Chapter 27
YUMA
Yuma stood on the wide rooftop of the Feast Hall and looked northward.
The setting sun to the west was blinding, so she raised her hand to shield her eyes.
Before the city gates were hundreds of soldiers, standing in perfect formation and stillness, forming a mass of white against the grassland.
But the white was not from their clothes or armor—it was from their exposed skeletons.
They were the remains of the conscripts from Danras, Iorca, and Lansis.
An army brought back from the dead by the Grim King.
The opalescent light that coated their bones was visible even from where Yuma was watching.
Each had a sword with a sharp bone blade.
A black orox restlessly stamped its feet, a giant wearing white bone armor sitting on its back and carrying a large iron mace. Neither giant nor orox was alive.
Aidan was the first to recognize him as he leaned over the ledge of the roof. “Garamund comes wearing his white raiment.”
Garamund was the highest-ranking of the Grim King’s generals. From an early age, Yuma had shuddered in fear hearing the stories of how he was reshaped from orox flesh and blood into a human form. He was so large that the orox he rode looked as small as a horse.
“What should we do about the city gates?” asked Aidan.
He was next to the signaling horn, a beautiful sand-colored instrument made from the largest of orox horns and engraved with star and wind patterns.
“If you wish for the people of Danras to fight, you must blow the horn yourself, as the Chief Herder.” Aidan held up his hands and looked at Yuma, anxiety painting his face.
She shook her head. “No, tell them to open the north gate.”
Aidan hesitated. “Are you going to hand over the Imperial emissary?”
“I’m going to do nothing of the sort,” Yuma scoffed. “But there is a larger battle that is being fought right now.”
“What battle might that be?”
Yuma looked down at the sprawling city below.
“The battle between me and the people of Danras.”
“What do you mean?” Aidan asked, startled.
She noted that Lysandros and Fractica had now arrived at the central square of the crossroads.
“If I blew the horn to fight the Grim King now, would even half of the people of Danras follow me into battle?” Yuma answered. “The whole city needs to see the Grim King’s minion being felled first. By just us herders and the emissary.”
“Chief Herder. You seem to be putting your trust into that machine box, but do you really think it can be a match for Garamund?”
In truth, she could not be sure. She had never seen Garamund fight, nor did she know how strong Fractica was.
And surely a swing of that massive mace was enough to crush anything, even if it was made of metal.
But she had no choice but to trust Lysandros.
She remembered young Rizona, bleeding to death on her horse …
“It can. If you don’t trust in Lysandros, trust in me. Let the herders know we have a fight on our hands.” Yuma gestured for him to follow her order. As Aidan left her, the trembling voice of an old woman came from behind her.
“Chief Herder.”
Yuma looked back. “Granny Jesska.”
Jesska’s eyes were intently searching Yuma’s face. “So you are taking us into war, then.”
Yuma nodded.
“Chief Herder,” said Jesska, still tremulous, “you are still young and perhaps foolish, but as an old woman, I have come here to implore you one last time. Rizona was my granddaughter. Do you not think I wish to fight? To banish the Grim King from our land? And you, no doubt, want to be the hero that rid Merseh of the centuries-long tyranny that held us in its grip. But if Danras could fight the Grim King, would we have not fought before? I am—”
“Do you think that I, the Chief Herder of Danras, am doing this out of youthful heroic folly?” Yuma asked, incredulous.
Yuma waited for her answer, but none came except for Jesska’s stare.
“Granny Jesska. Rizona was your granddaughter, but she was my friend, my sister, and a herder who followed me. Jed as well. All of the young ones who were taken from us last winter were my friends and fellow herders of Danras too. We live outside this city for half the year, being rained on and frosted over on the steppe. But we do it for this city, for the people who live here. Not a single one of us herd for the Grim King!”
Something was burning up from inside of her. Taking a deep breath, she tried to tame it within her.
“I dare to ask, further to my youthful heroic folly—why did you, and your mother, and her father, allow the Grim King to rule over us as he did? Why did we all give him every orox, every man and woman and child, he ever asked for?”
A hand gripped her shoulder. It was Aidan, back from his task.
Yuma breathed deeply once more, wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand, and regarded Jesska.
What pressed down on Jesska’s shoulders wasn’t fear or anguish or rage.
Yuma turned to Aidan, who pointed to the north.
“I’ve signaled to open the gate, like you asked. ”
Where he pointed, the gates were opening. She had to go down now. Yuma bowed slightly and gripped Jesska’s shoulders, gently but firmly at the same time. The old woman raised her head.
“Granny, watch over us from here. The Empire’s emissary and I will vanquish Garamund. I will show you how a king … a Chief Herder of Danras can fight.”
Had Jesska given up, or finally understood? Her face was hard to read. Yuma tried a smile, which forced Jesska to weakly smile back.
“Our Chief Herder has spoken,” she said, “and this old one will listen. I shall watch you from here, as you say. However…” Her faint smile faded, and she hesitated. “Even if … even if you succeed, I can’t help but worry about what comes after that.”
“We shall consider that problem when we come to it,” said Yuma, trying not to think too deeply about Jesska’s ominous words.
“All right.”
Yuma let go of Jesska’s shoulders and tipped her hat. The only way down from where they were was the staircase winding around the Feast Hall. She had only taken her first step when Aidan followed behind her.
“The gates are open, but they will likely wait to attack at night.”
“I understand.”
“Garamund himself may try to fight that box—Fractica, I mean—but the others will charge this building.”
Yuma nodded. “Yes, they are sure to go after the Host. He’s the only one of us who has the slightest chance against the Grim King. But that is precisely why I opened the gates. If they can get here directly, hopefully there won’t be too many hurt along the way.”
If the Host’s enchantment had not been protecting the catacombs, the city would’ve become a pile of burning ruins at every whim of the Grim King. The Host was their only weapon against his full tyranny. At least until now. And Yuma had a plan.
“Aidan. There is still time before the sun sets. You must go now and gather the other herders.”
“Chief, I have … limitations as to how far I can go to defy the Grim King…” said Aidan, his words steeped in both fear and regret.
What did it mean, exactly, to have spent one’s childhood under the Grim King?
To have been the only child to survive among a cohort gathered from across Merseh?
Aidan had almost as many white hairs as black ones in his mustache now, but the memory of it still haunted him.
Every morning, seeing his half-dead face in the mirror, he must remember his time with the Grim King.
Yuma patted his shoulder. “I think all of Danras feels the same as you do. After you have gathered the herders, come back here to protect Granny Jesska.”
“I am sorry, Chief Herder. I just cannot fight … him.” He bowed low.
“And watch us,” she said, cutting off his unnecessary apology. “Watch us fight.”
Aidan nodded, and averting his eyes from her, he quickly made his way down the stairs. Yuma followed him down until she stopped at the door leading to the Host’s chamber.
“We can’t turn back now,” she murmured.
She opened the door. Inside was a wide floor, upon which sat the Host, in completely black ceremonial robes.
These robes were less elaborate than the ones adorned with feathers that he had worn during the herding, but they were more significant.
The last time Yuma saw these robes was last spring.
A child named Dalan had worn them, scared to death and standing by an altar, the robes laden with flowers from the grasslands.
It was Dalan who had prostrated himself on the floor, but it was the Host who had risen, shaking off the flowers.
Bowing, Yuma spread her arms in the proper manner before him.
“Chief Herder.”
“Yes, Host.”
He gestured for her to approach. Yuma stepped forward, the heels of her boots knocking against the floor, echoing in the wide chamber.
“You are firm in your decision?” the Host asked.
She smiled brightly at him. When Lysandros smiled like this, Yuma always felt calmer. She hoped it would have the same effect on the Host, but he simply scoffed in the most unchildlike manner.
“And where on the steppe did you learn such a bewitching smile…”
Yuma could feel herself blush. The Host stood and picked up a long stick leaning unassumingly against the wall, its top end wrapped in leather. The Host held it out to Yuma, with both hands.
“This is the Spear of Hope, passed on from one Host to the next, for the last three hundred years. This spear was forged in starlight by Iorcan rhymesmiths, blessed by Lansisi life priests, and imbued by the Host with all the wishes of the steppe, to fight the Grim King. It was never used, because that rebellion was quelled before it even began. But the Hosts always knew that one day someone would rise up, though none of us knew it would be this day. This spear is now entrusted to you, as you have chosen to fight the Grim King.”
Yuma was familiar with the story of the Rebellion Undone, told everywhere in Merseh by parents to children in hushed voices.
It was later in her life that she realized it was not just a story about a noble failure—it was also about how it could be tried again.
She took the spear with both hands, and hitched it to her back carefully.
“Listen to me, Chief Herder. The song I am about to sing is especially dangerous. The underlings of the Grim King will swarm this very place. Are you prepared?”
Drawing from all her inner strength, she smiled once more.