by Nathan Spain
“I didn’t order you to kill him,” Callidora whispered sternly as Ariadne rejoined them.
“You didn’t stop me either.”
Callidora drew her lips together in a tight line, but made no retort.
From further down the street, the shouts and cries of battle could still be heard, but for a time, the gathered Winebloods and Blackwings neither moved nor spoke. They regarded each other warily, Brone’s lifeless body between them, each side seemingly unsure how to proceed.
Finally, a tall, muscular man dressed in a sleeveless leather vest stepped cautiously forward from the crowd of Blackwings. His head was as bare as his arms, though he wore tattoos on both. He had a short and neatly-trimmed beard, in contrast with the rest of his rough-looking appearance. He approached them, unarmed, his hands held out to indicate he meant no harm.
“Speak,” Callidora ordered.
“My name is Emerick, my Lady.” He bowed to Callidora, and then again to Rosanna. “Lord Brone’s second in command, although in his court the title was more of a formality than anything. My Lord did not hold many trusted confidants.”
“You’ll be first in command now,” Damian noted.
Emerick glanced at him with a sober frown. “So it would seem. At least for the moment. We will deal with matters of succession properly once we’ve returned to our clan.”
“Returned?” Callidora noted sharply. “You mean to say that –”
Emerick nodded. “Lord Thanatos’ alliance was with Lord Brone, not Clan Blackwing. We were duty-bound to follow our Lord, but there are those among us who feel this war was a mistake, and now…well, Brone’s death changes matters.”
Callidora looked at him with interest. “Indeed it does.”
“I would like to see an end to the hostilities between our clans,” Emerick continued. “I only ask one thing. You currently hold a number of Blackwing men at Wineblood Manor as prisoners of war, correct?”
“We do.”
“Free them,” Emerick entreated. “Send them home. Promise this, and I will immediately call off my men from this senseless battle.”
Callidora nodded. “You have my word.”
Emerick looked contented. “And I shall take it, for I know that Clan Wineblood never wished for this conflict.” He turned to his men. “Go,” he ordered. “Spread the word, begin the retreat.”
The Blackwings nodded and took flight, rushing off to the areas where the battle was still taking place. Emerick moved to follow them.
“Fight with us,” Draven said suddenly. “Together we can stop Thanatos and truly put an end to this.”
Emerick shook his head. “My clan has suffered enough losses. This is no longer our fight. But I hope when our clans next meet, it will not be as foes.”
“I understand,” Callidora told him, “and I hope the same.”
Emerick bowed once more, then flew away after his men.
Draven glanced around the group of Winebloods, seeing in their eyes the same feeling that welled inside him: hope.
“Well, well,” Rosanna said, a fierce grin on her face. “This will come as a shock to Thanatos. He just lost half his army in one blow.” She clapped Ariadne on the shoulder. “Nicely done.”
“Where is Thanatos, anyway?” Draven asked Callidora and Rosanna. “He’s not going to give up. We need to find him.”
“I agree,” said Callidora. “But we were quickly set upon by Brone and the Blackwings when the fighting began. We’ve yet to encounter him.”
“Wherever the fighting is most intense, that’s where he’ll be,” Rosanna said.
As they conferred about their next move, the Wineblood soldiers began to shout and point upward. Bats were taking to the skies in great numbers, leaving the city behind them. The Blackwings were retreating.
The Winebloods cheered, but Callidora raised her voice and proclaimed, “Come, now is not the time for celebration. Follow me, and we shall face what remains of our foes and finish this once and for all.”
As they rushed into the air, Callidora and Rosanna leading the way, Draven felt his short-lived burst of optimism subside as the truth of Callidora’s words sank in. They had won an important battle, thanks to Ariadne, but the war was not yet over.
Lord Thanatos, and the final reckoning, still awaited them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It didn’t take long for Draven to spot Thanatos. With the Blackwings having fled the scene, Thanatos had consolidated his nearby Nightcloak forces to his side, and now, in the blood-soaked streets of Sanctuary, he stood prepared to make a final stand.
The Winebloods alighted on the pavement and faced down the Nightcloaks. Draven stood close to Ariadne, Damian at their side, surveying the scene. The tall buildings of downtown Seattle loomed above them like the ribs of a massive skeleton, and the only humans still on the street were corpses. Draven hadn’t seen such death since the Devastation. A breeze picked up, tugging at his hair, and an involuntary shudder ripped through him.
The street darkened as a cloud covered the moon. Callidora and Rosanna took a step forward.
Thanatos stared at them, his expression impassive. His voice was frighteningly steady; he didn’t shout, but they could all hear his words clearly, carrying across the gap between them like poisonous messengers. “I hear Brone is dead.”
Callidora pointed her sword at him. “It’s over, Thanatos. The Blackwings have abandoned you. Your cause is lost. Surrender, and your clansmen won’t have to die.”
“Funny,” Thanatos said, in a tone devoid of humor, “I was about to say the same thing to you. You think my cause lost? I’m only getting started. You think I need the Blackwings? With or without their help, this city of men will fall tonight, and you with it. The history of our kind will remember you only as a bump in the road to progress.”
Damian spoke up, calm but firm. “Spare us your bluster. History is written by the winner, Thanatos, and you have not yet won.”
Thanatos’ eyes found Damian. “I warned you not to stand in my way, but it seems you’re determined to join Selene. Very well. I’ll gladly send you to her.”
Callidora’s body tensed at the mention of her sister. “Enough talk. If it’s a fight you want, you shall have it. Winebloods, to arms!”
Draven glanced at Damian and Ariadne and they exchanged quick, determined nods. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
They charged, leading the Wineblood forces behind them, blades raised high to meet their foes.
The armies connected, like the crash of two ocean waves meeting, and in an instant, Draven was plunged into chaos. He slashed and dodged, ducked and countered and stabbed, keeping his attention on whatever foe was closest to him; the currents of battle had him, and it was all he could do not to be dragged under.
A Nightcloak charged out from the crowd, rushing toward him with her sword raised. Draven took a defensive stance, letting his opponent come to him, preparing to block her blow…
Strong, thick arms wrapped around his neck from behind. Someone had seized him in a chokehold. Draven couldn’t see his attacker, but the Nightcloak in front of him smiled, all pointed teeth and malice as she prepared to strike. Draven struggled to raise his sword to defend himself. Their blades collided, and though he blocked the strike from splitting his skull in two, the force of the blow knocked his sword from his hand.
The pressure of the arms around his neck grew, as did the smile of the Nightcloak in front of him as she pulled her arm back, the tip of her sword pointed directly at his face.
In a flash of desperate inspiration, Draven pushed back off the ground, throwing his weight onto the person holding him. As he did so, he folded his legs and then extended them in a hard kick. His boots slammed into the Nightcloak woman’s face. He heard a satisfying crunch, and she staggered back, dropping her sword.
Draven’s unseen attacker wobbled underneath his weight and fell backward. Though Draven had pinned his foe beneath him, they still had him in a chokehold. The two of them
writhed and struggled on the ground. A strong hand pushed against Draven’s head, trying to snap his neck.
With his head forced to one side, his eyes fell upon the glint of the Nightcloak woman’s discarded sword lying on the ground. He extended his arm, clawing his hand toward the weapon. It was just at his fingertips, the blade pointed at him. Underneath him, his enemy’s labored breath was hot against his ear.
He caught the very tip of the sword between his fingertips and pulled it closer. He wrapped his hand around the blade, gritting his teeth through the pain as it cut his palm.
Curling his arm in an awkward but forceful stab, he thrust the point of the sword into the space behind his head, his aim blind but true. The grip around his neck went slack.
The female Nightcloak had recovered from the kick to her face. She ran toward him, blood flowing from a broken nose, fangs bared in a snarl.
Draven sat up, yanking the sword free from his foe’s skull as he did so. He sprang to his feet, and just as the woman reached him, he tackled her to the ground.
Her head hit the pavement hard. For a moment, she lay stunned, and Draven seized the opportunity to straddle her waist and stab the sword through her skull.
Panting, he paused to catch his breath and take stock of his immediate surroundings. The Wineblood soldiers had pushed forward. They were all around him, locking swords with Nightcloaks. But where were Damian, Ariadne and the others? He had lost sight of them in the press of bodies.
He changed form and flew high above the heads of the battling crowd, in search of his friends. Dread gripped him for a second as he scanned the figures below.
At last, he spotted Rosanna and Callidora fighting back to back, encircled by Nightcloak soldiers, while a short distance away, Ariadne and Damian crossed swords with Thanatos himself. The Nightcloak lord fought like a furious, unchained beast, swinging his blade in fast, strong slashes, keeping both his opponents on the defensive with the speed of his blows.
Draven dove down toward them, but even as he moved to do so, Thanatos dealt a blow that knocked the sword from Ariadne’s hand. He pivoted to block a strike from Damian, then delivered a powerful kick to the old man’s chest, sending him flying.
Damian hit the pavement and dropped his sword. Thanatos drew his arm back, preparing to bring his blade down on the disarmed Ariadne.
In that horrible moment, as time seemed to slow down, a scene from memory flashed in front of Draven’s eyes: Ariadne’s shocked face, blood trickling from her mouth, a metal stake buried in her stomach. He’d known right then and there, as he met her dying eyes, that he couldn’t let her go, just as he’d known, as he sank his fangs into her neck, that he wouldn’t be able to keep her. It didn’t matter what came next, or what he would have to give up. All that mattered was that he saved her from death. And so he had.
He wouldn’t be able to save her a second time.
With a frantic burst of speed, Draven reached the ground and transformed, right between Thanatos and his prey.
He had only a split-second in which to react. Shielding Ariadne with his left arm, Draven reflexively raised his right arm against Thanatos’ blow. He ducked his head and closed his eyes, and for one brief instant he was a frozen statue of sacrifice; still alive, still whole.
Then Thanatos’ sword completed the preordained arc of its stroke.
Draven didn’t feel pain, not at first. For those first few moments, the only thing he had room for was a dim, shocked confusion. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a severed arm lying at his feet. Whose arm was that? It was not his, it could not have been his, he could still feel his right arm, still sense it attached to him.
He dropped to his knees. Slowly, he raised his head and turned it to look at his right shoulder. It took his brain a moment to process the information his eyes gave it, information that contradicted the tingling, burning sensation that Draven could have sworn he still felt in that limb.
And then he understood, and with understanding came the pain.
Thanatos stared down at him. The Nightcloak lord’s eyes had widened for a second in surprise at Draven’s sudden appearance, but now they narrowed once more into hard, cruel slits. The skin on his pale, skull-like face was taut, his veins prominent, his lips drawn back in a snarl, exposing pointed fangs. As Draven stared up into his face, Thanatos looked like death itself.
“Draven!”
He heard the horrified shout – Ariadne’s? – but like all other sound, it seemed to come from somewhere far away. He couldn’t move. Pain throbbed in his head and his eyes. Thanatos loomed above, already drawing his sword back for a killing blow, and all Draven could think was, I wasted so many years.
If not for what happened at that moment, the last thought to ever enter Draven’s mind would have been the image of Ariadne’s face.
Something slammed into Thanatos’ cheek with a sickening thud. Thanatos dropped his sword and clawed at his face, emitting a wordless howl of pain.
Draven squinted, trying to discern what had just happened. A thick crossbow bolt had driven through Thanatos’ mouth, destroying both cheeks just above his jaw and lodging itself in his face.
A sound grew, echoing off the sides of the buildings: a roar of voices and the pounding of feet against pavement. As Thanatos started to slowly pull the bolt from the side of his face, Draven turned his head to see what was approaching.
There, charging toward them down the street, was a crowd of humans. Some still held torches; others had armed themselves with discarded swords and daggers. Their expressions were identical, each face a mask of angry, frightened determination.
Just as the Nightcloaks had regrouped behind Thanatos, the citizens of Sanctuary had also found a figure to rally behind. At the forefront of the crowd, leading the charge, was Bodrock.
Cheers went up from the Winebloods as the remaining Nightcloaks, uncertain where to turn, found themselves caught between two groups of foes. Quickly, they huddled together back to back, swords raised to face both armies. Many of them glanced at Thanatos, looking to their leader for guidance, but he was still singularly focused on extracting Bodrock’s crossbow bolt from his face.
He didn’t even notice Callidora advancing on him, a sword in her hand. By the time Thanatos spotted her, it was too late. With a yell, she charged at him, her sword held at her waist, and skewered him through the stomach, just as he had done to Selene.
Thanatos gave a strangled gasp, his eyes bulging, the bolt still protruding from the side of his face. He fell to his knees, but Callidora wasn’t done with him yet. Yanking the sword from his gut, she slipped around behind him, pulled his head back, and pressed the edge of the blade to his throat. Vindictive triumph filled her eyes.
“Callidora, stop!”
Draven slowly turned his head toward the voice, in time to see Damian step forward and hold out an imploring hand to Callidora.
“My Lady, please,” said Damian. “It’s over. There’s been enough blood spilt here today.”
“Look at what he did to your friend,” Callidora snarled. Her voice shook with rage. “At what he did to my sister! Spilling his blood would be justice!”
“It would be a mistake,” Damian insisted. “Think of the consequences. His people are devoted to him – it’s not the same as with Brone. You can’t end wars by making your enemies into martyrs, Callidora!”
Callidora wavered. The sword in her hand trembled slightly, and the edge of the blade nicked at Thanatos’ throat. The Nightcloak lord remained very still.
“Please,” Damian said again. “Trust me.”
Callidora’s conflicted face hardened into an unhappy grimace. “Tell your people to lay down their weapons,” she hissed in Thanatos’ ear, “or make no mistake, I will kill you.”
Thanatos raised his arm and motioned up and down with his hand, and Draven heard swords clatter against the pavement.
Callidora dragged Thanatos to his feet and raised her voice. “Lord Thanatos of Clan Nightcloak, I’m t
aking you and your soldiers into the custody of Clan Wineblood.”
Draven’s vision faded. His consciousness sunk away, dragged under the surface of exhaustion. Then his thoughts were drowned in darkness, and oblivion took him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Draven awoke slowly. The first thing he noticed was the unpleasant sensation in his shoulder, a hot, tingling pain. The second thing he noticed was his surroundings – he lay in a bed in a small, white room. Florescent lights shone down on him, making him squint.
The third thing he noticed was Ariadne.
She was sitting in a chair against the wall, but when she saw him stir, she moved quickly to the side of his bed. “Hey,” she said. “Take it slow. Don’t try to sit up too fast.”
Draven tried to speak, but the words came out as a croak. He licked his chapped lips and tried again. “What happened?”
“We won,” she said, but there was little satisfaction or triumph in her voice. He saw the sadness in her eyes, the sympathy they transmitted.
He followed her gaze to his shoulder and was surprised, again, when he saw only a bandaged stump where his arm should be. He thought he ought to remark on its absence, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Instead, he said, “Where are we? Where are the others?”
“We’re still in the city, in a hospital. The others escorted Thanatos and what was left of the Nightcloaks back to the Manor. We’ll meet them there once you’re well enough to travel.”
Draven leaned his head back against the pillow and breathed a sigh of weary relief. “Then…we did it. We stopped them. We’re safe now. You’re safe…”
“Me?” Ariadne leaned forward, tenderly brushing the hair out of his eyes. “You weren’t worried about me, were you?”
Draven looked up at her. “Of course I was.”
“Well, that’s just silly,” Ariadne said lightly. “You ought to know by now that I can take care of myself.”
Draven looked at her face, at the soft, amused curve of her lips, at the gentleness in her eyes as she chided him. He knew she was half joking, but for the other half’s benefit, he said softly, “I know. But you shouldn’t have to.”
