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 Maniko. "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.
"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 che
st.
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 screamed. "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.
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