Legacy of Moth
Page 3
We will meet soon, Serin. You wanted to light the darkness, but now this darkness rises against you. And I rise with it.
A howl sounded behind her.
She spun toward the east and narrowed her eyes.
The howl rose again—the cry of a wolf.
Madori tilted her head, and her heart burst into a gallop.
A great beast, large as a horse, emerged from the dusk and raced across the battlefield. A nightwolf, she realized, a great hunter of the Qaelish plains. As it drew nearer, racing between the troops, Madori saw that its fur was gray, its frame lean, its eyes large and blue.
"It can't be," she whispered.
Yet as the nightwolf raced toward her, she knew it was him. Tears flooded her eyes anew, but this time they were tears of joy.
"Grayhem!" she cried.
He ran toward her, and Madori raced over the dead toward him, and she leaped onto her nightwolf and embraced him. The great beast nearly knocked her down, licking her cheeks and nuzzling her. He whimpered in pain and happiness to see her.
"Where were you?" she whispered, nearly choking on her joy. "By Xen Qae, boy! I haven't seen you for moons, not since Pahmey."
The nightwolf almost seemed to try and speak. Sounds almost like words rose from his throat, and he licked her again and again, pressing against her. He was so frail—by the stars, she could feel his ribs—and he must have traveled for countless leagues in the darkness before finding her.
She walked toward a toppled Timandrian tent where Ilari troops were digging through the enemy's supplies. She found a string of sausages and fed them to Grayhem; he swallowed them one by one, barely pausing to chew, and Madori laughed and rubbed the tears from her eyes.
Not all is lost, she thought. Not all was taken from me.
"You found me, boy," she whispered and kissed Grayhem. "I missed you. I love you."
He was still thin and frail but the meal seemed to give him strength. Madori climbed onto the nightwolf and straddled his back.
The Ilari Armada—five hundred ships bearing the banners of the night—sailed along the river, away from the dusk and into the sunlight. To war. To Markfir, capital of the Radian Empire. To Tirus Serin. Jitomi rode upon his dragon, and Koyee and thousands of other soldiers sailed upon the ships, but she, Madori, remained upon the riverbank, riding her wolf, her dearest friend.
As they headed into the west, Madori kept staring forward, imagining the turn she would meet Serin again. She did not look back once to the ruin of her home.
CHAPTER THREE:
THE FINCH AND THE RAT
A finch flew above, warbling, a lone beacon of song and beauty in the world. Hunkered down in ruins of broken stone and shattered wood, Torin gazed up at the bird, marveling at how life could still survive here, how a bird could still fly and sing when so much death had befallen the world.
At his side, Cam nocked an arrow and tugged back the bowstring, aiming at the bird. Then, with a sigh, he slowly released the bowstring's tension and returned the arrow to his quiver.
"Ah, to Inagon with it," Cam said. "Even if I hit, there's barely any meat on it. Looks like it's rat on the menu again, though the damn rats are as skinny as we are."
Cam, shepherd turned King of Arden, himself looked like a starving rat. He had always been slender, but now Cam looked downright cadaverous. His cheeks were sunken, his skin ashen, his hair limp. His eyes darted nervously and he licked his dry lips with an equally dry tongue. The king still wore his plate armor, but dents, cracks, and stains covered it.
Torin suspected that he himself looked no better. When he gazed down at his body, it seemed to drown inside his own armor. He had barely recovered from his captivity in the Radian dungeons—a nightmare of pain and darkness spanning eight months—when he had found himself here, fighting in the ruins of Orewood.
At least, this place had once been Orewood. The proud capital of Verilon, once among the largest cities in Moth, had crumbled. Half the city's log homes had burned down; they spread across the hills in charred remains like the sooty skeletons of oversized beetles. Most of the stone structures too had collapsed. Cannons had punched holes through walls. Towers had fallen, and their domes of bronze, tin, and silver lay upon cracked streets like the massive, discarded spinning tops of giants. Shards of walls, orphaned archways, and lone columns rose from ash and piles of bricks. The once-mighty city, bastion of the north, had become a graveyard.
It seemed to Torin that only the city smithies and foundries, great buildings of stone, still stood; neither side had dared destroy them. Orewood had been built around iron mines, giving the city its name. Its foundries produced half the iron and steel in Timandra. Most turns Torin wanted to smash those foundries to the ground and end this carnage in their name.
"We can't keep eating rats," Torin said softly. "Not while the enemy is feasting on salted pork, fresh bread, and ale. Every turn we grow weaker. We must advance. We must take the temple."
Cam's eyes darkened. "Tor, there must be hundreds of Radians between us and the temple. Their archers line the roofs. Their swordsmen patrol the street."
Torin gestured around him. A hundred Ardishmen huddled here in the shell of an old chandlery. One wall and the roof had collapsed. They crouched against the remaining walls, armed with bows and arrows. Across the road, several Ardish troops stood on the roof of an abandoned tannery. They were all thin. Ashen. Maybe dying. They had been fighting in Orewood for almost a month now; they had barely eaten since the battle had begun.
Torin looked below him. A trapdoor led to the chandlery's cellar, and a dozen eyes peered up from the shadows. Verilish children hid here, their parents slain in the war, and they too were hungry. They too were dying. The rats and beetles had sustained them at first, but now even those animals were going scarce.
"We must reach the temple," Torin repeated. "That's where the food is stored. That's where we'll survive."
They had smelled the food cooking in the temple before—roasted meats, breads, stews. When the wind was just right, and the smell wafted down to this hovel, it was almost intolerable. Some turns Torin could only sit against a wall between skirmishes and bloodshed, smelling that distant food, dreaming of biting into the feast.
Cam rose to his toes and peered through a hole in the wall. The temple lay down the street, only five blocks away. Normally it would be only a short walk. Now, with the enemy troops on the roofs, it seemed more distant than the southern deserts of Eseer.
"Do you think," Cam said, "that they might be in the northern quarters? Maybe . . . maybe even close to the temple?" He turned toward Torin, eyes desperate. "Do you remember the banner? We saw the Ardish banner fly from the north. It had risen beyond the temple. A pocket of Ardish survivors maybe." His fingers shook around his bow, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Maybe Linee and Omry are there."
Torin lowered his head. "I don't know, my friend. There are pockets of survivors all over this city, both fighters of Verilon and Arden. They could be anywhere."
Cam stared out the window again, and this time his gaze did not go toward the distant temple. His eyes moved lower toward the bodies strewn across the street. Some were old, barely more than skeletons. Others were fresh, crows and rats picking at them. More than once Torin had wondered if the rats they had caught here in the chandlery—the rats they had eaten when no other food could be found—had contained the flesh of men in their little bellies.
"I want to tell you that they're still alive," Torin said softly. "I want to believe it myself. I want to tell you how Linee and Omry are strong and brave, and how if anyone can survive this slaughter, they can. But the truth is I don't know. I don't know if they live. I don't know if my own family has survived and fights somewhere in the darkness. I don't know if you and I will live come next turn. Some turns I don't know if I myself am alive or already dead, trapped in the eternal nightmare of Inagon, that cursed land of afterlife. But I do know that we must advance." He gripped Cam's arm. "We must take the temple,
and we must retake this city, and if Linee and Omry are alive, we must find them. We must advance. We must fight."
Cam tightened his lips and nodded. "Like in the old turns, right, Tor, old boy?"
Torin felt a lump in his throat. In their first war, they had lost their dearest, oldest friends. They had left the bodies of Hem and Bailey buried in the killing fields. Four youths had left Fairwool-by-Night. Two had returned.
Will we be the last survivors now too? Torin thought. Will Cam and I emerge to fight, maybe even survive, to find ourselves alone again, our families slaughtered?
He lowered his head. Perhaps, he thought. But he would fight nonetheless.
Cam moved among the troops, giving the order in hushed tones. A hundred troops stared back grimly and nodded. Those who had bows nocked arrows. Others drew their swords. Even the children in the cellar, their parents slain in the war, grabbed knives, rocks, and sticks and emerged to stand among the soldiers. A warble sounded above, and Torin raised his eyes to see the finch again; it fluttered across the ashy sky and vanished among the distant ruins.
Fly far from here, friend, Torin thought. Fly and find a life away from the wars of men, for everything around us turns to ruin and rot.
Cam returned to him, sword drawn, and suddenly the short, slender king looked like a giant. His eyes burned with determination, and his sword shone in a beam of light that fled the clouds. Torin drew his own sword and hefted his shield. He met Cam's gaze. The king nodded.
"For Arden!" Cam shouted. He leaped over rubble, raced through a shattered doorway, and emerged into the street.
"Men of Arden, to the temple!" Torin shouted. "With me!"
The men roared. Torin ran, leaping over the ruins, and emerged onto the cobbled street. He ran alongside Cam, and a hundred soldiers ran behind him. Between the men, dressed in rags, ran the children from the cellar. A little girl clutched a rag doll, and a young boy ran with a knife, lips tightened and eyes flashing, ready to fight. One soldier raised the banner of Arden, a black raven upon a golden field. The finch had fled from the sky; the raven had emerged.
"For Arden!" Torin shouted hoarsely, running forward.
The cobbled street stretched before them, lined with ruin. Most of the houses alongside had burned or crumbled. Those that still stood looked ready to collapse, their walls full of holes. Radian troops stood behind their windows and on their roofs, and a great eclipse banner swung from a tilted statue. The temple rose in the distance, one of its domed towers fallen, its two remaining domes shining silver in the veiled sunlight.
For a moment, the Ardish force ran unopposed toward the temple.
Then, with whistles and the howls of men, a hundred Radian arrows flew toward them.
Torin kept running. One arrow slammed into his raised shield, and another glanced off his helmet. At his side, an arrow punched into an Ardishman and sent him tumbling. Grunts rose behind as more men fell. The running children screamed. As they ran, the surviving Ardishmen fired their own arrows at the roofs and windows. Most clattered harmlessly against stone and wood, but one arrow sank into a Radian archer. The man tumbled off a roof and slammed down onto the street.
"To the temple!" Cam shouted, running forward as more arrows rained.
The new volley slammed into them. Two arrows pierced Torin's shield. Another pierced his armor and nicked his chest, drawing blood. One arrow slammed into Cam's arm. Other Ardishmen fell, pierced by many shafts. An arrow sank into a girl's leg; her brother lifted her and kept running.
We're almost there, Torin thought. The world swayed around him. The temple rose and fell. There would be food there. Better shelter. A chance to find others. Hope.
They had run another block when, with battle cries, dozens of Radian troops burst out from side streets, swinging their swords.
Torin snarled and kept running. His fellow soldiers ran around him, brandishing their blades. With thuds and the ringing of metal, the two forces slammed together.
One man—a Magerian in dark armor—swung an axe. Torin blocked the blow on his shield, then swiped his sword low, slamming the blade into the man's leg. As the Magerian was forced to kneel, Torin swung his shield, knocking the axe aside, and thrust his sword into the man's neck. Another Magerian leaped at him, swinging a longsword in wide arcs. Torin parried, and the blades sparked together. The man fought in a fury, blade lashing again and again, until it slammed into Torin's breastplate and dented the steel. Torin grunted, his armor pressing into his skin, and slammed his sword down with all his strength. The blade cut deeply into the enemy's arm. Another thrust of Torin's sword knocked the man down.
All around him, the others fought. Cam was dueling two men at once. Even the children fought with rocks, knives, and sticks. More arrows rained from above, and men kept falling dead. One Radian soldier roared and raced toward them, and Torin winced. The man wore armor in the style of Arden; a raven was still visible upon the breastplate, chipped away and crudely painted over with an eclipse. He had the brown hair and dark eyes more common among Ardishmen than Magerians—a traitor to his kingdom joined to Serin's cause. A sword's thrust from Cam sent the man sprawling down. Torin drove down his own blade, piercing the traitor's chest, and he grieved for slaying a man of his home, grieved that a man of his home had fallen to evil.
In a lull, Torin looked around him. His head spun, and the world seemed hazy, slow, stuck in some transparent syrup. The dead lay everywhere, their eyes staring at him. The enemy. His comrades. Men and women, all the same in death.
The war eternal, Torin thought. The blood of Moth. The blood that will forever wash us.
More arrows rained. More men fell. Torin tightened his lips and kept running.
They raced through a hailstorm of more arrows, cut enemies down, and reached the temple. A stone staircase rose toward dark gates. The walls soared, peppered with holes, and one fallen tower lay across the street, its bricks strewn and its dome cracked. Two towers still rose, topped with silver domes. A Radian banner flew from one.
As Torin, Cam, and the other surviving Ardishmen raced up the stairs, three mages in black robes emerged from the gates.
Torin knelt, dropped his sword, and unslung his bow from across his shoulder. He fired an arrow and hit one mage. The man tumbled down the stairs. But the other two mages were already casting their magic. Smoky tendrils blasted downward, slamming into the climbing Ardishmen.
Torin dodged one astral strand and kept climbing. Other Ardishmen fell, the magic wrapping around them, crushing their armor and bones. One man screamed as the magic shattered his breastplate, cracked his chest, and tugged the ribs from his flesh. The magic raised another man in the air, crumpling him into a ball and dropping him back onto the stairs. Torin raced up the last steps when one of the remaining mages turned toward him.
Black magic slammed against Torin, a dozen shrieking snakes with white eyes that wrapped around him. He screamed as his armor dented, pushing inwards. He refused to fall. He raced forward, thrust his sword, and drove the blade into the mage's chest. Cam raced up at his side, and the king's sword swung into the second mage, sending him falling down the stairs.
The magic vanished. Torin fell to his knees, groaning as his dented armor cut into him. He tugged the straps free and pulled shards of metal from his skin. Cam grabbed him, and Torin slung his arm across his friend's shoulder. Perhaps fifty Ardishmen and twenty children had survived the dash from the chandlery, and they stumbled into the temple.
"Lale, Roen, guard the gates," Cam said to two archers. The men nodded, and the rest stepped deeper into the shadows. A handful of Magerians were scrambling up from makeshift beds and reaching for swords. The Ardishmen cut them down before they could swing a blade.
"There might be . . ." Torin gasped for breath. "Might be bandages here. Healing herbs. Food. Oh stars, there will be food. Let's look."
Cam glanced down at Torin's wounds. "You need to lie down."
"We need bandages. We need food. We'll rest later."
The kitchen was empty. The pantry shelves held only a single sack of flour, a single jar of preserves, and a few rats.
"More rats," Cam said. "Rats and raspberry jam. Lovely."
Torin fell to his knees.
There is no hope. We will die here. We will die in the ruins of Orewood and I'll never see you again, Madori. I'll never hold you again, Koyee.
Suddenly the pain was too great to bear—of his wounds, of his worry, of those he had lost. How many Ardishmen had died on the street to claim this temple? All for this. He lifted the jar of jam, closed his eyes, and lowered his head. A rat gazed up at him curiously, as if contemplating this miserable creature who looked even hungrier and more ragged than itself.
CHAPTER FOUR:
THE LEPER OF KETEN
Breathing heavily, her armor smeared with mud and moss, Neekeya stumbled out of the marshlands and onto the coast of her fallen homeland.
The beach stretched ahead of her, sloping down toward the blue water. A few palm trees and mangroves grew above the sand, and the air smelled of salt. Neekeya had been traveling through the marshes for twenty turns now, nearly a whole month, crossing the fallen kingdom of Daenor. Here, at the edge of the world, she fell to her knees and gazed at the sea.
When she had been a girl, Neekeya had come here once with her father, and she had walked toward the water, gazed at the blue horizon, and announced that here was the edge of the world. Her father had laughed. Neekeya had grown up and studied the maps of Mythimna, this world shaped as a great moth split between day and night, and she knew that more of this world lay beyond the sea. South from here lay the island of Sania, a land of vast savannahs, roaming herds of elephants, and noble people related to her own race.