Page 123 of The Cruel Dawn
I kiss Mily Tisen’s forehead and gently lay her back on the stone floor. I leave those flowers in her hands.
Jadon isn’t inside the small chamber, but there is a plate cluttered with olive pits, heels of bread, and a honey-dipper. An empty carafe of wine and a dirty cup sits on the ground. There, on the trunk: the folded clean clothes the Sisters left for Jadon to wear. On top of the clean clothes is the balled-up blue tunic and breeches that Jadon wore as he left the abbey. But there is no Jadon.
Shit.
A horn sounds, deep and commanding, cutting through the deathly silence.Zephar’s call!Startled birds burst into flight against the nighttime sky, their bodies dark against the pale light of the nightstar.
“What’s happening?” Elyn asks me.
“Trouble’s found us,” I say. “That’s what’s happening.” I take a last look back at Ancress Tisen, and then I race out of the Temple of Celestial with Elyn beside me.She rushes back to the sanctuary. She shouts, “Kai—”
Soldiers wearing blue tunics and cloaks over copper armor pour into Gasho on what look like horses—but these animals have two spiral horns.Howlthanes.Horse-wolves bred for war. The uniforms of their riders may have been sewn for Wake’s soldiers once upon a time, but the beings wearing them now have moldy skin in every tone and dull eyes that no longer flicker with life, even though these menarealive. They glow amber.
“These soldiers,” I say, “aren’t as big as the Devourers at Fihel.”
Elyn’s steps slow. “I don’t have any Raqiel guards with me. I’ve been drinking.”
I take her hand. “Don’t worry—”
“I can’t fightthat—” She points to the soldiers. “I can’t fight that and expect to—”
“I’ll protect you,” I shout, tugging at her shoulders. “Just stay close and be merciless, just like you did at Fihel. There are innocents here, so you can’t throw wind and lightning indiscriminately. Just…do your best.”
We can hear the cries of terrified Gashoans over the thundering of howlthane hooves pounding against the ground. Soon, these cries are swallowed by the noise of metal striking metal.
Pulling Justice from her scabbard, Elyn asks, “Aren’t Zephar and your guards supposed to be—?” And just like that, Zephar and his—no,my—army of Diminished, black shapes against the pale light, drop from the heavens like a storm unleashed. The roar of their arrival splits the sky.
BOOM!
The earth shakes from the impact of their landing, erupting in clouds of dust and debris. The gods of destruction, each one a weapon in their own right, step from the rubble, their blades ready for destruction.
Gasho, once quiet and peaceful, has become a battlefield. Elyn and I race toward a town square now alive with shouting.
Thick smoke rises in dark tendrils, curling above the collapsing buildings. The stench of burning wood and flesh makes it hard to breathe as we push forward. The once-beautiful town square, with its fountains and market stalls, has been ruined again. The stone walls are cracked and stained, the fountains dry and still.
The alabaster-and-marble tub that Prince Idus had built for me shatters in the fight. The intricate carvings that adorned its sides—swirling patterns of moths and delicate flowers—lie shattered in pools of spilled water.
I won’t let them take Gasho from me. My sword, Fury, sings as I grip her tight.
A soldier lunges at me. He smells like he’d been left half buried in the desert to die and was resurrected by expired tonics.
I swing, but Fury’s blade bounces off his neck. I blink, surprised at my failure to cut him down.
The soldier smiles—the first sign of sentience—and lifts his sword.
I grab Tempest from my ankle sheath and slide the dagger into the living-dead’s smile until he’s truly dead.
Fury didn’t even leave a scratch.Why not?
My hands shake as I grip my dagger. I jab and lunge, aiming for the necks, eyes, mouths, and every soft part of these living-dead. This is close work, and I wince every time blood or bile splashes across my hand. This blood stings, stinking like tar and vomit. I gag and try to clear my mind.
Elyn stays close by. Her swings grow tired, haphazard.
Fire and lightning would be too risky here. My Gashoans are already too close to the fighting—but they’re being trampled and torn apart.
The Diminished fight with more zeal than I’ve ever seen in our seasons together. Five Mera warriors battle one living-dead who refuses to fall to blows that would’ve obliterated any other soldier.
“Off with their heads,” Zephar shouts to the five.
