The Reawakened (22 page)

So Lycas had struck.

A small force of Wolverines and Badgers had approached the front gate disguised as Ilion soldiers. Silent as snakes, they slashed the throats of the guards, then opened the other gates to let in the remaining guerillas. Soon the garrison was crawling with rebels, as hidden as spiders beneath a rug.

The young Bear commander of the second platoon had been killed, along with three of his men. Lycas now commanded the fallen soldier’s platoon, which he’d redivided into two squads down from three, to fill in the holes. Somewhere on the other side of the garrison, Sirin was leading his own company. Spirits willing, they would meet at the top and watch their archers shoot the incoming Ilion troops.

None of the blood on Lycas’s clothes belonged to him. No knife could cut him, no sword could slash him. Only an arrow could kill him, and all the arrows were on his side.

Such as those in the quivers of the four Wolves who flanked him now. The wide stone courtyard was empty, except for four guards facing the open archways out to the sea, their red-and-yellow uniforms glowing in the torchlight.

Lycas gave the signal, and the Wolves vanished. They crossed the courtyard, silent and invisible.

One of them shouted, “Now!”

Four arrows flew out of nowhere, each striking a guard in the back of his neck. The Ilions staggered and stumbled. The Wolves ran forward and jerked them away from the archways before they could fall out.

Lycas signaled to his three first-phase Wolverines to follow him. They sprinted to join the now-visible Wolves.

The nearest Wolf planted his foot on the back of the writhing Ilion, then wrenched the arrow from his neck. Lycas knelt and sliced the Descendant’s throat. The soldier twitched once before dying.

“They’re coming,” whispered the Wolf.

Lycas looked through the archway out onto the bay. Three small ships bobbed toward the shore, lanterns at their bows and sterns.

“Let’s move out.”

The squads regrouped, and the platoon moved as one from the courtyard toward the south tower. Twelve sword-wielding Bears raced in front, followed by ten Wolverines, with a half dozen Wolves and Cougars bringing up the rear.

The tower’s heavy wooden doors swung open. Dozens of Ilions streamed out, swords raised.

Open battle was upon them.

Lycas grabbed the closest Wolf. “Get first and third platoons here, now!”

Then he turned toward the oncoming Ilions, drew his longest daggers and bellowed the Wolverine war cry. The call came from deep in his gut, where his rage and sorrow boiled.

His fighters joined in, even the Bears and Wolves and Cougars. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood straight, and every muscle clenched.

The Descendants slowed, boots skidding on the stone floor and eyes sparking with fear. The walls themselves seemed to quake at the sound.

Lycas charged.

Two soldiers converged on him. Their swords slashed at his sides, but he felt no more pain than if they’d slapped him with wooden sticks. Before they could raise their weapons again, Lycas plunged his daggers into their guts. Hot blood streamed over his hands. He twisted his wrists as he yanked the blades from the soldiers’ flesh. The men collapsed, groaning with their last full breaths.

Roaring the Wolverine cry, he led his fighters to form a bent line. They charged again, closing the line like a door, forcing the Ilions away from the right wall and the short stairway to the upper level.

The other two platoons arrived, and Lycas ordered them into position. He signaled the archers and several Bears and Wolverines to follow him up the stairs.

At the top, he opened the door. As his men streamed through, he turned to evaluate the battle in the cramped room below. Limbs and bodies littered the floor, and soldiers fought atop their comrades’ writhing forms. He longed to hurl himself into the center of the melee, wade ankle-deep in Ilion blood, but he yanked his mind back to the mission.

The stairs led to a narrow hall, where more Ilions waited. With no time to deliver killing blows, he fought merely to debilitate, with kicks and parries and quick slashes. Lycas and his Bears and Wolverines pressed on, guarding the archers.

He reached the end of the hallway and launched up the stairs, leaving behind another contingent of fighters to prevent the Ilions’ pursuit. He brought the archers, along with the two Tiron Wolverines and two Bears.

Lycas charged through the final door, into the rainy night.

The tower was teeming with fighters locked in combat. The stone surface was slick with rain and blood. Clearly the men in Sirin’s company had already arrived.

Lycas stationed the Wolves and Cougars at the edge of the wall, then grabbed the young Bear commanding the first platoon. “Have them fire on the arriving troops after they’ve landed on the sand, not a moment before.”

The Bear nodded and turned to his task. Lycas surveyed the situation atop the tower. The heaviest fighting was taking place on the far end, opposite the entrance.

A cluster of Ilion soldiers had barricaded themselves into one corner. Two of them were using their swords to swing and hack at something at their feet. Lycas beckoned the Tiron Wolverines to follow him over.

“Hold him down!” a Descendent in the corner shouted. Lycas heard the snap of a breaking bone, and one of the attackers shrieked in pain.

As Lycas approached, six Ilions held up their swords. Though they were outnumbered two-to-one, Lycas had no doubt he and his comrades could overcome these scared little men.

When they were within twenty paces, one of the soldiers in the middle of the pack shouted with triumph and held aloft a round object with long, thick, matted hair. Blood dripped from it, mixing with the sheets of rain.

The head of Sirin.

The other soldiers laughed at Lycas. “You’re next, beast!”

Lycas stared, uncomprehending, at the rugged face of his best friend. A distant corner of his mind wondered how a second-phase Wolverine could suffer such an injury. Had their Spirit weakened that much?

His mind struggled to form words within the sea of red fury.

“You take the far left one,” he said quietly to one Wolverine. “And you the far right,” he said to the other. He unsheathed two daggers—a long one for stabbing, and the sharpest one, for slicing. “Give me the rest.”

The Ilion soldiers stepped forward, and Lycas charged.

He drove his shoulder into the first one’s stomach before the man could slash with his sword. The elegant but now useless weapon clattered to the ground as they rolled together, tripping the next soldier. Lycas slashed the throats of both while they were off balance, then sprang to his feet to face the onslaught.

Six of them surrounded him, including the one who had held Sirin’s head aloft. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Tiron Wolverines holding their own with their opponents.

Lycas slashed and stabbed, and when all his daggers were embedded in soldiers, he seized the dead ones’ swords and kept fighting. He kicked and punched, gouging eyes and cutting throats, crushing rib cages with an elbow or foot.

When they were all on their knees or writhing on their backs, he dispatched them, one by one. No mercy, no quarter, not after what they’d done.

He stared at the last one as the enemy’s life poured out in a pool across the stones, diluted by the giant drops of rain. The man gazed back until the light faded from his eyes.

The twang of two dozen bows shattered Lycas’s reverie. He almost smiled; the Ilion reinforcements arriving by sea would find the garrison less friendly than expected.

He looked across the top of the tower to see that the fighting was over, and his men had the staircase well-guarded.

As his two Tiron comrades watched, Lycas knelt beside the remains of Sirin’s body. Bitter tears stung his eyes, but he would not let them fall.

“Go with Crow, my friend,” he whispered, “and don’t look back this time. Our people will remember you in song.” He laid Sirin’s dagger atop his chest, tucking its hilt inside the leather chain of his Wolverine fetish. “I’ll make sure it’s a drinking song.”

Half-numb, he collected his weapons and his two Wolverines, then made his way toward the edge of the tower, where the archers were raining arrows upon the Ilion troops landing from the ships.

“We’ll move out as soon as those ships turn back,” he told the Wolverines. They already knew the plan, but it calmed his mind to review it out loud. “We’ll get our wounded, steal as many Descendant weapons and horses as we can, then head for the hills before more Ilions arrive by road.”

One of his Bears approached, marching a young Ilion soldier before him at sword point.

“Sir, this one surrendered. What should we do with him?”

Lycas looked down at the blood-smeared face of the soldier, who stared up at him with contempt. “Where’s the garrison prison?” he asked the Bear.

“One floor down, sir. We passed the entrance on the way up.”

“Let’s take him there. I need to check the situation below.” He turned the young Ilion toward the stairs. “In you go.”

On the next floor, they entered the narrow corridor. The prisoner’s hands shook as he held them above his head.

“Are you Lycas the Wolverine?” he asked.

“Maybe. Why?”

“You killed my father.”

Lycas scanned the hallway ahead of them for threats. “Personally?”

“Yes. In Ilios fifteen years ago. I was three.”

“Did you join the army for vengeance?”

“I joined the army for a job. I came to Velekos for vengeance.”

“Then I should probably kill you out of respect.” Lycas stopped at an arched doorway that had been knocked off its hinges. “This looks like the prison.”

At the other end of the hall two Bears were sifting through the dead Ilions, collecting weapons. He called to them to join him.

When the Bears arrived, he shoved the young soldier through the doorway, never letting go of the uniform’s red collar.

A desk sat in the anteroom outside the cells, but no guards were posted. They’d probably left to help defend the garrison, or save their own skins.

Without speaking, he gestured for the Bears to precede him into the cell block. Swords drawn, the three men slid with their backs to the wall, through the doorway and into the main row.

He saw their stricken faces as they took in the sight. They lowered their swords slowly. The stench of blood slammed his nostrils.

The tallest Bear turned his head to look at Lycas. “No one’s alive, sir. We can smell it.”

Lycas entered the block. The floor between the cells ran thick with blood, flickering black in the torchlight at either end of the row of cells.

The first cell was empty, so he shoved the young Ilion soldier inside and closed the door. “Watch him,” he told the Bear who had spoken.

Six cells stood open. In front of each, a man lay dead, stabbed, beaten, his throat slit.

The Bear to his left shouted. “Someone’s alive!” He sheathed his sword and ran toward the other end of the corridor. Lycas followed.

A man lay facedown near the far wall, dressed neither in prison drab nor an Ilion uniform. A pool of blood spread around him. As Lycas came closer, he saw the man’s left hand twitch, clutching the hilt of a short sword.

The Bear pressed his fingers to the pulse of the injured man’s neck, then sighed as he sat back on his heels. “Not alive for long.”

“I wonder who—”

Lycas stopped, the breath freezing in his lungs.

He knew this soldier’s scent. It was more like his own than any living man.

Nilik.

The few soldiers who broke through and managed to storm up the beach toward the garrison were cut down by Marek and several other second-phase Wolves who stood invisible at the bottom of the hill.

She moved back into the shelter of the cave, closed her eyes and prayed her husband would not suffer nightmares. He was a hunter, not a warrior, and each death caused him to die a little inside.

Someone touched her shoulder, and she yelped.

“Sorry,” Damen whispered. “It’s unnerving to be so close to them, heh?”

“I’ll be glad when it’s over and we can head back to the hills.” She let out a sigh. “I’m just glad Nilik’s at the camp, safe and sullen.”

“He won’t stop trying to avenge Lania’s death.”

“Maybe her murderers have already been killed in the battle.”

Damen shook his head. “Our soldiers wouldn’t bother fighting caged men, when there are bigger threats.”

The corners of her mouth trembled. “You saw the vision as clearly as I did. You know he dies young. It’ll be soon no matter what.”

“But not tonight.” He took her hand and threaded her arm through the crook of his elbow. “You’ve done all you could.”

“What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t try?” She leaned against him and wiped a rebellious tear from her cheek. “It feels like I swallowed a brick.”

“This’ll be worth all the worry,” Damen whispered. “The weapons in that garrison could supply an entire regiment.”

“A lot of men are dying in that garrison. After this, Ilios will squeeze Velekos so hard, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Eh. It’s impossible to squeeze a flea.”

She huffed a semilaugh. “You pay too much attention to my brother.”

“It won’t be painless. I don’t know if any of us will live to see the liberation, no matter how old we grow.” He touched his wrinkled cheek. “Those of you who aren’t already old.”

“They’re retreating!” someone shouted. “The Ilions are going back out to sea!”

Rhia dared to peer around the corner of the cave. It was hard to see in the darkness through the driving rain, but the lanterns on the ships seemed to be moving out into the bay.

“Thank the Spirits.” She turned to one of the healers. “Light the torches. The wounded will be arriving soon.”

They hurried to set up lights within the rudimentary hospital they’d constructed inside the cave. It wouldn’t fit many people, so some would have to be treated in the rain.

Rhia carried a small torch outside to look for a level, sheltered spot where they could treat patients.

From a distance, her brother roared her name.

Her heart froze. Without turning, she knew what he held in his arms. Nothing else could put that pain in his voice.

“No…” She lifted her gaze to the bay’s black horizon. The waves rolled in, relentless. Crow’s wings smothered it all.

She turned to see Lycas dashing toward her over the sand. About twenty paces away, he stumbled, almost falling to his knees. He lurched to regain his balance, then tumbled in the sand, the body in his arms rolling forward.

It was as she’d seen it at the moment of Nilik’s birth—her son facedown in the sand, bleeding, a sword near his outstretched hand.

Crow would not be cheated.

“Nilik!” Her scream tore her throat as she dropped to her knees beside him. She grasped his shoulder and turned him on his back, her own cry echoing in her mind, mixing with the sound of Crow’s wings.

Nilik’s shirt was torn to rags. His hair was loose and tangled, its light brown strands streaked with blood. His face was bruised and swollen, almost unrecognizable. She touched his jaw, cheeks, eyebrows, seeing him with her hands, for her eyes blurred with a flood of tears and rainwater. This wasn’t happening.

To her right, Lycas coughed and choked, struggling to rise to his hands and knees. “He came.” His arms gave way, and his face hit the sand. An arrow protruded from his back.

“Somebody help my brother!” she screamed into the wind, but Damen was already at his side with a third-phase Otter healer.

A young Otter woman dashed toward Rhia and Nilik, carrying a roll of bandages.

Rhia held up her hands. “It’s too late.”

The girl stopped and stared, as if uncomprehending. Rhia wanted to scream at her, shove her away, make her stop looking.

She turned back to her son. As if in a trance, she opened his shirt and examined his body. The rain splattered on his chest, washing the stains to reveal three wounds—one large to the chest and two smaller ones to the abdomen. The smallest wound of all gushed the most blood.

“Nilik,” she whispered, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.

He opened his eyes, just to slits. “Mama.”

Her chest felt like it would cave in. He hadn’t called her that since the day he learned to walk.

His breath heaved and gurgled. “Mama…don’t let Him take me.” Blood dribbled from his mouth, and his hand flailed until it found hers. “Don’t let me go.”

“You’ll be all right,” she choked out. “He’ll take good care of you. You’re my son.”

“No!”

Rhia’s face crumpled at the sound of Marek’s approaching cry.

He sank to his knees at Nilik’s feet and released a soul-rending howl to the sky.

Rhia touched Nilik’s cheek and held his blue-gray gaze until it shifted past her. “I love you,” she whispered. “Go now.”

The fear faded from Nilik’s eyes, then a moment later, life itself. The cries around her peaked to crescendos, but they were swamped by the sound of Crow’s wings.

Every organ inside her body seemed to twist in on itself, and she doubled over, emitting a soundless shriek of grief. She closed her eyes and formed two useless fists in front of her face.

“Why?” Rhia rocked forward and back, again and again, each time coming closer to Nilik’s body. Finally she pressed her forehead against his shoulder, still warm with the life that had left him.

“Why?”
she screamed into the sand. Her fists opened beneath her, forming claws that would tear the skin from her own neck, mix her blood with that of her firstborn. “Nilik, why?”

Marek crawled up to collapse beside her. He uttered an incoherent prayer, his voice soaked in tears. She slid her hand into his and squeezed, as if she could hold him in this world.

Rhia sobbed out the words with her halting breath. “Had. To be. A hero.” Tears soaked her face and stung her dry lips. “What kind of hero breaks his mother’s heart?” She let go of Nilik and clutched Marek’s arms instead, lest she start shaking their son and asking him if he finally understood that there were more important things than vengeance.

But to a Wolverine, even a dead one, that was a lie.