Page 52 of Humans Don’t Have Horns (A Crown of Blood and Magic #1)
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lian
No, no, no. This can’t be happening. All my nightmares are coming to life as I witness the demichads managing to climb out of the canyon.
Daton and the warriors have been down at the canyon for hours now. It’s hard to know how many exactly with the prolonged eclipse. It’s as if the sun and the moon themselves stopped their course to watch the battle. Yet Sun and the Goddess only observe. They do not intervene. And neither does Amada.
As people take notice of the demichads, sheer terror permeates among the Mongans and Puresouls alike.
For the first time since the battle started, I can’t hear the sounds of the fighting in the canyon, since shouts and cries up here overwhelm them.
The Aldonian archers shoot arrows for the first time since they arrived.
But that seems only to make the Mongans even more frenzied, and they run away from the Aldonians’ range in panic.
I see my brother shout orders to the archers on his horse.
But I can’t hear what he says, since he is far behind them.
I can’t hear if he orders them to aim only at the demichads or to aim at the Mongans as well.
Dahav is suddenly at my side on her horse, her face visible. Nass and his son, Shemesh, are on their horses behind her. “What are your orders?” she asks in a level voice. There is an earnestness in her appearance but no apprehension, and my heart fills with reverence toward her once again.
“Save the children,” I order, but it comes out more like a plea.
She nods to me and rides away with her entourage toward the Mongans.
Her yellow hair blows like a golden halo in the wind that her fast riding creates.
She bends over her horse and grabs a Mongan child standing crying in the commotion.
Her men follow her example and help children and their parents to their horses.
The Kozaries aren’t trained to fight a threat like this.
The Aldonians made sure no one but them could protect themselves.
They failed only with the Mongans. But as I watch Kozaries risking their lives to help Mongans, I can’t help but feel in awe of the mark on history taking place.
Puresouls have never risked themselves for Mongans, and ever since the War of Light, they have never helped them, even if there was no cost to it.
The Kozaries especially helped none but of their own people.
The Aldonians’ arrows hit many of the demichads emerging from the canyon but not all of them. But even some of those hit by the arrows just keep on running without pause, barely affected.
I glance at the infirmary the Renyans set up, where injured Mongans lie.
The Mongans tasked with evacuating the wounded have been busy, and the infirmary’s cots seem fully occupied.
My eyes search for Daton for the hundredth time, but he is nowhere to be seen.
I curse Amada with the foulest curses I can think of for sending us here, for punishing me by hiding herself and her powers from me.
I stand here helpless as the world comes to an end.
Emek is close to me, shouting orders to the people to flee for safety, but she herself will not leave.
She made Shana leave with Kon. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget Shana’s beautiful face twisted with mortification and horror as she grabbed the baby and started running in the opposite direction of where his mother and father were fighting for their and all our lives.
A few demichads run directly toward Emek and her helpers.
I strengthen the hold of the axes Daton gifted me and run straight to them.
Better to die fighting than to stand and watch the people I love killed as the result of my own shortcomings.
I run and hurl my ax to the closest demichad with all my strength, as Daton taught me.
It falls to its knees, and I behead it with the other ax.
Two other demichads turn toward me, their little eyes set on me.
I don’t think. There is no time to think.
I strike with everything I have. I strike with all the wrath and despair at the mere idea that Daton may be dead.
I aim for the demichad’s heart, which I can see clearly for the lack of skin.
Then I shove my boot into its body to pull the axes out of its flesh.
I strike the third one, but its claws meet my left arm before it drops to the ground, and blood gushes out of the fresh wounds.
I am not a Mongan. The wounds are deep and will take a long time to heal. If I get the chance to heal.
I look for Emek and see her lying on the ground. A demichad with three arrows in its back looms above her. I drop one of my axes, not able to hold anything with my left arm now. I run toward the demichad, and with an overhand strike, I crack its skull. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” I ask Emek.
Her eyes are wide with wonder as she looks at me, and instead of answering me, she gasps, “He taught you how to fight like one of his Mongan warriors.”
Maybe that’s like me teaching him Renyan healing. Another taboo that we crossed. Only, he can never claim to be innocent. He always knew the laws. He knows them better than anyone.
I was a fool to push him away for so long.
I never in my life felt as loved and cherished as I did last night.
And it wasn’t only lust, even though there was more of that than I could ever imagine possible.
It was love. Pure love from the purest soul I’ve ever met.
Not the blood he has shed nor the blood he has bled could ever contaminate his soul. Not to me.
I help Emek rise, and slowly, supporting each other, we walk to the infirmary. I’m surprised to see Siean there. She hurries to me as she sees me. “You’re hurt.” Her face is tinted with alarm.
“It can wait. Help Emek,” I order because Emek’s injuries look far worse. Her collarbone area looks shredded, and her right arm barely hangs to her body .
“No.” Siean’s face turns harsh, and the alarm is gone.
“Anya, come heal my sister,” she orders a Renyan woman near us.
She’s dressed in a healer’s uniform. An indigo tunic and pants and that make her aqua hair and eyes pop.
The embroidered silver pattern on her chest signals that she is the head of the royal healers, and I blink at that in surprise.
I assumed Siean was mocking me when she said the head of the royal healers would be supervising the infirmary.
“Her injuries are worse. Stop being such a racist, and treat her first,” I growl through my teeth. I am so tired of this, of all this hate and obsession with colors and horns.
Siean actually looks aghast at my words. “What kind of a person doesn’t put their family first? It has nothing to do with race.”
“Yes, Your Highness, your sister’s fault is mere nepotism.” The woman she called Anya smiles snidely. And I feel something as Siean’s composure calms a bit. Anya helps Emek lie down on one of the cots for healing.
“I told you to treat Lian first,” Siean snaps at her.
“And if you were a healer, I would have obeyed your orders. But you are merely a queen.” Anya manages to sound haughty and impish at the same time. Siean shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but the corner of her lips rises in a suppressed smile, and she doesn’t push it any further.
Instead, Siean turns her attention back to me and asks slyly, “Where’s your boyfriend?
” And maybe it’s the fatigue in her voice or my own personal terror, but I don’t bother answering her.
In truth, I’m surprised she is even here, so close to the canyon while the Aldonians are at their safe position and the Kozaries have already fled with the Mongans who weren’t fighting.
She’s the Queen of Renya; no one would expect her to stay, and she will gain no praise for it from her own people.
“Why are you here and not someplace safe?” I eye her gingerly. She just shrugs, her eyes wandering to Anya. I can’t interpret the look on her face, and then it’s gone anyway.
Suddenly the moon begins shifting away from the sun, or maybe it is the sun that has given in and shifted.
It’s all so abrupt. The twilight of the evening appears.
The air smells of salt, blood, and something sweet that reminds me of Daton.
Mongan warriors start to climb out of the canyon.
I see Niska drenched in blood, gore, and mud.
She and Nehol carry a giant warrior on a stretcher toward the healers.
My heart sinks to my stomach as I realize the man they’re carrying is Daton.
As Niska spots me, she cries to me in panic, “You must save him!” She lays him on the ground near me.
He’s barely recognizable, covered in gore and mud from head to toe.
His body is limp as if lifeless, and I hurry to look for a pulse.
After a terrifying minute of searching, I finally feel a shallow pulse.
So shallow, so unlike his usual, strong heartbeat.
My eyes scan his figure. It’s hard to say how much of the blood is his own, but there are alarmingly deep wounds on his throat and torso.
His flesh looks shredded. I have no doubt any Puresoul would have long been dead from such injuries.
Anya kneels at my side and her hand reaches toward Daton, but Niska smacks her hand away so powerfully that Anya cries out in pain. Then she pierces me with her ruby eyes and snarls, “He would never let one of those witches treat him. You must do this.”
“Look at him. He needs a blood transfusion!” Anya exclaims, appalled.
“No,” Niska snaps, “he would rather die than have heretics’ blood in him.” And she looks at me as if Anya has just proved her point. That only I can treat him. The blood is sacred to the Mongans in ways I can’t begin to fathom.