I know what it is to lose someone. I know what it’s like to hate. But anyone can change. Grow. Look at me. Where I was three months ago. Where I am now.
- YOU ARE NOTHING LIKE THE KINSLAYER.— More than you know. Everyone here wants the same thing. The Rebels. The Kagé. You. Me. Yukiko. Buruu. Gods, even the gaijin. We just want a moment’s peace. A place to be happy. An ordinary life. So why the hells are we all fighting each other?
- THE THINGS YOU SPEAK. PEACE. HAPPY. HOW MANY YOU KNOW WHO ACTUALLY OWNS THEM? HOW MANY NOT TOUCHED BY HURT OR DEATH? -
Hana thought of her mother crumpled on the floor. Broken glass, blood-slicked, as clubbing became stabbing. Her brother lunging for her father’s throat, murder in his eyes.
She could still hear the sound of her own screaming.
- FAMILY. LOVE. NOT ORDINARY THINGS. NOT IN THIS WORLD. SPECIAL. WORTH FIGHTING FOR. AND SO WE DO. -
And in doing so, we make sure nobody has them. Everybody loses except the man selling funeralwear.
- IT IS EITHER FIGHT, OR WATCH AS EVERYTHING IS TAKEN AWAY. YOU KNOW THIS. LIVING IN DREGS. WARRING FOR EVERY SCRAP. THEY TOOK YOUR MOTHER, YET YOU REMAIN. THEY TOOK YOUR EYE, YET YOU SEE. -
Hana turned her gaze to the horizon. The storm building between the edge of land and sky. The Tora army that even now must be stomping closer.
I wish it could be another way. That we didn’t have to fight. Hurt. Kill.
- YOU KNOW YOU MUST. -
A sigh.
Yes. I do.
The clouds parted, and far below, she saw them. A long, twisting line marching east, near ten thousand strong, ironclad, drenched and grim beneath black drizzle. Her mother’s people. The blood in her veins. She touched the amulet around her neck, trying to gather her strength, still the butterflies tumbling about her gut.
- I AM WITH YOU. -
I know that too.
- YOU ARE READY? -
A nod.
I’m ready.
- THEN WE BEGIN. -
*
Aleksandar stood shin-deep in black mud, commiserating with another officer when the cry went up from the line. The Kapitán glanced up, shielding bloodshot eyes from the black rain, cursing the storm and this Goddessforsaken country for the hundredth time that day.
At least 10 percent of their number had fallen out from rain poisoning, another 20 percent were walking wounded, eyes and tongues swollen, skin peeling. He’d proposed they bivouac in the Dragon capital until winter deepened and the accursed rain turned to snow, but Marshal Ostrovska would hear none of it. The Kitsune lay east, and vengeance would not wait. The Zryachniye had concurred, eyes glowing bright, and all discussion abruptly ceased. They’d slogged on through this poison for days, shin-deep in filth, until the rains grew so heavy they were forced to halt, hunkered down beneath oilskin sheets until the storm spent itself.
What the hell are they yelling about?
More men crying out, pointing. Aleksandar followed their eyeline, breath catching in his lungs as he spied the silhouette above. Though its kind had not been seen in his homeland for decades, though it was snow-white, not black as the sigil of House Ostrovska was, he knew the shape instantly.
A gryfon.
Twenty-foot wingspan, pale as the deep snows of his homeland, fur torn with long stripes of velvet black. Eyes shining like fireside amber, roaring as it circled above, dipping its wing to reveal the riders on its back and the white flag held high in the toxic wind.
Riders.
Men emerging from tents, eyes narrowed against the rain, archers scrambling for their bows, lightning cannon crews arcing generators despite the fact the weapons would be useless against a foe with no ground. Hammers pounding shields, alarm rolling throughout the encampment. And the beast continued circling, just out of bowshot, the tiny riders waving that strip of white cloth back and forth. An overture any warrior would understand.
Parlay. Peace.
But this was war. Against a nation of slavers and butchers. Could they be trusted? Aleksandar could hear the rotor-thopter engines being started, the Majór obviously keen to cut this beast from the skies. What a prize. What strength it would bring to the one who wore it. Greater than a mere wolfpelt—even the pelt of the Blackwood’s Alpha …
He heard muddy footsteps, splashing thick, turned toward the scrawny girl sprinting toward him. She stopped before Aleksandar, gave a salute, palms marked with painted eyes, the girl’s own so bloodshot from the rain they were almost solid red.
“Kapitán,” the girl gasped. “Word from the Zryachniye.”
Aleksandar’s eyes flickered to the command tent.
“Speak.”
“Mother Natassja says she is to be allowed to land.”
“She?”