Still, he kept his feet.
Blinking the sweat from my eyes, I swallowed. The savage’s lip curled, exposing yellow teeth with blood pooling around his gums. A strand of red saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth. Shuddering, I retreated another step. The sea tribesman didn’t care whether he lived or died. Only destruction mattered. How could I fight against that?
Abruptly, Tyrak was there, stepping forward again, filling my chest with calm. I felt him within me, behind me. He both guided my arms and supported them, his hand wrapping mine around the blood-slicked dagger hilt.
Together, we’re strong enough for this, he whispered in my ear.
Circling right, I kept my eye on the savage’s hips and shoulders. Any attack would initiate from his trunk. An instant before he jumped forward, swinging his club overhead in a massive arc, I saw him tense for the leap. As soon as he left the ground, I darted to the side. The club slammed the cobbles where I’d been standing, ejecting chips of stone that skittered across the square. Whirling, I stepped in, aimed a stab at his kidneys, felt the knife cut deep.
The man roared and fell to a knee.
Using my momentum from the strike, guided by Tyrak’s graceful nudges, I rolled across his back, coming up facing him with weapon raised. Scuttling with one hand on the ground, the savage tried to move clear of my next strike. Slashing at his neck, I opened a cut below his ear, a finger-width deep, but missed the artery that would end his life.
Drawing on a bestial force, the sea tribesman yelled through gritted teeth and rose to his feet. Fists clenched, he attempted to raise his club but lacked the strength. Dropping the weapon, he roared and charged, barreling into me. Together, we fell to the cobbles, his face a hand’s width from mine, blood pouring from his mouth onto my neck. Struggling, I tried to throw him, but he weight twice what I did. Grimacing, he pushed off, laid a knee into my gut, and cocked back his fist.
Open! Now! Tyrak shouted.
I threw down my walls, not just opening myself to the strands, but pulling them toward me. At once, pain erupted from my scars, a searing cold I could scarcely handle without blacking out. Strength flooded my body, and I threw off the savage, sending him ten paces through the air before he landed in a heap, skidding across the ground in a pool of his own blood.
Climbing to my feet, the pain a shrieking part of me, I stomped toward him. The sea tribesman wormed away, but it was no use. With a final yell, I slammed the dagger into his throat, drawing it across the windpipe and the throbbing arteries. With a gurgle, the man finally died, and I collapsed to the cobblestones beside him, struggling against the darkness to get my barriers back up before I drowned in the hurt.
Faces gathered above me. Raav, Jet, Moanet and her mother. My mother.
Voices filled my head. Confusion and hurt, fear and cries for help.
The people around me were speaking, but their words didn’t match the clamor in my mind.
I tried to sit up, fell back under a wave of dizziness. Patting the ground with my palms, I realized I’d been moved back to the platform.
Courthouse square. Smoke filled the sky above the city, and the sun was a red stain in the sky.
“The Waikert?” I whispered.
Raav spoke, but I couldn’t understand the response. Not with so many people talking at once.
But they weren’t. I turned my head side to side, spotted the body of the savage I’d killed. A loose crowd of Istanikers filled the square, and others stood at the mouths of streets and alleys that emptied into the open space, ushering more bedraggled survivors in. But the crowd was largely silent. Wide-eyed in their terror.
The noise was coming from my own mind. Or rather, from the spirits speaking within it.
Stop! I screamed into the aether.
Abruptly, the sound pinched off, leaving me in peace.
Coughing in relief, I laid back for a moment.
Lilik? The voice wasn’t Tyrak’s. I clenched my fists while struggling remember the name. Dreven. Miva’s husband.
I hear you, I said. I’m listening. Everyone, you’re lost and scared. But if you all speak at once, I cannot understand you. Worse, you’ll drive me mad. Let Dreven speak for you.
I watched the smoke swirl above while ashes drifted down to land on my face. Around me, people shuffled and mourned and spoke in hushed voices about their regrets.
Lilik, we don’t understand what’s happening, Dreven said. There are so many joining us all at once. So many newly dead.
It’s the Waikert, I said. We may all die before sunset.
At once, my head was filled with a pained roar.
Stop! Please! I can’t understand you!
The noise once again quieted, leaving only Dreven. Miva, too? he asked softly.
We’ll try to stand here, but it won’t last. If we can’t evacuate the city, yes. Miva, too.
A mix of emotions from the strands flooded my mind. Grief. Despair. Incredulity.
You can’t fight? Dreven asked.
We aren’t strong enough.
But—
Lilik . . . Tyrak cut in. Ask them.
Ask them what?
It can’t be worse than what they’ve already endured. Especially if the weapons belong to descendants. And maybe your mother’s legend does mean there’s a way to undo the binding.
I coughed, aghast at the suggestion. You want me to ask them to be nightforged?
Briefly, Tyrak embraced me, phantom arms wrapping me. We have this, he said. In some ways, it’s better than being a bodiless spirit. Others might find a similar bond.
Finally, words from my physical surroundings intruded.
“Lilik?” Raav asked, his brow knit in concern. I looked away, refusing to accept his kindness until I understood his intentions. Noticing my recovery, Mother hurried over.
“What happened?” she asked. “The voices . . .?”
“I asked them to speak one at a time. Did it help you?”
With a swallow, she nodded. Once again, I marveled at her ability to withstand the torrent of voices and emotions raging through the aether. I vowed to tell her how much her strength inspired me—if we survived the day, that is.
“Tyrak has an idea,” I said softly.
As I spoke, the others drew closer. Around ten people crouched near me on the low platform, while in the square, Istanikers gathered in small knots, embracing and casting terrified glances at the entrances where guardsmen and wardens continued to gesture people forward from the alleys.
I looked at Moanet. “How much do you know of nightcalling? I realize you weren’t trained as part of the Nocturnai . . .”
Her lips quirked in a smile. “I know many things.”
Dreven? I asked.
I’ve been listening.
How much do you understand?
You wish to join us with weapons. Of course we agree.
Not until you know all the consequences. The binding may be forever. You’ll be trapped, forced to remain within the item. Unless your owner has an ability like mine, you may never speak to another soul. Ever.
But our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren won’t die today.
I can’t even guarantee that. But you’d give us a chance.
Tell us what to do, Dreven said.
Chapter Thirty-Three
AN HOUR LATER, the square was so full I couldn’t see the cobblestones through the masses of people below. At each entrance to the square, gutter soldiers and House guardsmen formed a defensive wall. In addition, Trader Yiltak had ordered Council Hall filled with those unable to defend themselves. Commoners and traders alike sheltered inside the hall and courthouse walls, the outer doors locked and barred.
Having abandoned the rest of the city to the Waikert, we would make our stand here. Either the plan would succeed, or we’d die together.
From the edges of the square came the constant howl of the savages. They attacked in waves, beating at our soldiers only to fall back unpredictably.
The
air smelled like blood and fire, but we were holding. If we could continue holding for an hour or two more, it might be enough.
Beside me, Mother sat on a stool, eyes closed, attempting to follow my instructions to focus her inner voice. To either side of her, Katrikki and Moanet stood in the calling trance, sensing and guiding the nightstrands.
In addition to the trader girls I knew, two others had offered to help, sisters from House Rutevieshk. Both had passed the nightcaller trial for the Nocturnai, and with an explanation from Katrikki were managing to guide the strands, if more slowly than Moanet and Katrikki. Sweat beaded on all our brows as we focused on the strands.
In front of the platform, Istanikers formed two rough queues, most carrying makeshift or rusted weapons. Butchers wielded stained cleavers and carpenters their hammers. In front of my mother, an elderly woman offered a pair of knitting needles to the nightcallers. Farther down the line in front of me, I spotted a fishing spear gun that reminded me, uncomfortably, of the long, brutal night on Ioene.
The next person in my line ascended the platform. Distracted, I hadn’t noticed her waiting. Mareti Korpit held out a delicate saber, the hand-guard worked with half a dozen gemstones. An ornamental piece.
Nodding, I accepted the blade and held it before the nightcallers.
As I opened my mind to the spirits, I glanced at Mareti’s face. Despite the ordeal of the past day, she retained her grace. I smiled at her and she returned the expression.
A suitable vessel. The speaker entered my mind with the arrogance that only a trader could possess.
Trader Korpit, I said. It was an easy guess, seeing as any ancestor of Mareti’s would likely have claimed—or at least desired—the title.
Grandfather to the current prime, he affirmed.
Please allow the nightcaller to guide you to your vessel, I said, keeping the smirk from my lips. I wondered how long Mareti would put up with her weapon’s attitude before she foisted it off on another Korpit.
Though I couldn’t see the strands as a nightcaller would, I felt the binding as a sudden absence. Mareti’s ancestor vanished from the aether, winking out like a pinched candle. But unlike the death of a flame, his spirit would continue.
I handed Mareti the sword. “It’s done,” I said. “Stay safe, Mareti.”
In truth, I doubted she’d find herself close to the fighting. If her father didn’t see to that, her House guardsmen would. But if something happened, I was glad to know she had a nightforged weapon on hand. It would help her defend herself.
As the next woman advanced, presenting me a whip used in training horses, I wondered whether this plan had any hope of success. Unlike Tyrak, who drew on decades of battle experience to add to his tactical advice, these newly nightforged weapons would give a different, lesser sort of advantage. Because of the bond with the wielder, they’d sense the owner’s intent and help guide the execution. Arrows would fly where they were aimed, and swords would strike the intended target. But it would still be up to the fighter to know where to hit.
I’m here, the spirit said, interrupting my thoughts.
Do you wish to say anything? I asked. Though my main duty was helping with the nightforging, I was still a channeler. I wouldn’t deny the spirits a chance to speak, no matter the blood-thirsty hordes battering our defenses.
Tell her . . . tell her I think of her always. She is my heart and my soul. Even so, I want her to remarry if she finds love. She deserves it, and my heart is big enough to accept them both.
Swallowing, I conveyed the message. The woman’s eyes teared as she ran a finger along the braided leather of the whip. At the sight, I wondered how I would feel if I were married and lost my beloved. Could I ever accept someone else?
More than that, I wondered how the Vanished channelers handled their duties without being overwhelmed by the grief.
How did they manage in your time, Tyrak? I asked.
Think of it like this. You aren’t a channel for sadness. You allow reunion. Healing. And remember, in my time, the channelers were always available. Death was less final, because we never had to let go completely.
At his words, I thought of Heiklet’s passing. Hadn’t I felt similarly? I’d grieved that she was gone, but I’d also known that Peldin and the rest of the Vanished were there to receive her. Someday, I knew, I’d be able to speak to her again. She wasn’t truly gone. Just changed.
When I felt the sudden absence of the horse-trainer’s husband, I handed the whip back to her. Lip trembling, she accepted it and moved aside.
Inhaling, I looked at the line in front of me. At my gesture of invitation, a child no older than ten clambered up. Face puffy and tear-streaked, he stared at me with wide eyes and a trembling lip. In his hand, he held a small pen knife.
“Can you put my Mam in here?” he asked. “She . . . the Waikert man killed her last night.”
Chin thrust out in false bravado, he waited for my answer. It took me a long few seconds to be able to speak without crying.
“Is your da here?” I asked.
Solemn, he shook his head. “He drowned in the ocean when I was a baby.”
My chest was a cavern of remorse for the child. Holding out my hand, I led him forward. “Would you sit here with me? I need a brave boy like you to help.”
“You will put her in, right?”
Chewing my lip, I nodded. “I’ll do my very, very best.”
When the mother came, my mind filled with a sort of pain I had never imagined.
Katal! she cried, her spirit lashing back and forth against my thoughts.
Willing myself to expand, I tried to encompass her. To hold and comfort her. It could never be enough, but it was all I could offer.
Speak to him through me, I said at last. It won’t bring you back, but it will give you both peace.
Though the line stretched to the far side of the square and the Waikert battered our defenses—ten of their bodies piled in the streets for every one of our soldiers that fell, an endless, inexhaustible horde—there was nothing in the world for me but the boy and his mother. For a couple long minutes, I spoke for them, to them. Finally, Jet laid a hand on my shoulder.
“The nightforged weapons are shoring our defense. But it won’t last. We have to complete this before their ships finish with the Ulstats and turn on the city.”
I’m sorry, I said to the mother. You’ll still be together when you enter his knife, but it will be different. It’s time to say goodbye.
He has no one, she pleaded. What will happen to him?
He won’t be alone, I promised. I’ll keep him beside me as long as it takes to find him a place where he can belong.
And the Waikert?
No one will lay a hand on your son while I still breathe.
Tell him I love him. I’ll always love him.
I will.
For a moment, I felt her anguish war with her sense of duty.
I’m ready, she said at last.
I nodded at the younger of the Rutevieshk nightcallers. Eyes focused on the visual manifestation of the mother’s spirit, the caller reached a gentle hand, cradling the spirit against her flesh. With a nudge, she urged the soul into the boy’s pen knife.
The mother’s spirit vanished from my heart.
Laying a hand on Katal’s head, I leaned down and spoke into his ear. “You are the bravest person I have ever met.”
Equaled only by you, Lilik, Tyrak said.
Shoulders set, I looked at the remaining line of would-be soldiers, careworn and frightened, clutching pathetic weapons to their chests. We might not be an army of hardened mercenaries, but we were stronger than we—and the Waikert—realized.
Istanik would meet this threat.
Nodding, I motioned the next person forward. As the sun reached its zenith and sank toward the western horizon, we nightforged the city.
When shouts from the harbor announced the beaching of the Waikert scows, and the savage, ululating war cries echoed off the courthouse fac
ade, we were ready.
Chapter Thirty-Four
WE CALLED THE hours that followed the nightstorm. Armed with garden hoes and candle sticks, boning knives and leather punches, Istanikers marched into the crashing waves of the Waikert hordes. Where one man or woman fell, another replaced the fighter within an instant. Chanting the verses learned aboard fishing vessels, crying out the names of loved ones lost to Waikert clubs, or simply advancing in stony silence, gutterborn and trader fought side by side.
As the landward masses pushed back the savages, men and women clambered into skiffs and took up the oars, bound for the Waikert scows.
All night, the fighting raged. Though fire and the blood, I stood on Council Hall stairs, defending the locked doors. Katal and the other children huddled inside. I’d made a promise to Katal’s mother, and I planned to keep it until my dying breath. With me to rally around, the Council guards made sure that not one Waikert set foot on those stairs.
Runners brought me updates from Jet, from Trader Yiltak who’d taken command of the force moving through the trader district. When dawn paled the eastern sky and the fires no longer blazed so high that I was reminded of the towering crown of Ioene, I finally let myself believe we could win.
The sun rose, and men and women began staggering back to the square. As parents congregated outside Trader Council Hall, waiting for the chance to be reunited with their children, I wondered how many of the boys and girls within would find themselves orphaned like Katal. More than a few. Standing atop the stairs, I closed my eyes and made a silent vow. From now on, no Istaniker orphan would be alone. I would open a home for them. I would call it Paono’s Haven, in honor of my friend who’d lost his own parents to Waikert savagery so many years ago.
Finally, the reports came in. The Waikert were beaten, their ships taken. Less than a hundred sea tribesmen had surrendered. Lacking escape from the island, the remaining survivors had either taken their own lives or fled in small bands into the heart of Stanik. There was much work to do, eradicating the roving savages—and, for that matter, the mercenary deserters—but the battle was won.
Shattering of the Nocturnai Box Set Page 49
