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.
* * *
WRYTH 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.