Chapter 60
60
N YX CRINGED AT the thunderous explosion to the west. It sounded like the end of the world, as if the moon had already struck the Urth.
The blast froze the entire fiery tableaux of the battle across Dalal?ea. Even Ablen and Bastan had halted the plunge of their pikes at Aamon’s body. The points of their spears hovered over the vargr’s chest. Aamon growled and shifted back, not to escape the weapons but to better shield Nyx.
Ablen and Bastan straightened, looking confused, as if the blast had momentarily disturbed the air enough to break the connection. It did not last long. Behind them, Vythaas raised his copper box. The other Shrive—Wryth—frowned to the west, in the direction of the explosion.
Vythaas whispered into his device, glowing its filaments brighter.
Ablen and Bastan focused back on Nyx. Their pikes shifted higher, their eyes shining with the malignancy possessing them, controlling them. Again, she saw the vibration of corruption binding her brothers to Vythaas and his malevolent box. The threads coursing through the air were noxious, powered by agony and malice.
Nyx’s song had died in her throat.
I cannot fight this evil.
But another rose to that challenge.
Overhead, the concussive wave of the explosion finally reached the Shrouds. The force struck the dark clouds, shredding them in places. Streaks of sunlight pierced around the flanks of the hovering warship.
Directly ahead, past the sailraft, a shadow swept down one of those bright rays. Its shape was lost in the brilliance. Nyx felt the power emanating from it. It was the dark storm she had sensed sweeping toward her.
It has come for me.
Then a savage cry broke from that storm and swept down across the plaza. Power became shape. A breadth of huge black wings. The giant bat dove toward the sailraft, toward those gathered below. It screeched its fury, a song of savagery and strength.
Like the blast a moment ago, the keening shattered the air and tore through those malignant threads. Ablen and Bastan stumbled back and swung their pikes wildly, as if searching for a threat. The copper box in Vythaas’s hands grew brighter, fueled by the onslaught from above. The box became a small sun in his withered grip. The Shrive tried to drop it, but it exploded in his hand, stripping flesh and bone, leaving a stump spewing blood.
Vythaas stumbled away with a scream.
Bastan lashed out as the Shrive came too near. His pike impaled clean through the man’s back. Still, Bastan seemed unaware of the strike. He thrashed his weapon, tossing the bony body about. Screams and blood flew. Arms thrashed, and legs kicked.
Wryth fled into the sailraft, yelling, “Take off!” He hollered back to the two Mongers, “Destroy them all!”
The two Gyn marched forward, hefting their hammers higher.
By now, the bat had reached them. It ignored the sailraft as the boat shot skyward. Instead, it swept down at one of the Mongers. It struck the giant’s back with both claws, its talons piercing deep. With a batter of wings, it flipped high and tossed the body far.
The second Gyn bellowed and charged at Nyx and Aamon. It swung its hammer one-handed, sweeping low. Aamon lunged to protect her. The hammer struck the vargr in the hip and sent him rolling across the stone. Still, Aamon had lashed out at the last moment and snagged the Monger’s ankle, toppling the huge foe as he was knocked away.
The giant crashed on his back and tried to get up, only to have a dark shadow crash atop him. Claws stabbed. The bat slashed its head down, ripping fangs across its prey’s throat. Blood arced high and an iron-helmed head bounced across the stone.
The bat stayed perched. With wings wide and head low, it screeched its fury at the world.
Across the plaza, fires raged everywhere. Arrows flew. Firebombs burst into flames. Screams chased across the stone. She caught a glimpse of Shiya, blazing in the dark, casting lightning all about. Overhead, ships burst into flame and crashed.
In this relatively quiet corner, Nyx searched up and around, hoping to see more of the Myr horde sweeping down to help with this battle. But the skies had closed up; the dark clouds sealed their cracks.
She recognized the truth.
It was only this one bat.
Far overhead, she spotted the sailraft fleeing upward, carrying Wryth away.
She turned to Ablen and Bastan. Unfettered, unguided, they ambled about. Drool flecked their lips. Bastan had already dropped his pike. Vythaas’s body was still impaled but no longer moving. Ablen settled to his seat, staring down at his own spear, as if surprised to be holding it.
Bastan followed his example, dropping next to Ablen.
Their eyes remained dull. She remembered the tortured flames deep in the darkness. She knew how much of their brains had been burned out, leaving only these husks. Those flames of her brothers could never rise again to fill what had been taken from them. All they could do was scream in the dark, forever locked in pain and torture.
She gained her feet and tried to step toward them.
Ablen’s fingers tightened on his pike in reflexive threat.
She stopped, unsure what to do, knowing she could not help them.
Then the bat lashed out a wing, sweeping its tip around. The razor-tipped edge sliced through their necks and sent them toppling backward. Their limbs stirred dully for a breath—then went slack. Blood spread damply around them, reflecting the fires and lightning.
Nyx fell back, horrified. The bat clambered around on its perch atop the Gyn to face her. Huge dark eyes glowed. Velvet ears stood tall. For a moment, her vision doubled: seeing both the bat and herself standing there. An image flared, too, of a borrowed knife slicing a tender throat, a mercy granted as much as it pained.
She glanced over to her brothers.
Here was the same…
Before she could make sense of it all, a scraping of claws on rock drew her attention around. Aamon struggled against the stone, his neck stretched, trying to return to her, but his hip had been shattered.
She ran to his side, both to stop his struggle and to be with him.
She fell to her knees next to him. She hovered her palms over his body, fearful to add to his agony. Aamon panted deeply, but he managed to shift enough to rest his head across her thighs. He settled heavily against her.
She placed a palm on his cheek.
He thumped a tail.
She stared past him at the fires of the plaza, the rolling smoke. The bat left its perch and stalked over to her and Aamon, knuckling on its wings. When it reached them, it folded and tucked its wings. She saw the bat was not as huge as she had thought. If she stood next to it, the crown of its head would not even reach her shoulder.
It sidled closer and lowered its nose to sniff at Aamon. The vargr lifted a lip, snarling, stating firmly: She is mine.
The bat did not argue. It crouched on its hindlegs, staring at her. The softest keening flowed from it, a mournful and sad melody, tinged with a note of regret, as if it were sorry it hadn’t come sooner to save Aamon.
She found herself looking into those eyes, feeling something more there.
Her throat tightened, and unbidden her voice flowed into its song. It took no effort. The rhythm drew her with its familiarity, rising from her heart. She felt a curl of bark in her fingertips, the scent of tea in her nose. Then the taste of warm milk on her tongue.
She stared into those eyes and knew who stood there, who had returned to her.
“Bashaliia…”
The bat leaned closer. His soft nose lifted her chin and nestled its warmth near her throat. She flashed to the little bat cuddled in the sledge, the swamp humming and buzzing around them. Gramblebuck softly lowing as he waded in front of them.
She left her palm on Aamon’s cheek, but she lifted her other hand and found an ear, the tender spot her little brother loved to have scratched. Her fingers easily found it as they sang together, both bowed over a champion with the stoutest heart.
She knew this was Bashaliia. She didn’t know how. She remembered Shiya describing the gift given to the denizens of The Fist, a commonality that spanned flesh and time. All their minds and memories preserved for eternity.
She recalled her last moments with Bashaliia, crouched over her little brother’s frail form in the forest. She had sung to him then, too, lifting him away before the sting of the cut.
She pictured those fiery eyes staring back at her during that moment.
She sensed the truth.
You took him, she thought. You gave him a new body, gifted from another who was willing to step aside and let him return to me.
She leaned back to search across the battlefield.
Flaming arrows arced across the dark skies.
Legions closed in from all sides.
Bashaliia had returned to her.
All so he could die at my side.
W RYTH LEANED OVER the drover of the sailraft. The screams of the bat still ached his ears. He had never felt such power. He pictured Vythaas’s box flaring so brightly it stung—then the explosion, the blast of copper, flesh, and bone.
He searched below and caught a glimpse of the huge bat, now crouched next to the girl. Vythaas’s words rasped in his skull.
Vyk dyre Rha…
He remembered the Klashean prophecy about the return of their dark god.
She who would be carried on wings of fire and destroy the world.
Wryth pictured that bat sweeping out of a sky fraught with lightning and fire. He had witnessed the bat tearing through the Gyn, even killing the girl’s brothers. No doubt, here was a creature of merciless power.
He remembered his earlier doubts about Vythaas’s claim. He cursed himself for his narrow-sightedness.
For the sake of the kingdom, I will not underestimate either beast or child again.
Still, such a fear might not ever be a problem. Knights closed upon her position, along with archers. Mongers stalked from the other side. At present, the girl was not possessed by the Vyk dyre Rha. One arrow could end that threat.
He searched across the breadth of the plaza and the battle ending below. Even the bronze weapon was fading, faltering, depleting. She cast her bolts with less strength, less control. She staggered in the smoke, trying to protect the two men with her. They appeared to be trying to reach the girl now, drawn by the arrival of the fearsome bat.
He doubted they had the strength to do so.
More ships dropped down from the warship, preparing to expand the legions below. It would soon be over.
The drover spoke next to him. “Our flashburn tanks are nearly emptied,” he warned. “We should refresh them at the Pywll before heading back down.”
Wryth craned up at the underbelly of the warship. It was an impregnable fortress, perhaps the best place to weather the last of this storm.
“Take us there.”
The drover leaned over his wheel, and the flashburn forges roared louder. The raft sailed upward. Wryth started to turn away, when a blinding flash of light drew his gaze back out. He shielded his eyes against it.
A massive column of light blazed before them. It rose from the center of the henge and struck the keel of the Pywll at midship. There was no blast or thunder. The radiant column just shone there for a long breath—then winked out.
Wryth frowned, mystified by such strangeness. He peered down at its source, remembering a pair of crossed arches sheltering a block of white stone. They were gone. He squinted, his eyes still dazzled by the blinding flash. He blinked to try to make sense of what he saw. A hole delved deep into the plaza, perfectly circular and smooth-walled, as if a god had taken an awl and drilled into the henge, leaving not a speck of debris.
The drover cried out and rolled the raft sharply. Wryth grabbed his seatback and saw the man was staring up, not down. Wryth followed his horrified gaze.
The same hole had drilled through the clouds, through the center of Pywll. The warship was gutted in the middle. Bright sunlight shone through that hole, revealing the blue skies far above. Again, there was no debris. The hole had cut clean through the center of the ship.
Slowly, the stern and bow halves of the warship cracked away from the middle, shattering what little still connected them. The two halves ripped apart and plummeted together toward the dark plaza.
The drover fought his craft wildly, trying to get clear of their path.
“Go!” Wryth demanded. “Get us out of here.”
“Where?” the man gasped, struggling with his controls.
“Havensfayre. Away from the Shrouds. Anywhere.”
As they fled away, the world grumbled under them. The ground began to buck and quake, spreading outward from that infernal hole. Cracks skittered away from the pit, pouring with smoke.
The sailraft raced across the plaza. Directly behind them, the stern of the Pywll plummeted past, dragging cables and shreds of balloon. Clear of the wreckage, the raft angled upward and into the clouds.
Once it shot back into bright sunshine, Wryth finally exhaled and loosened his white-knuckled grip on the drover’s seat.
Other ships popped through the clouds as more of the legion fled. Then something swept past their portside, heading the other way.
A swyftship with a scraped, raw hull.
It dove into the clouds.
Wryth narrowed his eyes. The drover saw it, too, and glanced back to him. Wryth pointed ahead, to where a heavy pall hung over the mists in the distance.
“Keep going,” he ordered.
If anything survived that devastation, he would find a way to deal with it. Events here had taught him much. He would use that knowledge.
And turn it against them.