Everafter Song
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I take in the formidability of our troops. We are so few in number.
Too few.
“You told the general noon?” Jamison asks.
Radella perches on his shoulder, her color changed from her usual
azure to a grayish purple, the shade she wears when she’s angry. Or
afraid.
“The council knows.” I force myself to maintain a firm grip on
my calmness, praying silently that my optimism doesn’t end in defeat.
“They will come.”
Commander Asmer finishes organizing the troops and rides back to
me to hand me a helmet. I slide it down over my head, the metal light in weight yet thick. The barghest whines and strains against its chain, then howls at the mist. It has scented our target.
Markham is here.
A carnyx horn blows far off in front of us. The eerie battle cry whirls my stomach into an eddy of dread. After the noise dies away, stomping sends quakes across the land, the vibrations growing stronger and closer. Through the slots in my helmet, I see the outline of the opposing army take shape, towering ghouls materializing in the gloom. I grip the reins to steady my horse, my clock heart ticking wildly. The marching escalates to thunderheads colliding in my ears, then halts.
In the beat of silence, the whole of the world seems to cower from
the army of giants, and in that frozen cringe, my heart stops for what feels like an eternity before thrusting onward.
Their soldiers are massive and thick as megaliths. Every one of
them is adorned in heavy armor in a style of olden days—helmets with plumes, shields engraved with intricate skyscapes, and thick silver chain mail. They carry an array of sharpened arms—long swords, battle-axes, and maces. Since seeing them yesterday, they have painted their faces in blood.
“Holy Mother of All,” Vevina breathes.
Commander Asmer wrangles her agitated horse. “Steady.”
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The giants ram the long end of their battle-axes into the ground
again and again, their pounding thunderous. The barghest whimpers
and hides beside his handler.
Harlow and Markham ride to the front of their army and continue
into the center of the field. Asmer and I ride out to meet them. Neither elf wears their glamour, their features sharp.
Commander Asmer hesitates when she sees Harlow’s elven features.
“Killian, your woman is an elf?”
“Half elf,” Markham replies. “Her father smuggled for me before
I left home. He found me here in Wyeth, met Harlow’s mother, and
fell in love. We took a glamour charm from a sorceress in exchange for smuggling her potions when Harlow was little so she could stay in the human world with her mother.”
The commander scrunches her nose. I was told elves don’t mate
with humans, not that they couldn’t.
Markham’s gaze rakes down me, taking in my helmet and chain
mail and sword. He finishes his assessment and laughs. “You’ve come
to battle well prepared, Evie. Surrender now and your friends will live.
I’ll even let you keep your helmet.”
“I’ll cut the smirk off your face for what you did to Imelda,” Asmer snarls.
“I think I will amend my offer,” Markham answers smoothly.
“Everyone except Commander Asmer may surrender. She will go to
her grave.”
Harlow snickers, her posture relaxed in the saddle.
“We’re not surrendering,” I say.
His voice coarsens to a cautionary tone. “This is your last opportu-
nity, Everley. Surrender, or your people will die, and you will lose this war.”
His conviction cuffs me like a well-timed blow. Am I leading my
friends to their deaths? Would it be better if they were taken captive and compelled to serve a wicked king? I sit in the muck of that thought, 252
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rolling around in it until I can no longer withstand the stench. I cannot agree to limiting anyone’s dreams, nor restricting their freedoms.
Human hearts are strong. Human hearts are free. And no one will take that from us.
I lean forward in my saddle, resting on the horn, and curl my lip.
“Go sit on a pike, you blaggard bastard.”
Markham’s wolfish eyes flash a vow of violence. Commander Asmer
and I turn away and ride back to the front line. My poise collapses at the sight of our little waiting army.
A carnyx blows, this time from our side of the field. I squint into
the felled forest, and out walks a battalion of giants, at least a hundred strong. In the lead, Captain Redmond flies the banner of the Silver-Clouded Plain, the symbol of their green world surrounded by clouds.
Osric walks beside him, armed with two big revolvers, one on each hip.
I gallop over to them and leap off my horse, dropping right onto
Osric. He catches me with an “oomph.”
“You came,” I say.
“Did you really doubt me?”
“I thought you were angry with me about before. What I said about
you and Killian—”
“I’m not upset with you, Evie. Our argument helped me realize
the Land of Promise is my home, and I’m not going to let anyone or
anything chase me away from it anymore.”
I watch his face as I ask, “Did Asmer tell you about Dalyor?”
“Yes, and I wasn’t surprised. I was reticent to talk to you about
Dalyor because I could tell he was hiding something. He was a loyalist to the prince. I’m glad I found out before . . . before our connection grew.”
Neely grabs me away from Osric and strangles me in his hug. It
isn’t until he puts me down that I see he’s wearing a green vest Mistral knitted him under his breastplate.
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“The curse has been lifted,” he says. “We came through the same
tunnels the warriors traversed all those centuries ago. The Silver-
Clouded Plain is free.”
I press a hand over my clock heart and send a silent thanks to Father Time. Maybe time isn’t indifferent to us. Maybe time cares so much
about us that he has to be careful how often he intercedes.
Neely’s sisters flank him. Both wear full body armor, Corentine
with the carnyx and Mistral wearing fingerless knitted gloves.
“Where did all these giants come from?” I ask.
“Why, they’re our cousins,” answers Mistral. “They’ve come to rep-
resent our kind.”
Corentine glares across the field at our enemies. “Those things have no right to call themselves giants. They aren’t creatures of Madrona.
They’re kreachers.”
The warriors across the field are nothing like the giants I have gotten to know. They’ve been corrupted, kreachers of night, not of light.
Redmond steps forward in battle gear, his formal wardrobe of velvet
and silk replaced by utilitarian wool, but he is not without polish. A silk kerchief is stuffed in his pocket, and his mustache is perfectly groomed.
He extends his hand, a peace offering. I slide mine into his and we
shake.
“Returning home showed me something I was blind to before,” he
explains. “Aye, this world of yours is beautiful, but it cannot compare to ours. The Silver-Clouded Plain is where we giants belong.”
“Let’s show them how true that is.” Corentine raises her arm and
directs their battalion to spread out.
Our new recruits filter into our ranks. Osric goes to stand with the archers, and Corentine and Mistral find their way to the ammunitions wagons
. Neely hangs back with Alick and Quinn, and they agree to
bring him on as a second assistant.
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I mount up and ride back to Jamison at the front lines. Radella
has regained her color, the addition of the new troops bolstering her confidence.
Across the field, the warrior giants—the kreachers—blow their
carnyxes in unison.
I raise my sword. “For Avelyn!”
Our army bellows and hollers. In the next breath, all is silent. Then the kreachers release gut-shaking roars and charge.
“Bowmen ready!” calls the commander.
The kreachers’ strides eat up the land, barreling across the divide.
Asmer waits to signal until they are closer. The bowmen’s arrows fly.
Several kreachers are pelted in the arms and legs, their heads and torsos protected, while more rush on unscathed.
Commander Asmer instructs the bowmen to release another vol ey.
They shoot up and out, peppering their marks. The kreachers do not
slow, the arrows mere beestings.
I hunch in my saddle, sword raised, and lead the charge.
Jamison and Vevina ride hard beside me. Radella flies ahead of us
with her troops, and they meet the kreachers first, sprinkling their dust to disappear holes in the ground. The first row of kreachers leaps around the holes, while those behind them fall in. The pixies dive down and vanish their weapons in showers of shimmering light. I ride into the kreachers’ line and slash at the back of their legs, searching the field for Markham.
A kreacher picks up a fallen tree and tosses it into a group of bow-
men, knocking them down. Laverick and Claret fire their revolvers
repeatedly into him, emptying their chambers. The kreacher sinks to
his knees and falls face forward to the ground.
The Fox and the Cat have taken down our first foe.
The trolls attack with their poles, aiming for the kreachers’ weak
spots—their throats and behind their knees. Gnomes scale up their
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backs and drive daggers into their eyes. A willowy spriggan grows roots from the ground that grip a kreacher’s feet and topple him.
Redmond bellows and charges. A kreacher whams him with his
mace, and he’s thrown. Mistral and Corentine open fire. The kreacher bends down and roars at them. Corentine turns the end of the carnyx
around and shoves it down his throat. The kreacher picks her up and
tosses her.
Mistral stabs what looks like knitting needles into his foot. The
kreacher bares his teeth and raises his fists to smash her. Cannon fire sounds. The kreacher pauses. A cannonball shoots across the field and plows into him.
Secretary Winters has arrived on foot with hundreds of troops, and
they brought firepower. Laverick raises her revolver into the air and whoops. She and Claret run to join a cannon crew.
Jamison fights across the way from me, dodging blows from a
kreacher’s battle-axe. I still don’t see Markham, so I whistle.
The elven guard unleashes the barghest, and the big canine takes
off into the fray.
“Everley,” Jamison yells, “go!”
We lock gazes, stealing a moment we don’t have to spare, and then
I ride hard after the bloodhound.
Nothor sweeps his spear at me. I duck down in the saddle, but not
low enough. He knocks me to the ground, and Berceuse gallops away.
My helmet comes off in the fal , and I drop my sword. Nothor stabs
at me with the end of his spear. I roll to dodge him, but he grabs me in his meaty hand. His fingers crush around me, squeezing my breath
away.
He lifts me toward his face, his mouth opening to shove me inside
with his stained teeth and foul breath. Another cannon fires, and
Nothor is slammed in the middle by a cannonball. He drops me, and I
fall to the ground near my sword.
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I scoop up my blade and sprint after the barghest, my clock heart
ticking in time with my footfalls. The bloodhound stops to sniff at a fallen tree. I slow my approach, on alert for Markham. Harlow steps
out from behind the tree, wearing Markham’s jacket, and shoots at
the barghest. The bloodhound skitters away, unhurt, and she levels the revolver at me.
“Hello, Everley. What a puppet you are, doing whatever we need
of you.”
“Where’s Markham?”
“Right behind you.” He presses a gun between my shoulder blades.
I glance over my shoulder and see the infinity sandglass in his other hand. He must have used it to trick the barghest.
Harlow strides over to disarm me. I slam my elbow into her side
and pull her in front of my body, raising my blade to her throat, and rotate us toward him.
“Pull back your troops,” I say.
“I don’t control them. You know that.” Markham wears a look
of disappointment. “You were there when they woke. You saw that I
merely set them loose to finish what they started. Before we can rebuild, we must tear down what exists . ”
He takes a step forward, his gun raised.
I hold the blade tighter to Harlow. “I will kill her,” I vow. “For
Jamison and my friends and my world, I will do it.”
“Killian,” Harlow says, utterly calm. She has absolute trust in him.
He leaves his gun on us. Any shot at me would hit her.
“Killian?” Harlow repeats. A question. No, a plea.
He puts on a mask of false penitence. “I’m sorry, my dearest. You
have been more loyal than I ever imagined, but I cannot give up the
worlds for you or anyone.”
Harlow gulps against my blade. “My love—”
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He fires, and she recoils against me on a breathy moan. She stays
on her feet a moment in defiance of the pain and then goes limp, falling through my arms and sinking to the ground.
I try to grab hold of her, but her weight drops all at once. Harlow
lands twisted, like her joints are floppy and broken. I gape down at her as she bleeds and struggles to breathe, and I swear, when she exhales her last breath and the light goes out of her eyes, I hear the stars sigh.
Everything in me turns wobbly—knees, belly, elbows.
Markham checks the chamber of his revolver and snaps it shut.
“Don’t look at me like that, Evie. The second she joined me, she chose this fate.”
“She loved you.”
“Don’t be dense. She was half human. Did you really think I could love something that belonged kneeling at my feet?”
“No one should kneel to you.”
“Maybe not the Time Bearer.” He points his revolver at me and
shakes it like a finger. “You have something else inside you, something that attracted a star and garnered the sympathy of a god. Even I know not to dismiss your usefulness. Look at what we’ve achieved. You and I reunited the triad. Our brothers and sisters will fight, and they will lose. Then I will guide them to peace and order like my father would have done. There’s only one thing left to do.”
He fires at me. I feel something shatter in my arm—explode, rip,
tear—then I’m shoved to the ground by the propulsion.
Markham stands over me, taking aim again. “I would never have
gotten to this point without you. It was fate that you didn’t die all those years ago. Fate that I let you live so many times.” He lowers the pistol to my head. “But everyone has a day that they should die, and, my dear, today is yours.”
&n
bsp; I grab my sword, and with the last of my strength, I drag the blade
across the ground under us. Markham yells as we drop into the portal.
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We land on our backs in the Everwoods. Markham hits the ground
hard and releases his pistol in favor of protecting the infinity sandglass.
The firearm drops into the brush, out of sight. I grip my bleeding arm with one hand, my sword in the other.
Markham rises and stomps down on my injured arm. He waits
until I stop screaming to speak. “You are so predictable. The last act that I needed you to perform—bringing me to the Everwoods—is why
I let you live time and again. I’ve savored this time together, but your usefulness has come to an end.”
He wrenches my sword from my grasp and plunges it through my
belly. The blade goes in and out the other side again, smooth, relentless steel. My pain paralyzes me, pinning me to the ground. The sprites near us zip away and hide.
Markham leaves the sword impaled in my middle and gazes up at
the trees. “This sacred place has been cut off from the worlds for far too long.”
My lungs fill with heaviness, my throat wet. I cannot die. I cannot
die here. My whole existence will be erased.
“Every creation began with destruction,” Markham goes on, ignit-
ing the fire striker in his hand that’s used for lighting smoking pipes.
“Time erodes everything. Our worlds were formed from the ash of other worlds, and thus, the cycle of life must continue.”
He touches the lit fire striker to a branch. The leaves ignite, and
the sprites that were hiding there fly away as the fire spreads up the bough and jumps to another. Markham stands back and watches the
elderwood burn.
Screaming fills the woods, not from one of the creatures. From the
tree on fire.
“How do you usurp a god?” Markham muses, picking up the infin-
ity sandglass. “Their power exists even without them. The worlds are still hung in the universe. Madrona may tie the worlds together, but it is the Creator that binds them, and the Creator will not let the worlds fall.
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But this place, this bridge between them, can be rebuilt. The Everwoods will be in my image.”