Tonight all memory of Goldtusk might fade, Laira thought, firing her arrows, screaming from atop her roc. But if tonight we die, then we die with demons.

"Neiva, fly!" she shouted. "Fight them!"

Her roc was wounded. Gashes thick with bubbling demon saliva covered Neiva. Blood poured from her wings. One of her talons had cracked and dangled loosely. Yet still the great vulture fought, biting, scratching. And demons fell. And demons died.

They can be hurt. She snarled and fired another arrow. We can kill them. We will kill hundreds of them.

Her arrow slammed into a coiling serpent, and her roc tore apart a flying blob of slime.

"To the king!" Laira shouted, pointing at Raem across the field. "To Raem! Rocs, rally here. To me!"

The surviving rocs mustered around her, bloodied and weary but still shrieking. The tribesmen chanted atop them. "For Laira! Chieftain Laira!" Their cries rolled across the sky. "For Laira Seran, Chieftain of Goldtusk!"

The surviving rocs—by the stars, barely fifty still lived—stormed forth, crashing into the swarm of demons that hid the world. And there, rising above their rot, she saw him again, the man of bronze. Her father. He met her gaze across the sky, and she saw him gasp, and slowly a grin spread across his face. She could not hear his voice from here, but she could read his lips.

"Laira." His grin widened and he flew toward her, and now his voice carried on the wind. "Laira, my daughter!"

She screamed. She pointed toward him. "Goldtusk, to the bronze king! Slay the king!"

Their arrows fired. Laira dug her heels into Neiva, and her fellow rocs swarmed around her, charging toward Raem.

Hundreds of demons slammed into the tribe.

Jaws tore wings off rocs. Claws lacerated men, tearing through armor. Great tapeworms swallowed tribesmen whole. Flaming demons of scales and lava landed upon the tribe, burning them, feasting on roasted flesh.

"Fly to the metal man!" Laira shouted. "Slay the king!" She fired her last arrow. "Fly to him, Neiva!"

The roc shrieked and flew, but Laira knew the animal was too hurt, too weak. Her blood dripped, and half the feathers had been torn off her left wing. She wobbled as she flew. But Raem was so close now. Laira could see him just a few demons away.

"Rocs, with me!" she cried. But the others too were hurt, surrounded by too many enemies, and more fell every breath.

So I will fight you alone, Father. You exiled me. You drove me to a world of hunger, cold, fear. And now you will taste my blade. She raised her bronze sword high, the same blade that had slain Zerra. Now this blade will sever your head too.

He raised his own sword, awaiting her across the battle upon his twisted bat, and his lips peeled back in a horrible smile—a demon's smile.