Legacy of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  "My foot's still chained!" Jitomi said. "Chained to the damn wall."

  "Where are the keys?" Madori shouted.

  "I don't know! On Naiko."

  Madori cursed. The empress was back in the city; if Madori raced to retrieve the keys, Jitomi would drown by the time she returned. Even as Madori swam here now, the water kept rising. Her head pressed against the ceiling; her chin touched the water.

  She took a deep breath.

  She sank under the water again.

  She landed on the floor, her head underwater. Jitomi was standing on a chest, the chain running from his ankle to a metal pole. Her heart sank; the chain was thick, too thick for her sword to cut.

  Madori had been chained before; once when led out of Teel, then in Serin's iron mine. She had tried to claim the chains then, to shatter them with her magic, and could not; the metal had been too thick, her power too weak. Yet this turn, she would have to do what she could not then.

  She chose the metal links.

  She claimed them.

  She tried to shatter them . . . and could not.

  Her lungs blazed with pain. She rose above the water and gulped air.

  "Madori, hurry!" Jitomi said.

  She plunged underwater again. She stared at the chains.

  Use your Yin Shi! she thought. Yet how could she? Yin Shi relied on breathing, and she couldn't breathe underwater.

  Yin Shi is not about breathing, Master Lan Tao seemed to speak in her mind. It is about awareness. Be aware of the air in your lungs. Be aware of the water, the chains, the battle above, all sounds, all mottles of light.

  Exhaling slowly, Madori made her mind a clear pond, bringing the flooded brig into her awareness, bringing herself into a state of pure Yin Shi.

  She chose the chains again.

  She claimed then.

  Full awareness. Full Yin Shi.

  I can't do it! I've tried before!

  You were weaker then, younger, afraid. Now you are Yin Shi.

  She stared at the metal links.

  They shattered.

  She rose back up, gulped down air, and grabbed Jitomi's arm. "Swim!"

  They swam up the stairs. Just as they emerged above the deck, the water overflowed it, and the ship finally sank beneath them.

  The water swallowed the remains of the pagoda, then the masts. Bubbles rose as the last air trapped in the ship escaped, and the river churned. The froth tugged at Madori's feet, and she kicked and floundered, struggling to stay afloat. It felt like sea serpents were grabbing at her feet and tugging her down, and she had a sudden flashback of Pahmey vanishing into the sinkhole. Jitomi too struggled to stay afloat, and then the water gave such a tug that they both sank.

  Under the surface, Madori kicked and beat her arms. Her sword tore free from her grasp, and she barely grabbed it before it could sink. Below her, she caught a glimpse of the ship shattering against the riverbed and sliding down into a murky grave of reeds.

  She and Jitomi kicked and finally rose back above the water. They swam toward the bank and climbed onto the boardwalk.

  Empress Naiko awaited them there, her hands on her hips, a crooked smile on her face. Her dojai stood around her, throwing stars in their hands.

  "Growing up," Naiko said, "my father often spoke of the Qaelish in scorn. He said that our northern neighbors were hardly Elorians at all; he called them weaker than pups who beg for a treat. Sometimes, when he was particularly disgusted with Jitomi's weakness, he would call the boy a Qaelish worm—the ultimate insult." Naiko nodded. "Now, seeing a Qaelish woman—even one mixed with the blood of sunlight—I truly see this weakness my father spoke of. You had the chance to raise your banners upon a conquered city, Madori. And yet you chose to save a drowning rat." Naiko raised her crossbow. "The weak deserve to perish. Ilar has grown strong by culling the cowards among us. Jitomi was meant to die in that river, but so be it; he will die at my crossbow instead."

  Madori claimed the crossbow bolt.

  It fired, whistling through the air.

  Before it could hit Jitomi, Madori shattered the quarrel into a thousand shards. They slammed into Jitomi, drawing blood, but the wounds were skin deep.

  As Naiko loaded another quarrel, Madori lunged forward with her sword.

  Naiko fired.

  Madori swung her blade, knocking the bolt aside. The dojai tossed their throwing stars; Madori claimed them all and froze them in midair. She kept charging. With a curse, Naiko dropped her crossbow and drew her sword.

  The two blades slammed together.

  Naiko laughed. "Do you think you can defeat me in swordplay? I've slain hundreds of men!" She swung her blade, forcing Madori back. "From childhood, my father would send me prisoners. I would fight them in our courtyard. I would slay them for sport." She swung again, and Madori parried. "No man or woman can defeat me."

  The empress's dojai watched, thin smiles on their lips, not approaching; perhaps they knew their mistress enjoyed slaying her enemies herself.

  Madori growled and swung her blade. "I am no prisoner. I am a warrior of Yin Shi. I bear Min Tey, Sheytusung renamed, a sword of legend."

  With a laugh, Naiko parried and thrust, slicing Madori's arm. Blood spilled.

  A growl rose, and Grayhem came racing toward the fray. The nightwolf leaped toward Naiko. With a thin smile, the empress tossed a throwing star. The shard of metal flew and slammed into Grayhem's neck.

  The nightwolf yowled and crashed down.

  Madori roared with rage. "Damn you!" She leaped toward Naiko, all her Yin Shi training forgotten, surrendering to her rage. She slammed her blade down again and again, as if she were swinging an ax at wooden logs. Naiko parried each attack, her smile growing.

  "Good!" the empress said. "Good. Now I see strength. Now I see rage and hatred. Now I see the spirit you lacked in the city. If only you could show such hatred toward our enemies!"

  Naiko swung her blade, slicing Madori's fingers.

  Madori screamed, blood spurting, her fingers cut down to the bone. Her sword flew from her grasp and clattered against the cobblestones.

  Naiko raised her blade above Madori.

  "Sweet, innocent mongrel," Naiko whispered, head tilted. "I will gladly slay you first. I'd like my brother to see you die before I kill him too."

  Naiko raised her katana further, prepared to swing it down.

  Her blade melted.

  Hot, molten metal dripped across Naiko's arm, and she screamed in pain.

  Jitomi came walking forward. He lifted Min Tey and handed the katana back to Madori.

  "Enough of this," Jitomi said. "Enough with violence, with bloodshed, with—"

  Naiko dropped her molten sword and reached for a throwing star.

  Madori lunged forward and drove Min Tey into the empress's face.

  The blade crashed through Naiko's mouth and clattered against the back of her helmet.

  "She should have worn her visor down," Madori said and tugged her sword back. The blade emerged, red and dripping. Naiko fell dead to the ground.

  Madori knelt by Grayhem. The nightwolf lay on his belly, mewling, and licked her fingers. He yelped when Madori tugged the throwing star free from him; it had sunk deep. Madori sucked in breath, chose his wound, and healed it like she had learned in Magical Healing class. She turned her attention to her fingers next; they were still bleeding heavily. She healed the cuts, leaving white scars.

  As poor as I was at Offensive Magic, I was good at Healing, she thought with a small smile, flexing her fingers.

  She turned around to see Jitomi kneeling by his fallen sister, his head lowered. The dojai stared down at their fallen mistress, faces blank. One among them muttered about Naiko's weakness; the others nodded.

  Jitomi looked up at Madori. "It's strange," he said softly. "She tried to kill us, but still I grieve for her. Despite her cruelty, she was still my sister."

  And the Serins are cousins to the Greenmoats, Madori thought. And yet I slew Lari, and I will slay her father i
f I can. She thought of Ferius, the cruel monk her mother had fought twenty years ago—Madori's uncle. Koyee had slain her own brother in battle. Perhaps in the seas of war, blood was not thicker than water.

  Madori and Jitomi turned toward the city. Smoke rose from Kingswall, and the screams of the dying and the cheers of the invaders rose in a sickly symphony. A great black serpent shot through the smoke, and Tianlong came coiling down toward them.

  "The city burns!" the dragon said.

  Jitomi nodded and climbed onto his back. "My sister has fallen, Tianlong. I rule this army again, and we will withdraw it from the city." Sitting in the saddle, he reached down to Madori. "Fly with me."

  She shook her head. "I stay with Grayhem. Bring them back, Jitomi. Bring them back under your rule. We leave this place."

  He nodded. The dragon shot into the air and vanished back into the smoke.

  Madori had sailed into this city a proud warrior, a liberator, a heroine, her chin raised and her chest puffed out with pride. As the Ilari Armada sailed away, they left behind a smoldering ruin, and Madori could only stand slumped upon their new flagship, head lowered.

  "I thought we could save them," she whispered to her mother. "I thought that when Eloria invaded the daylight, we would come here as heroes."

  Koyee embraced her and kissed her cheek. Mother and daughter stood together on the deck, staring westward. Past many leagues, deep in sunlight, rose Markfir, capital of the Radian Empire. Serin's home. The end of this war, an end of victory or ruin.

  The Armada sailed on.

  CHAPTER TEN:

  FALLEN GOD

  Torin ran through the ruins with his ragtag band of fighters. Their armor was dented and cracked. Mud and blood caked them. Their beards had grown long, and their hair lay matted across their faces. They scurried over piles of bricks, through holes in walls, under lone archways and over fallen columns, mere rats in desolation, barely men.

  "Radians!" Torin shouted hoarsely, pointing.

  The enemies came racing down a pile of rubble, firing arrows. Torin ran toward them. The arrows whistled around him, but Torin no longer cared. He had not slept or eaten for turns. He no longer cared if he lived or died. Why should he? So many thousands died around him every turn. Screaming, he swung his sword at the men. Around him the others fought. Covered in grime, Cam swung down his sword, cleaving a boy's skull; they were fighting mere boys now, soldiers barely old enough to shave.

  Within moments, the battle ended. Dozens of bodies covered the debris.

  Hogash, once a guardian of Orewood's gates, plunged his war hammer down onto a wounded man. Blood splattered. Hogash spat.

  "Good work, boys," he said. "Wish we had some ale to celebrate."

  Torin looked around him. He counted thirteen Magerian corpses, seventeen Verilish ones. He saw no Ardish bodies. There were no more Ardishmen left to fight, he supposed. Ten thousand had marched here several months ago; most probably lay under the rubble now. Torin doubted if any Ardishmen other than him and Cam lived anywhere in Orewood; sometimes he doubted that any lived anywhere in the world.

  "I'd even go for rat's blood now," Torin said softly. "Ale? You have lofty dreams."

  Hogash laughed. He had once been a bluff man, proud and strong and wide of belly. He looked haggard now, eyes sunken, his laughter sounding more like a hoarse croak.

  "More troops will come," Hogash said. He said the same every turn. "The great clans of the northern forests will muster. They'll march here. They'll bring aid."

  Cam approached them. Torin had been seeking rats to eat all turn, and Cam looked much like a rat now himself, scrawny and ragged and hairy. "The northern clans did muster," the King of Arden said—or at least, the king of what had once been Arden. "They marched here, Hogash. You remember, don't you? Thousands of them, howling for war." Cam looked around him. "All dead. All under the rubble."

  Cam climbed onto a piece of wall that still rose from ruins. It was rare to find walls that still stood in Orewood; most of the city had been leveled. Torin joined him, and they stood together, watching the landscape. Clouds covered the sky, allowing through only several beams of light. The rays fell upon nothing but devastation. The city's outer walls had fallen, taken down with magic and cannons. The city innards were in scarcely better shape. Of the palace only a single tower remained. Some turns the tower held the Radian banner, other turns the Verilish one. It seemed that every few hours, one force reclaimed the tower, only to lose it after another battle. Around that tower spread ruins: fallen temples, burnt homes, collapsed fortresses, and piles of corpses . . . everywhere corpses and the stench of death. Even the city's foundries stood in ruin, and the fabled iron mines lay buried. Without these prizes, Torin didn't even know why they kept fighting.

  Orewood, capital of Verilon, had become a graveyard.

  But no. Some still lived here. Hundreds, maybe thousands, still arrived every turn. Even now, as Torin looked south, he could see more Radian forces marching to Orewood, lines and lines of troops and wagons and chariots and riders. When he looked north, Torin could see more of Verilon's people traveling toward the ruins: men and women on bears, war hammers across their backs, and lines of children behind them. The children were barely older than twelve or thirteen, but they too held hammers, and they too would fight here. They too would die. Torin had seen enough reinforcements arriving in Orewood to know: They will not last more than a turn.

  "A Verilish soldier will only live for a turn on average," he said softly, looking at the line of bears and children. He turned back toward the southern Radian convoy. "A Radian with better armor, with more supplies—he'll last two or three turns, it seems. Idar, Cam. We've lived long, long past the average lifespan in this place."

  Cam nodded. "This is the world now, my friend. A world of war. But I would not abandon this city, this pile of rubble. This is where we make our final stand." He gasped suddenly, raced off the wall, and leaped onto a pile of bricks. He grabbed something, laughed, and raised it over his head. "A beetle, Tor! A real beetle."

  Torin frowned. "Cockroach. Those spread disease."

  Cam shook his head. "Not a cockroach. Beetle. I'll split it with you. I—"

  A dozen Verilish soldiers, Hogash among them, heard the young king. They began to advance, raising their hammers and licking their lips. Cam quickly stuffed the beetle into his mouth and swallowed. The Verilish soldiers cursed.

  "Sorry, Tor, old boy," Cam said. "Had to eat it all myself. Couldn't let this greedy lot take a bite." He turned toward the north. "We should meet the new arrivals. They might have some food on them—real food."

  Torin sighed. "The new arrivals will emerge into the northern quarters. That's a mile away. We'd never make it that way. Ruins are crawling with Radians. One under every brick."

  "We've got to die some turn," Cam said with a wry smile. "I say we finally make our way north."

  Torin turned to look at the Verilish soldiers. A few more were emerging from the ruins, little pockets of resistance. Every turn, the units fell apart and regrouped, gangs forming and disbanding and forming again. Every turn, most of them died, only for new groups to form. Fifty or more collected around Torin and Cam, weary souls, gaunt, haggard, clad in rags, bleeding, dying, starving.

  Torin nodded. "North. We'll give the fresh meat a nice welcome." He grimaced to hear the Radian war drums in the south. "Will get us farther from that nasty lot of Radians too."

  They scurried onward.

  They raced through the shell of a building, perhaps once a temple, charred bones rising among the bricks. Arrows rained upon them from the walls. They fired back. They hacked with swords. A few of them died. They killed. They kept running.

  They scuttled over a pile of collapsed, charred pieces of wood, the homes of the city's denizens. Charred skeletons of children lay around them. Smashed dolls tumbled beneath their feet. A cannon rolled toward them and fired, and the sound nearly deafened them, and three among them collapsed. The survivors kept running. Others
joined them. More died. More emerged from the ruins to replace the fallen. They scurried onward.

  It felt like they raced for hours, for turns. They found a cellar once; the home around it had fallen. Torin and Cam plunged down into the darkness. They found themselves around bodies, arrows in their chests. Maggots bustled, and the stench was like a living thing, but Torin and Cam slept here for a while. When they woke, they were tempted to eat the corpses, rotted as they were, but thankfully Cam found moldy bread under a fallen shelf. They feasted. They raced onward.

  Finally—it could have been turns, it could have been years later—they reached the northern fringe of the city, and they greeted the new Verilish arrivals.

  So did thousands of Radian troops.

  The Radians raced forth to meet the northerners, to cut into the fresh meat. The Verilish screamed. They were humble foresters, loggers, fishermen, boys, girls. The Radians had been fighting this war for over a year now; they were hardened, survivors, and they slew with every breath, and they laughed as the blood sprayed them.

  Torin and Cam watched as the new Verilish recruits fell.

  "I thought you said they would last a turn on average," Cam said. Arrows sailed overhead, sinking into a group of charging Verilish bears; the riders upon them were already dead. "Has it been a turn already?"

  Torin sighed. "A turn of life seems generous lately."

  A group of Verilish boys, perhaps thirteen years old, charged into battle. They wore ragtag pieces of armor. They fought not with swords but with pointed sticks; all the swords of Verilon had been buried. A Radian cannon tore into them, scattering the boys apart. A couple of Radian troops, laughing and spitting, moved between the fallen and speared them, making sure none survived.

  "Feel like killing a bit?" Torin asked.

  Cam shook his head. "No. But there's nothing better to do here. Onward."

  They raced forward. They slew the Radians before them. A few Verilish survivors joined them—a mixture of hardened old men, some of them veterans of the last war, and new recruits. Torin was surprised to see King Ashmog among them. The burly King of Verilon, the man who had once sentenced Torin to be mauled by a bear, was barely recognizable. He was thin now, cadaverous, and his beard had been ripped off, leaving raw cheeks. When he saw Torin, the ruin of a king limped toward him.