Madori stood beside her nightwolf, her hand in his fur, feeling so empty, so . . . blank, unfeeling, shocked, a piece of parchment with no runes upon it.
He's dead. Tam is dead.
Neekeya had shared the news, her voice fragile, her eyes red. But Madori did not weep. She did not tremble. She barely felt a thing, only this hollowness, this disbelief.
Tam, my best friend . . . fallen.
She thought of all those childhood summers she had spent with Tam: sneaking into the kitchens of Kingswall Palace to steal blueberry pies, digging for worms and fishing in the river with makeshift rods, riding ponies and imagining they were dragons, wrestling in the grass and pretending to be knights, and a thousand other memories with him, perhaps the best memories Madori had.
And now he's gone.
It seemed surreal. Impossible. She wanted to weep for him, for all the countless souls who had died in this war, for her own haunting pain, for the nightmares of the Radian iron mine, for the scars that would forever cover her body and heart. Yet she could only feel numb.
She turned away from the fields. She looked back toward the other soldiers of the Alliance. King Camlin and Queen Linee sat nearby, tears in their eyes, their son fallen. Between them sat Prince Omry, Tam's twin brother; his face was pale, his foot amputated, and seeing his face—identical to Tam's—only shot more pain through Madori. A string of visitors kept approaching, speaking their condolences. Mostly the king and queen kept silent, staring ahead, as if they too were numb, but every few moments—like a wave in the sea—their tears fell, and they trembled, and everyone around them, even the gruffest soldiers, shed tears with them.
Madori looked back toward the city of Markfir. It lay over a mile away across the field. Thousands of ditches had been dug into that field. Countless bodies filled them. Countless more bodies lay buried or burnt across the rest of Moth. The city of Orewood in the north—reduced to rubble. The city of Yintao in the night—fallen and plundered. The city of Pahmey—gone into the abyss. Oshy. Fairwool-by-Night. Gone.
Madori had heard tales of the first war, the great War of Day and Night in which her parents had fought, the war from whose ashes she'd been born. But this war seemed worse, a tragedy from which the world might never recover. How could Moth survive after so much had fallen? And even if Madori should live, how could she ever find joy in a world of so much pain?
She stared at the soldiers on the walls of Markfir, at the hundreds of towers that rose within the city, at Solgrad Castle upon its crest. He waited there. Emperor Tirus Serin.
"You caused this war," she whispered. "You killed these people. We will meet again, Serin. I will fight you again. And this time I will kill you."
Yet her words tasted bitter, meaningless, empty cliches. Could Serin, one man, have truly caused all this death? How could any one man burn a world? As she stared at the city and the graves, it seemed to Madori that no one tyrant could be blamed.
Perhaps it's the nature of humanity to elevate tyrants to power. Perhaps more than any tyrant can be blamed for death and destruction, it's the shoulders he stands on that bear the shame. One despot falls. Another rises. Even should we sever the snake's head, a new head will grow. For we—sons, daughters, husbands, wives, the rich, the poor, humans afraid and angry—are the body of the snake. Perhaps our hearts are the true tyrants, not the figureheads we raise or the banners we sew.
She tightened her lips and gripped her sword's hilt. She could not change human nature. She could not remove fear, greed, and hatred from the hearts of men. But at least she could cut off one snake's head. She could not bring eternal peace, but perhaps she could end one war. That would have to be enough. That was all, perhaps, she could hope for.
Koyee and several Qaelish soldiers, their armor chipped and their hair stained with ash and blood, rode nightwolves toward Madori. Koyee dismounted and approached her daughter.
"We've spoken to the survivors of Naya and Eseer," Koyee said. "We've taken thousands of Nayan prisoners. With their commanders dead, they've lost the will to fight. We'll let them return to the rainforest, defeated."
Madori nodded, saying nothing.
Koyee continued speaking. "The Eseerian king, a friend to Serin, has fallen in the field, slain by a Daenorian arrow. A new lord has taken command of the surviving Eseerian forces, a kind and noble man; he will join us in attacking the city. Few Eseerians have ever held Serin much love; with their old Radian king fallen, they will now fight with us." She smiled thinly. "Our enemy has turned into a powerful ally."
Madori nodded again, silent.
"Madori . . ." Koyee's voice softened, and she touched her daughter's arm. "Do you hear? Are you all right?"
No, Mother. I'm not all right. How can you ask me that? After all that happened, how can you think I'm all right? I'm hurt. I'm grieving. I'm so scared.
But Madori only nodded again. She forced herself to raise her chin. "That's good. Serin's old allies turn against him." She tightened her grip on her sword's hilt. "It's time to assault the city. It's time to break in."
Koyee nodded. "It's time."
The hourglasses emptied. The turn of mourning was done. Under dark clouds, through rain and mud, the Alliance returned to the walls of Markfir.
The Elorian siege towers, built of metal, rolled across the landscape. The Timandrians from west of the mountains—Sanians and Daenorians—raised great ladders, hundreds of feet tall. Dojai assassins, clad in black silk, scaled the walls like scurrying insects. Thousands of soldiers converged upon the city. With siege towers, with ladders, and with grapples, they reached the ramparts of Markfir.
The city walls bled.
Madori leaped out of a siege engine. A gangplank stretched ahead across the moat, protected with walls and doors of metal; she was safe from fire until she emerged, screaming and swinging her sword, onto the wall. And here, between the merlons, hundreds of feet above the ground, she fought with steel. She fought with magic. She fought with Yin Shi. Her blade swung in arcs, sending Radians falling down into the eastern moat and the western courtyards. Her magic melted armor, blasted out cones of air, and sent men screaming down to their deaths. All around her across the walls, thousands battled, soldiers of every nation in Moth swinging their weapons, a great song of steel, the song of a torn world.
A staircase stretched down before her, leading to a courtyard by the city gates. Madori fought her way onto the stairs, sending Radians crashing down with every step. More soldiers ran up toward her; she knocked them down with blasts of magic. Arrows flew from towers deeper in the city; she blocked them with shields of air. At her sides, dojai were scaling down the walls with grapples and ropes, descending into the city.
"To the gates!" Torin was shouting somewhere in the distance. "Take the gatehouse! Open the gates!"
Madori leaped down four stairs at once, swinging her sword and knocking men back. She landed in the city courtyard, raised her head, and stared around her. Hundreds of Radians were charging her way.
The gates will open. She sneered. They will open.
She screamed and charged toward the army, katana raised. Behind her, dozens of Alliance soldiers ran with her.
The battle exploded across the courtyard, a sea of arrows, swords, axes. Men fell, crushed to death. Survivors fought atop corpses. Madori kept moving through the crowd, knocking men back with magic, until she reached the inner side of the gatehouse.
Madori breathed. In. Out.
Be aware. Hold the world in your awareness.
She chose the enemy soldiers around the gatehouse. She inhaled deeply. She claimed them. She shoved them backwards; the soldiers flew several feet in the air, knocked aside as from an explosion of gunpowder.
Madori ran toward the doors. A heavy bar lay in their brackets. She knelt, placed her shoulder under the bar, and struggled to rise, too weak to lift the heavy beam, too drained for more magic.
"Father, a little help!" she shouted. "By Idar!"
Torin ran toward her, as did
other soldiers. They lifted the beam and let it fall to the ground. Two great Verilish warriors, seven feet tall with arms the size of Madori's entire body, swung their hammers at the door's padlock.
The padlock shattered.
Men roared and tugged chains, pulling the stone doors open. Madori swung her sword, slicing ropes. The drawbridge slammed down across the moat.
The floodgates broke.
Myriads of Alliance troops waited outside the gates. Roaring for battle, they began to stream into the city of Markfir.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:
THE QUEEN OF SUN AND STARS
As Eris charged into the city of Markfir, he kept glancing at his side. A short, slim soldier ran there, clad in the silvery breastplate, smooth helmet, and flowing white robes of Leen.
"Remember, Yiun Yee, stay near me!" he said as he ran into the courtyard. "Always."
She nodded, holding her katana high. "Always."
The battle raged ahead. Arrows flew from the rooftops. Radian and Alliance soldiers fought everywhere with swords and pikes. Eris had fought battles before; he knew of the blood, the terror, the noise, the weak knees, the thrashing heart. He had tried to convince Yiun Yee to stay behind, to await him outside the walls with the engineers, surgeons, and camp followers. She had refused. She had donned armor. She had drawn a sword. And now she fought at his side, charging into the city of the enemy.
Radians stormed toward him across the courtyard, and Eris fought.
He fought like he had never fought before. He had fought in battles, but none like this, the clash of nations, the world come to one city to shed the blood of Moth. And Eris Grimgard, son of Bormund, shed more blood this turn than in all his other battles combined. His sword sang. At his sides fought the Oringard, the legendary heroes who had traveled with him into the night, had helped him find the Meadenhorn which even now hung around his neck.
The Alliance moved through the city, street by street. And on every street the enemy awaited. From every building, archers sent down death. Eris had thought that all the enemy's mages had perished upon Eldmark Fields, but more now emerged, sending death from their fingertips. Men screamed as their hearts burst from the chests and thumped onto the ground, still beating. Others screamed as their bodies twisted, bones snapping. Eris charged toward the mages, swinging his sword, blocking their magic, cutting their flesh. Street by street. House by house. The streets ran red.
And always he stayed near Yiun Yee. Even as the battle flared, she remained in his shadow, shielded by his larger form. And she too killed. One Radian rushed toward her, axe swinging. She cut him down. Another man thrust a spear toward her; she parried, leaped forward, and drove her sword into his chest. Radian blood stained her white robes, and she would not flee even as her legs shook.
They were fighting their way up a narrow street, the brick walls of shops and homes at their sides, when Eris saw the sorceress ahead.
Iselda stood within a brick archway, clad in crimson, smiling. Several soldiers in black armor stood at her sides.
"Hello again, Eris," she said.
Eris froze from fighting. His armor was dented. His arms were bloody. He stared up at the woman—Serin's sister—the sorceress who had tempted his father, had corrupted his hall. The Oringard paused at his sides, panting. The sounds of battle rose from across the city, but for a moment this street was still.
Then Iselda pointed at Eris and his Oringard. "Slay them," she said to her soldiers.
Her Radians rushed forth.
Eris and the Oringard ran to meet them.
Here were no simple troops, Magerian boys drafted from city streets and farms. These Radians wore finer armor, and they fought like machines, every movement calculated; here were noble fighters trained from childhood. They did not simply swing swords wildly; they fenced with beautiful deadliness. Sweat beaded on Eris's forehead as he fought. He slew one man. At his side, one of the Oringard died. Another Radian fell.
Eris was so busy fighting he barely saw Iselda approach.
Her crimson robes fluttered as she walked toward Yiun Yee. A small smile played on her lips. Eris was forced to look away, to lock swords with a soldier. When he finally killed the man and looked back, he howled.
Iselda was smiling, magic flowing out from her fingers. The silvery, astral strands wrapped around Yiun Yee, pulling her close as if reeling in a fish. Magic muffled Yiun Yee; she couldn't even scream.
Eris raced forward and knocked into a Radian. He swung his sword, felling another man.
"Iselda!" he cried.
Before he could reach them, the witch pulled Yiun Yee close and wrapped her cloak around the two, a red cocoon. Eris leaped toward them. Smoke blasted out, and when he could see again, both Iselda and Yiun Yee were gone.
"Yiun Yee!" he shouted.
Around him, the Oringard slew the last of the enemies in the street. Eris ran. He ran through the city, calling for his wife. His men ran at his side. Radian troops ran toward them. The Oringard cut them down.
"Yiun Yee!" Eris cried.
His chest shook. His eyes stung. Iselda must have taken Yiun Yee to Solgrad Castle—to torture her, to kill her. He had to reach his wife. Why had he brought Yiun Yee here? Why had he placed her in danger? He ran, calling her name.
Yiun Yee. If he lost her, he would fall upon his sword. The woman who had met a beast, a mindless killer, and tamed him. The woman who had taught him mercy. The woman who had shown him he could be more than a warrior, that he could be a man of life as well as death.
And now, without her, all he brought was death, and the dead piled up before him as he fought.
He kept moving through the streets, calling for his wife. A burly soldier rushed toward him, all in black steel; Eris dueled the man and finally cut him down. Another man rushed toward him from behind a building, thrusting a spear. Eris knocked the spear down, leaped forward, and drove his sword into the soldier. Shadows swirled, and a mage came floating down the street toward him, black robes fluttering, a hood hiding his face. Eris roared in rage, leaped forward, and drove his sword through the mage's robes and into his chest.
The mage screamed.
It was a high scream, muffled.
Eris pulled back his sword. The magic holding the mage afloat shattered. The robed figure fell to the ground, reaching out to him. The hands, sticking out from the black sleeves, were pale and small.
Eris's breath froze.
Something cold and sharp broke inside him.
He knelt. His heart thrashed. His eyes stung. The fear would not let him breathe. He reached down, feeling numb, and pulled the mage's hood back.
Yiun Yee stared up at him, tears in her eyes, a cloth gagging her mouth. Blood spilled from her chest.
The world shattered.
More pain, more terror than Eris had ever known exploded inside him.
He tugged her gag free. She coughed, her lips shook, and she reached to him. "She . . . she put a robe on me, she . . ."
Tears flowed from Eris's eyes. His Oringard gathered around, staring silently. His chest shook. His fingers trembled as he pulled her robe back, revealing her wound, as he tried to bandage her, as he tried to save her life.
"Hold me," she whispered. She reached up a pale hand to touch his cheek. "Hold me as I leave."
He held her, shaking his head, tears flowing. "I'm sorry, Yiun Yee. I'm sorry. Don't leave me. I'm sorry." Sobs shook his body, and he held her close.
She kissed his cheek, and she smiled, and starlight filled her large indigo eyes.
"I forgive you," she whispered. "I love you, Eris. I love you always. I loved you on this earth, and I will love you from the stars. I travel to them now."
Her eyes closed.
He wept.
He held her lifeless body in his arms, and he tossed back his head, and Eris Grimgarg roared—a cry so loud that the entire city heard, a sound so discordant, so broken, a sound of something tearing inside him, something that could never heal.
"Yiun Ye
e! Yiun Yee! The stars have fallen. The moon has gone dark. Yiun Yee!" He rocked her in his arms, shaking, praying to see some spark of life, knowing it was gone. He kissed her forehead, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You were brighter than moonlight. You were braver than dragons. I love you, my Yiun Yee."
Languid clapping sounded ahead.
"Lovely poetry, brother," rose a voice. "You should have become a bard, not a soldier."
He raised his eyes, still holding his dead wife, and saw Torumun ahead. Iselda stood at his side, smiling crookedly. A dozen Radian soldiers stood behind them.
Slowly, Eris placed his wife down and lifted his fallen sword.
"You did this," Eris whispered, voice hoarse. Blood dripped down his arms—his wife's blood.
Torumun tilted his head and frowned. "Dear brother, it does look like you are the one who slew her. I saw it. Your own hand drove your own sword into your nightcrawler's filthy heart."
Eris bellowed, a cry as much of rage as grief, and raced forward, sword swinging.
Torumun raised his own blade, smiling thinly, and parried.
The two fought. They fought like fire and ice. They fought like day and night. Their blades clanged, sparking, banging against the walls of homes. Their boots thudded against the cobblestones.
Torumun laughed as he fought. "You've never been able to best me in swordplay, little brother! You won't best me now." He laughed. "I will slay you, and I will dump your body in the moat, and I will hang your wife's body in the halls of Orida."
Eris screamed, lunged forward, and thrust his sword madly. Torumun smiled, sidestepped, and lashed his sword along Eris's hip below the breastplate.
Eris gasped, pain exploding through him. Blood spilled down his thigh. He glanced at the wound. It was deep. He stared back up at his brother, snarled, and lunged forward again. He found an opening, thrust his sword, but the blade clanged against Torumun's armor, unable to pierce it.
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