Page 52 of The Cruel Dawn (Vallendor #2)

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.

He figured that out more quickly than Elyn, Jadon, and I did when we fought at Fihel.

Now, heads roll across the ground. It will never be clean, no matter how many rains sweep through the land.

Elyn reaches back for me, to make sure that I’m still fighting beside her.

I squeeze her hand. I’m right here. “Do you see Jadon?” I shout over the sounds of battle.

“Yes! Look!” She points south, to the perimeter of the city.

Jadon, wearing the sandy-brown leather armor of the Gasho, swings one of their curved blades. He moves slowly. He doesn’t know how to wield this type of sword.

Elyn says, “We can’t risk him—”

“Go!” I shout. “Get him out of here!”

Without another word, she launches herself into the sky, those faint wings catching the light.

My view of her is soon blocked by a living-dead warrior as tall as a date palm and as wide as a king’s bed. I stagger backward.

He points at me. “You are to return the Weapon at once or—”

I plunge Tempest into the soft spot nearest to me: his groin. He shrieks and falls to his knees.

I step back.

Shari bounds from behind me, sinks her teeth into his sword hand, and forces him to drop his weapon.

Zephar’s twin blades lop off the Devourer’s head, and it rolls to a stop before me. Without a word to me, he plunges back into the fray with Shari at his side.

I scan Gasho. More lightless bodies: sisters, women, children, priests… My people. Tears spring to my eyes as the innocent fall all around me, by blade and by the horns of the howlthanes.

“Kai!” Elyn shouts.

I look back at her. “Where’s Jadon? Go back and get him!” I say, dashing south before she can respond.

The thick smoke hides that this city is lost to chaos, but I don’t stop fighting. I slide my dagger into the throats of three soldiers who block my path, and they fall without a sound. I keep moving toward the taverns, the palm grove, the aqueduct.

In the taverns, drunk men fight each other, while others rally against the soldiers. Other frightened Gashoans huddle in corners or hide beneath tables. There’s no sign of Jadon.

I keep searching, forcing myself to push past the fear.

Jadon is still here. I feel him somewhere in this heavy storm.

Over in the palm grove, fronds rustle in the wind, but Jadon does not hide in their shadows. There are just more soldiers, more bodies, and the haunting sound of distant screams.

Down at the aqueduct, the sound of rushing water offers no comfort. Jadon is nowhere to be found.

I rush back into the city, stomach tight in frustration. As I near a coal bin behind a crumbling wall, a whimper catches my attention. I move quickly toward a clump of glowing amber forms.

A small group of women and children huddles together, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. In front of them, a soldier swings a flail; the chain whistles before the metal ball lands with a crack against the bin. The group screams.

I can’t hear their prayers over the noise, but I know what they ask. I thrust my dagger into the soldier’s cheek.

The Devourer clutches his face and staggers past a Mera warrior, who chops off his head.

Soon, the number of surviving Mera warriors and Eserime healers outnumbers the otherworldly. Soon, no otherworldly—including the howlthanes—have their heads.

Elyn returns to the town square, her golden armor now streaked with the black-green blood of these new Devourers. Jadon isn’t beside her.

An Eserime healer’s hesitation catches my attention.

At first, I think I’ve imagined their continued sense of unease.

As Elyn and I move through the square, though: the Eserime, normally efficient and unflinching in their work, now pause as they crouch over the wounded Gashoans.

The healers’ hands linger over the mortals’ wounds, uncertain.

Their once-constant murmured prayers and the soothing hum of healing spells have quieted to an uncomfortable silence.

One healer looks down at a Gasho soldier’s torn leg, and her fingers tremble over the injury before she withdraws. She casts a glance toward the others, but none of them move to help the man.

“This isn’t right,” Elyn mutters, her gaze flicking between the healers.

“Why are they hesitating?” I ask, whispering.

We watch a healer pause before touching an injured soldier. She has yet to cast the soothing, restorative light that has always been the Eserime’s gift and duty.

What is she waiting for?

“Something’s stopping them,” Elyn says.

The strange feeling settles deeper in my gut and twists. The world before me flashes, and I’m falling…the abbey so far away from me…

I crash into the earth, and I’m immediately surrounded by a herd of howlthanes. The creatures stab at me with their spiraled horns, but I roll this way and that way, avoiding their strikes. Their horns snag my armor as I tire.

BAM!

Horns yank my left greave off.

BAM!

Horns tear a vambrace from my wrist. More armor is dislodged from my body.

A large howlthane with horns thicker than a tree trunk stands over me. For a moment, the howlthane’s eyes become Jadon’s eyes, and the howlthane—Jadon—aims his spiraled horns right at my bare chest—

Shari licks my hand and brings me back to Gasho.

I’m having visions now even while I’m awake. If this vision is a true prophecy, then…

We won the battle.

We lost the war.

And I lost Vallendor.

Because when faced with such decisions, all men choose themselves.