“No,” I whisper. I’m not weak. I’m stronger than I believe. I’ve proved this time and time again, and will continue to do so in the hours to come.

  I have just turned to seek out Peter when the whale song begins overhead.

  I lift my eyes.

  I open my mouth.

  I see, in the sky above, the Sky Whales as they begin to take flight.

  “They’re going,” Peter says.

  “Yeah,” I reply, “I—”

  A rope snaps.

  A trebuchet fires its load.

  A twang of several ballista rings through the air as below the Earthwalkers begin to slow.

  “By the Goddess,” I whisper, reaching out to stable myself on Peter’s arm. “It’s happening.”

  “We’re descending,” Peter replies.

  The ground trembles as the momentum from the past two decades leaves Earthwalker Eula’s bones. Slowly, cautiously, she lifts her head and emits a cry I know comes only at the edge of life, and begins to sing as the other Earthwalkers respond in kind.

  Their song—melodious and haunting in the dawning light of a new and horrible day—makes every hair on the back of my neck stand rigid.

  Slowly, the Earthwalkers begin to descend.

  “Hold on everyone!” someone cries. “She’s going down!”

  Screams of panic erupt in the market district behind us. Cries of command are issued from those guardsmen who have taken control of the civilian population. I hear, distantly, the bells from the temples ringing, and come to realize that we are to know true fear in our greatest hour.

  As Earthwalker Eula begins to descend, Sky Whale Blooma breaks away from the ramparts and begins to float toward the valley.

  “Blessed be the holy things,” I whisper, “for whales who fly and men who die.”

  “And the world as it burns asunder,” Peter finishes.

  Ziara roars.

  The Sky Whales sing.

  I see, from their depths above, items fall.

  Then I hear explosions in the land below.

  They are like lightning striking a tree: sharp, quick, and powerful. With reverberating force their impressions echo across the valley as below the Fallen scream. I see, briefly, Ziara turn his mighty head, then watch as he charges through the sea of the undead.

  A long, mourning sound comes from somewhere in the sky.

  Then, slowly, a whale begins to fall.

  I breathe effortlessly the air that surrounds me and watch with bitter hope as the whale’s body descends to the ground. Colossal in size, monumental in strength, its ability to hold itself to flight quickly escapes it, and then it is falling like a star, ever so swiftly to the ground.

  When it crashes, an explosion—and a ball of fire—erupts from its being.

  “Goddess,” Peter says.

  I tremble as Earthwalker Eula finally settles to the ground.

  No longer are we moving.

  Now we are before the valley of the dead.

  28

  The Valley of the Dead

  Their wicked cries can be heard even from atop the hill. Monstrous, chaotic, and filled with the greed of hunger, they echo across the valley as a man’s voice would were he to call to a mountain and greets us with a hellish impression of sheer destruction.

  I have never been one to take the idea of them being legion seriously. Now, I realize, I was foolish.

  “All right!” a guardsman cries from somewhere within the market district. “Projectile weaponry! Line up between the siege weapons and prepare to fire!”

  Men and women, young and old, wielding bows and slingshots, step forward.

  “Katelyn!” I cry as I catch her eyes in the crowd.

  She offers me a sad nod as she approaches the line of ballista and trebuchets.

  I, in sheer panic, make move to follow.

  A hand grasps my arm.

  “It’s not our place,” Peter says.

  I want to fight him. I truly do. But I realize how foolish that would be.

  This is it, I think, gazing upon the people as they flock to the ramparts’ high walls. This is really it.

  We are meant to do battle with the foes who have haunted our dreams for twenty years, and face the king who leads them.

  “Infantryman!” another guardsman calls. “To the eastern ramparts!”

  At first, I am confused. But soon we are drawn, like puppets on their strings, toward the area where the Sky Whales used to dock in simpler times. It is there that several men work to dismantle a section of the ramparts to make way for us soldiers who will be fighting on the front lines.

  Above, Sky Whale Blooma sings.

  I lift my eyes to gaze upon her and realize that Kaelan is onboard.

  Please, I think, and hope, and pray, let her survive long enough for Kaelan to make his attempt.

  I swallow the ever-growing lump in my throat and advance toward the freshly-opened gap in the ramparts.

  Peter steps in front of me. I follow close behind.

  Passing through the opening in the walls that once held our world together is one thing. Stepping onto solid ground is another.

  I reel from the difference in texture, the purpose in my stance, and the hesitation in my heart. Quickly—and, I believe, rationally—I shake it off, before following my betrothed toward the edge of the hill.

  “Ready!” I hear the guardsman leading the archers call. “Aim! FIRE!”

  A flurry of arrows and stones soar through the air and fall in an arc into the valley below.

  The Fallen scream.

  Ziara roars.

  I tremble—not from fear, I realize, but from the unsung adrenaline in my veins.

  “Bryce,” Peter says. “You’re trembling.”

  “I know,” I say, and laugh, a sound so bitter that I can’t imagine it coming from me. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “That we’re going to face the one thing we’ve been scared of our entire lives.”

  Peter says nothing. Rather, he reaches out and takes hold of my hand just in time for another explosion to rock the world below.

  “Oh Gods,” a man behind us says as we continue to approach the edge of the hill. “Oh Gods, oh Gods, oh Gods.”

  “They’re coming!” a woman cries.

  The screams from the valley below echo forward as the mass of Fallen swell with the tide of flesh.

  I, in the thick of it all, can only stare.

  There are so many Fallen that it is hard to pick one out from the other. Their flesh is thick and like bark, the remnants of skin distended across skulls which bear floral growth, their bare mouths screaming and chomping at the air as they continue to climb the hill.

  “Bryce,” Peter says.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “I just want you to know—”

  A man screams for a rope to be cut.

  “—that if I’ve ever done anything wrong—”

  A trebuchet snaps forward and sends its load of stones into the air.

  “—that I love you,” he says.

  “Don’t get scared on me, Peter,” I say as the Fallen continue to climb the hill. “We have to be brave. Strong. We—”

  A wicked scream rises from the crowd as the first of the Fallen breaches the top of the hill.

  A man, large and humble, runs forward to meet the undead monster. He lifts his head and clubs it.

  “Formation!” the guardsman cries. “Get in the damn formation!”

  The spear men push forward and fall to their knees—their weapons primed, their postures ready.

  “Swordsmen!” the guardsman calls once more. “Behind them!”

  I draw my sword and fall in line behind the men and women at the ready.

  A crowd of Fallen dead scramble atop the hill. Clumsy like children, they trip over themselves, but quickly right their postures and go sailing against the spears and halberds before us.

  My sword whips out.

  Coagulated blood sprays the air.

  The men and women keeping the Fallen back hold their weapons steady as they begin to pile atop each other.

  “We’re going to die!” someone nearby cries. “There’s too many of them!”

  “Think of all of those who fell before,” the guardsmen replies, “and send these creatures to Hell!”

  Cheers erupt from the back of the crowd as those of us facing the first rush of the Fallen continue to cut them down.

  It doesn’t take long for the reality of what we are going through to settle in. My stomach in knots, my thoughts racing, I slash and stab and cut and jab and do every little thing in my power to hold at bay the plague-bearing creatures before us. I try not to look at them—at least, not directly—but even when doing so I can see the twisted semblance of humanity remaining. Their eyes, if they have any, are green; their mouths, filled with misshapen teeth, are snapping; their limbs, snarled with vines or rotten to the bone, reach forward. It’s any wonder that some of us haven’t been reduced to tears, but seeing my brethren fighting gives me strength I never knew I had.

  What would my mother think, I wonder? Would she be proud? With her sword in hand I am defending our world, our people, our futures.

  It is the only thing I can grasp onto at this moment.

  “Push them back!” the guardsman leading us cries. “Spear men! Rise and push forward.”

  The colossal wave of undead prevents the effort from occurring easily, but still, those bearing spears and halberds try. Their arms tremble and their chests heave as the biggest, strongest and most-determined of us fight to push back the Fallen.

  I fear, however, that it may not last.

  As they breach the edge of the hill, and begin to fall to their knees, Sky Whale Blooma sings and begins to drift into the valley.

  “Kaelan,” I say.

  “What?” Peter cries.

  I shake my head and watch the Sky Whale’s trajectory out my peripheral as I fight. I know I can’t remain focused on her for long, but seeing the Whale drifting into the skies above Ziara is like something out of a dream: she the good, he the wicked.

  A man in front of me screams as one of the Fallen reaches out and takes hold of his helmet.

  I lunge, thrusting my sword forward.

  Blood sprays his face as I twist my blade through the creature’s limbs and cut them back.

  The single moment of weakness is enough to give them headway.

  The Fallen—who seem to have witnessed this very helpless mistake—rush the man before me.

  Unable to fight back, he screams as he is weighed down and then torn apart.

  I scream.

  Peter cries out.

  I whip my blade through the air and decapitate a creature heading straight for me.

  “Bryce!” Peter calls. “Look out!”

  I dodge the hands of one particularly large Fallen and slam my boot onto its foot.

  It stumbles.

  It falls.

  Someone behind me slams their axe into its head.

  I spin, knocking one of the Fallen off-balance with my fist, and slam my blade into its sternum.

  Blooma’s cries echo forth.

  I am given a moment of reprieve as I see something fall from the Sky Whale.

  “He’s doing it!” I scream. “He’s falling toward Ziara!”

  I can see but a glimmer of him as he falls. Lance at the ready, the brave Elf goes sailing toward the monstrous king.

  The Elf lands, blade down, piercing the creature’s flesh.

  The Fallen Guardian thrashes its head to and fro as the fabled weapon skewers its undead flesh.

  Kaelan, somehow, manages to remain on.

  “BRYCE!” Peter screams.

  I turn just in time to see a Fallen heading straight for me.

  I bulldoze through it, holding my shield steady as the thinning wave splits, and smash its skull in with my heavy shield before lifting my eyes to view Kaelan’s progress.

  Please, I think. Goddess.

  The Elf struggles to maintain his hold on the Lance. Whether that’s because the king’s skin is like brittle bark or if it’s due to the fact that Ziara is thrashing I cannot be sure, but at that moment, it doesn’t seem to matter.

  As I watch Kaelan fight to remain atop the creature, I realize that he may not be able to do what he was set out to do.

  “GUARDSMAN!” I scream. “AIM FOR ITS LEGS!”

  The effort of several men brings the massive speared head of the ballista’s projectile down to the Fallen Guardian’s level.

  “Aim!” someone cries. “FIRE!”

  One of the massive bolts flies forward and strikes the creature in the leg.

  Ziara stumbles.

  Kaelan slips.

  I watch, helplessly, as he is left hanging, his only grip the Lance.

  “SOMEONE HELP HIM!” I cry. “SOMEONE—”

  A second bolt is fired.

  The creature stumbles again.

  This time, Kaelan rights himself, but only long enough to pull himself onto the creature’s neck and attempt another strike.

  With a quick whip of its head, both Kaelan, and the Lance, go sailing through the air.

  Then he is falling.

  “NO!” I scream.

  I watch helplessly as my friend, my ally, and my confidant goes flying toward a helpless death, our only hope in his hands.

  It is at that moment that I make a decision.

  Please, I think, Kira… if you are listening… bless me.

  Then I begin to run down the hill.

  29

  The Goddess’ Champion

  “BRYCE!” I hear Peter scream. “BRYCE!”

  But I ignore him, and rush into the ever-thickening throng of the Fallen.

  Falling from such a height is nearly impossible to fathom. But watching Kaelan, as he falls to his death, is a nightmare made true, a beast of my horrible conscience incarnate, and spurs me onward with little thought for my safety.

  I draw my shield tight against my body and rush the thinning throng of the Fallen who are too focused on the siege weaponry and people above. Over their corpses I maneuver, through biting teeth I fight. I slash and dash and dice and slice anything that comes my way as I attempt to make my way toward the spot where Kaelan fell, all with the knowledge that I will soon be within the king’s shadow.

  I hear distantly Peter’s screams, but don’t bother to turn and seek him out. I only pray that he has not chosen to follow me.

  I launch myself from a sickly pile of Fallen who were crushed by falling rock and into the trampled grass nearby.

  I spin, slashing a creature that draws near, and witness the ballista turn their assault on the Fallen Guardian himself.

  Though little can be done to truly immobilize it, the ballista are piercing through the creature’s legs, causing it to stumble about in an attempt to keep itself upright. Its massive green eyes are still set to the sky—to Blooma and the other Elves within as they attempt to dissuade the creature from rushing the soldiers and people atop the hill. This momentary distraction will not last, I know, as with each passing moment Blooma falls lower, even though she is fighting to remain afloat.

  When I pass beneath the King’s shadow, I feel hopelessness engulf me.

  This is the darkness all men fear, a piece of scripture once said, for its name was Telnoch, and in His perpetual night, all men will suffer.

  I catch a glimmer of light sparkling in the distant grass.

  The Lance! I think.

  I burst into a sprint, knocking Fallen aside and slashing others until they resemble nothing more than butchered meat. I am consumed by rage, by hate, by loss, and know now that if I am to die doing anything, it will be saving my people.

  I can no longer hear Peter’s screams.

  I can no longer hear the men’s cries.

  All I can hear is the throb of blood in my ears.

  As I come upon Kaelan’s body, I see that there is nothing I possibly do. Having fallen from such a height, he was killed on impact, but seeing his handsome face—his lips bubbling with blood, his body broken—is enough to make me scream.

  “YOU!” I cry, spinning to face the undead Guardian who stands nearby. “YOU DID THIS!”

  Ziara turns and settles his green eyes on me.

  Then, slowly, it opens its mouth to reveal a maw of unending teeth.

  I sheath my sword—and in one great, final act of desperation, take hold of the Lance. Kira’s Lance.

  “By the Goddess above,” I say, “who gave Her life to save Her people, I swear I will kill you.”

  The creature rushes me.

  Blooma screams, then propels herself forward with all her might.

  The crash of her wooden body against Ziara is sickening. Drawing rivulets of sap-like blood, and a mighty roar from the reptilian Guardian, he spins to face Blooma, only to go crashing into the ground.

  Unfortunately, Blooma’s sacrifice may have only further endangered me.

  While Ziara has been forced to the ground, he has landed dangerously close to where I stand. I can smell his breath, sweet with sap and sickly with rot, can see clearly into eyes that once and still seem to hold intelligence.

  Around me, the undead scramble to reach Blooma regardless of the fact that she bears no flesh.

  “Let me live,” I whisper, “if only to kill him.”

  A glimmer of light flickers in the brightening sky.

  I do not have long to contemplate its meaning.

  Taking the Lance in both hands, I rush forward—toward the King of the Fallen.

  Ziara lifts his mighty head to acknowledge me and snaps his teeth at me.

  I take the long way around, brandishing the weapon in my grasp as if it is the only thing between me and death.

  Trebuchet stones fall around me.

  A ballista bolt goes sailing into the back of Ziara’s neck.

  He screams—so loud that my ears pop and my body trembles—and lifts his head to the sky.

  I use the distraction to clear the distance between us.

  Its scales, glistening black and red in the light of the slowly-awakening day, offer solid purchase as I draw my sword and slam it into him.

  In life, its body may have withstood the test of my blade. In death, however, it sinks easily into its bark-like flesh.

 

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