A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)
A Day of Fallen Night: Part 4 – Chapter 84

For the first time since they withdrew from the world, the gods were shedding rain across the harbour city of Ginura. As people ran into the spray to quench their clothes and hair, steam churned from creatures with fire in their blood, water sizzling on their armour.

In a mighty twist, Furtia Stormcaller swept over the old castle. Her roar carried like thunder across a ravaged sky.

Dumai clung fast. When she leaned to the left, Furtia moved with her. Other dragons flew in their wake: Burmina the Splendid, Pajati the White, others whose names she had not yet been granted. Their voices rustled in her head, Pajati always louder than the others.

The star approaches . . . the sky rings of its coming . . .

. . . star, she holds a fragment of the star, it calls to us . . .

Chaos reigns . . . chaos on chaos . . .

Winged beasts circled the harbour. Taugran the Golden had arrived in Seiiki shortly after midwinter, and from its lair on Muysima, it had set about devastating the island.

Below, screams and shouts filled a city that had once been peaceful, which now blazed like a forge. Its people fought a throng of desecrated creatures. Once the wyrms had found Seiiki, they had set about binding its animals to their will, giving them iron hooves and teeth, enkindling their eyes. The Ginurans threw nets at them, beat them with tools and shot them with arrows. Some of them were likely fighting their own livestock.

She had to get them all to safety. If she could save the granaries and storehouses here, all the better.

Mounted warriors charged the creatures, swords glinting under the dark sun. Clan Mithara had mustered them in her name. The head of the clan had pledged her loyalty to Dumai, as had those of the Eraposi and Tajorin families, who had been outraged by her exile. So far, the rest had clung to the hem of Clan Kuposa, with only a few minor nobles defecting.

It mattered little to Dumai. Only when the comet had passed – if it passed – would she think of the fate of the Rainbow Throne. For now, the River Lord could keep it.

Sparks blew in the wind. Everywhere they landed, fire burst like black powder, destroying houses and temples. Dumai shielded her face as a granary exploded. Furtia poured more rain from her flanks, her scales turning icy. Pressed against her, Dumai shivered, jaw rattling.

The stone was cold on her breastbone. She had ridden barefoot and without a saddle. If the stone touched her skin, and her skin touched Furtia, the dragon could reach for its power with ease.

A roar sounded behind her. From beneath the brim of her helmet, she glimpsed a wyrm ram into Burmina the Splendid. The green dragon hit back with a thunderbolt, and the wyrm folded.

The world split again and again. Threads of white and blue, red and orange seamed her eyelids. We should begin leading people to the forest, and leave the others to fight, Dumai told Furtia. This city is too vulnerable. The dragon rumbled her agreement.

Ginura stood on the cliffs above a bay. Thousands of survivors had run to its beach, sheltering beneath the natural arch that swept out from the cliff to the shallows. Some had fled into a tidal cave, while others made the desperate swim to the Dragon’s Tooth. All there was to eat was moss on that towering stack of rock, but it was safer than the city.

A group armed with spears had gathered in the surf, herding something that could have been a wyrm – except that its head was birdlike, and its front limbs had split into metal pincers. Furtia swooped towards it. Lightning crackled in her mouth, raising every hair on Dumai.

Furtia landed hard enough to shake the beach. She snatched the monster, jaws crunching around its body. With a swing of her head, she flung it into the sea, where it thrashed in a fury of steam and spray, sinking out of sight. All along the shore, people shouted in triumph.

Dumai wiped her face on her sleeve. Through a blur, she tried to count the bodies, stopping when panic thickened her breath.

She pulled off her helmet and raked back her dripping hair. Though she still wore the armour her father had given her, months of war had not turned her into a fighter. She carried no weapon. All she could do was fly – but perhaps that was enough. It had to be enough.

The survivors gathered around Furtia, reaching for her scales. Furtia huffed in disquiet. Dumai calmed her with a stroke. Not long ago, touching a dragon would have been punishable by death. In a time like this, she could not blame the terrified people for seeking comfort from a god. Steeling her nerves, she climbed up to where they could see her.

‘People of Ginura,’ she called, loud enough to burn her throat, ‘I am Noziken pa Dumai, daughter of the Maiden Officiant and the late Emperor Jorodu.’ Above, a wyrm let out a hideous screech, seeding panic through the crowd. It passed overhead without seeing them. ‘You must not stand against the enemy any longer. Too many have fallen here.’

‘We have nowhere to go,’ a young woman protested. She was crouched by a dying man. ‘This red sickness ravages every city. The River Lord has left Seiiki to burn.’

‘There is a place where you can take refuge.’ Dumai spoke over a tide of agreements. ‘Make your way to Mayupora Forest. The gods will defend you until you reach the cover of the trees, where Lady Mithara will meet you. If you can replace useful supplies, bring them, but do not risk your lives for possessions. Help those who are frail and injured.’

‘Queen Dumai,’ one of the soldiers cried, thrusting up his sword. ‘Guardian of Seiiki!’

She had first heard those words in a dust province to the east of Basai, where Furtia had poured rain on the fires, and the villagers had danced in it. Now the whole beach clamoured with her name, thousands of voices rising together. Furtia rumbled her satisfaction, but all Dumai could see was a ghost of Kanifa, standing among them, smiling.

Seiiki could ask for no better queen.

****

Mayupora Forest covered most of the north of the island. Mount Tego guarded its eastern reaches, and its western flank broke against the ridge called the Bear’s Jaw. As Furtia flew over the sea of ancient trees, Dumai wished she could have left court sooner, to see more of Seiiki.

Not long ago, fields of swaying feather grass had formed a pale golden hem on the forest. Those were gone, leaving nothing but ash.

So much had burned in so little time.

Dirty snow fell, mingled with soot. For months, the wyrms and their offspring had slaughtered without mercy, while the red sickness had ravaged the coast, originating from a tainted stream near Mount Izaripwi. The sun remained dim, the harvest had failed, and the winter had been long and harsh. All of this was too much for one island to bear.

Dumai had done her utmost to hold off the attacks. When the blue stone was near, the gods were stronger, able to summon water and thunderbolts – but she could not be everywhere at once. Several dragons had already fallen, and more had retreated back into hiding.

Seiiki was breaking. By Winterfall, there would not be much left for her sister to rule.

So far, Mayupora Forest had escaped the devastation. At first, Dumai had thought it an absurd risk to send the survivors into the trees – one tongue of fire could doom them all – but the wyrms had avoided torching the greenwoods. Instead, they seemed bent on destroying every human settlement that had the misfortune to draw their attention. Isunka and Podoro, both large and thriving cities, had collapsed in a matter of days.

Now the wyrms had spread everywhere, to pick off towns and farming villages, and the people had almost nowhere to run, trapped as they were by the seas around Seiiki. Some had taken up arms to defend themselves, but the creatures’ hides were hard to break. As far as Dumai could tell, the River Lord – the regent – had made no attempt to help.

Waiting for the comet was the better choice. The deep forest would give them protection.

Furtia came to drift over a grove of season trees. She curled the end of her tail around Dumai, lowering her gently to the ground, before she floated back towards Ginura.

I will keep watch over the earth children.

Thank you, great one.

Dumai turned north and crossed the grove. Several white leaves had dropped early, making room for tiny pink sprouts. Winterfall would come in a few weeks, and with it, the first day of spring. She began her footslog through the depths of the forest, along the path trodden by hunters and foragers, following the subtle markers to her court.

Hemlocks, chestnuts and bear pines grew tall enough to conceal other life. Thick green moss swallowed all sound, except for the occasional, familiar call of a sorrower. Dumai barely heard. Her ears were aboil with the din of the battle, her head sore from holding so many voices. Her boots seemed ironshod. Her nose ran and her body trembled.

Her mother waited by an ancient beech tree. Months in the forest had changed her. She still wore grey, her layers practical and warm, and kept her hair out of her face with a cloth.

‘Dumai.’ She released a long breath. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’

‘And the Ginurans?’

‘On their way to the northeastern camp. Lady Mithara will show them the path,’ Dumai rasped, her throat raw from the smoke. Unora wrapped her in a mantle and pressed a warm flask into her hands. ‘Mother, there is so much sickness. So much death.’

Unora touched her cheek, smearing ash from it. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know, my kite.’

Dumai followed her to the camp that served as her court. It sprawled from the mouth of a cave, the former retreat of Tukupa the Silver. A healer checked their hands for redness.

Some of the Seiikinese had risked staying in their homes, tarring their windows to hide their hearth fires, while others had fled to the mines or dug their own shelters. Dumai had decided on a different way to protect the people under her care, directing them to places where the gods had slept on land. Such places were usually sheltered, with a source of fresh water and a prayer bell, which could be used to signal to other camps.

They could not hide in the wilds for ever. The wyrms had not attacked the forest, but their earthbound creatures might yet sniff the survivors out. If not, starvation would waste them away, or the red sickness would slip through their defences and force them out of hiding. So many granaries had burned, and livestock had either perished or turned monstrous. By summer, all that would be left was ash, unless Kwiriki’s Lantern calmed the chaos.

The dragons seemed to think it would be soon. Dumai hoped they were right.

Small cookfires smoked across the camp. Unora led her past the tents and into the spine of the limestone cave, which ran deep, its ceiling toothed by seeping water. Hundreds of people were hidden where Tukupa had once slumbered, their weary faces lit by oil lamps. Dumai stopped to check on three people without families, who she had rescued from the salt road.

In a cavern for the sick and wounded, the outlaw named Rituyka was waiting, sipping from a flask. One of his three brothers lay beside him on a mat, sleeping off his burns.

‘Queen Dumai.’ Rituyka gave her a nod. ‘We brought millet and barley. Some wine, as well, to warm and cheer us.’

Dumai nodded. Until she had met this wily reed of a man, she had not grasped how little sway the palace held over the provinces. Even before the wyrms, Rituyka had lived as a bandit, stealing from storehouses and mansions. Like Unora, he had grown up in Afa Province.

‘I am glad to hear it,’ Dumai said. ‘Where from?’

‘Purinadu.’

‘That estate belongs to Clan Kuposa.’ Unora used her rural accent when she spoke to him. She checked her store of foraged herbs, for use in salves and tisanes. ‘You must be careful, Rituyka. Your work is important, but we don’t want to draw their eye to the forest.’

He gave her a crooked smile. ‘They have larger concerns. For once, they are like the rest of us.’

‘Do not underestimate the regent. His palace is safe while the gods protect it, and this turmoil gives him the perfect cover to get rid of Dumai. He will seize every chance he can.’

‘We will not let anything happen to our queen.’

Dumai stifled a dry cough on her gauntlet. ‘Did anyone see you?’

‘No. There was evidence of an attack. The River Lord has called all of his private forces to Antuma.’ Rituyka raised his eyebrows. ‘There’s something else, Queen Dumai. The siege engine the Lacustrine gifted you, the bed crossbow – we found it on the grounds of the estate.’

‘The River Lord told me it was destroyed.’

‘It’s certainly in pieces. Looks to me as if it might be mended, but I’m no woodworker.’

‘He hid it away for himself,’ said Unora, her voice thin with anger.

‘He is so determined to weaken me that he would withhold a strong means of defence,’ Dumai said softly. ‘With that weapon, how many more lives could we have saved?’

‘Now you taste the unwatered poison of his ambition.’

Dumai tried to quell the storm in her mind. It grew harder by the day – to be calm, to think clearly.

‘We might still use this to our advantage,’ she said. ‘Rituyka, I want you to inform Lady Mithara and Lord Tajorin. I believe they each have a number of blacksmiths and carpenters at their camps. If they can work out how to put the crossbow back together, we might still build more, to defend the remaining settlements. We have plenty of wood.’

Rituyka stood. ‘At once, Your Majesty.’

‘I’ll join you. We need more moss.’ Unora gathered her pouches before she followed him. ‘Dumai, you rest. I’ll return before dark.’

****

In her tent, which was pitched at the mouth of the cave, Dumai took the stone from around her neck. After months of examining it, she still could not use its power herself, but Furtia could. That was all that mattered.

Exhaustion made her want to lie straight down and sleep. She removed her armour, then peeled off the damp clothing beneath, taking stock of her injuries. With every flight and battle, she earned more. A burn mottled her thigh, knotted with weeping blisters. Small cuts flecked her face where rubble had struck. Then there was the cough that wrenched her chest. Even if she wore a wet cloth over her face, the smoke got through.

She had no mirror, but she knew she must resemble a ghost. A woman drawn with a drying brush, the ink straining for the strength to complete her, leaving her faded at the edges. Her hair was grey with ash, as if she had aged a century since leaving court.

She still felt more alive than she ever had in Antuma Palace.

The snow kept falling. She washed in the icy stream nearby, then returned to her tent to warm herself, and to comb the tangles from her hair – always a painful task after flight.

At dusk, she went to sit outside, among her people. A man gave her a generous helping of millet, topped with bracken shoots and mushrooms, murmuring his thanks for her courage. Another pressed his bowl on her, insisting that she would need the strength.

The stolen wine was passed around. A woman who had lost her arm was roasting chestnuts on a fire. As Dumai chewed the taste from the shoots, she listened to soft conversations between friends and strangers alike, sharing in their memories and losses. She heard their fires crackling, the merciless cough most survivors brought with them, the creak of the trees. It had been a brutal winter, but she felt calm for the first time in days, wrapped in her mantle, surrounded by life.

A girl of twelve stared into the nearest fire, bundled in a pelt. Dumai moved to sit at her side.

‘Iyo,’ she said, ‘have you eaten?’ The girl shook her head. ‘It’s cold. You need to stay warm and strong.’

‘My sister was the strong one.’ Her eyes were vacant. ‘Not me.’

‘She is safe now, with the great Kwiriki. Nothing can hurt her.’ Dumai nodded to the man beside the fire, who brought another bowl. ‘I miss my sister, too.’

Iyo looked up at her. ‘Why is your sister not with us?’

Dumai mustered a strained smile. ‘That is a story too long to tell.’

‘Let me tell you another,’ an elderly woman said to Iyo. ‘To give us hope on this cold night.’

A hush fell as people turned to listen. Iyo leaned against Dumai, who held her close.

‘Since we have Queen Dumai among us,’ the woman said, ‘I will tell you a tale of another great queen. A queen who wanted to grow a greener world for her people, and loved them all the same, whether they were born in a dust province or a harbour.’ She paused, and the silence became absolute. ‘Let me tell you a tale of the Mulberry Queen.’

A few people glanced at Dumai, their expressions hard to read. Dumai had the sense that she was being let into a secret.

‘Long ago, in ancient days, there lived a girl of Ampiki, which lies at the very end of this island – almost as old a village as the rock of Seiiki itself. She lived as we do now, always in fear of hunger and thirst,’ the storyteller said. A few children shuffled closer to her. ‘In the tales, she has no name, like too many women in stories of old.’

‘Dumai.’

A hand touched her shoulder. With a last glance at the storyteller, Dumai sent Iyo to the young couple who had been caring for her, then followed her mother back to her tent.

‘That story sounded familiar,’ she said.

‘It is a favourite in the dust provinces. A poor orphan who made herself a queen of outcasts.’ Unora lit the lamps. ‘Lady Mithara is safe. Rituyka will take her to see the crossbow, but they will need a great deal of wood. Will you help me collect some in the morning?’

‘I can’t stay.’

‘You can.’ Unora knelt before her, eyes hard. ‘Listen to me. You have been away for days, in all that smoke and soot. For the time being, you have done all you can.’

‘I carry the stone. Without it—’

‘You cannot always be with the gods. They know that you are bone and flesh.’

‘I woke them. When they die, it is because of me.’ Her voice broke. ‘The stone lends them strength.’

‘Stop this.’ Unora held her face. ‘I know I can’t keep you from leaving. But if you refuse to heal and rest, you will be too exhausted to fly with Furtia. You will make bad decisions. Never forget what you learned on the mountain. Remember and respect your limits.’

Dumai knew she was right. Her legs shook, her eyes stung, and her throat was sore.

‘I will stay,’ she said. ‘To recover my strength.’

‘There is much you can do to help us here.’ Unora sat beside her. ‘The comet will come soon. We must trust in the gods. Have you thought any more on what you want to do when this is over?’

‘No. All of this has proven that the River Lord should not be regent,’ Dumai murmured, ‘but how can I ask our people to fight for me in another war, after so much violence?’

‘They may be willing to try, for all our sakes, to place a kinder leader on the throne. I still believe the gods will help you over him.’ Her mother stroked her hair. ‘You have time to decide, Dumai. For now, rest and heal. We will face each new day as it comes.’

Dumai nodded. By now she was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open. As soon as her mother had left, she crawled into her bedding and slept, too soundly to hear the voice in her dream.

****

She woke to a light touch, in darkness. ‘Dumai,’ Unora said, her voice low and strange, ‘a survivor has reached us.’

Dumai rubbed her eyes. ‘Are they from Ginura?’

‘You should see for yourself.’

They walked between the tents and a solitary fire, back to the old beech. Beside that final marker, a horse had collapsed, close to death. One of the hunters had its rider in his arms.

The young woman was covered in filth, dressed in farmers’ clothes she must have worn for weeks. Ash smirched her short hair. When her eyes flickered open, Dumai could only stare at her.

‘Dumai,’ Nikeya whispered. ‘I found you.’