The fleeing Timandrians screamed and fell. A few turned back toward the palace walls, only for Elorian arrows to fall upon them.
“Die at the walls, men of sunlight!” Ferius cried. “Die for Sailith. Die for the sun!”
They surged again, a swarm of ants crashing against stone. The Elorian arrows, boulders, and cannonballs tore them down. More men turned to flee, dragging broken limbs, clutching at shattered armor and gaping wounds.
“We must flee!” they cried. “We are hurt! We need healing. We—”
“Die upon the walls!” Ferius roared, hands raised, as his bloodsuns fired.
Crossbow darts tore into his fleeing men. They fell. Bloodsuns moved between them, crushing the survivors with maces.
“To the walls!” Ferius waved his lantern. “Flee and die in shame. Perish against the enemy walls and rise to sunlit glory.”
Trapped between the Elorian arrows and his monks’ bolts, the soldiers of sunlight died. They painted the square red. More bloodsuns moved through the city, herding more Timandrians toward the walls, driving wounded, terrified soldiers to the palace.
“My lord!” cried one knight, a warrior of Arden, his breastplate smashed and his arm lacerated. “They are slaying ten of our men for every one of theirs we kill.”
Ferius smiled down at the groveling warrior. “That’s why we brought ten men for every one of their demons. We will die in a great pyre of glory. Hand me your crossbow!”
Ferius leaned down from his horse, all but wrenched the knight’s crossbow free, and aimed. He shot the knight in the neck, piercing his armor. He loaded another bolt and fired ahead, hitting a fleeing soldier.
“You will die against the walls or you will die in my fire.” He laughed, tasting blood and flame on his lips. They kept driving against the palace, trampling one another, a writhing mass, crushing, slamming at the walls and gates, trapped between death and death. Their hills rose.
With death and glory, we liberate the night, Ferius thought, laughing even as an Elorian arrow slammed into his shoulder; the pain was beautiful, the blood intoxicating when he licked it off his fingers.
“For Sailith!” he shouted. “For the light of day. Leave none alive!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE RED MILE
Never had Emperor Jin wished more for limbs.
He sat upon his throne, desperate to be out there. He wanted to fight with his troops. He wanted to lunge at the enemy with sword and shield, to die for his empire if he must. Instead he lingered here upon a cushioned seat of gold and jewels, limbless, helpless.
“Let us fly out, Shenlai,” he said, eyes stinging. “I can hear them from here. Oh, Shenlai, I can hear them dying.”
The old blue dragon lay coiled around the throne, blinking sad eyes. “I am sworn to protect you, Jin. I cannot lead you into danger.”
“But they’re dying!” Jin said. He shook himself, tearing off his golden prosthetic limbs. He tried to hop across his throne, to fall to the floor, to crawl to the doors and emerge into the battle. Yet he only managed to hop against the dragon’s scales, then fall back into his seat. “Please!”
A hundred soldiers stood in his hall, still and silent, awaiting the fire. Outside, the screams of the dying echoed. It had been two turns since Timandra had attacked, maybe three, and Jin had not slept and barely eaten. The din of war kept growing nearer—men shouting, steel clanging, buildings collapsing.
“If they break into this hall, Jin, we must fly away,” Shenlai said softly.
Jin shook his head. “I will not abandon my people.”
The dragon blinked, his eyes huge and damp, his lashes fanning Jin. “You cannot save them by dying. We will fly to distant lands.”
Jin squared his jaw and glared at the dragon. “So long as another soul lives in this city, I will stay. I cannot fight. I cannot help. But I am Emperor of Qaelin. If my empire burns, I burn with it.”
Tears rolled down the dragon’s cheeks, but old Shenlai managed to smile. “For three thousand years, I’ve protected and advised the emperors of Qaelin. You, Jin, are the noblest among them … nobler than I.”
Jin felt his own tears welling up. He leaned forward, pressing his cheek against the dragon’s scales. “I love you, Shenlai. And I’m scared. But we’ll be strong together.”
The doors to the hall opened, and Jin started, sure that the enemy had made it into the palace grounds. But it was Empress Hikari of Ilar astride a panther, clad in lacquered black plates, a dripping sword in hand. She rode into the hall, ash and blood covering her face, the red flame of her empire upon her shield. Two bodyguards flanked her, their helmets’ visors pulled down, shaped as cruel faces with bristly mustaches.
“Emperor Jin!” Hikari called, riding toward him across the mosaic floor. “They are too many. We’re holding them back, but we cannot hold them back forever.”
Jin gazed through the open doors of his hall. Outside in the courtyard, he could see his people. Women. Children. Elders. Mothers with crying babes. The city’s residents crowded the squares, streets, and halls of the palace grounds, whimpering and praying as the seventh walls shook.
“If the enemy breaks in, they will slay everyone here,” Jin said to the empress. “They will not distinguish between soldiers and civilians; they did not in Pahmey. Six layers of walls have fallen. The seventh must stand.”
The empress reached his throne, her eyes blazing, her teeth bared. “Then we must evacuate them from this city; this would be their graveyard. My soldiers still control the port. A hundred of my ships await. Load your women and children into their hulls. My fleet will deliver them to safety.”
Jin’s eyes widened, for Empress Hikari was renowned for her cruelty in war. “Many times your ships raided the coasts of Qaelin. Now you will deliver our people to safety in your lands?”
Screams sounded outside and an explosion rocked the city—another catapult’s boulder slamming into a tower. The empress did not remove her eyes from Jin. “We are no longer enemies, child. We are no longer Qaelin and Ilar. We are all children of Eloria.”
Upon his throne, Jin straightened and peered across his hall. Outside, he saw the people huddle. Each one was a life. Each was a world entire.
“The port lies a mile from here,” Jin said. “The Eternal Palace is surrounded. The enemy sweeps across every street between us and your ships.”
The empress snarled and raised her sword, and her panther snarled beneath her. “Then we will cut our way through. We leave this place, Emperor Jin. You too. Summon what soldiers you can—many still guard your walls. The forces of Ilar fight with you; the soldiers of Leen will join us.” She banged sword against shield. “We will carve a path through the enemy. A mile of sunlight? Let it be a mile of our glory, of Timandra’s blood—a Red Mile, a road of shadow in the light.”
* * * * *
He sat upon his nightwolf, loyal Refir, his dearest friend since his youth. His mate sat at his side again—fair Suntai clad in steel, her sword held before her. For long moons, Okado had ridden without her; now his pack, his life, and his courage were whole. Suntai is with me again. Together we can face the light of day.
Around him, a hundred other wolfriders stared at the gates, grim, silent, weapons raised. Behind him spread the hope of the night—the last survivors in this city, perhaps the last survivors in all Eloria.
“Beyond these gates lies the sun,” Okado said. “Beyond these gates is our greatest test … the fall of the night or our path to life.”
Suntai looked at him, and Okado could barely breathe, for in her indigo eyes, he saw their love, their past, the future they had dreamed of—babes around the campfire, a proud pack, a life of honor. As she looked upon him, she whispered words she had never dared utter, words their exile would have deemed weak, words that now filled him with strength.
“I love you, Okado, my mate.” Upon her wolf, Suntai reached out and held his arm. “We fight together. We will save them.”
He stared behind
him. The survivors of Yintao spread across the courtyard, thousands of elders, mothers, and children. The warriors of Ilar stood to their right, armored in black and sitting astride panthers. The hosts of Leen stood to their left, men of pale steel and white cloaks, their spears tall, their shields bright. The hosts of Yintao still stood on the walls, firing their arrows and cannons upon the enemy outside.
“It will be we, the riders of Chanku, who lead the charge.” Okado stared back at the gates. The bronze thudded and bent as the enemy attacked, slamming hammers and rams. “It will be Chanku that carves the Red Mile.”
Suntai nodded. “For glory. For life. For death.”
Okado clenched his fist around his sword’s hilt. He rose in his stirrups. He raised his sword high and cried out for the city to hear.
“Eloria!” His voice rolled across the Eternal Palace. “Eloria, we ride! We ride to the port. We ride to life. We are the night!”
Guards upon the walls raised silver trumpets. They blared their keen, and the riders below banged swords against shields. Men tugged at chains, and the gates burst open.
To the sound of trumpets and howling wolves, Eloria raced into the swarms of sunlit warriors.
They were a shadow driving into drowning light.
They were a single spear piercing a beast the size of the world.
The Chanku Pack rode at the vanguard, swords swinging, wolves biting, cutting down the enemy. The Timandrians covered the city like worms over a corpse. Spears lashed at the wolfriders. Arrows pelted them. Knights in armor, elephants of war, and endless pikes tore into their ranks.
“Ride on!” Okado shouted as riders and wolves fell around him. “To the port! For the night, for death, for the children of darkness!”
Corpses paved their way. Blood painted them. The Red Mile stretched before them.
Behind the pack, the people of Yintao emerged from the gates, stepping onto the bloody boulevard. Mothers held babes to their breasts. Elders hobbled on canes. Children clung to one another, tears in their eyes. The Ilari rode to their right, slashing swords from atop their panthers. Leen’s troops marched to the left, their helms blank masks, their silver spears thrusting. From both sides, the enemy surged like waves, crashing into the soldiers of Eloria, dying upon blade and fang and claw.
“Forward, Eloria!” Okado cried, riding at the lead. Arrows slammed against his armor, and one pierced his wolf’s hide. “Carve a path of glory. Carve the Red Mile!”
They drove on, street by street, man by man. Soldiers of darkness fell. Demons of sunlight died, only for more to replace them, an endless sunrise. They passed down boulevards, between shattered temples, over fallen walls.
And they died.
They died by the hundreds. Soon there were no separate clans of Elorian fighters—not three empires, just one army. They fought as one, died as one, their blood spilling together, a shield around their women and children, the living replacing the falling. With every step, they shed a life. And yet they moved onward, carving this path of flesh, until all the children of Yintao emerged from the Eternal Palace and the masts of ships rose ahead.
“The ships!” rose voices behind Okado. “The ships of Ilar!”
Okado pointed his sword. “Follow, children of Eloria.”
The pack rode, trampling over Timandrian swordsmen, and turned onto a boulevard leading down to the port. Only two hundred yards now separated them from the water. The lamps of the ships beckoned, beacons in the darkness, hope for life.
Before the docks stood an army of Sailith warriors.
At their lead, clad in crimson armor, Ferius sat astride a white horse. The Lord of Light raised a lamp in one hand, a mace in the other. His warriors spread around him, sitting atop their own armored horses—demons of red armor and yellow cloaks, the rulers of sunlight.
“Hello, Okado!” Ferius shouted and laughed. “Yes, I know your name. At last, on your eve of death, we meet. Come to me, spawn of darkness. Come to die.”
Okado stared down at this man, his half brother, the son of his mother and a Timandrian soldier … this man whose shame was so great he burned the night.
Okado turned his head to look at Suntai. She rode at his side, scales missing from her armor, her wounds dripping, but her was sword still high. Her eyes were still strong and full of love for him and the night.
“We ride together, my mate,” she said. “We ride to meet him.”
Okado reached over and touched her cheek, a pale cheek tattooed with lighting, smeared with soot. She smiled and a tear trailed down to his fingers.
He nodded. “Always, my Suntai, star of my heart. Always we ride together.”
They turned back toward the monks and the ships behind them.
They roared their battle cries together.
The alpha pair led the charge, and behind them, hundreds of wolfriders—the remains of their pack—roared and followed in a thunder.
Eloria stormed down the boulevard. From the port below, the Timandrians surged. Horses galloped and nightwolves leaped. With swinging swords and maces, the hosts crashed together.
Okado was wounded. He had not slept or eaten for turns. His armor was chipped, his left arm was numb, and a vise of pain squeezed his head. Yet still he fought—the fight he had been born for, that he’d left his village for, that he’d spent years training for. It was the fight against the sunlight, against the shame of his blood.
The monks swarmed toward him, maces swinging. One mace shattered his shield. Another drove into his shoulder, and he roared and slew the man. Around him, he could barely see the city, only the sunlit demons crashing against him.
“Get the people into the ships!” Suntai called from somewhere within the fray. “We’ll hold them back. Get everyone into the ships!”
The monks mobbed Okado, and his sword could barely scratch their armor. A mace slammed into Refir, and the wolf yowled but kept fighting. When Okado glanced to his left, he saw the first women and children race along a pier and enter a rowboat. Thousands of Timandrians—hundreds of thousands—brandished their weapons, pressing toward the port.
I will hold them back.
He looked across the crowd of Timandrians, seeking him—the Demon of Daylight. Behind a dozen bloodsuns, he saw him. Ferius sat upon his horse, his arms raised, his lantern shining. He seemed like a man in rapture. He howled for sunlight and the murder of the night.
“Suntai!” Okado shouted. “Do you see him?”
She swung her sword at his side, severing a man’s arm. She nodded. “I see him. We ride!”
With a yip, she spurred her wolf. Okado’s wolf burst into a run too. The alpha mates sailed through the air, landed atop monks, and swung their swords. The enemy fell around them. Ferius still stood ahead, head tossed back, eyes closed.
“Into the boats!” somebody cried behind; Okado thought he recognized Bailey’s voice. “Hurry—on board!”
He did not turn to look. His eyes remained on Ferius. He raced forward, sword hacking, his nightwolf biting and clawing. Suntai fought at his side, blood on her wolf’s maw. They drove through the mob until they reached him.
“Ferius,” Okado said. “You know my name, but do you know who I am?”
Atop his white horse, the monk stared, and a smile spread across his face. “Leader of a mongrel pack.”
Refir bucked and clawed the air, and Okado sneered. “Do you know who I am?”
Ferius’s smile spread into a grin. “My half-brother.” He laughed, a sound like shattering bones. “The spawn of our harlot mother. She was a sinner, Okado. She was a filthy savage.” He spat toward Suntai. “As is this harlot you parade as your mate.”
Atop her wolf, Suntai raised her bow. She fired. Ferius swung his mace, knocking the arrow aside.
“You cannot stop me, creatures of darkness!” Ferius shrieked, voice rising as a storm. “I am sunfire.”
As the wolves leaped, Ferius smashed his lantern against his chest.
Glass shattered, oil spilled, and Ferius
burst into flame.
The two nightwolves yelped and pulled back. Okado shielded his eyes from the heat, and Suntai gasped. Their wolves growled and snapped their teeth, daring not approach. Ferius laughed, engulfed in flame, his horse burning, his shrieks rising.
“I am the sun!” cried the monk. “I am the light of Sailith and I banish your darkness.”
His blazing horse screamed, an almost-human sound, and burst into a gallop. The nightwolves parted, allowing the burning animal to pass. As the horse raced toward the river, Ferius leaped from the saddle, a ball of flame, and crashed against Suntai.
“I will burn you all!” The shrieks rose like steam from a pot. “I light the darkness!”
“Suntai!” Okado shouted.
Refir yowled at the flames, too terrified to attack. Okado leaped from the saddle, reached into the fire, and tried to grab Ferius, to pull him off. His hands burned, and Okado shouted, grasping, tugging.
He could barely distinguish Okado from Suntai and her wolf; they were one ball of fire. Screams rose from within the inferno—Suntai’s screams.
“My mate!” she cried. “My mate, get them to the ships, I—Okado! Okado, we will ride again. I love you. Goodbye—”
Her voice twisted into a scream … then fell silent.
His arms burned. Okado barely felt them. He grabbed something solid and tugged. With a ripping sound, he pulled the blazing monk off his mate.
Suntai and her wolf lay upon the ground, blackened, not moving. Before Okado, a demon from the underworld, Ferius blazed and laughed.
“The fire cannot burn me, my brother,” said the living torch. “Do you see? Do you see the light? It will burn you too.”
The monk advanced toward him, crackling arms held out.
Okado could barely hold his sword; his fingers were cracked and bleeding, the skin peeling off. With a hoarse cry, his lungs full of smoke, he swung the katana.
The blade slammed into the flaming creature and clanged against armor. From the inferno swung a mace, wreathed in fire. The flanged head drove into Okado’s arm, shattering the bone with a snap. It flew again, landing on Okado’s shoulder, driving him to his knees. A third blow smashed his hand, knocking his sword to the ground.
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