Would she see him again? Would she ever get to tell him her true name? Regret washed through her like soured mead. She should have gone to him, forgiven him when she’d had the chance. She’d wanted to run to him now. Hold him for a moment before losing him to this hopeless war.

  Ferth’s focus stayed fixed on her as he formed the Draco Sang blessing. Her breath hitched as she recognized the sign. His fist circled his head and hit his heart before jetting out to her. It should have been out of place here, traitorous, but instead, it hit her like a tidal wave of warmth. She felt her hand ball up, returning the salute of their fathers back to Ferth.

  A grim smile split his full lips, and he nodded before turning back to his command and giving the signal for battle.

  Please live.

  Ferth’s unit marched forward.

  She darted behind their formation to check on the three callers she had stationed around the field. Then she ran to the command unit on the hill. She skidded to a stop next to Captain Titus.

  From this vantage point, Suza could see the Elysium soldiers forming up behind rows of sharp timber. The muddy riverbed ribboned in front of a cruelly large mass of Draco Sang. They accelerated when they reached the water. Terrifying roars, screams, and shrieks poured across the terrain as the Draco army spotted the waiting Elysium troops.

  Arrows rained down on the enemy at the same moment the front line of Dracos hit the barbed chains hidden in the river. A spurt of hope hit Suza as the Draco Sang began to fall. It was squashed away a moment later as the main body of Dracos surged over the chains and through the hailstorm of death.

  “Three flyers hovering high to the northwest,” Xandra said.

  “Stay safe, stay hidden,” Suza reminded her hawk. Pointless commands, but ones she still begged of her hewan every day.

  “I’m circling east now.”

  Eio looped away from Captain Titus to join Uriah’s squad, his golden fur a gleaming target.

  Suza searched the horizon for a white wolf and a gray wolf. She spotted them as Ferth gave the command to engage. His troops clashed against the Dracos weaving through the timber fencing. Clanging iron and death screams filled the air as the armies slammed together.

  “Thirro incoming,” Xandra shrieked.

  “Thirro,” Suza whispered, her voice inaudible, papery thin with fear.

  The Draco raptor landed in front of the command unit on the hill. A bow and quiver were strapped on his back between his wings. Armor plate protected his chest. He held a lasso.

  “First to the prize.” Thirro’s eyes fixed on Titus. “The chief wishes to have you alive. I will give him the pleasure of tasting your death.”

  “Lucky for me,” Titus said, crouching and swinging his sword.

  “Unlucky for you,” Thirro said.

  Commander Asvig, his sword held up like a skewer, lunged at the flyer. Thirro tilted his chin and with a flash of his wrist sent a knife Suza hadn’t realized he held into Asvig’s chest.

  The brave, foolish commander slammed into the ground. His sword rolled away, still clean. The red pool of blood expanding from the man snapped something inside Suza. Her paralysis broke, and her focus intensified. She harnessed her fear into a spear as she steadied her grip on her swords.

  Titus’s ten guards inched forward. Thirro crouched and rolled forward on misshapen feet, a crazed grin on his face as he surveyed his next prey.

  “Get back,” Titus barked, his gaze glancing to his fallen commander.

  The soldiers halted.

  Titus leveled his sword at the bird, a challenge.

  “I know better than to engage you with a sword.” Thirro threw out the lasso. It snapped around Titus’s shoulders.

  Titus twisted. He dropped his sword as he groped for a smaller blade on his belt. He ripped a knife free from his waist and brought his hands up to cut the rope. Thirro coiled his strong legs and launched into the sky. The rope snapped taut and jerked Titus off his feet. He roared as he lost his grip on his knife.

  Suza lunged. Her fingers brushed her captain’s boots as he sailed overhead.

  “Help,” she cried to Xandra.

  She picked up Titus’s fallen knife and cocked her arm back. Xandra dove in, scratching at Thirro’s wings. Suza let the dagger fly on a prayer. It struck Thirro’s leg. The eagle dropped a few precious feet in the air. Suza jumped for Titus, grabbing his ankles. He cried out, and a moment later she fell back, landing hard on the earth. Titus crashed into the ground next to her, the rope slapping to the dirt.

  “Slave.” Thirro’s voice was venomous.

  He had his bow in his hands now. He trained his arrow at her chest. Blood rained from his leg.

  Xandra clawed Thirro’s arm, and the first arrow flew wild. Thirro slammed a fist into the bird, and Xandra spiraled through the air, agony surging through their mental connection.

  “No!” Suza yelled, scrambling to her feet.

  Thirro paused, his head cocked. “Your little abomination, is it?” He trained his next arrow at the lump of chestnut feathers now heaving on the ground.

  Titus hurled a rock at Thirro, distracting him for a heartbeat. The captain hadn’t gotten up, and Suza worried about his injuries.

  Elysium arrows followed Titus’s rock as a small unit of archers had finally come within range.

  Fast as the wind, Thirro shot higher into the sky and out of range.

  The guards rushed to Titus as Suza darted to her hawk.

  Xandra breathed, but was otherwise unresponsive. Suza couldn’t see any breaks, but as tenderly as possible, she tucked in Xandra’s limp wings and lifted her hawk into her arms.

  Titus used a guard as a crutch as he stood, keeping his weight off his right leg.

  “The calls,” Titus said, his tone hard despite his ashen face.

  Suza’s hands shook as she groped for her horn. The scene in front of her iced her chest. The Draco Sang had torn apart their lines.

  This was it.

  She brought the pipes to her lips and blew with all her strength.

  Seventeen - Strike

  FERTH

  Finally, Ferth thought when he heard the counterfeit call echoing across the battlefield.

  He tried not to think about how many of his squad littered the fields, how much blood caked his sword and his hands.

  Pick it up. Pick it up, Ferth begged. And then they did. Enemy horns began echoing the call. Form up. Form up. Center strike.

  The Draco Sang fought strung-out across the south banks. They’d passed the chains and timbers and stood firmly on Elysium soil.

  The Draco soldiers Ferth and his squad fought against disengaged and stepped back. Slowly the Dracos began to move, clustering together in one central mass. Their vicious attack subsided for a blessed moment.

  Runners sprinted up, and Ferth accepted a cup with hands caked in blood, sweat, and viscous. He stiffened when he brought the pungent drink to his face, but thirst compelled the cup the rest of the way to his lips, and he gulped down the creamy blend of nuts, honey, and herbs. Excluding the distinct vinegary medicinal aftertaste, it might have been palatable. He shuddered as he handed the empty cup back, but he did feel better.

  “The wolves need some.” He motioned to Rom and Lyko, who had formed up at his sides. Their fur hung limp and matted, and their eyes shone maniacally. Blood dyed their heads and paws red.

  The boy trembled as he refilled the cup from the pitcher he carried on his shoulder. Ferth rapidly whipped his sword against a whetstone as the brave boy held the drink out to the beasts. Rom and Lyko lapped at the greenish tan liquid as the boy struggled to keep hold of the mug. Ferth thanked the skies for the heavy clouds, sweet relief on a hot day.

  They’d been fighting for nearly three hours, and already the Dracos’ victory was nearly won. Ferth had caught glimpses and flashes of familiar faces and members of his old unit. He’d cowardly focused his efforts on unknown Dracos.

  The enemy calls changed, ordering the forward attack to resume.

  Ferth waited. The Elysiums holding the center lines sprinted back. He counted to ten and then, boom.

  The boulder smashed into the thickly packed Dracos. The second catapult launched, landing squarely on the enemy.

  And that was it. They wouldn’t be able to reload the catapults in time to relaunch. Both boulders hit home, causing maximum damage, but the Draco stormed forward again like an angry swarm of wasps. Elysium’s doom approached.

  “Form up,” Ferth yelled to his tired squad. With a thrust of his fist, he propelled them toward a rapid death.

  After the catapults, the Dracos fought hard to earn back their long front. Ferth joined his unit up with Uriah and Eio on the eastern edge. They could not let the Dracos break through and spread out.

  Countless Dracos fell beneath Ferth’s Draco-made sword. In the far reaches of his mind, he wondered if he killed his soul as he killed his blood brothers.

  Ferth ducked a slash from a thin weasel soldier. A hyena joined the weasel, and Ferth fell back, defensive. He looked for his wolves, but they were engaged in heavy battles of their own. Exhaustion and discouragement swept over him as he barely blocked the two Dracos from landing a killing blow. He couldn’t hold off this concerted attack for much longer. He slipped in mud and gore, landing on his backside, his blade locked with the weasel. The hyena hitched back for the killing blow. Panting, both hands trapped, he watched his death swing down.

  Ferth blinked as the hyena’s head severed completely from his body and thumped to the ground. The weasel jerked back, and Ferth thrust his sword into her belly before looking over to see Uriah looming above the decapitated hyena. Uriah’s eyes were coal chips when they met Ferth’s.

  “I hate hyenas.” He turned away, his dripping sword tilted up.

  Gasping, Ferth scrabbled to his feet. He blocked out all thoughts of his fragile mortality and joined Rom and Lyko. Together they ended three more Dracos before Ferth looked up and froze.

  His father fought ten yards away. A blood-soaked bandage wrapped his chest wound, but he swung his battle axe with healthy speed and power. With each stroke, one or two soldiers fell. He moved forward in a deadly rhythm.

  Laconius had already killed one of his sons.

  Ferth adjusted his stiff chest plate and wiped an arm over his grimy face. Killing Laconius might be the only chance Elysium had left.

  Mind bleak and heart grim, Ferth stepped forward to finished Cal’s mission. “Let’s go,” he said to Rom and Lyko. They knew exactly what he meant.

  Before he got halfway to his father, two familiar faces barred his way.

  “Dara. Keal.” Their names jumped off Ferth’s tongue.

  “Captain Ferth.” Keal’s long ape arms hung at his sides.

  “Traitor.” Her fox eyes were sad as she said it.

  “My fight is not with you.” Ferth felt as if he’d been thrown in a pool of molasses, his body heavy and reluctant.

  Dara cocked her furry head back and laughed, a hollow sound. “Such a pretty human. When this is over, I shall enjoy having you as my slave.”

  Ferth had already feared that fate once before. He would not again.

  Keal held up his sword. “The chief’s honor guard cannot let you past.”

  He opened his mouth and yelled as loud as he could. “Father. Laconius. Fight me!”

  Keal and Dara stepped back slightly and glanced over their shoulders. The surrounding battle paused as if frozen, as if taking in a collective gasp.

  His father’s broad shoulders turned, revealing the familiar bullish nose and horns. Had his face always been so cruel? Laconius’s black eyes locked on Ferth. He scanned the twin wolves, and then in a low voice that cut across the field, he said, “Kill him. Kill them all.”

  The spell broke, and the sound of death clanged again.

  “I am sorry, my friend.” Keal brought his sword forward and bent his legs.

  Ferth tried to step back, tried to fall behind his squad, tried to escape this fight, but Dara leapt forward, twin daggers appearing in her hands.

  “This is no knife fight,” Ferth said.

  “Do your worst,” she said.

  Deep sorrow swelled in his chest as he remembered sparring with her a lifetime ago, teasing her, kissing her.

  One of Ferth’s soldiers stepped up to fight at Ferth’s side. Dara stuck a blade in the brave man’s throat. The rosy filter on Ferth’s past cleared away, and his resolve hardened. He had only one path forward—through the cruel valley of death.

  Rom circled left, and Lyko circled right. Lyko’s fury rippled across the connection like searing flames.

  “Keep your head,” Ferth said to the broken-hearted hewan.

  Lyko’s blood-chilling growl was the only reply before he leapt at Dara, fangs gleaming. Ferth brought his sword up to block the stroke that Keal aimed at Lyko’s back.

  “Two,” Keal said as he whipped his sword toward Ferth. “I would not expect less from my captain.” Metal clanged. “I am sorry to kill you.”

  “I had a brother.” Why did he say that? Why did he talk to Keal as if they could still be comrades?

  “I had a brother too,” Keal said.

  Ferth faltered at the ape-man’s words, and Keal’s sword split open the leather on Ferth’s shoulder.

  Rom howled as Dara’s dagger cut open his ear.

  “Payback,” Dara yelled as she held her red blade high, circling Rom.

  Ferth sucked in a panicked breath as Keal came forward. This wasn’t a game. He had only one option now. Flashes and memories of their many sparring matches flooded his mind and muscles. With his agile human body, he danced to Keal’s weaker left side and inside the ape’s long reach. He slashed his blade across Keal’s waist. Pain blasted across Keal’s face and a look of deep anguish pierced his dark eyes. He fell to his knees, his sword still drawn.

  “Keal!” Dara screamed.

  Ferth slashed his sword across his friend’s throat, ending the Draco’s torture.

  Keal fell silent and still. Distant thunder cracked as if in tribute of his death.

  “You killed him.” Her orange eyes were frantic.

  Ferth nodded, his face harsh, and his gaze promising her the same fate. Her hands shook. She turned, fleeing into the ranks of Draco Sang. Ferth took grim gladness in her departure. He would not have to kill her—yet. But he’d still killed his friend, one of the best Dracos he’d ever known. Regret and sorrow crashed like an avalanche over his heart. Rom came to his side. Careful of the severed ear, Ferth rested his hand on the gray head.

  “May the Dragon keep you,” Ferth whispered. They honored Keal for another moment, then, sword heavy in his palm, he inched past Keal’s silent mass.

  The battle had moved Laconius west, and progress toward the chief slowed. All around, Elysium soldiers fell and with them, Ferth’s hope.

  Was Shale safe? It wouldn’t be long until they were all dead. Ferth had known they had no chance of victory, but still the sour reality shocked his core.

  He rubbed a bloody hand over Lyko’s skull. “We’ll take as many down with us as we can.”

  The wolves snarled. It was the right sound for this moment, and it fed Ferth strength. He held up his weapon for the thousandth time, for the last time.

  He had wanted to meet his mother.

  And then the rains came, as if his sword had slashed open the sky, spilling its watery guts.

  Eighteen - Retreat

  THIRRO

  Thirro hovered fifty feet above the ground, swearing into the wind. He’d wrapped his thigh where that slave viper had knifed him, but the pain still seared up and down his leg. Blood bubbling, he scanned the battle from the sky, his bow in hand. Every arrow he sent was an enemy dead.

  He could taste the victory, like fine liquor and human woman. And then the storm hit and washed the sensual flavors away.

  Water weighed down his clothes and his wings. Visibility diminished. Every flap of his wings was a struggle against the torrent. He knew he should land, but he didn’t want to join the melee of blood and mud on the ground.

  He’d tilted, intending to fly into the human camp and take ownership of a tent. The rest of the slow-legged Dracos could join him when they got there.

  A call rang out, and Thirro halted his southern dive. He cocked his head to listen. Had he heard that right? The call rang out again, this time echoed from several horns.

  Retreat. Retreat. Retreat.

  Baffled, Thirro lost altitude. The battle was won. Why were they retreating?

  Thirro squinted at the storm. Under the darkening sky, the Draco Sang army ran north. They crossed the rapidly swelling Rugit River and back into Skotar.

  Elysium soldiers stood as statutes—the ones that could stand. No cheering, simply silent stares as the enemy disappeared into the mist. The humans were exhausted. Defeated. Thirro could not make sense of the retreat. What had happened?

  An arrow struck his butt, narrowly missing his tender wings. Furious, Thirro scanned the enemy troops. He couldn’t tell who’d fired the shot. He blinked rain from his eyes and sent two arrows at drooping humans before following his army north.

  Back at the camp he’d hoped never to return to, he tried to land gently, but with the pelting rain and his injuries, his legs gave out, and he landed in a painful heap.

  Nearby, a slave startled. She snapped her gaze away and made for a tent entrance.

  “Slave,” Thirro yelled.

  She stopped. Her shoulders slumped as she turned and rushed through the rain to his side. When he extended a hand, she gripped it and pulled up.

  “Careful!”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  On his feet, he leaned heavily on the woman. She groaned as he shifted his weight over her shoulders. Grime from Thirro stained her dress and coated her hair. With her assistance, he limped into one of the two medical tents. Slaves and healers lined the walls, waiting. He pointed to a healer before falling forward onto a cot. A gust of wet wind heralded the arrival of more wounded. Within seconds, the tent came alive. He took a long pull from a cup of spiced wine and closed his eyes.

 

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