“Hem, damn you! Can’t you hear me?”
Sitting in the saddle ahead of Cam, Linee twisted around to face him. Under her helmet, her face was pale, her eyes huge and haunted. For once no tears filled them.
“Camlin … he’s not answering.”
Cam dug his heels into his nightwolf. The animal raced forward, leaped over a cloven shield and a legless corpse, and landed upon the shattered battlements where Hem sat. With a tug on the reins, Cam halted the nightwolf and dismounted. He knelt before his friend.
Darkness like smoke spread before his eyes.
Two arrows jutted out of Hem’s chest, and one pierced his neck. His eyes were still open, staring at the sky, and it seemed to Cam that his friend was smiling … a soft smile like a man seeing a single star between storm clouds, like a soul torn by fear and pain finally hearing a soothing song of harps. A young Elorian woman lay in his arms, her tangled hair hiding her face, a dagger buried in her chest. The two sat leaning against a fallen merlon like lovers watching the night skies … together, at peace.
“Oh, Camlin … I’m sorry.” Linee approached him, the wind beating her cloak. “I’m so sorry.”
Throat tight, unable to speak, Cam closed his friend’s eyes. As the war raged across the city, he knelt here in this shadowy huddle, staring.
“This is a good place,” Cam finally said, voice soft, barely a whisper. “He didn’t look upon war when he died. He’s facing the stars, and he’s holding a friend.” Something swollen and painful clogged his throat. “I only wish I could have been here with you, you lumpy loaf. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was too late.”
He felt Linee’s hand on his shoulder. Cam lowered his head, and his shoulders shook, and he thought about those old songs, frothy ale, and days in the silly sunlight of their youth, and he wept.
“Goodbye, Hem.” He held his friend’s hand. “Goodbye.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE BLOOD OF YINTAO
Down to half its size, charred and bloodied but raising the red flame banners high, Ilar’s navy sailed upriver toward Qaelin’s capital.
Torin stood upon the flagship, sword drawn and shield ready, and beheld a city of hope and ruin.
Ahead, the Yin River flowed into the city between two towers and crenelated walls. A battle had been fought here. One of the towers—the one guarding the western riverbank—had lost its crown of merlons, and holes peppered its eastern twin. Cracks filled the city walls, and corpses lay upon the riverbanks and floated in the water. Timandrian archers manned these crumbling battlements, shouting as they saw the Ilari fleet sail toward them. Through gaps in the fortifications, Torin could see the city within; it bustled with enemy soldiers, and the banners of Sailith rose from roofs. But Timandra had not yet claimed the entire city, it seemed. Deeper within Yintao the battle still raged; Torin heard cannons blazing and swords clanging.
“We arrive at Yintao’s greatest hour of need,” Koyee said, standing beside him at the prow. “The city still fights.”
They sailed closer, approaching the mouth of the city. Across the riverside walls and towers, the Timandrian archers shouted and fired. Arrows fell upon the Ilari fleet. Across a hundred decks, Ilari cannons blasted. The rounds tore into the guard towers, shattering bricks and felling men. The fleet sailed on, leaving a wake of dust and blood.
The river led them into the first level of the city. Torin had seen maps of Yintao, one square within another. In those maps, houses stood in neat rows and statues rose in squares. When he looked around him, however, he saw nothing but devastation. The houses burned or lay crumbled; the statues had fallen. Shattered blades, cloven helms, and broken arrows lay among the corpses of men, women, and animals. Timandrian troops marched upon rubble, waving torches and firing arrows. Ilar’s cannons blasted, tearing into the enemy upon the riverbanks. The fleet sailed deeper, arrows in their hulls.
Torin snapped an arrow that pierced his shield. “The river should lead us to the city’s fourth level. We’ll have to move on foot from there.”
Koyee nodded. “The Eternal Palace lies behind the seventh walls. I still hear battle ahead; Ferius has not yet taken Qaelin’s throne.”
At the sound of the monk’s name, Torin grimaced.
Yes, you wait here, Ferius, he thought. I was a gardener and you were a humble monk, two men from a village … now we meet in a great capital, armies at our backs. He remembered his duel with Ferius back in the distant, fallen city of Pahmey. Now we complete that old fight.
They sailed through a storm of arrows and another layer of smashed walls. Now the full battle raged around them. Elorian troops bearing the moonstar and diamond banners clashed against the enemy. Thousands fought along the riverbanks, racing down streets, climbing roofs, and charging upon horses and nightwolves. The city rang with singing steel. Upon the Ilari decks, archers fired and warriors sang for victory.
“The red flame burns!” the warriors cried upon the decks. “We are the night!”
The ironclad ships sailed on, their oars moving like centipede legs, their sails wide, the pagodas upon their decks bristling with archers. Their cannons blasted, their drums beat, and their horns blared. Thousands of Ilari warriors bellowed, horrible to behold, demons clad in black and crimson steel, their helms twisted masks of bloodlust, their torches and swords bright.
Past several more smashed walls, they reached a bend in the river. Upon the curving bank, a boardwalk sent piers into the dark water. Beyond this port, the river crossed the eastern city, heading back into the plains. Ilar’s ships had reached the end of their journey. Torin stood, sword raised and teeth bared, as the fleet sailed toward the docks.
Anchors dropped.
Warriors leaped into landing craft.
Upon the boardwalk, thousands of enemies awaited, firing arrows and brandishing swords.
“Stay near me, Koyee,” Torin said, hand shaking around his hilt.
“Always.”
They looked at each other and shared a tight, mirthless smile, then leaped into a rowboat. Hundreds of other landing craft sailed with them toward the city streets.
Screams, clanging steel, and blood covered the world.
As he emerged from the boat, rushing onto the boardwalk, the Battle of Pahmey returned to him. In his mind, he ran with his friends again—with Bailey, Cam, and Hem—racing into an unknown land. He had fought against Eloria then—against Koyee herself. Now he swung his sword with the people of the night, the people he’d been raised to fear, to hate, to slay. Now he fought with a woman he loved.
A year and a half ago, I watched Koyee’s father burn. He raced along cobbled streets, Koyee and a thousand other soldiers at his side. Now I fight with her to save the darkness.
Soldiers of Arden—his old homeland—came racing toward him, bearing the raven banner, swordsmen and horsemen and archers in steel. Robed monks shouted orders from towers above. His people charged to kill, and Torin ran to meet them.
I am no longer Torin, a boy of sunlight. I am a man of Eloria.
Koyee shouted at his side. “We are the night!”
The dragon Tianlong swooped above, red beard fluttering, roar thundering. Ilari riders chanted atop panthers, raising banners and aiming lances.
With a song of blades, the armies slammed together.
* * * * *
She fought along the streets of Yintao, armor splashed with blood—a seasoned killer, a demon in red.
Two years ago, I was fishing upon the river in a forgotten village, Koyee thought, swung her sword, and severed an enemy’s arm. I’ve been fighting you since you killed my father, Ferius. And in this city, I will kill you.
This was the battle of her life. She had sailed alone through darkness. She had lived among thieves in a graveyard. She had busked in city dregs. She had played her flute as a yezyana to lecherous, intoxicated men. She had slain soldiers upon the streets of Pahmey, sailed through death in the gauntlet of Sinyong, and thrashed through fever and nightmares in the bowels of
a ship. She had fought starvation, armies, and disease … all to come here, to race toward the Eternal Palace, the center of her empire, perhaps the center of the night.
Here my battle ends. She thrust her sword, impaled a man, and raced forward. I survived for this. Here will I meet him again … and here will the sun set or burn us all.
Torin fought at her side. Thousands of shouting Ilari swung swords around them, some fighting on foot, others charging atop their panthers. They raced forward, past hall and pagoda, down street after street, and everywhere the enemy waited. The hosts of Timandra swarmed through the city. Tigers pounced toward them—some succumbed to swords or arrows, and others tore men apart. Burly men in iron swung hammers from atop bears. Knights charged into the ranks of Ilar, leaving paths of dead. Clouds of dark magic blasted, tossing warriors aside like a broom scattering insects.
And still they fought on.
Trumpeting cries rose ahead. A barrage of arrows flew.
Ilari warriors shouted and fell. Panthers crumbled upon the cobblestones.
Ahead Koyee saw them—the elephants of Sania trampling through the city. Howdahs rose upon their backs—towers of wood and leather—and archers stood within them, warriors clad in beads, wood, and silver. Hundreds of the beasts moved through the city, armored and painted, stomping men. Their trunks rose in fury.
Koyee raised her shield. Arrows slammed into the steel. Around her, warriors fell from their panthers, clutching their chests. One man thumped down at her feet, an arrow thrusting through his visor. His panther bristled and made to flee.
Koyee grabbed the feline’s bridle.
It burst into a run.
Koyee tugged, leaped, and landed in the saddle.
Wind whipped her face. The panther ran beneath her, leaping from corpse to corpse. A hundred other panther riders raced around her, calling battle cries and firing arrows. The elephants trumpeted and charged toward them, footfalls cracking flagstones and shaking the city.
“Fire at the howdahs!” Koyee shouted, grabbing the bow from across her back. “The towers on the elephants!”
She tugged back her bowstring. She fired.
Steel arrows fletched with red silk flew from the Ilari riders. From the elephants’ backs, wooden arrows fletched with green feathers rained down.
Men and beasts fell.
Koyee rode on, shouting.
Her panther leaped toward one of the charging pachyderms. Arrows drove down, clattering against Koyee’s shield and her panther’s black helm. The feline drove its claws into the elephant’s hide, scurrying onto its back. Through a storm of arrows, Koyee swung her sword.
Her blade severed the howdah’s straps, and her panther bit, and the structure of wood and leather crumbled. Men shouted and fell. Her panther leaped off the elephant, sailed through the air, and landed on the back of another beast.
Koyee tumbled from the saddle, landing in another howdah. The elephant trumpeted and bucked beneath her. Sanian warriors—clad in wooden armor and strings of beads—drew curved blades. Koyee snarled as she cut them down. She leaped from the bloodied howdah, landed in her panther’s saddle, and they hit the ground running.
Where was Torin? She looked around, seeking him, calling his name. She could not see him through the crowd.
“Torin! Torin, where are you?”
She did not know if he heard. Her panther kept running, choosing its own path; she could not control it. They crossed a courtyard, and her panther ran up a building wall as easily as a cat climbing a tree. Upon the roof, the feline paused. Koyee stared ahead.
“Stars of my forebears,” she whispered, feeling the blood leave her face.
Below her in the streets, the battle raged. Ahead, she could see the seventh layer of walls. The enemy was crashing against them—climbing ladders, battering gates, and pummeling towers with dark magic. Behind those last walls lay the Eternal Palace—a city unto itself, a complex containing a hundred halls. The largest building Koyee had ever seen rose in its center, a pagoda she thought could house a nation. Its roofs spread out, tiled red, and an idol of Xen Qae stood upon its crest.
The Hall of Harmony, she thought, recognizing it from paintings and tales. The home of Qaelin’s emperor.
Thousands of Yintao’s soldiers stood behind the seventh walls, awaiting the enemy.
“Too few,” Koyee whispered. “Too few.” She raised her voice to a roar and pointed her sword. “To the palace! Warriors of Ilar! To the Eternal Palace—we must not let it fall.”
She looked below her, seeking him. Finally she saw Torin in a street, battling a swordsman, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Thousands of others fought around him.
“Torin!” she shouted. “Torin—with me! To the palace!”
He slew his opponent, raised his head, and nodded. With a swarm of Ilari warriors, he began to run north toward the seventh walls. Most of them raced afoot; others rode upon panthers.
Her own panther snarled beneath her, claws gripping the roof. Its sleek body bristled, fur rising and muscles ripping. Koyee stroked its head.
“Run fast, cat of the night,” she whispered. “Leap through shadow.”
With a hiss, the panther leaped from the roof. They vaulted through the air, and Koyee fired her bow, hitting a man on the street. They landed upon another roof, the panther’s paws silent against the tiles, and dived again. They raced across the city. The enemy fought and died all around. Around her, she saw other panthers leaping from roof to roof, mere shadows.
As they made their way north, Koyee remembered her life a year ago, leaping from roof to roof in Pahmey, an urchin with bare feet, slaying soldiers in the streets below. She was still fighting that fight … the battle for her life, for her family, for the darkness.
They raced forward, a cloud covering the city, heading toward their last stand.
* * * * *
Ferius rode his horse up the stairs of a crumbling wall, stared from the battlements toward the inner city, and licked his lips.
“It falls like a ripe fruit into our hands.”
All around him, Yintao blazed. His herd marched through the streets, carrying torches and lanterns, bringing light to the darkness. Towers fell. Dark magic knocked down walls. Everywhere he looked, the savages were falling, their feeble defenses burning in his fire.
Ahead, across the inferno, the Eternal Palace still stood, a puddle of darkness in the encroaching light like a cave untouched by dawn.
“Yet the fire of Sailith will burn there too,” Ferius said, sucking in breath, already tasting the glory. “You wait there for me, my sister.”
He saw her ahead. Koyee was riding one of the panthers, a demon of darkness. She leaped from roof to roof, firing arrows as she headed toward the palace. She was one among thousands, a distant creature in the night, but Ferius knew it was her.
The pain in his leg flared—the wound Koyee had given him in Pahmey, driving her sword into his flesh. Ferius clenched his fists. When he caught her, perhaps he would cut off her leg. Perhaps he would show less mercy and tear her flesh inch by inch, tugging and digging and sawing as she screamed, dragging her torture on for months, for years. She would be the only savage left alive.
“My lord!” rose a voice below. A bloodsun raced up the stairs, reached Ferius upon the battlements, and knelt. A crack cleaved his helm, revealing a bloody wound. “My lord Ferius, the savages are retreating into the last level. They are fighting like cornered beasts, my lord. They shattered our last siege towers and ladders, and they’ve slain the mages. We cannot break in.”
Ferius sneered down at the man. “Then we will stack hills of bodies and climb over the walls.”
“But my lord! Some of the men are losing heart. They are fleeing the seventh walls.”
“Then we will cut them down.” Ferius spurred his horse. The beast whinnied and raced down the wall. “Bloodsuns—follow.”
He rode into a cobbled courtyard. A statue of the savages’ deity lay smashed, and dead Elorians lay strewn
around it. Hundreds of bloodsuns stood here, crossbows in hand, their lamps bright.
Ferius galloped down a boulevard between stone houses. His bloodsuns ran behind him, a red swarm flowing down the street like a clot down a vein. Elorian corpses lay all around—soldiers, women, and children. Ferius rode over the dead. One of the savages—a young girl with a smashed leg—was still alive and twitching. Ferius grinned as he ran her over, crushing her skull.
He reached a wide square. Ahead loomed the seventh walls of the city, splashed with blood, and Ferius beheld the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
Thousands lay dead here, hills of his glory and might. Timandrians and Elorians alike piled up outside the walls, pierced with arrows, slashed with swords, burned with oil, and crushed with stones.
“Our death will light the darkness,” Ferius whispered, sucking in an enraptured breath. Here stank the true might of Sailith, purification through blood.
Thousands of his troops still lived, slamming against the walls and gates of the Eternal Palace. From the battlements, arrows flew down, cannons blasted, bubbling oil spilled, and boulders tumbled. The defenders of Yintao were cornered, trapped within the heart of their city; they fought with their greatest passion.
“They will not surrender, my lord!” said the bloodsun with the cracked helm.
“Good,” said Ferius. “Let them die in fear and agony, knowing their city falls.”
More Timandrians surged toward the gates, wielding axes and hammers, only to be cut down. As a new volley of Elorian arrows rained, a few Timandrians turned to flee.
Ferius grinned and licked his lips. “Bloodsuns! Allow no cowardice. Keep them attacking those walls.”
His bloodsuns raised their crossbows. Timandrian soldiers—men of Arden bearing the raven shields—came fleeing toward them, wounded and screaming. Arrows thrust out from a few; the burns of oil spread across others. The bloodsun bolts slammed into them, cutting them down.
“You will not flee the enemy!” Ferius shouted from atop his horse. “Back to the walls. Cut the gates with axes! Smash the bricks with hammers. Pile up your corpses so your comrades may climb.”
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