Home …
Oshy …
She had to keep that memory alive. She kicked wildly, shoving him off. She had to remember Oshy. Her home had burned. They had killed her people … Yinlan, the elderly bead-maker who had once sewn her fur mittens … little Linshani who played the flute so well … all gone …
“I miss you,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “I miss you, Father. I miss you, Mother.”
The hand caressed her forehead. “I’m here, Koyee. I’m always with you.”
She blinked weakly. She seemed to lie in a hammock, the room swaying around her. A ship. She was in the belly of a ship or perhaps a whale. A figure knelt above her, whispering, and she thought that it was Torin again, but gentle light fell, and she knew her. She remembered.
“Mother,” she whispered. “Mother, how can you be here? You died. You died when I was a baby.”
And yet the gentle woman stared down at her, smoothing her hair. She looked like Koyee. She too had lavender eyes, smooth white hair, and a triangular face, only her mother was beautiful, for no scars marred her.
“I’m here, Koyee,” she said, speaking in Torin’s voice. “I’m always with you.”
Koyee reached out to hold her mother’s hand, to feel her warmth, to be a child again … but her mother withdrew. The woman’s face twisted in agony and her belly bulged, and Koyee realized that her mother was pregnant, that the baby was coming.
“Mother!”
Her mother fell back, belly bulging and contracting, and the babe emerged, a twisted creature, biting and clawing, a child with beady eyes and yellow robes and sharp teeth.
“Ferius…”
The monk emerged from the womb, a parasite with bloody gums, and leaped onto her mother, not feeding at the breast but ripping into flesh, eating, killing, and Koyee screamed and reached out, trying to grab Ferius, to pull him off her mother, but she couldn’t … she couldn’t! He was her brother. He was linked to her. He was …
The whale swayed.
She rocked in her hammock.
Her eyes fluttered back.
“She’s not getting better,” said her mother.
A demonic hiss answered. “We’ve rubbed her arm with our herbs. We’ve used the ancient magic of Ilar. If she screams, that is good. That means the curse is leaving her. Stay with her, Torin, even as she shouts and weeps. She will be cured.”
Her eyes fluttered. She saw a monk leave the chamber, not a monk of Sailith in yellow robes, but an Elorian all in black, a flame sigil upon his breast, and Torin stood in the room again, and she clutched his hand.
“Stay with me, Torin. Stay with me.”
He squeezed her hand and wiped the sweat off her brow. “Always.”
She spent a long time in the hull of this ship. An hourglass turned upon her table, but she was only vaguely aware of the time passing. Torin fed her, talked to her, and changed the damp cloth upon her forehead, and it seemed that every turn that strange, robed monk returned to chant spells, to rub herbs onto her arm, to nod even as she screamed, even as the feverish dreams tore through her, making her thrash and weep.
The hourglass turned.
She closed her eyes.
She slept.
* * * * *
After half a moon of fever, Koyee emerged onto the deck of the ship, her limbs thin and her fingers trembling. Wrapped in a silk cloak, she beheld a starry sky, a smooth sea, and hundreds of lamp-lit ships.
Koyee gasped and her eyes dampened. “The navy of Ilar.” She turned to Torin, and a smile trembled on her lips. “Ilar sails to war.”
Torin nodded. He wore the armor the Chanku Pack had given him, and his sword hung at his side. “We’ve been sailing for turns as you slept. We’ll see the coast of Qaelin before another turn passes.”
She looked around her, eyes wide. Koyee had seen fleets before. She had stood upon the walls of Pahmey, firing arrows as the Ardish navy crashed into her city’s flotilla. The fleet around her, sailing north through the night, dwarfed that memory. Hundreds of Ilari ships covered the sea, their banners sporting the red flame upon a black field.
Many were panokseon vessels, tall ships with three tiers of decks: one for rowers, one for dragon-shaped bronze cannons, and finally a roofed deck for warriors in black armor. Other ships were geobukseons—turtle ships—a hundred feet long, their sails tall, their decks crowded with soldiers. Their dragon figureheads puffed sulfur smoke, all but hiding the decks; when wind blew, clearing the smoke, Koyee saw cannons lurking inside the dragons’ mouths like tongues. Above them all loomed great atakebune ships, floating fortresses. Clad in iron, their hulls bristled with many oars. Cannons lined their railings, manned by armored soldiers. Pagodas rose upon their decks, full of archers, and figureheads of iron panthers loomed off their prows, ready to ram into enemy ships.
When Koyee examined her own ship, she found a vast deck of polished metal. A hundred soldiers or more moved across it. They wore armor of black, lacquered plates, and their helms—shaped as demonic faces with bristly fur mustaches—frowned at her. Three masts towered, their sails wide.
“This is a fleet greater than any in Qaelin,” Koyee whispered, tears of awe in her eyes. “This fleet can save the night.”
Torin looked at her, eyes soft. “How is your arm?”
She pulled up her sleeve, exposing a pale twig of a limb. Faded scars coiled around her arm like a snake around a pole, rising from wrist to shoulder. But the poison was out; the curse was gone. Where black, swollen welts had risen only pale scars remained. Koyee opened and closed her fist.
“It tingles,” she said. “But the black magic of Mageria is gone. This arm can fight. The scars are ugly, but … I already have ugly scars on my face. What are a few more?”
“I don’t think they’re ugly.” Torin touched her cheek. “Not the scars on your arm or your face. Scars are marks of survival. Scars are tattoos of strength.”
She laughed. “Then you’re weak, because your skin is as smooth as a baby’s behind.” She kissed his cheek. “But you’re kind. And you stayed with me, even as I screamed and thrashed. You tended to me as I healed.” Her eyes watered again. “Even in my worst dreams, through nightmares of blood and death, a white pillar always shone, piercing the darkness … sometimes only a distant needle, other times a warm, comforting light. I know now that you shone that light, Torin. That you were always there.” She embraced him. “Thank you.”
He cleared his throat, seeming uncomfortable. “Well, technically I’m still your prisoner, even if they let me wear armor and fight. I couldn’t let you die; they’d toss me into the slave pits.”
She tapped his nose. “That … and because you love me. I know you do. I heard you say so. So don’t deny it!”
She walked across the deck, her knees still wobbly, and reached the prow. A dragon figurehead thrust out ahead, forged of iron. Ahead across the water, she saw a true dragon fly above the ships, a warrior upon his back. Tianlong was healed too, and when the dragon flew closer, roaring his cry, Koyee saw that the empress rode him, a banner in her hand.
Ilar’s might is horrible to behold, Koyee thought, but now it gives me hope. Now the enemy will taste the true wrath of the night.
She leaned across the prow, staring north. Qaelin lay there … her homeland. The largest empire in Eloria. The land of her forebears, the land she had killed for, nearly died in … the land where the fate of the night would be sealed.
“The empress says we will sail up the Yin River,” said Torin, coming to stand at her side. “It will lead us through dark plains to the capital.”
Koyee nodded. “I’ve never sailed upon the Yin, for it lies far east of the Inaro. But when I lived on the streets of Pahmey, I heard songs of it. The Inaro is the left vein of Qaelin, buskers would sing—the Yin is its right.”
Lights gleamed ahead. Koyee gasped. Were those the lights of Qaelin? But as she stared, she narrowed her eyes.
“Torin … does half the Ilari fleet sail ahead?”
> He stared at the lights with her, face ashen. “We stand upon the Red Flame, the flagship of Ilar—we are the vanguard.”
Koyee turned away. “A hundred ships sail ahead. Where is my armor and sword?”
Around them across the deck, soldiers rushed back and forth, grabbing bows and drawing flaming arrows. Horns blared across the Ilari fleet. One man, only feet away from Koyee, began to bang on a war drum. Distant drums answered. Koyee made to race back down into the hull, to find her father’s sword, to find her armor and helm.
“Koyee!” Torin said, running after her, moving between the rushing soldiers. “You’re still weak. You can’t fight this battle.”
She nearly crashed into a running soldier—a spirit of steel, his crimson pauldrons flaring out—and reached the stairs plunging into the hull. “I’m fine, Torin.”
“You are not!” He climbed downstairs behind her. “You look thinner than a chicken bone. You must rest.”
She glared over her shoulder at him. “I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
“If you fight in this shape, that might not be far off.”
She ignored him, reached her chamber, and found her tunic of scales. She pulled the armor over her head, grabbed her helmet from a table, and found her sword hanging upon the wall. All the while, Torin objected, insisting that tens of thousands of Ilari soldiers could fight, that she should get back to bed.
“Torin, if you don’t be quiet, I’m going to toss you overboard.” She shoved past him. “Now, you can either hope you know how to swim in your armor, or you can come with me and fight some Timandrians.”
He groaned but he followed.
When they emerged back onto the deck, the enemy fleet was close. Koyee inhaled sharply and drew her sword. A hundred ships or more sailed toward them, their masts high, their banners sporting green reptiles upon golden fields. In the distance behind them, Koyee could make out the coast of Qaelin, a dark line rising from the water into the starry sky.
“Do you know their banners, Torin?”
He nodded grimly. “The fleet of Daenor sails against us. This kingdom lies upon the western coast of Timandra, a distant land where lizards grow as large as horses.” Torin drew his sword. “Bards sing that Daenor’s fleet is the greatest in the lands of sunlight.”
Koyee grinned savagely. “Luckily we’re not in the lands of sunlight.”
The drums beat. The war horns blared. The two fleets sailed forward and lights lit the darkness.
Cannons fired across the Ilari fleet. Rockets blasted forward, leaving trails of fire that reflected in the black waters. From the Timandrian fleet, ten thousand flaming arrows flew like comets, crossed the sky, and rained down.
With screams and flame and blood, the dance began.
Koyee and Torin stood with raised shields as arrows slammed against them. Smoke blasted as cannons fired. Around them, men shouted, oars splashed, and the ships drove forward. The dragon figureheads blazed, embers bright within their maws, their smoke rising in clouds. The drums beat steady as a heart, a thud for every stroke of the oars. Above the battle, Empress Hikari chanted for the night, and her dragon roared.
“Last time, Torin, we fought against each other.” Koyee flashed him a grin. “Let’s see how we fight side by side.”
Through smoke and raining fire, the two fleets smashed together.
Ironclad atakebune ships smashed into Timandra’s carracks, snapping their wooden hulls. Masts tilted and men screamed. Galleons rowed forward, and their figureheads—shaped as the crocodiles of Daenor—drove into Elorian vessels. Masts fell and sails caught flame. Everywhere Koyee looked, arrows flew, cannons blazed, and fire spread. She lifted her sword and snarled as a Timandrian ship—a towering carrack with three masts—slammed against them.
The railing shattered before her. Smoke plumed, fire crackled, and water sprayed. Through the inferno, a horde of Timandrian troops leaped onto the Red Flame’s deck. Their helmets, shaped as reptile heads, gleamed in the firelight. Metal claws rose from their boots and gauntlets. The soldiers shrieked, inhuman sounds, and raised sabers—curved blades longer and wider than katanas, the steel gleaming with green poison.
Koyee and Torin raised their swords together. With a hundred Ilari troops, they rushed toward the enemy.
The ship rocked. Men fell and died. The sabers of Daenor swung. Katanas slammed into chain mail. Corpses littered the deck of the Red Flame, and all around across the sea, hundreds of ships crashed together, burned, sank, and bristled with fighting soldiers. The ring of steel, the screams of the dying, and the roars of cannons filled the night, an eternal song.
Koyee fought in a daze, weak after her long disease but shouting, never slowing, slashing her sword into the enemies. It had been a year since the Battle of Pahmey, since she had stood upon that city’s walls, leaped across its roofs, and slain men on its streets. Yet she had never forgotten the smell of blood, the sight of the dying, the thirst of her blade. She had been a mere girl then, frightened and alone but fighting as thousands died around her. She was still frightened, she was still too thin, but now … now she fought as a killer.
Blood filled the sea.
The Red Flame sailed on.
Across the water, a hundred ships blazed. Tianlong, the black dragon of Ilar, howled overhead, dipping to crush men between his jaws. For miles across the water, soldiers splashed and drowned, and masts vanished like bones into bogs.
It was an hourglass turn, maybe two, before the Ilari fleet reached the coast of Qaelin.
Koyee fell upon the deck of the Red Flame, panting, her chest blazing where a saber had chipped her armor. Torin fell by her side, wheezing, his sword gripped in his bloody hand. Dents covered his armor, a scratch stretched across his arm, and blood stained his leg. They lay among the corpses of fallen soldiers. They reached across the sticky deck and grasped each other’s hands.
“Ilar lives,” Koyee said, voice hoarse. “There is hope for the night.”
Devastation filled the water behind them. Two hundred ships of Ilar had sailed north, bearing the red flame banners; dozens now lay beneath the sea. A hundred other ships, the smashed fleet of Daenor, would be their company in the watery halls. Above the surviving ships, Tianlong sounded his cry, and the soldiers of Ilar repeated the words.
“We are the night!”
When Koyee tilted her head, she saw Torin mouth the prayer too, the ancient cry of her people, for he too was a son of Eloria now, born in sunlight but of a starlit heart. She squeezed his hand.
“They battle on the sea has ended,” she said. “When we reach Yintao, the battle for the night will begin.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE HORNS OF YINTAO
Hem swung his sword, sweat trickling from his brow, his lips a thin line. Bailey parried the blow and riposted. With a grunt, Hem caught her blade on his shield and swung again.
“Good!” Bailey said. “You’re faster now.”
Hem didn’t feel any faster. He still felt so heavy, so clumsy, his sword always close to slipping from his sweaty hand. Bailey, however, fought like a rabid wolf, her blade swinging again and again. Hem raised his shield, catching the blows; her sword had left a dozen dents in the metal disk. He stepped back across the dusty courtyard, step by step, retreating from her onslaught. When his back hit the wall, he attempted a desperate thrust. She parried the blow, then smacked her blade against his helm.
“That’s a kill!” Bailey announced. She spat. “Good fight.”
Hem blinked, barely able to see. His ears rang. He wore a thick helm of steel, its inside padded with fur, and Bailey was only swinging a dull, tin training sword, not a real blade. Still, she was strong enough that her blows hurt. He dropped his own training sword, pulled off his helmet, and sucked in a breath.
“Bloody Idar, Bails,” he said. “Go easy on me. I’m still learning.”
She jabbed her finger against his breastplate. “When I’m tough on you, that is how you learn.” She grinned and patted his cheek.
“You’re getting better, old boy. The new beard helps you look tough too.”
“Really?” Hem squeaked, then cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and spoke in a deep growl. “I mean … thank you.”
Bailey sighed and shook her head. “Don’t do that voice again. It’s not helping. Just keep training and she’ll learn to love you back.”
Hem sputtered and nearly choked. He glanced around the courtyard, hoping nobody heard, but only a few soldiers of Yintao stood by a distant wall, conversing amongst themselves. Feeling his cheeks flush, Hem turned back to Bailey.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Of course you do!” Bailey stretched out her arms and raised her voice. “The girl you fancy! The omega named … what was it? Kira?”
“Bailey, hush!” His cheeks burned. “She can’t know. All right? Just…” He glanced around again and lowered his voice. “Just keep practicing with me until I’m strong enough. I want to … you know … protect her and all that.” His cheeks wouldn’t stop burning.
“You could start by not blushing,” Bailey said. “Here—pretend that I’m her and act tough.”
She pressed her legs together, clasped her hands behind her back, and leaned forward on her toes. She planted a kiss right on Hem’s cheek.
“Well, it’s easy when you do it,” Hem said. “You’re just … Bailey.”
She growled and grabbed her training sword. “Watch it! Now pick up your sword. I’m not done with you.”
Hem wiped the sweat off his brow, lifted his sword, and their training continued.
He was puffing, his legs rubbery, when he finally left the courtyard. He walked along a street, moving between lantern poles and patrolling guards. When he glanced at the moon, it was nearly full, and Hem felt his heart sink.
Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels Page 57