by Keira Drake
“I’m with you there,” Noro says quietly.
“Oh, hush,” I say. “Let them be. They have each found love at last.”
“At very last,” Noro says. “And they’d best not couple with one another by the fire. No one needs to see that.”
But he need not worry, for Takashi and Yuki have disappeared into the night.
“Come now,” I say, taking Noro’s hand in my left and Keiji’s in my right. “Teach me the song about Sana-Zo. This time, I shall hold the words close to my heart.”
On the third morning, as the Aven’ei predicted, the Topi come.
We stand at the north end of the field—Noro, Keiji, Yuki, Takashi and I—looking down upon the valley. The Topi swarm into the hollow by the hundreds, the clatter of their weapons and armor audible even from this distance. They look like ants, filling the Vale from one side to the other, advancing in a slowly moving line ever reinforced by those coming behind. I pray silently, against all reason, that the five of us should survive this day.
This is it. A war waged for more than three centuries has come to this: seventy-five thousand men and women below, fifty thousand above. Nearly all who are left of the Aven’ei have come for this battle, to die with honor.
A contingent of our archers, many men deep, stretches across the plain nearest the slope leading into the valley. They are waiting for the Topi to move within range, and will shift to the rear when the enemy is close. Meanwhile, the warriors on foot have gathered behind, ready to switch places with the archers when the order is given. These brave souls will die first.
A drumbeat sounds, echoing in rhythmic bursts. But save for the drums and the clamoring insect noise of the Topi, there is an eerie hush amongst the Aven’ei; not a voice is to be heard.
A gust of wind rushes up over the slope, sending my hair whipping against my face. The air is chill; a shiver runs down my spine. As I watch the enemy advance, I wonder at the circumstances: how is it that men can become so full of hatred that only violence will satisfy? The Topi will have their revenge upon the Aven’ei for sins long past, and the Aven’ei now must fight. In the face of all this, it seems that war truly is inevitable, if but a single person wishes it to be so, and can rally others to his cause.
The pounding footfalls of the Topi grow louder, and Noro’s jaw tightens. “Soon,” he says.
Within thirty minutes, there is a commotion amongst the ranks, and the archers move in unison to ready their bows. Commands are spoken along the line, followed by a long moment of tension, then a shout—and the arrows are loosed. It’s a thing of beauty, nearly, to see perhaps a thousand arrows arcing across the sky as though slowed by some invisible force. But deadly they are, and though the Topi throw up shields, many men fall as they approach the slope. Hundreds cry out in pain and fury—the noise rises up like a fearsome roar. Another volley is sent, and another, and another.
The Topi move steadily up the hillside, though their progress is slowed by the muck created in the week’s rain. The warriors fill the valley now as far as the eye can see, from one edge to another. It is the most impressive, most terrifying thing I have ever seen. Fear unlike anything I’ve felt before rises up like bile within me. How has it come to this? How can a person of the Spire find herself here, in the path of war, on the precipice of disaster? Will my death be bloody? Will it be quick? I fight to suppress panic.
A series of shouts erupts behind me, and the archers begin to change places with the hand-to-hand combatants.
“It will be minutes only, now,” Noro says in a tight voice. “We must go, miyake. We shall take to the trees with the itzatsune; Keiji, you will come as well. I won’t have either of you out in the open.”
Takashi and Yuki, each skilled with a sword, will stay behind. I look into Yuki’s eyes, wet and glistening with tears. She embraces me, trembling. “Be safe,” she says to me. “Don’t say goodbye. One never knows what may come to pass.”
This from Yuki, who once warned me not to hope. I kiss her cheek and pull away. “Be safe,” I echo. “I shall—”
A confused commotion sounds as hundreds of Topi storm over the top of the hillside, not fifteen feet from where we are standing. Noro curses and grabs me by the wrist. “We go now.”
Yuki turns to see the onslaught, but a Topi hammer collides with the side of her head, producing a sickening crunch. She whirls, her eyes open but empty, and falls face first into the mud.
“Yuki!” I move against the force of Noro’s strength, my mind reeling, registering in bits and pieces the tiny details of what has just happened: the sound of the impact, the spatter of blood when the hammer struck its target, her eyes—her eyes. Grief bubbles up as I struggle to reach her, to touch her, to take my sweet friend where her body cannot be violated.
Takashi wastes no time; he cries out as he drives his sword through the belly of the man come to retrieve the hammer. The scream is terrible, fierce, inhuman.
Noro’s hands are around my waist, dragging me toward the woods. “Vaela, stop! You can’t help her! Keiji—the trees. NOW!”
As I am pulled away, I see Takashi, red-faced, arc his sword upward in a single deft stroke, sending the head of a female warrior sailing into the maelstrom of battle, her face horribly alive for one long second afterward. The mass of Topi push forward; Yuki is trampled underfoot.
The trees enfold me. Something like shock paints the world in swirling madness, and I am numb.
Concealed amongst the trees, Noro, Keiji, and I move deeper into the wood. My head feels thick, my heartbeat weak but fast, my legs like strange bending sticks that somehow continue to propel me forward.
We stop in a spot crowded thick with giant firs. “Vaela,” Noro says, snapping his fingers in my face, then lifting my chin until my eyes rise to meet his own. “Vaela. Come back. Come back to me.” My skin is cold; his hands are like searing coals.
I feel I do not have the energy to open my mouth, though I see him, and I hear him speaking. I rub at the annoying itch on my face, look down at my fingers to see them slick with blood. Yuki’s blood? I don’t know. Maybe. I wipe my hands on my trousers.
“Vaela.” Noro pulls me down to my knees, his hands firm on my shoulders. “I’m here. I’m here, miyake.”
I glance over at Keiji. There are tears in his eyes; I wonder abstractedly why I have none of my own.
“Say something,” Noro says, shaking me slightly. “Say something to me, Vaela.”
I nod, and continue nodding. There are words somewhere inside me. I feel them, like drifting seeds of a cottonwood tree, moving slowly, bumping into one another. Something clicks. “We are all going to die,” I say, as though I have only just realized that the annihilation of the Aven’ei means the actual annihilation of the Aven’ei.
Noro clenches his jaw. “Not you. Not you, Vaela. I want you and Keiji to make for the sea—you remember what I told you about the boats, Vaela? A mile at sea is unlike any other. You take a boat, you head for Ivanel. Live out your days there if you must. But live. Please, miyake, will you do this for me?”
Keiji shakes his head, tears still streaming down his cheeks, and points to the tree line, beyond which the great battle rages. He makes a fist and taps it to his heart.
“Your courage does you credit, brother,” Noro says. “But you must go with Vaela.”
I stare at him. “I’m not going to turn tail and run for the sea, Noro.”
“Miyake, you saw what happened. This is going to be a massacre. I should have sent the two of you away weeks ago. Now listen to me, and—”
I push his hands from my shoulders. “Don’t make the mistake of asking me again to flee like a coward.”
Keiji nods, double-tapping his heart this time.
I see the pain and sorrow in Noro’s eyes, but I cannot help him. The Aven’ei must fight, and I am no exception.
He exhales slowly. “Then both of you keep in mind: today, you must be itzatsune. If you for even a moment lose sense of your surroundings, you will die. Follow
every scenario in your mind to its conclusion before you act—and as much as possible, keep out of sight. Strike from the edges of the forest, where you may remain unseen.”
He kneels before Keiji, who wears an incredibly brave face considering the circumstances. “I love you, brother. I shall look for you in the hereafter, knowing that you lost your earthly life with honor.”
Keiji nods, his chin trembling slightly. They embrace for a long moment, and I swallow, feeling as though there is a stone in my throat.
A moment later, Keiji turns to me. He pulls a long cord from beneath his leather tunic; my ruby dangles from the end, glittering warm and red.
“Forever,” I say, throwing my arms around him. “Forever and ever, my sweet Keiji.”
“Go, brother,” Noro says, and like a whisper of wind, Keiji is gone.
Noro turns to me. Now that the moment of separation is upon us—the true goodbye—it is real. Pain is written on Noro’s face—pain, regret, loss—a thousand emotions I have seen before, held close to my heart. This parting could not be more cruel. Yet still I do not cry.
“I must go as well. I cannot linger any longer—I must do what I can in battle.” He takes me in his arms and kisses me. For one small moment, I am his, only his; there is no war to wrench us apart, no Topi to deliver death. “Be strong, as I know you are. I love you.”
“I love you.”
“Remember what I said—be careful. Please, my sweet miyake, be careful.”
“I will,” I say, and my heart aches. I want to weep for the tragedy of it, for the senselessness and absurdity and waste of it all, but I cannot. I hurt—how I hurt—but tears are lost to me now, a thing of yesterday, a thing well beyond my reach. Tears will not bring Yuki back. Tears will not save me—will not save any of us. We will bleed into the fields until the mud is scarlet with death, and the Topi raise their voices in victory.
With one last look at me—a look so wrought with emotion I feel it may kill me where I stand—Noro turns and disappears into the trees.
CHAPTER 34
I STAND ALONE IN THE WOOD, QUIET. THAT IS TO say that I am quiet; the clash of steel, breaking of bones, cracking of shields is thunderous, though I am a full hundred and fifty yards from the battlefield. A vision of Yuki’s face in that terrible moment flashes in my mind; I close my eyes. No. Not yet.
There is a task at hand, and I must focus. The weight of my knife belt—heavy, burdensome—tugs at my waist. I find myself deeply aware of it. I run my fingers across the row of knives, the cool blackwood hafts perfectly positioned and ready. It is time to find a vantage point—to see what, if anything, can be done. Despite Yuki…despite everything—hope still burns in my breast, though I accept that I will likely die within minutes. I wonder if this is a human idiosyncrasy—a survival instinct.
Emboldened, I wipe my face and start toward the battlefield. I will do what I can. I will survive as long as I can.
As I near the perimeter of the forest, I slow my pace, then squat behind a wide tree. Through the sparse trees here, I can see clearly, and before me is an unholy sight: the Topi are pushing the Aven’ei back with incredible power. The field is blanketed with men, all moving eastward in a macabre procession of blood and death and horror.
My eyes dart from one engagement to the other, my mind boggling. The sheer mass of bodies moving and clashing together is staggering; the very ground beneath my feet shakes with the fury of war. The Aven’ei fight bravely, viciously for their survival—and everywhere, I see them fall as the Topi press forward. For my part, I am overwhelmed—I have no idea what I can possibly do. There are no stragglers here, only thousands of men who are bigger, stronger, and deadlier than I. Noro said the itzatsune would move from the trees. I haven’t the strength to slip in quietly and drag a man out of sight, but I may be able to move in and out unnoticed.
I watch as a Topi cleaves the arm from an Aven’ei swordsman before plunging a dagger into his temple. My stomach roils. The Topi turns to his right and staggers backward, the lengthy shaft of an arrow having just appeared in his chest. One knee goes to the ground as he clutches at the arrow, and before I even know what I am doing, I am sprinting toward him. Just as Noro taught me, I grip the man’s chin with one hand and open his neck with the other.
A wash of blood spurts forth; I let go and race back toward the trees. I’m shaking once again, my hands trembling so much that I can scarcely grip my knife; my knife, slippery with blood, having finally fulfilled the dark purpose for which it was made. I head farther into the trees, stumbling on legs made of jelly.
I have killed a man.
I drop to my knees, let the blade fall from my fingers, and vomit. All I can smell is blood, and the scent makes me retch harder. My muscles convulse.
I have killed a man.
Hysteria rattles my mind and body, like a frightened animal might rail against the bars of a cage. I’m sick, so sick, and the blood won’t come off my fingers, it only smears across my skin, slick and warm, drying in rusty brown streaks. I lean against the base of a tree, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I have killed a man.
I stepped on a beetle once, many years ago in the Spire. For weeks, I could feel the crunch of its body reverberate beneath my bare foot, the oozing of its insides, wet and repulsive between my toes. Even now, I can recall the sensation, and an unpleasant shiver runs down my spine.
Today, I have made a new memory, one I’m sure I will be able to recall in vivid detail for the rest of my life, if my life were not to end today: the feel of my blade piercing the Topi’s throat, plunging through the skin, sliding across the flesh. The way the knife gave a split second of resistance before slicing through the rubbery artery that, once cut, would cause the man to bleed out.
I can feel it.
And I must do it again.
War is a convoluted thing: what is right is also wrong, and the things that must be done go against the very soul. To make war against a people who would be left alone—I see with clarity that this is wrong. To defend oneself against such an enemy—to kill, lest you be killed—it seems the only answer, but no less wrong. I cannot reconcile myself to any of it. But I cannot hide in the forest and pass the time with philosophy; I must return to the fighting. Now.
I make my way back to the battlefield. A mortally wounded Topi lies on the ground not fifteen feet from me, his intestines spread like fat blue worms across his belly. To kill him would be a mercy, whether he be an ally or an enemy. To leave him would be cruel. This time, the decision is easy.
I hurry toward him; he looks up at me with fear in his deep brown eyes, his mouth opening and closing. A man, just like any other, now afraid, now dying. I curse the war beneath my breath—not the Topi, the war—and whoever is leading it.
“Shush,” I say softly. “Close your eyes. Everything will be all right.”
I know he can’t understand me, but I hope my words can give him some measure of comfort. His hands wander over his gut as he tries to put himself back together. I cut his throat swiftly, feeling again that same tug of the knife through flesh. Before I am finished, his eyes are wide, staring—his original wounds having been enough to take his life.
I glance up to ensure that I haven’t been seen, and lock eyes with a slim, muscular Topi just a few feet away. Bile rises in my throat. The man wears yellow face paint, a boiled leather jerkin open at the sides, and carries an axe—a monstrous thing of wood and steel, smeared with blood from blade to tip.
He grins and steps toward me; I move back, matching his stride as though we are engaged in a deathly sort of dance. I reach for my belt and, with trembling hands, fling one of my knives at his face. It misses by several inches, but does buy me half a second to throw a second blade, then another in quick succession.
These two reach their mark. Both pierce the man’s torso—going deeper even than I’d hoped. He glances down at his chest and I turn to run. I hear nothing over the sound of battle, but I sense the warrior behind me, and before
I reach the trees he grips me by the hair and jerks my head backward, so hard that my feet momentarily leave the ground. I reach for another knife and he slaps my face hard enough to make my ears ring. Stunned, I stand loosely on my feet, upright only because he still holds me by the hair.
My knives protrude from his chest like two push-pins marking locations on a map. The Topi snarls at me under his breath—then spits in my face. The spittle is warm, tinged with blood, and it slips down my cheeks as I start to laugh.
I laugh hysterically, crazily, because I always thought I would die as an old woman, I would die in my sleep in the midst of a lovely dream. I would die in the Spire, safe, peaceful, surrounded by friends and family.
Not so. I will die here, today, with spit on my face, in the filthy wet muck. Alone.
The Topi releases my hair only to wrap both of his hands around my throat. Whispering, he tightens his grip, the muscles in his face quivering with adrenaline, with fury. The pressure at my neck increases until I can no longer draw breath. The warrior bends me to the ground and shakes me like a rag doll as he squeezes the life from my body. I claw at his fingers, raking his skin with my nails, but he holds me in place as though time has been suspended, his eyes on mine, my eyes on his. The world grows dark. My hands fall away, only to graze against one of the knives still in my belt. I don’t want to die like this.
I grip the knife with my fingers, though I can scarcely feel it, and plunge it into his side, once, twice, again and again. The blade turns as it glances away from his ribs, and I stab him once more. I have become only this motion, this stabbing of the knife, this last act of desperation. My muscles are weakening, but I continue until the knife slips from my fingers.
I fought. I tried.
I feel myself slipping backward, my body sinking into the mud. I am a pinprick of light in a world of shadows, and time is the water in which I dance.
