Legacy of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  The Orinhall rose ahead in the shade of the mountains, a great mead hall with towering beams of giltwood. When Eris entered the hall, he found his brother upon the throne. Torumun held a drawn sword across his lap, and his father's crown topped his head. At his side stood Iselda, sister to Tirus Serin, clad in a burgundy gown.

  "You are not welcome here, Eris the Kingslayer!" Iselda said. She pointed an accusing finger at him. "Last you entered this hall, you slew my husband—your own father. Now you come trying to usurp the throne. Your elder brother is true King of Orida, and he has taken me as a wife. As queen of this land, I charge you with regicide and patricide." The Radian queen turned toward the soldiers who lined the hall. "Men of Orida, place this man in chains. He will stand trial for his crime, and he will burn in a great pyre before our people."

  Yet the first of the jotnar were now entering the hall behind Eris. Their joints of stone and ice creaked, their heads brushed the ceiling, and frost spread out from their feet. At the sight of the giants, the soldiers in the hall gasped. A few still held their swords; others placed down their weapons and knelt.

  "Orin returns!" whispered one man.

  "Orin returns with Ymir, king of the jotnar!" said another, voice awed, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Eris took a step closer to the throne. Ignoring Iselda, he stared at his brother.

  "Torumun," he said, "when you banished me from this hall, when you raised arms against me, I thought to return here and slay you, to claim the throne." He looked at Yiun Yee who stood at his side, seeking comfort from her soft gaze, then back toward Torumun. "But Yiun Yee taught me to be more than a warrior, more than a slayer of enemies. She taught me mercy. I should never have slain our father, even as he attacked my wife, and I don' wish to slay you. But I must cleanse this hall. Orida must remove the Radian banners and raise the orca flag again. Please, brother. Cast aside this woman who has bewitched you. Return to the ways of righteousness."

  Torumun rose from his seat. He seemed to have aged since Eris had last seen him. White streaked his temples and yellow beard. His eyes were sunken and simmering with malice. Rather than the old armor of Orida, he wore a suit of black plates, and an eclipse sigil burned upon the breastplate, formed of rubies.

  "Banish my wife?" Torumun said and laughed.

  Eris narrowed his eyes. "Your wife? She is your stepmother!"

  "No longer." Torumun's laughter was bitter. "You saw to that. You slew our father. You murdered him in this hall, all because he tried to rid us of your nightcrawler wife. Iselda is mine now. My wife. My prize." He pulled her close to him. "And she has shown me the true meaning of glory, and that glory lies under the Radian banners. Father was right to join Serin. Leave this place, brother! Your creatures of ancient stories cannot help you now. The jotnar perhaps are impressive for fools to look upon, but they are beasts of the old world. A new order rises. A new world begins. The hosts of Orida already muster, and our fleet gathers for assault. We will soon begin the invasion of darkness, and we will burn the isle of Leen and the northern coast of Qaelin." He sneered. "And your wife will be the first nightcrawler to die."

  Eris shook his head. "You speak as father spoke. I slew him, it is true, but I will spare you." He looked at the soldiers who knelt before him—his brother's soldiers. "Sons of Orin, our old years of glory need not be mere legends. They can return. Remove the foreign banners that hang on these walls. Together we will cleanse the city. Escort Torumun and Iselda to the port, and give them a ship, and let them sail into exile. Let no more blood spill in this hall." He looked at Yiun Yee and held her hand. "May blood never spill here again."

  Iselda stared at the kneeling soldiers in disgust, then back at Eris. Her face twisted, hatred blazed in her eyes, and she seemed more like a rabid beast than a woman.

  "Exile? No, usurper. We will not go into exile." The sorceress spat toward the soldiers who knelt before Eris. "These men are weak. The blood of Orin is weak. But true soldiers muster to your south in Verilon. Very soon my brother's hosts will crush the resistance in Orewood, and then they will come here. Then true men will hold this hall, not the sons of farmers and shepherds who quake at the sight of some summoned goblins of ice. Torumun and I will return, Eris . . . return with an army of fire to melt your giants, burn your wife, and bring you back to Markfir so the emperor may see your bones shattered."

  She wrapped her arms around Torumun and gave him a long, deep kiss, her body pressed against him. Then she turned toward Eris, glared, and spat toward him. Serpents of black smoke rose around her feet, coiling and hissing, wrapping around her and Torumun like a cocoon.

  "Men, grab them!" Eris shouted.

  His soldiers rushed forth and reached into the smoke, only to scream and pull back burnt hands. When finally the astral serpents dispersed, no sign of Iselda or Torumun remained, only a great eclipse charred into the floor.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  THE HORNS OF ORIDA

  Horns blared across the ruins of Orewood—loud, horrible, jarring banshee cries heralding death. Ravens took flight from the rubble, startled by the sound, leaving the corpses they had fed upon and vanishing into the clouds.

  "Radian horns," Torin muttered. He crouched in the ruins, tending to a young soldier's wounded leg. The Verilish man groaned, face ashen. The leg would have to be amputated, Torin knew, though he wasn't sure he had the resolve to swing his sword and do the job.

  "Lots of the bastards this time, by the sound of it," Cam said. The King of Arden himself had a wounded leg; a bandage wrapped around it, soaked red, and Cam winced when he shifted his weight. "Torin, old boy, my leg's in no shape for climbing. Be a good lad and go take a look."

  Torin nodded and looked toward Linee. "Would you take over?"

  Crouched among the ruins, the queen nodded and wiped her bloody forehead. More old blood stained her patches of dented armor, most of it not her own. She was better at healing than Torin anyway; she had already amputated and stitched up the limbs of several soldiers, including her own son's. Omry sat at her side, pale and shivering, his left leg ending below the knee.

  "Go, Torin," Linee said. She approached the wounded soldier and winced at the sight of the man's wounded leg. She drew a long, curved knife.

  The horns sounded again, metallic, cruel. Perhaps, at least, they would drown the screams of the wounded man. Grateful for his task, Torin rose with the creak of armor and joints; both had seen far too much wear. Pocked walls rose around them, a shell of crumbling stone, and thirty other soldiers hunkered here, all of them Verilish; Torin had not seen any other Ardishmen for many turns. He climbed the wall, walked along its jagged top, then made his way up the staircase of a tower. The tower's northern wall had fallen, affording a view of the Verilish camp: dozens of burrows between the ruins, each full of soldiers in bloody, dusty armor. Through the arrowslits on the tower's southern wall, Torin could see the sprawling, smoldering no man's land, a field of rubble and bones. To wander into that field, he knew, was death. The ravens had returned to the ruin, pecking at thousands of corpses.

  Finally Torin made it to the top of the tower. Two tattered banners rose upon it: the bear of Verilon and the raven of Arden. Both banners seemed lurid to Torin now; the bear Gashdov had fallen, and the only true ravens here were feeding upon their dead. He stepped behind a merlon, crouched, and gazed south.

  No man's land spread a mile long, nearly all its buildings fallen. Little more than a few arches, the stubs of columns, and chunks of wall rose here; the rest had fallen. Past this field of rubble rose the Radian side of the city, a great hive of crumbling forts, makeshift barracks, trenches, and the tattered standards of the enemy. The horns blared again, and the forest south of the city rustled. Fresh Radian forces began to emerge. Torin cursed.

  "This might be the end," he muttered.

  Throughout the past month or two, Radian reinforcements had arrived every few turns: a few wagons of food, a couple hundred frightened recruits pulled from southern villagers and
towns, and sometimes even a knight or two with their footmen. But now, for the first time since the battle began, Torin saw a true new army arrive. Thousands of troops marched here, covered in black steel. Hundreds rode upon armored horses. Cannons rolled forth among them, shaped as buffaloes. On one banner Torin saw the sigil of a yellow citadel upon a crimson field.

  These soldiers came from Sunmotte itself, Torin thought. From Serin's own home.

  The Radians already in the city cheered as their comrades approached. The new arrivals did not even bother to set camp; at once they advanced toward no man's land, many swordsmen and horses and cannons, and began to travel across the rubble . . . toward Torin and his comrades.

  "Oh Idar's beard," Torin whispered. He raced back down the tower and burst into the burrow he shared with Cam, Linee, and the others. "We're going to have company. Lots of company. Radians are arriving."

  Cam cursed. "How many?"

  "All of them, I think," Torin said. "They're entering the killing field and moving our way."

  Cam grumbled and drew his sword. "This might be it, Tor."

  Linee paled and moved toward her son. She hugged the prince close, her cheeks pale. Torin looked at them. His friends. His new family. They would die now, he knew. All of them would.

  I'll never see Koyee and Madori again.

  He drew his old chipped sword. "I don't have much to say." His voice was soft, weak with hunger and the long fight. "You all know what this means. Linee, I want you to take Omry and flee north of the city. Sneak into the forests. Try to survive, perhaps find a village, take a new name."

  The queen shook her head, and tears filled her eyes. "I never ran from a fight. Not even when I was very young and afraid, when Camlin and I traveled Sage's Road through the night, when we fought in the deserts of Eseer, when we fixed the clock on the mountain. And I won't run now." She raised her knife. "This is my home now. And I'll die defending it if I must. Better to die here in battle, with my family around me, than in some forest in the cold of winter." She wiped her eyes and embraced Cam. "I love you, my Camlin. I love you so much."

  Cam kissed her lips and held her close. "I love you too, Linee. Always. In this life and the next, my queen." He smiled tremulously. "I fell in love with you somewhere in the darkness of Eloria, and I've not stopped loving you since then, not for one instant." The horns blared again, and Linee started. Cam caressed her cheek. "We still fight together."

  Torin moved toward the hole in the wall that served as their doorway. He waited. The horns wailed again. They would be here soon.

  He frowned.

  "The horns," he said. "They're . . . different."

  He heard it again. He frowned. These horns were lighter, more melodious, and they sounded from the north, not the south where the enemy marched.

  "Those aren't Radian horns," Cam said.

  Distant voices rose in the north, chanting and deep. "Forward, Sons of Orin! For Orida! For King Eris! For glory and our northern isle!"

  Torin gasped, raced back up the tower, and stared south. Hope and wonder blazed inside him like a great fire in the cold of winter. Thousands of horses came galloping from the northern forests into the city. Atop them sat thousands of men in bright armor and fur cloaks, their helmets horned, their wooden shields round. Their banners streamed, showing orcas. Behind the riders marched many soldiers on foot, rows and rows of them, a great army of metal and wood and fur.

  "Orida brings aid," Torin whispered.

  He turned back south. The Radians had already crossed half the city, moving closer. Their cannons crackled and fired. The great balls of iron flew through the air toward the Oridian host. The missiles tore through horses, but the rest of the cavalry kept charging, the riders calling out for battle. The city shook as the two forces crashed together.

  Torin raced down the tower as the armies flowed across their hideouts.

  And he fought.

  And he laughed.

  He was so weak, so thin, so weary and haunted, but he laughed as the hosts of Orida tore through the enemy, as the bright swords of the north cut down Serin's forces, as for the first time in many turns of death, hope kindled in Orewood. The warriors of the orca swept through the city like a wave cleaning debris off a beach.

  When thousands of Radian troops had fallen dead, and the city defenders and the warriors of Orida charged against the enemy, Lord Gehena finally emerged to fight.

  Three months ago, the towering mage had ridden toward the city walls, holding a severed head in each of his four hands. Gehena had tossed his grisly gifts toward the city, signaling the start of the assault, but since then the hooded creature had remained hidden in shadows. Now he emerged, the field commander of the Radians' northern front, a towering mage—he stood eight feet tall. He wore robes darker than the night, the hems burnt, and an iron helmet hid his face, revealing only blazing red eyes like forge fires. The creature walked afoot through the devastation, his four arms raised, and in each hand he held a weapon: a spear, an axe, a sword, and a hammer.

  Watching from a ruined wall, Torin grimaced with sudden pain, blinded, nearly doubling over. Gehena had kept him imprisoned for eight months in a dungeon, then later a cart, and for most of those turns the mage had hurt him—sometimes by ordering his brutes to beat Torin, sometimes by casting magic himself, driving shards of pain through Torin's flesh. Now that pain flared in Torin's memory, so intense it felt real, and the scars of his imprisonment—they covered his body beneath his armor—blazed anew.

  "Tor!" Cam said, clutching him. "Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

  Torin could not reply, only stare in terror. If hope had kindled inside him with Orida's arrival, now, seeing Gehena, that hope seemed foolish, the hope of a starving prisoner as a guard taunts him with a meal he'd never serve.

  "Archers, fire!" shouted an Oridian upon a tower, his long yellow hair billowing from under his horned helmet.

  A hundred Oridian archers crouched among the ruins, tugged back bowstrings, and fired their arrows toward Gehena. The towering mage merely raised his eyes, and though Torin could not see Gehena's face—he never had, not even during his months of imprisonment—it seemed to Torin that the demonic mage sneered. Three feet away from Gehena, the arrows shriveled in midair and rained down as ash.

  "Sons of Orin, charge!" cried an Oridian knight. The man thundered forth upon his horse, and twenty other riders rode with him, their horses armored, their banners fluttering in the smoky wind. Lances thrust. Torin crouched behind rubble, watching.

  Gehena swung his four weapons. Lances shattered with fountains of wooden shards. The demonic mage's spear thrust, impaling a rider. His axe swung, cutting down a horse. His sword sliced through a knight, and his hammer sent another man crashing down. The horses kept charging, the riders aiming their lances, and the mage spun from side to side, blades spraying blood.

  A lone horse, its rider dead, fled the carnage. The other riders lay dead around the demon-mage, torn apart.

  Gehena tossed back his head and shrieked to the sky. It was a horrible sound, ear-splitting, its pitch higher than steam from a kettle, it volume louder than thunder. The ruins shook. A wall collapsed. The shriek coalesced into words that pounded Torin's ears.

  "Will you hide as others fight for you, Torin the Gardener?" the towering mage cried. "Will you rely on saviors from afar, or will you face me yourself, man to man?"

  Torin grimaced. The pain still blazed through him, the pain of his wounds, of his memories. Of Kingswall falling. Of his long months in the dungeon, worried for his family. Of the carnage in this city.

  Slowly, clutching his sword, Torin emerged from behind the rubble and faced the mage.

  "Torin, what are you doing?" Cam whispered, trying to tug Torin down. But it was too late. Gehena had seen him.

  As thousands of men still fought across the ruins, Torin took a step across the debris toward the demon.

  "I'm here, Gehena," he said. His heart thudded, sweat soaked him, but he kept walking. "I do not
cower. I come to face you again, a sword in my hand."

  He was being foolish, he knew. Feverish. Suicidal. But he kept walking. He kept thinking of the severed heads Gehena had tossed at him—the heads of his neighbors from Fairwool-by-Night. He kept thinking of the long months in Gehena's dungeon. And he thought of what else this demon might do if left free, of the pain Gehena could inflict upon Koyee, upon Madori, upon all other good souls in Moth.

  And so I must stop him. I must do what I could not last time I fought him. I must kill him.

  "I can see the fear in you, Torin Greenmoat," said the creature, "and you are right to be afraid. I see the doubt in you, and you are right to feel doubt." The demon raised his hand, and a ring of fire burst out around them, trapping them within walls of inferno. "You should have stayed hidden."

  Torin shook his head. "No, Gehena. No magic. You want to face me? Face me in a fair fight. As you said, man to man, if indeed a man you are. No magical fires, serpents, bolts of lightning. Blade to blade. Doff your wizard's robes, let me see your form, and duel me."

  The towering mage nodded . . . and removed his cloak. He let the garment drop to the ground.

  Torin felt the blood drain from his face. Lord Gehena was not just thin; he was skeletal, his skin clinging to bones. That skin was red and raw as if burnt. Two of the mage's four arms were sewn on, the stitches dripping pus, and his legs seemed surgically extended, grafted onto goat hooves. But worst of all was Gehena's face. It was a withered face, the cheeks sunken, the mouth lip-less, the teeth sharp and yellow. It was a pained face. The face of a man who had felt too much agony, seen too much terror, heard too many screams, a face that hid a shattered mind.