“I will slay you with arrows until they are gone,” she vowed in the darkness, standing upon a steeple of crystal. “I will fight you with my sword until it is chipped and dented beyond use. And then I will fight you with tooth and nail.” The wind billowed her hair, and she clutched the steeple and stared down into the streets. “I am Koyee. I am a daughter of the night. I will not rest until your light fades or until I join my father, whom you slew.”
She ran. She vaulted over a street. She fired another arrow, landed on a rooftop, and ran on.
By the time she had fired her last arrow, the Timandrians had reached the city hilltop and were marching to the palace. She saw no more Elorians; the people hid in homes, temples, theaters, and alleys. Everywhere she looked she saw the sunlit demons, their torches casting red light, their armor bright, their voices chanting for victory. No one else was emerging to fight; all hid or lay dead.
“So I will fight alone,” Koyee said into the wind.
She raced across tiled roofs, her feet bare, her quiver empty. In the firelight of war, the city seemed a foreign place. She did not realize what roofs she leaped across until she was there.
She froze. She sucked in her breath.
She was standing atop the Fat Philosopher, that old tavern, gazing down upon Bluefeather Corner where—for so long—she would play her flute.
“My old home,” she whispered, and the memories flooded her, as biting and quick as an arrow’s jab. She saw herself standing here again, clad in the tattered furs of a fisherman’s daughter, playing in the muck, sleeping by the trash bin in the alley. Despite the war flowing through Pahmey, this little nook had not changed. The bearded soothsayer still sat upon his box, stroking his beard, his old eyes almost blind. The bluefeathers still stood in their corral, clacking their silver beaks and scratching the earth. Her old corner, where she had stood for so long, seemed barren and sad to her, a memory tinged with sorrow even now as the night burned.
Movement across the street caught her eye. She turned to see several Timandrians emerging from an alleyway, holding lanterns. Koyee narrowed her eyes and caught her breath. Unlike the others, these Timandrians wore no armor and carried no swords. Instead, they wore yellow robes and bore flanged maces.
“What new demons are these, Eelani?” Koyee whispered, though she could no longer feel her friend upon her shoulder. Perhaps Eelani had fled. Perhaps she had burned in the battle.
The Timandrians below spat out words. Disgust and scorn dripped from their voices. Koyee could not understand their language, but she understood their tone. One of the demons kicked a stray jar while another pointed at scattered refuse and snorted.
They think our city a sty, Koyee thought, but they are worse filth than anything in the dregs. She wished she still had arrows to fire upon them.
One of the demons raised his head, and Koyee stepped back, heart pounding. She was sure he’d spotted her upon the roof, but when she disappeared into the shadows, she heard the demon chanting. It sounded like a prayer, and Koyee understood.
These are not soldiers. They are monks … monks of the cruel sun that burns across the dusk.
She lay upon her stomach, crawled to the roof edge, and peered down.
One of the monks spat, muttered what sounded like a curse, and approached the old soothsayer. The Timandrian was short and squat, his shoulders wide and his scraggly, black hair thinning. His eyes were far set, and his thin lips twisted into a sneer. When he reached the soothsayer, the monk prodded the old man with his boot.
Koyee snarled and prepared to jump down but stopped herself; there were eight of them—too many for her to defeat. She watched from the roof.
“Master!” said the soothsayer, too old and weary to rise. “Don’t hurt me, Master.”
The squat Timandrian monk hissed. “Ferius!” he said, smirked, and pointed at himself. “Ferius.”
The soothsayer bowed his head. “Master Ferius! Please do not hurt an old man.”
Ferius looked back at his fellow monks, snickered, then kicked the soothsayer in the stomach.
Koyee gasped.
The soothsayer fell over, coughing, and Ferius kicked him again and laughed. The Timandrian raised his mace high, prepared to strike the killing blow.
This time Koyee could not stop herself. She leaped off the roof. Graceful as a nightwolf, she landed upon the street, drew her sword, and sliced the air.
“You will not touch him,” she said. “He is mine to protect. Stand back, demons, or taste my steel.”
The monks turned toward her, their eyes widened … and they laughed.
Koyee swung Sheytusung again; the blade whistled through the air. She realized how she must have looked: a slim woman, clad in only a tattered silk dress, her helmet too large and grime coating her bare feet. She brandished her blade. Each of the Timandrians was larger than her, and their maces could snap both her sword and bones, yet she would not back down.
Maniko would want me to flee, she thought, but I cannot let more die.
“Come die at my blade,” she said.
They raised their maces and charged toward her.
Koyee screamed and ran to meet them.
Shadows leaped from the rooftops.
With a flutter of cloaks and the flash of blades, the Dust Face Ghosts landed in the street.
“Hello again, Halfsmile!” cried Longarm. The one-armed woman gave her a nod, then thrust her spear at a monk.
Around her, the other Ghosts—the burly twins, the quick Earwig, and even tiny Whisper—lunged at the enemy. Their blades and clubs swung.
The monks cursed. Koyee gave a battle cry and charged.
She swung her blade at a bald, gangly monk. He parried with his mace. Koyee screamed, sure her sword would break, but this was the blade of a master smith. She knelt and swung again, and her sword sliced into her enemy’s legs. With a curse, the monk fell. He lashed his mace again but missed. Koyee leaped skyward, then drove her sword down as she descended. Her blade pierced the monk’s chest.
Kneeling above the corpse, she looked up. The Ghosts were fighting around her. In their corral, the bluefeathers were cawing madly. Another monk came running her way. Koyee swung her sword. A mace slammed against her thigh and she yowled. She drove her blade downward, driving it through the Timandrian’s shoulder and cleaving his torso. He fell dead.
“Halfsmile!” Earwig said with a grin, scrawny, his knees scraped as always. “You are a fighter, Halfsmile!”
He lashed his own weapon, a chipped dagger, toward a monk. The man was waving a mace at the boy, but was moving too slowly, unable to land his blows.
“Earwig, you focus on the fight!” Koyee shouted back. “You—”
The one-eared boy swung his dagger and winked. He was still grinning at her as the mace slammed into his head.
“Earwig!” Koyee screamed.
Horror shattered her heart. The boy fell, head cracked open. Screaming, Koyee raced toward the monk who’d slain him. She waved her sword madly. The man barely saw her coming; she sliced his belly open and spun around, panting.
Earwig lay at her feet. Before Koyee could even kneel beside him, screams rose ahead.
She saw one of the twins, tall and gaunt and pale, take a mace to his chest. Ribs cracked. His eyes closed, and the boy fell. His club thumped down by his body.
Koyee screamed. A monk came at her, mace swinging. Koyee ducked and the weapon whooshed over her head. She thrust Sheytusung upward, piercing the man’s belly, and pulled the sword back with a shower of blood.
She leaped into the air, stepped over the Timandrian as he fell, and raced toward the twins.
One still lay upon the street, chest shattered. His brother bellowed to the sky, kneeling over his fallen sibling. He was weeping and trying to revive his brother when a monk clubbed his head.
Koyee spun from side to side, blade swinging, holding back the enemies. Four monks still lived … and only two Dust Face Ghosts.
“Run, Whisper!” Koyee scream
ed. “Run!”
The little girl, the smallest and dearest of the Ghosts, stared up from a pool of blood. She held a dagger in her trembling hands.
“I … I have to fight with you, Halfsmile,” the child whispered. “I…”
Whisper never even saw the blow coming.
The monk—the short, stocky Ferius—crept up behind the girl and swung his mace.
The flanged head slammed into Whisper’s skull, cracking it open. The girl was dead before she hit the ground.
“No…” Koyee whispered. Tears filled her eyes and her whisper rose to a howl. “No! She was only a child, you bastards! She was only a little girl…”
Tears flowing, Koyee screamed and ran toward the four remaining monks.
She screamed and wept as she fought. Her feet stepped on the blood of her fallen friends. She swung Sheytusung, cut one man’s legs out from under him, and slammed the sword down. She suffered a mace’s blow to her right arm. It hung uselessly, swelling up, maybe broken, but Koyee barely felt the pain. She took her sword into her left hand and fought on, shouting, and cut another man down.
“Halfsmile!” Longarm said, fighting at her side; she was the only Ghost still alive. “Halfsmile, we die here in the night, but I am proud. I am proud to die with a friend.”
Koyee shook her head as she swung her blade, parrying a mace blow. “We do not die. Not here. Not now. Not in this street.”
The tall, one-armed woman gave her a thin smile. “You have taught me much, Koyee. That is your true name, is it not?” She parried a mace’s blow and met Koyee’s gaze again. “May the moonlight bless you, daughter of Eloria.”
Still smiling thinly, Longarm thrust her spear. She impaled one Timandrian before Ferius, still smirking, slammed his mace into her back.
“Longarm!” Koyee shouted; she was dueling another monk and could only glance at her friend, unable to help.
Longarm fell to her knees. She looked up at Koyee. She gave her one nod … just one nod and a smile. No fear filled her eyes. Only pride.
Pride in me, Koyee realized.
Ferius swung his mace again.
Koyee looked away, tears on her cheeks.
With a scream, she swiped her blade, knocked a mace’s blow aside, and slew the Timandrian she fought.
She spun around, bloodied sword raised.
Corpses littered the alley. All the Dust Face Ghosts lay dead: the strong twins, the quick Earwig, the noble Longarm, and little Whisper. Around them lay the corpses of Timandrians, blood soaking their robes.
The old soothsayer, at least, had fled.
I saved him, Koyee thought, shaking. At least I saved a life.
Only one monk remained standing. He came walking toward her, mace dripping the blood of her friends. He gave her a cruel, tight grin—a wolf’s grin.
“Ferius,” she said.
He took a step closer to her.
“Koyee,” he said and nodded.
She screamed and ran toward him.
His grin widened and he swung his mace.
The weapons clashed and pain shot up Koyee’s arm. Ferius snarled—perhaps he’d thought his heavy weapon would shatter her thin steel. His eyes narrowed and he drove his mace downward.
Koyee jumped aside, and the mace hit the ground, shattering a cobblestone. She thrust her sword again, but he leaped back and her blade only sliced his cloak, leaving his skin unscathed.
“You should run!” Koyee screamed and thrust her sword. “I will show you no mercy.”
He scuttled backward, and her blade pierced the air, but then he charged again. His mace drove her sword aside and swung into her right arm.
She heard the bone crack.
Koyee screamed.
Pain blazed through her. She could barely see. Blindly she thrust her sword again, cutting only air. Agony flooded her. Through the haze, she saw Ferius take a step backward. He was laughing.
Struggling to remain conscious, Koyee ran at him, sword thrusting.
He stepped aside, dodging the blow, and swung his weapon. The flanged head slammed into her back.
Koyee fell.
Her knees hit the ground.
She turned her head, wincing. The world blurred. Ferius stood above her, smiling his mocking smile, and said words in his language. She knew that he was cursing her.
Koyee gave one last thrust of the blade, barely able to hold it up. With another swing of his mace, he crushed her fingers and sent Sheytusung flying.
“Be safe, Eelani,” she whispered. “Be safe without me. Find a new friend.” She looked up and through the smoke of battle, she could see the stars and moon. “I rise now to my parents, to my friends, and to peace.”
Ferius raised his mace above her head.
Koyee closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and thought of the tranquil waters of her home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
STEEL AND FEATHERS
Torin raced through the streets, heart thrashing.
“I saw him!” he shouted. “I saw Ferius ahead with a group of his thugs.”
His friends ran at his sides. Bailey snarled and pumped her arms. Cam and Hem teetered behind, armor ill-fitting and breath puffing. All across the city, Timandrian troops marched, flowing down every boulevard, road, and alleyway, seeking fighters, killing any Elorian they found bearing a weapon.
Torin clenched his fists as he ran, remembering the monk’s words.
I will slay every man, woman, and child in this city … and you will watch, Torin. You will watch them burn.
“Torin!” Hem shouted behind, breathing heavily. His cheeks were red and soaked with sweat. “Torin, I can’t … I can’t run!”
Cam too sweated. He spat and tugged his friend along. “Come on, Hem. We have to stop that bastard monk before he burns this whole damn city.”
Torin growled and kept running. The monks had disappeared around a street corner ahead, but when Torin emerged around the bend, he saw only shadows. A dozen alleyways stretched off the road like doors along a corridor. Somewhere in the distance, the sounds of battle rose. Torin heard Ferius cackling and an Elorian shouting in her tongue, her voice pained.
“By Idar’s beard, he’s murdering people already,” Torin muttered. “We end this now. Whatever alley he ran into will be his grave.”
His rage surprised him. He had never thought himself a killer, but blood already stained his hands and soul.
So let me be a killer, he thought. Let this blood consume me. I should have ended this a year ago. I could have ended this. I will stick this sword into Ferius’s gut and we can go home.
They ran along the street. Buildings of opaque glass bricks rose alongside, their awnings stretching above like a roof. Stalls, wagons, and barrels lay abandoned across the street. Tin plates still held the wares of merchants. This had been a market, but the Elorians had abandoned the place. Torin only glimpsed eyes peering from windows.
“Ferius!” he shouted. “Ferius, where do you cower?”
The sound of Ferius cackling faded. Damn it! Torin was running the wrong way. He turned back, panting, and raced into an alleyway, trying to follow the sound. Scattered scarves, live crabs who’d fled from a toppled basket, and lost coins spread around his feet. Lanterns swung above upon wires, their faces mocking him.
“Ferius!”
Torin looked over his shoulder. Cam and Hem had fallen behind, wheezing. Bailey still ran with him, whipping her head from side to side.
“Torin, I don’t like this,” she said. “We’re alone in a dark alley in a foreign city. Elorians hide inside these homes; some might be armed.” She hefted her shield. “Where is that damn Ferius?”
They kept running. They raced down a cobbled alleyway, the buildings so grimy Torin could barely see the bricks’ original color. A mile or two away, upon the city hilltop, Pahmey’s crystal towers glittered, things of beauty and wealth. Here, still near the city walls, spread a labyrinth of dirt and twisting corridors of glass, stone, and leather. The sounds of battle
still rose somewhere in this hive; Torin heard Ferius chanting his prayers, blessing the sunlight for slaying the demons of the night.
“Bailey, we have to split up.” Torin pointed down a street lined with bronze statues of leaping fish. “Head that way. Take the boys. Find Ferius and stop him.” He turned toward another street, this one dark and twisting, awnings forming a roof above it. “I’ll seek him there.”
Bailey seemed ready to object but then clasped his arm. She nodded, blinked her eyes, and kissed his cheek.
“Boys!” she shouted, spinning toward Cam and Hem who were tottering up the road, breathing raggedly. “Come, follow. Let’s find that bastard.”
Torin watched them run down the street between the bronze fish, then turned and ran the other way. He clenched his jaw as he raced, one hand holding his shield, the other his sword.
“Stay safe, friends,” he whispered.
The sound of Ferius’s chanting rose ahead. Torin knew he was heading the right way. He knew he had sent his friends to safety.
I cannot endanger you, my friends. This is a battle I must fight alone. This is between Ferius and me.
He raced around a building of indigo bricks, emerged into a small cobbled square, and saw his foe.
Torin froze.
Bodies littered the square. Several were Elorian children, their heads crushed, their small limbs splayed out. Among them lay dead monks of Sailith, their robes soaking their blood. Fallen torches lay strewn, guttering and casting dancing shadows. A corral of wingless blue birds—each as tall as a horse—stood across the square, clattering and snapping their silvery beaks.
One Elorian still lived—the young woman with the scarred face. She lay on the ground, propped up on one elbow, bleeding from multiple wounds. Her eyes were closed and she mumbled silent prayers.
His mace raised, Ferius stood above her.
“You look like her,” the monk said and spat. “Like the whore.”
Torin, who was about to burst into the square, froze in the alleyway. He stared, silent, listening. Looked like who?
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