When Bailey looked south of the Sern, she saw the troops of another kingdom. Naya mustered there, her neighbor to the south. Its warriors wore tiger skins and hoods. Each man clutched two spears and wore a necklace of teeth. Elephants trumpeted among them, their tusks ringed with gold, archers upon their backs. Hundreds of tigers stood leashed, clawing the air, their trainers clutching whips. Burly, bare-chested men beat war drums, each as large as a wagon wheel, and howled for victory against the devils of the dark. Naya's banners too fluttered, hiding and revealing a tiger upon a black field.
"All across Timandra, the other kingdoms rally too," Bailey whispered, hands trembling around the battlements. "I left my village as spring bloomed, trying to stop a war. Now autumn covers the land, and the armies of daylight muster."
She looked north toward the distant forests, and she could imagine the warriors of Verilon among the pines, their warriors clad in furs, sitting astride bears and wielding great hammers. Farther north, the seafarers of Orida, warriors of the orca, would be sailing their galleys toward the shadows, their helmets horned and their beards golden. Far in the south, the desert warriors of Eseer would be moving east, riding camels and brandishing their curved blades, chanting for the victory of the sun.
"The day rises," Bailey said and shuddered. "The night will burn."
She scanned the armies below, seeking him. Somewhere down there among the multitudes, Torin—that foolish, winky-eyed boy—stood in armor, ready to invade with his king. Bailey couldn't even see him in the crowd, and she ground her teeth. A sigh rolled through her.
For a decade now, she had looked after the boy. Ten years ago he had come into her home a frightened orphan, a year younger than her and barely taller than her shoulders. She had pitied him then, begged her grandfather to take him in, and since then he'd been as a younger brother to her. And now . . . now he wanted to leave her, to march to war?
"You can't take care of yourself, Torin," she said down to the army. "I know you think you can. I know you think that, at eighteen, you're a man and a soldier, but you're not. You can't do these things."
Tears stung her eyes. She had always driven him hard, pushing him to swim faster, to climb higher, to run farther. And now he thought he could run alone. She couldn't let him do that.
Finally she saw him below, and her throat tightened. He sat astride a horse not far from the king. She barely recognized him, for a helmet hid his shock of dark hair. A checkered cloak of black and gold billowed behind him. He wore a breastplate, and more armor bedecked his horse. He looked like some knight, but Bailey knew he was only her Torin, only the gardener.
"You're not a soldier, Winky," she said down to him. "You are still too slow. Your bad eye still hampers your sword's aim. You are still my babyface, and I have to look after you."
She rubbed her stinging eyes with her fists, took a deep breath, and nodded. She knew what she had to do. It burned down her throat, shook her fingers, and blazed in her lungs, but she knew it had to be done. With a deep breath, she left the tower top and raced downstairs.
At the tower's ground floor lay the village armory—a single rack with a few swords, breastplates, and helmets. Lips pursed, Bailey grabbed her breastplate and strapped it on. It was not as fine as the armor the soldiers outside wore, but it fit her snugly and it would protect her. She grabbed a helmet from a peg, pulled it onto her head, and tightened the strap under her neck; it left her face free and let her braids dangle down her chest. Finally she grabbed her sword, fastened it to her belt, and looked into the tall bronze mirror.
"Well, Bailey old girl," she said to her reflection. "For a year, you've guarded a village. Now you have to guard something a lot more difficult—Babyface Torin."
She gripped her hilt and left the tower.
While the fields and farms bustled with soldiers, the village square—a small expanse of cobblestones—seemed eerily deserted. A few chickens pecked in a corner, and a dog wandered around Old Maple. As Bailey walked toward her cottage, a lump filled her throat. Fairwool-by-Night had been the only home she'd known throughout her nineteen years.
When will I see this place again?
The lump growing, she reached her cottage, the largest one in the village. White clay filled the space between its timber foundations, and straw covered its roof. Three chimneys of red brick rose from the house, but only one was pumping smoke. Years ago, several people had lived here—her parents, her grandmother, and her uncles. Since the plague, only she, her dear old grandfather, and Torin had lived within these walls.
And now Torin and I are both leaving, she thought, eyes stinging.
She walked through the garden, moving between sunflowers, daisies, lilacs, and a dozen other flowers Torin had planted and nourished. When she stepped into her home, her eyes watered and she could barely take another step.
Her dear old grandpapa sat in an armchair by the fireplace, a book in his hands. He looked up at her with red, watery eyes.
"The fire burns," he said. "I could not stop it."
Bailey's heart twisted. She stepped toward him, leaned down, and kissed his cheek.
"You lead Fairwool-by-Night wisely," she whispered. "You could not have stopped a king's command."
He shook his hoary head. "I let violence flare here. I let those . . . those monks preach hatred." His fists clenched and trembled. "And now the armies gather here for war. Bailey . . . I already lost my children. I do not want to lose my grandchildren too."
Bailey could not stop her tears from falling. She embraced her grandfather.
"I will look after Torin," she whispered. "I have to go with him, Grandpapa. You understand, right? You know how he is. He runs too slowly. He cannot climb a tree without falling. He needs me to protect him." She held the old man's wrinkly hand. "But I will come back to you, I swear it. We both will. This war will end quickly, and we will sit by the fireplace again, all three of us. You will read us stories like you used to, and we will drink mulled wine, and things will be good again. I promise."
He reached out a trembling finger and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"And let him watch over you, Bailey. Yes, maybe he is clumsier and slower than you, but there is wisdom in him, and there is strength too, a strength of his own fashion. In the darkness, don't let your temper flare. Stay close to Torin and protect him . . . and let him protect you from the flames inside you."
She hugged him again and kissed his cheek, and when she left him in the house she could barely breathe.
Vision blurred, she was wandering across the village square when she heard the bickering.
"Give me that, Hem!" said a voice behind her. "Sheep droppings, there's still a bee on it."
"There is not! Give it back."
"Where do you even keep finding these things? By the light! You got your hands and shirt all sticky."
Groaning, Bailey turned to see Cam and Hem standing under the maple tree. The shorter Cam was holding a honeycomb out of reach; the tall, heavyset Hem was reaching for it and pleading for his treat.
"You two!" Bailey shouted. "Camlin! Hemstad! For pity's sake, stop fighting like two fussy little girls."
She marched forward, grabbed the honeycomb from Cam, and tossed it as far as she could; it sailed over the roofs of the houses.
Hem whined and watched it fly away. "I was eating that." The beefy baker's boy pouted, his cheeks turning pink.
Cam smirked, leaning on his shepherd's crook. "Good work, Bailey old girl, I— Ow!"
He winced and mewled as she clutched his ear.
"And you, Camlin Shepherd," she said, twisting his ear. "Stop torturing the boy and stealing his treats." With her other hand, she grabbed Hem's ear too, giving it a good twist. "Come with me, boys, and put on some armor. Don't you know there's a war starting?"
She began dragging them across the square by the ears. The two younger boys whined and moaned, but they trailed behind, unable to free themselves.
"Bailey!" Hem said. "I— Ow! I know there's
a war, but what are we to do? Owww . . . stop twisting my ear!"
She kept tugging, dragged them toward the armory, and shoved them inside. She gave Hem a swift kick to the backside when he was too slow to enter.
"Suit up!" she shouted after them. "Armor and swords and helmets. Torin is riding into war, and we're going with him."
"But why?" rose Hem's whine from inside the tower. His head peeked out the doorway. "Why must—"
"Get back in there!" Bailey placed a hand on his face and shoved him back inside. "No talking. Torin needs us. We're his friends. You know how useless he is in a fight. We had to save his backside the last battle, and we're going to save it in the next one. Go on, get your swords!"
Clanks, curses, and a whimper rose from the shadows. Finally the boys emerged. Cam, the smallest of the Village Guardians, looked like a child in his father's armor; his helmet wobbled, and his breastplate hung loose. Hem, meanwhile, couldn't even fit his helmet on; it sat perched upon his head, and his belly bulged from below his breastplate. Both wore swords and both were muttering curses. Honey still stained Hem's fingers.
"Bloody heroes you two are," Bailey said with a sad shake of her head. "Now come on. And walk straight." She cocked her head as horns blew outside the village. "That's the signal. The army is moving out. Let's find Torin before he's too far ahead."
They raced through the village, armor clanking and swords swinging on their belts. They emerged between two cottages . . . and beheld a sea of steel.
The army spread out as far as Bailey could see. Horses walked ahead, bearing lords clad in armor and finery. Banners flew in the wind and silver trumpets blared. Behind the cavalry marched thousands of troops—archers in cloaks of gold and black squares, infantrymen in pale steel, and pikemen bearing pole-arms that rose taller than the village houses. They trampled grass, farms, and Torin's riverside gardens. Behind them, Bailey could see the masts of warships sailing downriver; the Sern would take them into the night.
Behind a formation of archers and swordsmen, Bailey saw a swarm of Sailith monks; there must have been hundreds, and Bailey growled. They all wore the same yellow robes, and their hoods hid their faces. They were men of Arden but wouldn't even raise the raven banner. Instead they held their own standards: yellow sunbursts upon blood-red fields. Countless soldiers were invading Eloria, trained killers, but these robed monks scared Bailey more than the rest combined.
Soldiers fight with blades and arrows, she thought. Sailith monks fight with words. Their weapons are mightier.
"Idar's beard," Cam muttered, staring at the army. "There're about a million soldiers here. Bailey, are you su—"
She grabbed his arm and tugged him along. "Yes! Now come on—quickly. Torin is riding ahead. Hem, you too. Stop fiddling with your belt and follow me."
As they raced alongside the marching infantry, their swords swinging and their armor clanking, Bailey felt her cheeks flush. They must have made quite a sight—three disheveled youths, their armor forged by a village smith between making forks and spoons. They were only the Village Guard, not true soldiers, but Bailey kept running, dragging the two boys behind her. She was perhaps not a soldier, but she had fought before, and she had slain a man.
I will fight bravely with you, Torin, she swore. I do not believe in this war. But I believe in protecting you.
They ran until they passed the footmen, archers, and pikemen, then ran alongside the horses. The lords of the host rode between them and the river, covered in steel from head to toe. Tunics of black and gold checkers covered them, and swords hung at their sides. The horses were as finely dressed and armored as the riders, noble beasts from stables across Arden.
Finally Bailey spotted Torin ahead. He wore a helmet, but the visor was raised. His cloak fluttered in the wind. He was staring ahead, face blank. Only a few horses away rode the king, Idar's half-sun upon his breastplate, his helmet shaped as a raven of gold and onyx.
"Winky!" she said, racing forward to run alongside him. "Winky, slow down your horse, or you're likely to fall off. Do you remember how you fell off the village pony a few years ago?"
He turned toward her and his eyes widened. "Bailey? What . . . what are you doing here?" He looked over her head, and his eyes widened even further. "Cam and Hem? You too? Go back to the village!"
Bailey shook her head fiercely, braids swinging. "We're coming with you, Babyface. I'm not letting you get into any trouble. With your bad eye, you'll probably stumble in the dark and drown in the river, if I'm not there to save you. I already had to save you from drowning twice, and that was here in daylight."
His face reddened, and he leaned down in his saddle. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Bailey, I told you. Don't embarrass me in front of the other soldiers."
She rolled her eyes, walking alongside his horse. "And I told you: You're not a soldier, you're a very silly boy." She looked over her shoulder. "Camlin! Hemstad! Catch up, will you? Stop get tangled up in the bushes."
The two boys emerged from brambles, cursing and slapping off burrs, and ran up beside her. Hem nearly tripped over his dangling sword, and Cam's helmet wobbled up and down, repeatedly blinding him.
Bailey noticed that the king had turned in his saddle and was watching them, his beaked visor raised. His eyes darkened and a sigh clanked his armor. Bailey stared into his eyes and raised her chin, daring him to defy her. She was perhaps a humble villager, but her father was the mayor, and her blood was highborn. If she wanted to fight on the front line, she would.
"I see you have your own personal guard, Torin Greenmoat," the king said, smiling wryly. "Keep them close. They'll look after you on the field. I hear young Bailey can swing a sword."
She gripped her hilt. "Your Highness, I hope I never have to use it."
The army marched on: the forces of Arden on the northern bank, all in steel; the ships along the river, their sails wide; and the Nayan warriors on the southern bank, leading their leashed tigers and banging their drums. When Bailey closed her eyes, she imagined that she could see all across the border, from the northern snowy islands to the southern deserts and savanna. All across Timandra, the sunlit half of Moth, the hosts stormed.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw the dusk ahead.
The armies roared and increased speed, boots and hooves thudding. Horns trumpeted, drums beat, and banners flew. With a cry that shook the earth, they entered the shadows.
The invasion of Eloria began.
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
IN THE WOLF'S JAW
The moon shone full when Yorashi, alpha of the Chanku Pack, summoned the council of riders.
They had left their elders, mothers, and cubs in the crater. Ten thousand warriors made for the mountain, each astride a nightwolf—the horde of Chanku in all its might, clad in armor and bearing their blades and arrows. Every year, as the wolf's constellation leaped overhead and the full moon shone, they rode to the mountain in all their gear of war. Every year they mustered to hear their alpha speak.
Only this year, Okado thought as he rode, everything changes.
His alpha rode ahead of him, clad in steel scales and a fur cloak, his weapons across his back. Okado rode behind the leader, and Suntai—his fellow beta—rode at his side, her chin raised and her lips locked in a snarl, mimicking the growls of the beast below her. Like him she wore steel scales and a wolf's head helmet. Like him she bore a katana, a dagger, a bow and arrows, and a shield emblazoned with a moonstar.
You are my mate, he thought. He looked at her, admiring the lightning tattoos on her cheeks, the golden flecks in her indigo eyes, and the curves of her strong, lithe body, the body of a warrior. But soon you will be my queen rider.
When Okado stared over his shoulder, he saw the Chanku Pack cover the mountainside, riding behind their leaders. For the first year since the Chanku warriors had been banished from Pahmey, forced to live feral in the wilderness, the pack numbered ten thousand riders. During three hundred years of exile, they had grown from outcasts into an
army. Their wolves growled, the moonlight lighting their fangs and red eyes. Upon their backs, riders held blades and bows, a horde grown too large for a humble crater, a horde that could sweep across Eloria. The omegas of the pack trailed behind, the older and weaker riders, but even an omega of Chanku was worth ten Pahmey soldiers.
"This will be my army," Okado whispered under his breath. "This horde will bring us glory. This horde will win back our birthright, the great city that should be ours."
He returned his eyes forward. The mountain loomed above them, glimmering black against the starry sky. Shaped as a wolf's head, the halved peak silently howled at the moon. Upon Wolfjaw Mountain the future of the pack would be sealed.
They climbed for a long time, warriors hungry for meat and blood and glory. They rode along old stone paths they had been treading for generations—since the first exiled warriors had come here for prayer. When finally they reached the mountaintop and stood between the great stone jaws, Okado looked north.
He saw it there upon the horizon, a distant patch of light like a fallen star.
"Pahmey," he whispered.
He had never been to that city. He had never seen it from any closer. In their exile, only here upon the mountain, standing between the stone jaws of the great wolf, could they see their distant homeland.
Suntai wheeled her wolf around and stood at his side. She stared at the horizon with him, eyes solemn, and the wind ruffled her long white hair.
"Our home," she whispered. "The home that was stolen from us."
Okado stared at the northern light. Suntai's ancestors had ruled Pahmey; she was descended from the Chanku nobles, great warriors who had built and governed the city. Their blood ran through her veins, pure and strong.
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