His steel barely even dented; it seemed thicker than Elorian armor, a plate of metal that she thought could block cannonfire. Koyee blocked another blow, screamed, and placed her back to the battlements. She shoved forward, shield held before her.
The Timandrian teetered on the edge. Koyee gave another shove to her shield and sent him tumbling down into Pahmey. He crashed to the streets, a hunk of steel, and blood seeped from his armor.
Panting, Koyee glanced around her. All across the walls, the battle raged. Swords rang. Men tumbled from the battlements and blood splashed. Another Timandrian raced toward her, laughing as he fought, and their swords locked.
They fought for what seemed an eternity. Swords rang and blood spilled and catapults fired. Arrows covered the night sky. For every Timandrian slain, ten more emerged. They leaped from siege towers. They climbed great ladders, and for every ladder the Elorians sent tumbling down, two more rose. A boulder blasted a hole through the walls a hundred yards north of Koyee, and men fought upon the rubble. All around the city walls, wherever Koyee raced, she saw them spreading into the horizon, an endless sea of the demons, swarms of steel and torches, a light that never seemed to end.
Timandrians parted below, chanting as they wheeled forth a great contraption on ten wheels, a beast of wood and metal larger than a whale. Poles topped the machine, and chains hung from them. Upon the chains swung a battering ram painted black, shaped as the cruel bird the enemy called "Raven." Its beak thrust out, forged of iron and lit with firelight. Its eyes burned, two obsidian gems. Its claws reached out, cruel as swords. The Timandrians wheeled their champion over hills of bodies, tugged the great Raven back, and sent it swooping. The battering ram slammed into the city gates, showering fragments of metal.
Koyee fired down her arrows. Around her, what remained of the defenses—barely a hundred bloodied men—fired with her. And still the iron raven swung. Its beak and claws tore through the gates, bending and snapping metal. The Timandrians cheered as their ram shattered the doors, and Koyee knew: It was over.
"Down into the streets!" she shouted, voice hoarse with smoke. Blood dripped from her head across her shoulder. "Fight them in the city, warriors of Eloria! Give them no rest! Fight them in every alley."
She raced down the wall, sword and shield raised, to see the enemy march through the shattered gates.
Dozens entered through the archway, swords and armor bright, their torches lit. Behind them, a hundred thousand more spread across the night.
Koyee walked down the street and faced them. Around her, a mere hundred Elorian soldiers gathered, their armor dented, their wounds bleeding, their arms shaking with weakness. Koyee's heart thrashed and her legs shook, but she refused to run. She stood firmly, facing the horde at the gates, and raised her sword.
"I am Koyee of Eloria!" she called out to them. "I am a warrior of the night. I am a huntress of the moonlit plains. This is my city. This is my land. You cannot enter. Return to the day! This city is forbidden to you. You cannot enter. We are the night!"
Their eyes mocked her and they brandished their swords. They marched toward her, and Koyee raised her chin and prepared to kill and die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:
BETWEEN WISDOM AND WOLVES
As they rode on, Okado wanted to sing for glory, to brandish his sword, to shout until he was hoarse about courage and honor and their rise to might. Yet as the Chanku Clan continued along the plains, down to half their strength, he could not stop seeing the dead.
The heat of battle had stirred him; tiger fangs, enemy spears, and spraying blood were fuel to a warrior's flames. It was the silence after the battle that still pierced him. The riders who would never more sing. The wolves who lay on their sides, blood trickling from their silenced jaws. The eyes staring at him, still and glassy. Five thousand riders and five thousand wolves had fallen upon the plains—riders of the Chanku Pack, warriors of the Qaelin nation, proud Elorians of the dark half of the world.
Five thousand gone.
He looked at Suntai, who rode beside him, and saw the same ghosts in her eyes. In those large, indigo orbs they were still dying—so many of their brothers and sisters.
The remainder of their warriors rode behind them. Okado moved his wolf to press up against Suntai's. He spoke in a low voice for only her ears.
"Yorashi wanted us to travel south," he said. "He wanted to forget Pahmey and its glory. He wanted to seek a life of peace." His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Suntai . . . was I wrong to refuse him?"
She raised her chin, reached out, and clasped his arm. "You are our alpha now. You proved your strength. We will follow you."
Strength. What was strength when five thousand lay dead? When he returned to their crater, in victory or defeat, he would find children, elders, and parents all grieving for their fallen. How would his strength help them then?
He gritted his teeth.
"Yes, Suntai, I am strong."
He cursed himself for his moment of weakness. What kind of alpha spoke of mourning, of uncertainty, of cowardice? Okado would not hold his new title for long if the others knew his doubts. His new beta, the brutish Juro, would slay him, feed his heart to his wolf, and rule instead.
For we are the pack. All we know is strength. That strength will see us triumph . . . or die in the dark.
They traveled across the land, bloodied but still holding their heads high, until they saw the Inaro River, its water silver in the moonlight. Another mile and the city of Pahmey appeared in the distance, bright upon the northern riverbanks.
First its towers rose from the horizon, shining like crystals growing from a cave floor. Blue, green, and pale pink, they reached toward the sky, hands calling lost children home. The tallest among them held a glass dome; from this tower the Chanku ancestors had once ruled, and now the cruel elders reigned.
"Behold the light of Pahmey," Okado said softly. "Behold our home that was lost, our home that we will reclaim."
As the pack kept moving, the city kept rising, revealing a hill covered with houses, temples, and pagodas with tiers of tiled roofs. Another mile, and they could see the city walls . . . and for the second time since leaving the crater, Okado lost his breath.
He tugged the reins, halting his mount.
"Stars of the wolf," Suntai whispered at his side, coming to a stop beside him.
Okado stared, unable to breathe, unable to move.
We did not defeat the armies of sunlight, he realized. We only severed a single arm from a beast of endless tentacles.
A hundred thousand troops or more gathered around Pahmey, their torches burning, a swarm of ants surrounding a fallen morsel. They sailed upon the river on a hundred ships, each topped with three masts, each large enough to hold a thousand men. They covered the plains, their armor bright, slamming against the walls. Their catapults fired. Their siege towers, as tall as the fabled walls of Pahmey, held archers and swordsmen. Their banners fluttered in the wind, showing black birds against golden fields. It was a different clan that swarmed below—not the clan of the tiger—but they too were Timandrians. They too were warriors of sunlight.
His fellow wolves came to stand around him. They stared across the water as the sunlit demons crushed the city of Pahmey.
"The Pahmey elders never summoned these demons," Okado said, and that fear grew inside him. "They never sent the army our way." He looked at his mate. "This is no battle between Chanku and Pahmey. This is an invasion of day into night."
The enemy's distant chants of "Timandra!" rolled across the water. Their horns blared and their drums beat. Their shouts rose and fell like stormy waves. For miles, their torchlight spread. Their boulders and arrows covered the sky, pounding the city. The people of Pahmey fought with cannons, bows, and swords, but could not hold back the storm. Even from here, a mile across the water, Okado could smell the blood and death.
He raised his sword, then lowered it. He opened his mouth to shout for victory, then closed it. He let Re
fir take a step toward the water, ready to swim across, then pulled the wolf back. That old fear flared, no longer icy cold, but all consuming, indistinguishable from heat, burning him and freezing his innards all at once.
I am a warrior! called a voice inside him. I am an alpha! How can I know fear? How can I turn away from battle?
His clan was watching him, awaiting his order, awaiting his charge at the enemy. Okado could barely breathe. He could not stop his fists from shaking, and he knew the clan noticed. Murmurs rose among them. If he was weak, they would tear him apart. If he could not storm to war, the strongest and bravest among them, they would feed his heart to the wolves.
He looked at the host ahead, a landscape of demons. Upon the plains, only ten thousand Timandrians had halved his clan. Here ahead waited a host ten times the size, and Okado knew: We cannot win this battle.
He knew his duty. He knew the code of Chanku honor. Dare I disobey my honor now . . . to save the lives of my warriors, even if they slay me for it?
"Riders!"
The distant, sputtering voice rose from the river. Okado squinted and saw the swimmer. The man looked ready to drown. He slapped at the water, an arrow in his shoulder, spitting out water. He cried out to them, a young Elorian man, face pale and lips blue.
"Riders of Eloria!"
Okado turned to his riders. "Wait here."
The fear still coursing through him, he spurred his wolf. Refir was wounded, but he raced into the water and began to swim, Okado on his back. The current tugged them eastward, but Refir swam mightily. The water rose up to Okado's waist, icy cold. The drowning man gave a last sputter and wave and then sank; only the arrow embedded in his shoulder remained above the surface.
"Refir, grab him!" Okado said.
The wolf swam faster, sank his head into the water, and tugged back. In his jaws, he held the drowning man's collar. The man was still alive, coughing water, his blood trickling. Okado pulled him onto the saddle.
They swam back to the southern riverbank, joining the rest of the pack. Okado dismounted and laid the man down, where he shivered and coughed up more water.
Around him, the clan riders grumbled.
"This one is a soldier of Pahmey!" said the beefy Juro. "He wears the silver tunic of their pikemen. He is the enemy."
Others shouted and pointed their swords at the man, threatening torture or death. The half-drowned soldier shivered, grabbed Okado's wrist, and stared into his eyes.
"You are Chanku riders," he said. "But you are no longer our enemies. Help us, riders. Help us." His lips shook and he could hardly speak. "Timandra attacks! The sunlit demons swarm. They seek to slay all Elorians. They seek to light all the night. Help us . . . help us . . ."
Okado looked at his fellow riders. They stared back, swords ready, eyes hard. Their wolves bared their fangs, lusting to taste the blood of their enemies. But behind them . . . far beyond the miles of rock and shadow, Okado imagined their wives, their children, their elders. And he saw them waiting for warriors who would not return. He turned to look at Suntai, and their gazes met. His mate's eyes did not crave battle; they were soft, understanding, and wise.
I love you, Suntai, he thought—words he would never dare speak, words an alpha, strong and feeling nothing but bloodlust, would never utter. We will forever ride together.
He climbed back onto his wolf and the beast reared. Okado called out to his people.
"The demons of sunlight fight our enemies in Pahmey. We rode here to find a war not ours. The Chanku Pack will return home. We will not help the city that exiled us. We return to our crater. We return to our families."
He looked again at Suntai and saw her eyes dampen. She nodded in approval, a small smile trembling on her lips. She knew what this cost him.
The rest of the riders showed no such understanding. Their lips peeled back in snarls. They bellowed. Their wolves cried out as if they too had understood his words. Swords rose tall.
"Does an alpha cower from battle?" demanded his beta, the towering Juro.
"We are Chanku riders!" shouted another, a wild woman of the blade. "We do not flee battle. We will charge the enemy."
"Our alpha is weak!" cried a third rider.
"Let us storm the enemy for glory, for the honor of the wolf!"
Okado wheeled his wolf from one rider to another, curling his lip. "You will not disobey me. I am Alpha Okado. I defeated Yorashi. I rule this pack. We will not die in a war not ours. We return to—"
"I will not return as a coward, tail between my legs," said Juro and spat. "Okado, you are weak. You are a pup. What kind of alpha turns away from a battle of glory?"
A wise one, Okado thought. A leader who cares more for the life of his people than death and honor. He gripped his sword as the horror surged through him. A leader like the one I cast out. A leader like Yorashi . . . like the one I must become.
Yet how could he speak these words to men who lusted only to kill, to die, to fight though no hope shone? He rode his wolf away from the riverbanks, moving through the pack, heading back south.
"Follow, riders!" he said. "We will leave this city to its fate. We return home."
Faces dour, some still grumbling, the riders parted, letting him move through the pack. All but Juro. Snarling, the beta rode to block Okado's path.
"No," he said. "No, Okado. I will not follow you. You are weak. You are no alpha." He brandished his sword and roared. "I challenge you! A battle of wolves."
The clan raised their voices, forming a ring around the two. "Battle of wolves! Battle of wolves!"
With a caustic grin, Juro spurred his mount and came charging toward Okado, swinging his katana.
Okado hissed, charged upon his own wolf, and swung his own sword.
The wolves and blades crashed together.
Fangs bit into fur. Steel rang.
The largest rider in the pack, Juro laughed as he fought. He swung his sword down, a great cleaver, and Okado—strong but slimmer—blocked the blade. His rage blazed.
I will not let this man usurp me. I will not let him kill us all. He swung his blade; it clashed against Juro's armor, raising sparks but doing the man no harm. I will not see our clan destroyed for his pride.
Juro's wolf lunged. Claws dug into Refir, and the wolf fell. Okado fell with him, raised his sword, and parried another blow. Upon his wolf, Juro was laughing, scales missing from his armor, his blade slamming down again and again. Lying on the ground, his wolf whimpering beside him, Okado blocked the blows. Juro's wolf clawed at his chest and arms. The crowd roared and somewhere in the distance Suntai cried his name.
Suntai . . .
Okado knew what would happen if he fell. Juro could claim Suntai as a second mate. She would have to endure him, to serve him, to mate with him, even bear his children, until another defeated him.
As claws and blade lashed down against him, it was the thought of Suntai that pulled Okado to his feet.
Juro's sword cut into his shoulder, spraying blood.
Okado leaped onto his enemy's wolf.
The beast bucked below them. The two men fought upon the wolf's back. Juro reached out, clutched Okado's throat, and squeezed. His sword clanged against armor. Okado couldn't scream, couldn't breathe, but he kept seeing Suntai's eyes . . . eyes that loved him, eyes he would not see darkened.
"Yes, suffocate for me, coward," Juro said, grinning as he squeezed. "I will not give you the honor of dying upon the blade. Warriors die upon steel. You will die like an omega."
As Juro squeezed his throat and darkness spread across the world, Okado tossed down his sword.
Stars shone before his eyes.
He drew his dagger and drove it forward.
The blade slammed into Juro's chest, punching through armor and into flesh.
The fingers loosened around his throat.
With a great breath of air, Okado twisted his blade.
"But you, Juro," he rasped, "you I will gladly kill with steel."
The beta gas
ped, eyes wide, blood spilling. Okado shoved the blade deeper, and Juro tumbled off his wolf. He thudded against the ground.
Breath heavy and his own blood dripping, Okado dismounted and knelt above his foe. Blood splashed his fingers as he worked, cutting and digging. When he ripped out his enemy's heart, the clan roared and chanted his name.
"Feast upon his strength, Refir," Okado said, offering the heart to his wolf.
Refir still lay on the ground, wound bleeding, but he ate and the heart gave him strength. The nightwolf rose to his feet, and Okado sat in his saddle again. He looked upon his clan and saw approval in their eyes. Suntai stared at him, chin raised and eyes bright.
"Chanku Pack!" Okado shouted, voice hoarse, a mere rasp like steel on leather. "I am your alpha! I will slay any who challenge me. I will lead you to thrive, my pack. I will lead you to strength. Our glory lies upon the horizon, but not here. Not now. The city we craved is sacked; our old enemies, the elders of those towers, are fallen. We are avenged. We leave with heads high, our honor intact." He began to ride south. "Follow, Chanku riders. We are the night!"
They rode south, away from the city of Pahmey, taking with them its wounded soldier but leaving the dead Juro. As he rode ahead of the pack, his mate at his side, Okado thought back to their council upon Wolfjaw Mountain.
I thought you weak, Yorashi. I thought you a coward. Okado squared his jaw, eyes burning. But you are not. You were a leader. Perhaps a true leader needs less blind strength . . . and more wisdom.
He hoped that Yorashi would find another pack somewhere in the wilderness, another place to belong, to grow old, to survive. So few survived in the wildness of endless night.
"But we will," Okado vowed into the wind. "I will lead my pack not for glory and honor, but for life."
The city vanished behind, and the distant sounds of war drums and screams faded.
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