Waking Fire, page 6
“You told me I have a fighting spirit,” I say. “So why can’t I go with you?”
“Wait, why does Naira get compliments? I would have won if she hadn’t sucker punched me in the gut.”
I glare at Nez. “You lost because I know how to keep my focus and you don’t.”
Nez holds up a fist. “How about you focus on this?”
“Enough!” Obba barks, banging his staff again, this time with enough force to send cracks through the tile in the shape of a spider’s web. “Nez, go to the jirkana and get my sword and your bow.”
Without another word, Nez runs out of the room.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Omma shudders and Obba kisses her forehead.
“Good,” Obba says as Nez returns with the weapons. Nez wears his bow and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He hands the sword to Obba.
Obba passes his staff to Omma and takes the sword in hand. He flexes his wrist a few times, the light dancing on the curve of the blade, before tucking it into his waistband.
“Isrof, are you sure this is a good idea?” Omma glances at Nez with concern in the crease of her brow. “Shouldn’t you both stay here where it’s safe?”
“If the Vra Gool Dambi break through the gates,” Obba says, “then nowhere is safe.”
CHAPTER SIX
AFTER NEZ AND OBBA LEAVE, I remain at the table. Omma fills my bowl with stew and passes it to me. When I don’t take it, she places it on the table before me.
“You still have to eat,” she says, handing me the flatbread my father left behind.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Omma. There are Vra Gool Dambi at the gates. How can you expect me to eat at a time like this?”
“Do you hear that?”
Besides the trill of some birds in our garden, there is only silence. “Hear what?”
“Exactly.” Omma grabs my hand and presses the flatbread into it. “No war drums, no screams. If the village is being overrun with Dambi, don’t you think we’d have heard it?”
I’m too defeated to keep arguing, so I rip off a piece of bread and dip it in my stew while Omma clears Nez’s and Obba’s dishes from the table. How can Omma be so calm at a time like this? Are my father and brother in danger? Are Dambi destroying the village? Maybe the rangers stopped beating the drums because they’re all dead. I have no idea what’s happening and every passing moment only brings more questions without answers.
I shove the half-eaten bowl away, get up from the table, and head toward the jirkana.
Nez favors bows, Obba his scimitar, but I feel strongest with a pair of daggers in my hands. I grab the sharpest set off the shelf and wrap the leather gauntlet sheaths around my forearms.
Taking a deep breath, I go back outside, where Omma approaches me in the garden. She carries a basket filled with her medicine kit and rolled-up bandages.
“If you’re ready, we should get going,” she says.
“I thought we had to wait for word from Obba?”
“He’s taking an awfully long time, don’t you think?” Omma starts walking toward the front door. I follow her and sit on the bench near the entrance to put on my shoes. “I can’t wait any longer. I have to see if they’re alright.”
I steal a glance at my mother. Just when I think I have her figured out, she always surprises me. Omma had probably been planning on going after Obba and Nez all along; she just needed to be sure I was taken care of first.
I wrap my arms around Omma’s waist and she lets out an “oh” of surprise.
“What was that for?” she asks when I pull away.
“For you being you,” I reply.
Omma pats my cheek and smiles. “I see you’ve already got your tools,” she says, pointing at the daggers in their sheaths on my arms.
I gesture at the basket. “And you’ve got yours.”
Together, we step out into the street. No longer within the quiet safety of the stone wall that surrounds our home, shouts and shrieks greet us when we turn the corner. Omma grabs my arm. I think she’s going to pull me back, force me to go home, but instead, we keep moving forward past hastily boarded up homes and storefronts.
In the market, a fire like the one from the day before rages, drawing onlookers toward it. Flames lick at overturned stalls and burn fruits and vegetables, spices and fabrics into blackened, unrecognizable piles of ash—but that doesn’t stop some people from looting whatever they can get away with.
A scream rings out from the looters. I don’t understand why until the inhuman shrieking begins. A group of rangers on horseback thunders by, causing the people to scatter. The rangers stop at the fire, their horses snorting and stamping their hooves, and dip the tips of their arrows in the flames.
A Dambi leaps into the market, its back covered with arrows, and charges the rangers.
I feel like I’m lost in the tombs again and my heart pounds in my chest.
The rangers let their fiery arrows fly, each one striking the creature. The Dambi paws at the flames and a shrill scream bursts from its blackened lips. One of the horses bucks, its hoof striking the Dambi in the face, and the monster crumples to the ground. The rangers waste no time plunging their swords into its flesh again and again. Thick, black blood gushes like water through a crack in a dam from every strike, coating the monster’s hardened skin and running down the street in rivulets.
Once it ceases its grasping movements and is totally still, my mother and I step around the killing. Omma’s face is ashen but determined, ready to put the Dambi behind her. But I can’t let go that easily.
This has never happened before. Dambi have never broken through the gates. Lagusa is secluded, far away from the war up north, with a desert separating us from the rest of the world. This isn’t supposed to happen in our streets. We’re supposed to be safe here.
Omma tugs on my arm. “Come on, Naira,” she says gently.
I take a deep breath. The shouting up ahead intensifies and I quicken my pace, Omma doing the same. In the distance on our right, the Temple looms large and a frenzied mass of people climb up the hill to find safety within the stone building. The statues of the Thirteen look down on the chaos happening at their feet. Many of them hold weapons in their hands, but I know I can’t count on them joining in this battle. It’s been five centuries since the last dragon fought alongside us.
The only ones who can help Lagusa are the people living in it.
A group of watchguards run past, their swords drawn, and one of them shouts at me and Omma to return home.
“There are Dambi everywhere!”
Omma tightens her grip on my arm. “We’d better hurry.” She pulls me in the same direction as the watchguards—toward the village wall instead of toward the safety of the Temple. I’m filled with admiration for my mother. Whenever I imagined myself facing a dangerous foe, I’d always picture my father or Nez at my side since they’re both such good fighters, but now I realize that facing danger takes more than physical strength. A fighter also needs strength of will, and my mother has more than enough for both of us.
I increase my pace to a jog, Omma running alongside me. The closer we get to the wall, the more watchguards and rangers surround us. They’re busy blocking off roads by erecting makeshift barricades of overturned wagons, planks of wood, crates, and barrels. Rangers climb ladders to the tops of buildings, where they wait with their bows drawn. Villagers are also among those preparing for a battle, ready to give their lives for Lagusa.
Dozens of dead and wounded line the streets, the Mother from the Temple and the Daughters who serve her walking among them. I’m familiar with many of the Daughters—although they usually work in the Temple feeding the poor, praying for the dead, and maintaining the altar fires, they also come into the village to tend to the sick. But I’ve never seen the Mother outside of the Temple, where she leads the village in praise of the gods. It’s strange to see her kneeling on the dusty road with the Daughters, giving healing draughts to those who need them and patching up wounds.
I try not to stare into the faces of the dead, their eyes wide with fright even in death, but my gaze is drawn to their final suffering. Many are missing limbs, their legs and arms ripped from their bodies and tossed aside like trash. Claw marks mar their faces, gashes across stomachs pull back the curtain of skin that once hid inner workings that were not meant to be revealed. Bones protrude from skin. Lower jaws are missing, strips of skin hang like ribbons, and blood flows down the street in rivers.
The Dambi are brutal, created to inflict the most damage in the most savage way possible. Perhaps because they’ve already tasted death, they relish bestowing it on others.
I tear my eyes from the dead and see onlookers huddled in doorways or hiding behind half-closed doors and curtains, watching those who braved the destruction but not daring to be part of it. Others kneel on the ground, their faces upturned toward the Temple, prayers to Galgamex falling from their lips.
For a moment I wish that prayers worked—that the pleas of the faithful could save us, could bring life to the fiercest dragons like Obergon, Galgamex, Zulgaron, and especially Crafulgar. Or if Albedego saw our pain and swooped down with his medicines and healed the injured. I’d even settle for Enog’s grace to comfort the suffering. If the gods showed us just one sign that they cared, I’d fall to my knees and pray with the other believers.
I look to the gods, and they stare back at me with blank eyes, their figures covered in soot and ash. Many prayers will go unanswered tonight.
What else could I expect from gods made of stone?
Beyond the barricades, the massive wall finally comes into view, and with it, the rest of the fighting.
In front of the metal gates, a handful of Dambi are surrounded by rangers and watchguards. A host of men and women attack the beasts with arrows and swords, poles and spears. The stench emanating from so many Dambi makes me want to gag.
Dambi don’t belong in Lagusa. I hate seeing them in our streets, bringing the war to our doorsteps.
“By the Fires,” Omma whispers as her eyes take in the scene. Then she approaches one of the Daughters. “I’ve brought supplies,” she says, her voice strong, calm, and clear. And beautiful too, I think. “How can we help?”
The Daughter kneels beside a man with a laceration across his thigh. “Do you know how to stitch a wound, samida?”
“I have a rambunctious set of twins who love nothing more than to cause trouble.” Omma kneels next to the man and inspects the cut. She pulls a bit of leather from her medicine kit and places it between the man’s teeth. “I’ve had to stitch quite a few wounds in my day. I can handle this.”
The Daughter nods her thanks and moves on to the next patient.
While Omma goes to work, I scour the faces of those still fighting and find Obba, his height making him stand out among the others. Obba raises his sword and drives it deep into the belly of one of the Dambi. Relief floods my body and I let out the breath I hadn’t even known I was holding. Of course, my proud, tall father, the man who taught me and my brother to fight, is untouchable, scattering the Dambi like a true soldier.
“There’s Obba.” I point him out for Omma as he readies his stance for another thrust.
“Praise Zulgaron and his shield.” A length of thread in one hand and a needle in the other, Omma’s eyes skim the wounded and those still fighting. “And Nez? Do you see him?”
I look around but I don’t see Nez anywhere. A group of rangers atop the wall rain arrows down on the Dambi and I hope Nez is safe up there with them. I’m sure Obba would have wanted Nez up there to keep him out of danger.
At least, I hope that’s what happened. But what if Nez went off on his own?
“I have to talk to Obba,” I tell Omma, tamping down the panic from not knowing if Nez is safe that threatens to overtake my senses. “He’ll know where Nez is.”
Omma shakes her head. “No, you can’t go there.” She drives the needle into the gathered bunches of skin to stitch up the man’s thigh. He cries out in pain and bites down hard on the leather. “It’s too dangerous. Stay here and help me.”
“I’m sorry, Omma, but I have to do this.” I take off running, Omma’s voice following me down the street.
I ignore her pleas and keep going, my head down, my jaw tight, my heart racing. A Dambi screeches, its inhuman voice reverberating throughout my body. Now that I’ve decided to face the Dambi, the fear I’d felt in the tomb, the walls crumbling around me as those abominations tried to claw their way in to tear me apart, hits me with such a force that I stop in my tracks. There is nothing shielding me from their hunger. If I take one more step, I’ll be caught up in the battle, and I’m not sure I can survive a fight against a Dambi. I’m not stronger. The only thing I can do is be smarter.
I push my fears aside, take a deep breath, and run forward, right into the thick of the fray, toward where Obba was fighting. With my daggers unsheathed, I dive in.
Immediately, a Dambi rears back to strike me, my daggers poised to jab it in the side, when the creature howls in pain. I look up to see Obba slice off its hand at the wrist. He grabs me by the collar and yanks me away from another swipe by the Dambi, its ragged claws coming dangerously close to my face.
“What are you doing here?” Obba drags me out of the fray.
“I’m helping you!”
“You’re supposed to be at home.” Obba’s eyes roam the streets. “Is your mother here, too?”
“Of course.” I try wrenching my shirt out of Obba’s grasp and fail. “I wouldn’t leave her at home by herself. It was her idea to come here.”
“Of course,” Obba repeats. He finally releases my tunic.
“Where’s Nez? Is he alright?”
Obba looks to the top of the wall. “I sent him to join the archers where he’d be away from the worst of it. And that’s where you should go, as well.”
“Bows and arrows are Nez’s thing.” Now that I know Nez and Obba are both safe, I’m eager to fight. “I’m better with my daggers.”
A hint of a smile plays across Obba’s lips. “And I’m best with my sword.”
I grin and head for the battle with my father at my side.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“REMEMBER YOUR TRAINING,” Obba reminds me as we approach the fighting.
Five Dambi remain. One of them is missing a hand, the others bloody and covered in arrows and stab wounds, but they refuse to go down for good. A Dambi bursts through the attackers and runs toward me and Obba with an unnatural loping gait.
Back hunched, too-long arms scraping the ground, legs bent sharply at the knees.
I don’t think. I act.
The Dambi claws at me. I duck and stab it in the abdomen one, two, three, four times before rolling out of its way. The creature tilts its head back and howls. Obba slices his sword across the Dambi’s throat but even that isn’t enough to kill it.
I finally understand how Sothpike defeated the Merzan empire in a matter of months. The Dambi are stronger than any animal I’ve ever seen.
Which only means I have to fight harder.
Now behind the Dambi, I cut the tendons on the back of its legs. The beast falls on all fours, Obba tries to hack off its head, but his sword is stopped by the thick cords of muscle in the Dambi’s neck. I plunge both daggers deep into the hardened skin, going for the kidneys. The Dambi rears, its long arms reaching for me, and I back away.
I find a discarded spear on the ground and shove the tip into the Dambi’s milky white eye and twist. The Dambi screams.
When I pull the spear free, the eye pops out with it.
But still the Dambi isn’t finished. It snarls and snaps its black teeth at Obba then leaps forward, too fast to be human, pinning Obba to the dusty ground. With one clawed hand around Obba’s neck, the Dambi raises the other to tear Obba’s face off. I block the attack with the spear—and the creature uses both hands to yank the weapon out of my grasp, breaking it in half.
Obba scrambles from beneath the beast, trickles of blood running down his throat. “Naira, get away!” he shouts. This monster is indestructible.
How could anyone hope to defeat Sothpike’s undead army?
Obba and I step back from the Dambi as it stalks closer on all fours. I’m so focused on the Dambi that I almost bump into a metal basin full of burning embers resting on a column of stone, used to light the streets of Lagusa after dark. There’s a fiery arrow sticking out of the coals. A memory of that night in the tomb flashes in my thoughts—how fire made the Dambi retreat.
As soon as the creature gets close enough, I shove the blade of one of my daggers between the stones and the basin and, using the hilt as leverage, I push down with all my might. I almost snap the blade in half as it tips the basin to one side, scattering the fiery embers in the direction of the oncoming Dambi.
The Dambi howls as the sparks set its ragged clothes alight—whether it’s roaring in pain or anger, I can’t tell. This close to the creature, I see nothing but blackness behind its teeth.
Its tongue has been ripped out.
Thick smoke pours off the creature as it burns. The acrid stench of burnt skin fills my nostrils as the Dambi rips at its clothes and skin, trying to get rid of the flames that lick its body. Screeching, the Dambi turns and plows into the fight, people jumping aside to avoid it. By now, there are only two Dambi left. Only two of them were defeated while Obba and I fought ours, while many more men and women lie injured or dead. For every Dambi killed, it takes ten times as many humans with it.
As I watch, a Dambi crushes a man’s skull with its hands while another rips apart the soft belly of a woman. Her screams fill my ears.
Even the one I set on fire is still fighting. I don’t know what else to do. We stabbed it, slashed it, and lit the damn thing on fire, but still it continues to move.
