“Death to Elorians!” shouted the enemy in the siege towers. “Take this city!”
When Okado glanced up, he saw a dozen towers only feet from the walls. Arrows flew everywhere. One missile slammed into his shoulder, denting the armor, and Okado grunted; the tip nicked his flesh. Bailey was loading a cannonball into the muzzle. Okado lit the fuse, pulled Bailey down, and covered his ears.
Smoke blasted over them.
The cannon jerked back so violently it fell from the wall, crashing into the courtyard below.
Okado rose, the arrow thrusting out from his shoulder. The cannonball had torn through one siege tower; half its warriors had fallen. Yet the structure kept moving forward. Iron planks slammed down, snapping onto the battlements. Timandrian troops spilled out onto the wall, swords swinging.
Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Okado drew his katana. Bailey hissed at his side, her longsword clutched in both hands.
The enemy surged toward them.
Okado’s sword sang.
The enemy covered the walls like ants scurrying along a log. Men leaped at him, clad in metal plates, swinging their double-edged swords. Okado swung his shield in one hand, his katana in the other. He howled as he fought, a wolf’s cry, his helm hiding his face. His sword sprayed blood into the courtyard below. His shield shoved against men, sending them toppling down. Blades crashed against his armor, denting the scales. One dagger pierced the steel and bit his flesh, and he roared and slew the man. He fought with animal fury, his brothers and sisters fighting around him.
Bailey stood always at his side, shouting as she fought. Her sword crashed through armor, severed limbs, shattered shields. She wore the armor of Eloria, but she fought like a demon of fire, cutting down her own people.
The swords rang. The arrows flew. Boulders sailed overhead, cannons fired, and the hwachas rained death upon the enemy. Yet still the enemy’s catapults swung, and still siege towers moved forward. Ladders joined them, slamming against the walls of Yintao, and thousands of Timandrians began to climb.
Okado and Bailey raced from ladder to ladder. They fired arrows. They shoved down fallen bricks. At their sides, soldiers poured burning pots of oil and packs of gunpowder. Explosions rocked the walls, and the dead piled up—mountains of corpses rose below, yet more kept swarming. Living Timandrians raced over the mounds of their dead, and more ladders rose, and more boulders slammed into the walls.
“Bailey, the city gates!” Okado shouted, the arrow broken in his shoulder, the dagger wound blazing on his chest. “They have a battering ram.”
He raced along the wall toward the gatehouse, a structure of two towers, battlements, and an archway holding the city’s doors. As he ran, a boulder slammed into one tower, raining bricks and men down into the city. Archers fired from the second tower, and cannons blazed. A trebuchet swung upon the plains, and a flaming barrel crashed against the gatehouse crenellations, scattering men.
Okado leaped onto the battlements above the doors, shield raised. Bailey ran at his side. Arrows slammed into their armor, and corpses lay around their feet. When Okado looked between two merlons, he saw the battering ram below. The pole swung on chains, its head shaped as a bear. The metal beast slammed into the doors again and again, denting the iron.
Bailey fired down arrows, picking out men. Okado grabbed a fallen brick and hurled it, hitting a man’s helm. At his side, Elorians tugged ropes, raising a cauldron of boiling oil. The liquid sizzled down onto the enemy. Screams and steam rose. More dead Timandrians piled up.
“Shatter the ram!” Okado shouted. “Cannons, break those chains!” He gestured toward three men along the northern wall; they were firing a bronze cannon into a horde of enemy knights. “Cannons—to the gatehouse!”
As archers fired down, Okado cleared way for the cannon. He lit the fuse himself. The cannon ball blasted out with a trail of fire. It slammed into the battering ram’s chains, shattering the links. The pole slammed against the earth and rolled, crushing men. More arrows rained and more oil spilled.
“We are the night!” he shouted, his bloody sword raised, his shield bristly with arrows. “Elorians, slay the enemy—we will stand!”
A hush fell upon the battle.
A chill crawled down Okado’s back like a reptile.
He spun back toward the plains.
The enemy formations were parting, beasts and men pulling back to form a path. Catapults, ballistae, and even the towering siege engines rolled aside. The drums renewed their beat. Men slammed weapons against shields, a constant rhythm, and a chant rose among the ranks. In the distance, black smoke rose, a miasma like disease creeping forth.
“What devilry is this?” Okado said, voice hoarse and throat tight.
Bailey stood at his side, red sword lowered. Between splotches of her enemy’s blood, her face paled.
“Idar save us,” she whispered.
Above the smoke rose a great banner, ten feet wide, displaying a horned crimson beast upon a black field. Men moved within the cloud, clad in dark robes.
Bailey clasped Okado’s hand. Her voice shook. “Mages. Okado, this is an evil we cannot fight.”
He was already drawing an arrow. “Yet I will fight nonetheless.”
He released his bowstring. His arrow sailed downward, pierced the black smoke, and shriveled in midair. It fell to the ground as ash. The dark mages stared up toward him, faces hidden in their hoods, and raised their hands.
Smoke coalesced, forming a demonic fist the size of a house … then drove forward.
At his side, Bailey screamed.
* * * * *
The Magerian curse blasted the gates like the fist of a god.
Bailey screamed.
The smoky hand shattered the doors below her. The battlements shook. One tower cracked and crashed down, burying soldiers beneath it. Smoke enveloped the wall and Bailey yowled in agony. The black fog clung to her armor like leeches, tugging at the steel, bending it, tearing the scales off like a man scaling a fish. At her side, she saw the curse wrap around Okado.
“Enter the city!” shrieked a distant voice, tearing through Bailey’s ears—the voice of Ferius, of her nightmares. “Slay everyone inside.”
Her eyes watering, she tore off her armor. The curse raced across her shield; she tossed it aside too. When she gazed down, the smoke was clearing, and she saw Timandrian knights charge through the smashed gates. Their horses galloped, trampling bodies. Their lances thrust, impaling Elorian soldiers. A hundred horsemen or more charged; outside the city, hundreds more mustered to enter.
Clinging to the ruined battlements, Bailey grabbed Okado’s arm. He had torn off his armor; it lay upon the wall, the smoke compacting it into a ball.
“To the wolves!” she said.
They raced down what remained of the gatehouse stairs, leaping over bodies and nearly slipping in blood. They burst into the courtyard inside the city and beheld knights smash into wolfriders. Blood sprayed and both beasts and men fell.
“Ayka!” Bailey shouted. “Ayka, to me!”
Through veils of blood and smoke, her silver nightwolf leaped. The animal’s fangs shone, and her eyes were bright. Clad in only her leggings and tunic but still wielding a sword, Bailey leaped into the saddle.
“Fight them, Ayka!”
Her nightwolf leaped into the fray.
They crashed onto a stallion, and Bailey swung her sword down, screaming as she punched through the knight’s armor. Ayka placed her paws upon the falling horse and leaped, clearing the animal, and crashed into a second knight. The man thudded onto the ground, and Ayka tore off his visor. Bailey finished the job, plunging her sword into the knight’s face.
Around them, hundreds of wolves and horses crowded the courtyard. The collapsed gates lay beneath them. More Timandrians kept marching in.
The fight moved out of the courtyard and into the streets; they fought between homes and temples, atop roofs and inside halls. Bailey fought in a blind rage. Her wolf leaped, she swung her sw
ord, and blood splashed her face. She jumped off her wolf only once, grabbed a new shield and scaled shirt off a corpse, and fought again. Everywhere she looked she saw the enemies: Ardish knights on horseback, fighters from her homeland; bloodsuns, warrior-monks of Sailith in crimson armor; Verilish barbarians, wrapped in furs and fighting upon bears; Nayan jungle warriors, chanting as they thrust their spears; even Sanian archers atop elephants, clad in beads, firing red arrows down into the battle.
My people, Bailey thought as she fought, her eyes damp as she killed. These are my banners. These are my brothers and sisters. And yet I must kill them. I must stop their cruelty. Astride her wolf, she let out a howl.
“I am Bailey!” she cried. “I was born in sunlight. I am a daughter of the day. Yet now I fight for the night.” She stood in her stirrups, shouting for all to hear. “Hear me, my people—stop this madness! Fight against the poison of Sailith, against the lies of your leaders. Fight with me, with Bailey of Arden—fight for the nigh—”
Arrows whistled her way.
Two slammed into her shield.
Three more drove into her wolf.
Ayka howled in agony, and Bailey cried atop her, and more arrows flew. They slammed into Bailey’s armor, and her nightwolf bolted. The wounded beast, arrows thrusting out of her flank, charged into the ranks of archers.
Ayka leaped, clawing and biting, tearing men apart. Archers fell dead beneath her. Bailey swung her sword, cutting into the troops.
Timandrian swordsmen rushed toward her.
Elorian soldiers raced to stand at her sides.
A thousand swords swung and more arrows flew. More of the projectiles drove into her wolf.
“Ayka!” Bailey cried as the wolf mewled. “Ayka, run! Flee!”
Blood matted silver fur. Ayka panted and her eyes grew hazy, but she still fought, tearing into the enemy.
“Ayka, please! Turn around. To safety!”
A knight charged forward, trampling over bodies, thrusting his lance.
Ayka leaped toward him.
“No!” Bailey cried, tears on her cheeks. “Ayka, back!”
But it was too late. Ayka sailed through the air. The lance thrust into the nightwolf, skewering her, emerging bloody from the other side.
The wolf bit, tearing open the knight’s neck … then crashed down.
Bailey thudded onto the ground, weeping. “Ayka…”
She knelt by the dead wolf, stroking her fur, begging her to wake up. Her tears streamed.
Shouts rose ahead.
Bailey raised her head to see more troops march toward her.
She leaped up, screaming hoarsely, and stood before her wolf. She sliced the air.
“Come face me! I am a daughter of sunlight, and I fight for darkness. Come, soldiers of Sailith. Come taste my blade.” She raised her sword and shield. She shouted a cry that rose from her toes and tore through her throat, the cry of an orphaned girl, of a woman in the dungeons of Sailith, of a soul who had killed and bled and would die under the stars. “We are the night!”
They charged toward her.
She swung her sword.
She killed and blood washed her.
All around, she saw them storm into the city—the multitudes of the day, an enemy they could not stop, a force too great for an empire. The torches blazed and it seemed to Bailey that the world spun again, that the sun rose upon Eloria. Houses fell and streets turned red with death. Pagodas collapsed, raining tiles. Behind her, she saw the enemy reach the second layer of walls, and another battering ram swung, and more gates smashed. The warriors of sunlight flowed inward, beating their drums, killing all in their path.
The screams of women and children rose behind her, and Bailey wept, for she knew that the people of Yintao lived beyond these second gates. And she knew that they were dying. The cries of babes rose upon the wind.
She swung down her sword, cleaving a man, and knew that it was lost … knew that this city would fall, that the night would burn, that she would burn with it.
Then I will die in a pillar of fire. Then I will die shouting and killing. I will not live to see this city fall. Even as she shouted for war, her eyes stung with tears. Goodbye, Torin. Goodbye, Grandpapa. I love you all.
An arrow flew and slammed into her shoulder.
A sword shattered her shield.
She fought with closed eyes, ready to die.
From the north, distant horns blared.
They are beautiful, Bailey thought, blood in her mouth. They are the horns of afterlife, a keen of magic and starlight and an end to pain.
“The gods answer!” rose a voice.
“Hope—hope in the north!”
“The stars shine!”
Bailey opened her eyes. Corpses and death sprawled around her, thousands of fallen, and still the distant horns blew. Those were no horns of Timandra; they were high, ethereal wails.
Bailey ran.
She ran among bodies, cutting the living down.
She jumped onto the stairs of a pagoda. She raced up, leaping over corpses, until she reached the top floor. She slew a Timandrian archer, dashed to the window, and leaned outside.
Her eyes watered.
“Hope,” she whispered, tasting tears mixed with blood. “Hope rises in the north.”
Across crumbling streets and shattered walls, she beheld the dark highlands of Qaelin. A silver army was flowing downhill toward the city, white banners billowing, bearing the diamond sigil. Myriads of soldiers ran as one, clad in bright armor and curving helms. They held spears and shields, and their snowy cloaks billowed. At their lead rode two nightwolves, and a dragon of pearly scales flew above, chanting the name of her empire.
“Leen! Leen!”
With light that nearly blinded Bailey, brighter than a thousand moons, the force of an empire swept toward the city.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A MEMORY OF DAY
Like a silver wave, they swept toward the city.
Their lanterns burned bright. Their trumpets sang. Thirty thousand soldiers of Leen, clad in flowing robes and bright breastplates, fell upon the hordes of sunlight. Their spears thrust. Their swords swung. Blood splattered their shields.
Suntai fought at their lead upon her nightwolf. She was a daughter of Qaelin fighting among the hosts of Leen, yet under this darkness, all Elorians fought as one. All were children of the night.
Hundreds of thousands of Timandrians surrounded the walls of the city. Countless more had smashed through the gates and now swarmed along the streets. Everywhere she looked, Suntai saw fallen walls, crushed towers, and the dead.
“Into the city!” she cried, sword raised high. “Into Yintao.”
Her wolf raced. They swept down the hill. The steel arrows of Leen flew through the night. The wooden arrows of the enemy flew back, tearing into Leen’s soldiers, sending men tumbling down. Suntai kept riding, arrows in his shield, her sword raised high.
Darkness and light crashed.
Timandrian soldiers in armor lashed spears and swords. Bears clawed and tigers bit. Steel clanged and blood filled the air. Suntai kept riding, trampling men down, carving a path. Above in the sky, Pirilin the dragon dipped and rose, crushing men between her jaws. The dragon’s tail lashed, slamming into siege towers, scattering men.
“Into Yintao!” Suntai shouted.
The forces of Leen drove forward, a great spear upon the plains, shoving a wedge into the enemy’s ranks. They burrowed forward, cutting men down, silver cloaks stained red, spears tearing into armor. They were few against many. They fought as one, a single beast that ever advanced, shields lining its flanks, spears driving forward like teeth.
Leaving a path of dead, they drove into the enemy like a blade into flesh, chanting as they reached the gates and entered the city of the dying.
* * * * *
Cam was fighting atop his nightwolf, swinging his sword at enemy soldiers, when he saw his best friend ahead.
After what seemed like hours of fighting
, maybe entire turns, they had driven into the city. He rode down cobbled streets strewn with bodies, fallen bricks and tiles, and shattered weapons. Down every street, Elorians and Timandrians clashed blades, beasts leaped, and more bodies fell. Atop every roof, archers rained death. The lights of cannons and hwachas lit the sky, and several roofs burned.
Cam wasn’t sure how many men he killed—three, maybe four. He swung his sword in a mad, blind fury, not knowing if he killed or maimed. His wolf bit and clawed. Linee sat ahead in the saddle, clad in armor, a helmet upon her head. She had no skill with the blade, but she had spent the journey south training with a bow, and now she fired arrow after arrow as they rode. Men fell down before them, pierced with iron.
They rode at the back; here was the wake of the battle, a place of blood and corpses. Countless lay dead around them. The vanguards fought ahead; Cam could see them down the streets, fighting at the fourth layer of walls. The great heroes and villains of the war—Suntai and Okado, Ferius himself, maybe even Bailey—would be fighting there, defending the inner city. Yet despite his wolf, and despite Linee firing her arrows, Cam was no hero, and whenever he tried to charge forth, he ended up trailing behind, fighting the rear lines. Here in third level, the stragglers battled it out in the blood and dirt, random skirmishes on every street corner.
He was moving across a toppled wall and scattered tiles, finally entering the fourth level, when he saw Hem’s wide form.
The baker’s boy, his best friend since childhood, sat upon a fallen chunk of battlements. Hem’s back was facing them, but Cam recognized the broad shoulders, shaggy hair, and heavy arms that now lay drooping.
“Hem!” he cried out. “Hemstad Baker!”
The memories pounded through him. Songs and ale in The Shadowed Firkin tavern. Arguments about which knight slew which monster in ancient tales. Jokes about Bailey told in hushed whispers, then yelps when she found out and twisted their ears. Here he was—that stupid, lumbering baker—and he wouldn’t even turn around.
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