The Timandrians ahead stared at her and her meager force. They looked at one another and snickered. Their leader, a man in plate armor, his helmet shaped as a bird of gold and onyx, pointed his blade forward. He spoke in his tongue, which Koyee did not understand, but she could hear the words in his tone.
“Slay them,” said this king of demons. “Slay them all.”
The Timandrians howled and charged.
Koyee snarled and raised her sword.
A shadow darted.
A small figure, no taller than her waist, burst out from an alley. The shadow scurried ahead and hands grabbed Koyee. She gasped and almost dropped her sword.
“Flee, Koyee Mai!” rose a high voice. “Flee!”
She gasped. It was Maniko! Maniko, the dwarf who had taught her the flute!
His hands were small but determined, tugging her sideways. She tried to resist, but Maniko was too strong and quick. The Timandrians surged toward them. Elorian soldiers crashed against the enemy. Swords rang and blood spilled all around.
“Come, Koyee Mai! Come and hide.”
She was too weary, too dazzled to resist him. He dragged her into a dark alley. Outside on the boulevard, swords crashed, men fell, and blood spilled.
“Maniko, I must fight with them,” Koyee said, struggling to free herself from his grasp.
He clung to her, barely more than half her height, but his arms were wide and his grip desperate. Dust and droplets of blood caked his flowing beard.
“Please, Koyee,” he said, eyes entreating, holding her in the shadows. “This is not the way. You will die out there.”
She shook her head, eyes stinging. “I cannot abandon Eloria.”
“You will not.” He pulled her deeper into the shadows. “Koyee Mai, look at me. Look. Listen to me.”
She turned away from the battle. In the darkness of the alley, she looked down at him. A scratch ran along his face, and his eyes shone with tears.
“Dearest Maniko,” she said, knelt, and embraced him. “My friend.”
Her body shook with weariness. She had been fighting for what felt like many turns of the hourglass, never resting, never eating or drinking. Her limbs trembled and her head swam.
Maniko held her close. “Koyee, this is not the way. You are like me. You are a busker. You are a soul of the shadows, a warrior of the streets. Haven’t you and I always fought in the shadows?” He touched the wound on her temple. “Fight in the shadows again. From the roofs. From alleyways. From windows and dark corners. Not out there in lantern-lit boulevards.”
She looked back out the alleyway. Between the houses, she saw the Timandrians march on. Bodies of Elorians littered the street. The blood of the night flowed.
She turned back to Ma
niko. “Do you know how to fight?”
He reached into his boot, pulled out a knife, and grinned. “I’ve been living on the streets of Pahmey for over forty years. Yes, moonchild. I know how to fight.” He held her arm. “Come with me. We will slay the demons together.”
She smiled softly. “Maniko, you are small and can scurry through shadows, but I am fast and I can climb walls and leap between roofs. Let the alleyways be your domain; let the rooftops be mine.” She kissed his cheek. “We will play music together again.”
She left him there, scuttled up the wall like she would as a thief, and stood upon the rooftops. She looked down at her friend, then raced along the roof and would not look back. The truth she kept to herself.
“I cannot bear to see you die, Maniko,” she whispered. “I would prefer to die alone in blood and shadow than lose my friend.”
She dropped down to hands and knees, crept along the roof to the boulevard, and gazed down. Thousands of Timandrians now marched through the city; more kept streaming in. Koyee sucked in her breath and drew an arrow; she had only seven left. She tugged back her bowstring. She fired. She stayed just long enough to see a man fall dead, then turned and fled across the roofs.
“You smashed us in the water,” she whispered. “You crushed us on the walls. But now … now a battle of shadows begins. Now Eloria fights in alleyways and upon rooftops. Now we will bleed you like never before.”
She leaped onto the dome of a mushroom farm, raced around its top, and jumped. As she sailed over a street, she shot another arrow. She saw a Timandrian fall before she landed on the opposite roof and ran onward.
She raced across the city, leaping from roof to dome to steeple. She felt like a bird of the night, flying over Pahmey, a shadow under the starlight. In every street, the enemy marched, poison clogging the veins of her city. For this was her city now; this had become her home. On the rough streets of the dregs, in the glittering hilltop dens, and upon the battlements, she had bled for this city, and she had killed for this city, and this was the beat of her heart. This was her new lodestar. And so she kept running. She kept leaping. She kept firing her arrows, sending death into their ranks. She was down to only three arrows, then two, and they were a hundred thousand, but she ran and fought on.
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