"Atratus . . ." she whispered hoarsely. "You . . . you will fail. You cannot win this battle."
Atratus sighed. "Your band of nightcrawlers will not enter the city. They will be crushed here upon the field. Already they fall. But I won't let you live long enough to see their defeat."
He tightened the strands further. Her scale armor cracked. Hovering a foot above the ground, she couldn't even scream in pain. Stars floated before her eyes. Darkness began to spread, closing in, darkness like the night, like the shadows of the Desolation where Master Lan Tao had taught her to fight.
Breathe, he spoke in her mind. Breathe, Madori.
I can't! Her tears streamed, and she saw nothing but Atratus's face, sneering, mocking her, the shadows all around it. He won't let me breathe.
Focus on the air already inside you. Like you did underwater. Become aware. Become a warrior of Yin Shi. Begin with your toes.
Her toes? By the stars, how could she focus on her toes now as the magic crushed her ribs? Yet she obeyed. She moved all her awareness toward her toes, shifting her attention away from the pain in her torso. She felt the tightness of her boots around them. The sharpness of her toenails which she had not properly trimmed. The air around her feet as she floated.
And she no longer felt the pain.
Expand it.
She expanded her awareness, taking in the battle around her, the smoke, the flames, the city beyond. She took all the world into her consciousness, became one with that world, living in the present, experiencing every instant. Time slowed to a crawl.
She was Yin Shi.
She chose and claimed the world.
She brought that world down upon Atratus.
Air slammed against him. A thousand shards of broken blades and armor and bone drove into him. The weight of the sky crushed him. Atratus screamed and fell, and his magic left her.
Madori crashed down to the ground, banging her knees. She did not waste an instant on the pain. She stretched out her arm, palm open, and shot out a blast of energy. The shard coalesced in midair, formed of smoke and debris, and drove into Atratus's chest.
He screamed and fell onto his back. Blood dampened his black robes.
Madori walked toward him, every step creaking with pain, the tip of her katana dragging across the ground. She stared down at the writhing, bleeding man. Suddenly he seemed pathetic to her, a frail, aging man in the mud.
"You call us worms," she whispered, "yet now you writhe in the dirt. Do you know where I learned my focus? In the night." She raised her sword. "Do you know where this blade was forged? In the darkness. You called Eloria weak, yet my Elorian half has always given me strength even in the sunlight. And now it spells your end."
She raised her sword high.
Lying on the ground, he screamed and summoned a shield of air.
Her katana drove through his magic and crashed into his chest.
He sputtered. Blood filled his mouth.
"I only wanted to be a healer," Madori whispered. "But you taught me to kill."
He gave a gasp, reaching toward her with his last breath, and then he breathed no more.
She tugged her sword free and looked around her at the battle. Her mother was fighting ahead upon a panther, leading a host of Elorian riders to slay another mage. Only two avalerions remained in the sky, and Tianlong flew between them, battling the pair. Bodies spread across Eldmark Field, fires burned, smoke rose in columns, and armies spread into the distance.
* * * * *
"Slay them and fly over the city walls, Tianlong!" Jitomi shouted, riding the dragon over the battlefield. "We must open the city gates!"
The armies fought below: mages on black horses, free Timandrians from the north, and a hundred thousand Elorians. Ahead, past smoke and flame and death, rose the walls of Markfir. The charred shells of siege towers lay before the moat, their shattered gangplanks sunken into the water. Upon the city walls, thousands of Radian defenders stood waiting for a new assault; they were armed with bows, catapults, ballistae, and cauldrons of sizzling oil, and the first assault had seemed to cause them no damage.
We must open the city gates and lower the drawbridge, Jitomi thought, or even a hundred thousand men will be unable to cross the moat and walls.
Tianlong roared and flew forth toward the walls, but two of the avalerions—rotting vultures the size of dragons—still lived, their bodies pierced with arrows. One was black and warty, the other gray and wrinkly. Both flew toward Tianlong, blood on their claws. They opened their beaks wide, revealing bits of human flesh.
Jitomi fired his crossbow, slamming a bolt into the wrinkly gray avalerion. The beast shrieked and dipped in the sky. The black avalerion soared, reached Tianlong, and lashed its talons.
Tianlong howled. The warty vulture's talons tore through him, and scales rained down toward the battlefield. The dragon's own claws were smaller, barely larger than human fingers, but his jaws were wide. He snapped his teeth, trying to grab the avalerion, to tear it open.
Jitomi loaded another quarrel and shot again. He hit the black avalerion's head, and the beast screeched. Tianlong plunged and closed his jaw around the warty creature's neck, biting deep.
The wrinkly gray avalerion, Jitomi's first quarrel still stuck in its chest, soared up and crashed against them.
Tianlong bellowed and spun through the sky. Jitomi gritted his teeth, clinging onto the saddle. The world turned upside down, and the crossbow fell, tumbling toward the ground.
"Fly, Tianlong!" Jitomi shouted and drew his katana. "Slay the avalerions! To the gates!"
Blood dripped from the dragon. Shreds of his skin hung loosely, revealing the cuts of talons. The black avalerion was still alive, its neck bleeding. It drew nearer, and Tianlong bellowed and shot toward it. The dragon rose higher, dodging the snapping beak, then plunged and drove his jaws into the avalerion's dark flesh. The dragon tugged back, ripping the beast open, and the rank vulture plunged down toward the battle.
Only the gray avalerion now remained, shrieking madly. Perhaps fearing to face Tianlong alone, it swooped toward a group of Elorian archers—easier prey.
"We must open the gates, Tianlong," Jitomi said, the wind nearly stealing his words. He stared at the city wall, fear driving through him. Catapults, archers, and cannons topped the ramparts. "We must fly high. We must open the gates and lower the bridge. Please, Tianlong."
The dragon nodded. He panted and his blood fell, and another one of his scales tore free and fell toward the battle. Yet still he flew onward.
Regaining some courage, the last avalerion soared, tossing aside dead Elorians. As Tianlong flew toward the city, the fetid bird rose to slam against the dragon's belly.
Talons lashed. The creature's beak closed around Tianlong's neck, cracking scales. The dragon tried to roar, to fight back, but only a whimper left his jaws.
Jitomi snarled, leaped from the saddle, and raced up Tianlong's neck. The dragon swayed, and Jitomi nearly fell but grabbed Tianlong's horn. He drove down his katana, slamming the blade into the avalerion's wrinkly head.
The great vulture opened its beak, gave a last cry, then plunged down toward the battle. It slammed against the earth. Elorians rode toward it and drove swords into its hide.
Tianlong dipped in the sky, panting, his blood raining. "Jitomi, I . . . I must rest."
"You have to keep flying, Tianlong." Jitomi pointed his red sword at the city. "We have to fly over the walls. We must open the gates."
The black dragon nodded and kept flying across Eldmark Fields. He dipped again in the sky. "We will open the gates."
"Higher, Tianlong!" Jitomi shouted. "Higher, out of the range of arrows. Fly!"
The dragon tried to soar. He rose a few feet in the sky. He streamed toward the city walls.
A storm of arrows flew toward them.
"Tianlong, higher!"
But the dragon was too weak. Arrows slammed into him, tipped with fire. They drove into the wounds the avalerions had left. One arrow
slammed into his mouth, tearing the palate. Another arrow slammed into Jitomi's armor, denting the steel and scratching his skin.
"Tianlong!" he cried hoarsely. "Fly!"
The dragon kept flying. He raised his head, and he let out a great roar, a roar that shook the battlefield and city. It was the roar of a lost dragon, the last of his kind. It was the roar of Ilar, an empire of fire and shadow. It was the roar of a people risen from darkness, striking back at the burning light, a people fighting against all hope. It was the roar of the night.
He kept flying.
Through arrows and smoke, bleeding, hurting, Tianlong flew forward, body snaking across the sky, red beard fluttering like a banner, a creature of pride and strength and magic. In the battlefield below, Elorians chanted for their champion, and even upon the city walls, Radians gazed with awe, for a few moments transfixed by the beauty of Eloria and her warriors.
Then, upon the wall, a ballista moved.
The great crossbow, large as a catapult, turned toward the dragon. Upon it lay a massive harpoon, larger than a man, a spike of jagged iron. Soldiers at its sides turned winces, and gears and ropes creaked, and Jitomi could barely breathe with horror.
The ballistae fired.
Jitomi cried out.
The harpoon sailed toward them, and Tianlong tried to bank, to dodge it, but he was too weak. Too hurt.
The iron shard drove into him, and Tianlong, last dragon of Eloria, fell from the sky.
They crashed into Eldmark Fields with a shower of dirt.
Jitomi fell from the saddle and rolled across the field. He struggled to rise. He crawled toward Tianlong and embraced his great scaly head.
"Don't die," he whispered. "Don't leave me alone."
The dragon stared at him, eyes narrowed and glowing, and it seemed to Jitomi that Tianlong smiled. Then his eyes closed and would open no more.
Thus the last dragon falls, Jitomi thought. Thus an ancient wonder leaves Moth.
He was near the city walls now, close to the moat. When he looked up, he saw arrows flying down toward him from the ramparts. Jitomi dived behind Tianlong. Arrows slammed into the dragon. One scraped against Jitomi. Another slammed into his shoulder, and he cried out in pain.
When he looked up, he saw the archers nocking new arrows.
"Jitomi!"
The cry rose across the field, and he looked east. His vision was blurred, but he made out a gray shape leaping forward, zigzagging across the field. Arrows fell, missing the target.
"Madori!" he cried.
She raced toward him upon her nightwolf. More arrows flew, hitting Tianlong. The nightwolf leaped forward and reached Jitomi.
"Come on!" Madori cried, reaching down from the saddle. She grabbed him and tugged him onto the nightwolf.
Grayhem spun back east and burst into a run. He raced from side to side, arrows falling around him. One scraped along his side, slicing fur. The nightwolf kept running, faster than a galloping horse, until they emerged from the range of arrows and rejoined the rest of their army.
In a crowd of Elorians, Grayhem halted and panted. An arrow in his shoulder, Jitomi stumbled off the wolf and lay on the ground, weary, bleeding, grieving.
"He's fallen, Madori," he whispered. "The last dragon."
She knelt beside him, grabbed the arrow in his shoulder, and tugged it loose. He grunted and his blood flowed.
"But you're still alive," Madori said, eyes flashing. "And you're still the commander of this force. Go get your wounds tended to. The battle continues." Her eyes were red and damp, and she knuckled them dry. "Go!"
He nodded. He squared his jaw. "The battle continues."
I will not die here, Tianlong, he swore. I will win this war. For your memory. For all free people in both darkness and in light.
CHAPTER TWENTY:
MOONRISE AND SUNRISE
Serin stared down from the city walls at the corpses of his flying beasts and mages. The nightcrawlers were swarming across the field, cheering, staining his empire with their wretchedness.
And they were here. Serin saw them even from this distance. The mother and daughter. Koyee. Madori. The women he had vowed to break.
Rage.
Rage, white and blinding, flared in Serin.
"They slew my flying beasts," he whispered, voice trembling. "They slew my mages. They slew my servant Atratus." He clenched his fists, and a grin spread across his face. "They will feel so much pain."
"My lord," said Lari, "I'm frightened. Will the nightcrawlers hurt us? Will—"
He struck her.
He struck her with all his might, driving his gauntlet against her face. Blood showered. She yelped and would have fallen from the wall had Serin not grabbed her.
"I told you," he said. "Call me 'Father.'"
She is like an infant, he thought. She will learn. She will grow into a true Lari.
He dragged her off the wall and to a courtyard in the city. He mounted his horse and pulled her onto his saddle, seating her ahead of him. They rode through the city, many guards riding at their sides.
Markfir, one of the largest cities in Moth, was eerily silent this turn. Home to half a million souls, the city normally bustled with life: peddlers hawking every type of food from wheeled carts, urchins scuttling underfoot, buskers and fortune tellers standing at every street corner, and thousands of people walking the cobbled streets between shops and homes. This turn, with the enemy outside the walls, all those people were out of sight. The shops were closed. The people hid in their homes; many had boarded shut their windows. Soldiers stood everywhere, still and stern, their helmets hiding their faces.
Serin kept riding. They passed by many three-storied buildings of brown-gray bricks, their roofs tiled red. Barracks rose upon hills, their towers flying his banners. Temples rose above homes, their steeples scraping the clouds; archers now stood within their bell towers. The city had become a great fortress. Serin knew the nightcrawlers would never break through the walls, but even if they did, they would find only death.
He passed through the second layer of walls, then the third, finally entering the Old City. The buildings here were ancient; the very first people of Mageria had built them two thousand years ago. The bricks were old here, so old the mind could barely grasp their age, the craggy stone whispering of long-forgotten histories. Rather than having tiled roofs, these buildings were domed, their windows and doors arched. As the wind blew down alleyways, Serin imagined that he heard the ghosts of those lost generations.
They rode uphill toward Solgrad Castle, a massive structure whose foundations had been built thousands of years ago, expanded every generation. He dismounted, leaving the horse to his stable boy, and took Lari's hand. He pulled her past soldiers, through the gates, and into the palace hall.
His throne rose upon a dais beneath three draping banners; one showed the Radian eclipse, the second the buffalo of Old Mageria, and the third a tower beneath a mountain, sigil of the city. Guards stood between the columns, faces hidden in their helmets. Serin's sister stood by the throne, wearing a gown of the same crimson fabric, and a golden eclipse shone upon her throat. Iselda's hair cascaded across her shoulders, just as golden, and her blue eyes stared across the hall toward Serin and Lari.
The sorceress walked toward them across the dark tiles. When she reached them, she tilted her head, examining Lari's cut face. She caressed the trembling girl's cheek.
"Precious child," Iselda said. "You must learn not to disobey your father."
Serin ignored his sister and walked past her. Iselda had proven herself useless to him. He had sent her north to marry the King of Orida, to join their armies to his. And now the Oridians—those scum from the sea—lay siege to his city.
Past the throne, Serin saw him. He stood between two columns, clad in black steel, an eclipse upon his breast, as if he were a Magerian.
"Torumun," Serin said, not masking the disgust in his voice. "You stand here in my hall, dressed like us, my sigil upon your chest, hus
band to my sister . . . while your armies, the very armies I commanded you to lead into darkness, attack this great city of sunlight."
The Oridian prince was tall, almost as tall as Serin, his hair blond, his eyes blue. Clad in his black armor, he could almost pass for a true Magerian; both races were descended from the Old Riyonans, the people of northeastern Timandra. But rather than proving himself worthy of the Radian Order, this man had proven himself weak.
"It is my brother, the usurper named Eris Grimgarg, a craven and tyrant, who leads the hosts of Orida," said Torumun. The damn Oridians always spoke so formally.
"And who let him usurp Orida's throne?" Serin said.
Torumun stiffened. "He had giants with him, my lord. He—"
"I let you wed my sister!" Serin shouted. His voice was so loud Torumun started. "I let you wed her. I let you bed her. I took you into my hall as a brother. You vowed to align your army with mine. Now they attack my gates!"
Torumun had the grace to lower his head. "I am sorry, my lord. I am deeply ashamed." He looked up, and his eyes glittered. "I will find Eris and his wife, the nightcrawler he dragged back from the darkness. I will slay them both." He raised his chin. "I will prove myself worthy of the eclipse, my lord, I swear it. I will retake Orida and turn its armies against the nightcrawlers."
"And you will hand me your thumb," said Serin. "The left one."
Torumun frowned. "My lord?"
"You thumbed your nose at me, brother-in-law. So I think it only fair that you hand me that thumb."
The Oridian stiffened and glanced toward his wife. "Iselda, is—"
"Do as he says," said Iselda. She smiled thinly. "You don't want to cross him. If you don't give him your thumb, he'll ask for more."
Sweat beaded on Torumun's brow. "This is barbaric! I did not come here to play these games. I—"
"You came here seeking sanctuary," said Serin, "after you were banished from your own kingdom, a dog kicked away from his master's table. I took you in. I saved your life. I continue to save it every moment that I shelter you here. Your thumb! Draw your sword. Cut it off. Hand it to me now, here in this hall, or I will have your whole hand, then your arm, then your head."
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