Legacy of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  Torin recognized that face. He had seen it upon every soldier after the fall of Yintao. Upon every survivor here in Orewood who fed on rats and waited for death. Many times, Torin had seen it when staring at his own reflection. It was the face of lost hope, of a cruelty born from lack of belief that any goodness could exist in this world. It was the face that, perhaps, Torin had always been fighting within himself.

  Then Lord Gehena opened that shriveled mouth, shrieked again, and charged toward him.

  The demon—for that was how Torin thought of Gehena now—swung his sword toward him. Torin parried, but the creature's spear thrust too. Torin raised his shield, blocking the blow, only for the axe and hammer to swing down. He leaped aside, and both weapons slammed into fallen bricks, shattering them.

  A battle cry sounded, and Cam leaped through the ring of fire to fight.

  "He has four hands," Cam said. "Figured I'd join to make the fight fair."

  The shepherd-turned-king ran toward Gehena, sword swinging. The demon parried with his own sword. Torin swung his blade, only for Gehena to block the blow with his axe. The weapons swung in a fury, sparking together, clashing, chipping.

  "Fools," hissed Gehena. "You cannot kill me. I was trained in the pits of Serin's forts. I was augmented with his magic, broken, rebuilt, formed to slay men." His blades swung again and again, slamming into Torin and Cam's weapons and armor. "You should have run."

  A blow from Gehena's hammer slammed into Cam's breastplate, knocking the slender man down. Before Cam could rise, Gehena lashed all four weapons down toward Torin.

  Screaming, Torin raised his shield and sword overhead. His sword snapped in half. The blows kept raining, pounding against his shield, and Torin fell to his knees, then onto his back.

  Gehena loomed above him, laughing, his ribs rising and falling and stretching his desiccated skin. Sores burst upon his body. His hooves, surgically stitched onto his legs, slammed down at Torin's sides. The demon leered down at him, saliva dripping between his fangs. Torin lay on his back, moaning, clutching a hilt with only half a blade.

  "And now, Torin, I will finally let you die."

  Torin had shied away from amputating the wounded soldier's leg, but he had seen it done enough times. He swung the stub of his blade, aiming toward the stitches where Gehena's hoof met leg.

  The blade cut through rotted flesh. The hoof tore off. Gehena screamed. As the demon fell down toward him, Torin raised the broken blade. Gehena fell onto the shard of steel, impaling himself, then burying Torin under his weight.

  "Tor!" Cam limped forward, grabbed Gehena, and tugged him off. "By Idar's soggy britches, this thing weighs more than a horse."

  Torin coughed and helped push. They rolled Gehena onto his back, and Torin struggled to his feet, staring down at the slain creature. A gust of wind blew, and Gehena dispersed into ash. The broken blade clattered down to the ground.

  The ring of fire faded around them, revealing a field of dead. No more enemy troops fought. Verilish men, clad in fur cloaks and cast iron breastplates, cheered and raised their war hammers. Oridians chanted for victory, their helmets horned, their swords painted red.

  Through the carnage, a figure in white came walking toward Torin. In his pain and delirium, he almost thought her a deity, a goddess in white.

  An Elorian, he realized.

  The woman reached him. She was young and fair, her eyes large and blue. Her white hair and flowing robes streamed in the wind. With her walked an Oridian lord, gold upon his armor, a filigreed mead horn hanging around his neck on a chain.

  "The demon called you Torin," said the Elorian woman. "Are you . . . Sir Torin Greenmoat, the hero of the first war?"

  Torin rubbed his aching neck. "Well, after this battle, I better be remembered as a hero of the second war too."

  The Elorian woman clasped his hand. "I am Yiun Yee, Princess of Leen and Queen of Orida. With me is Eris, King of Orida."

  Torin smiled at them wanly. "You're late. But if you join us on the road to Markfir, all will be forgiven."

  Swaying weakly, he turned to look south. The ruins stretched ahead, and beyond them rose the pine forests of Verilon, but south from here, many leagues across forests and plains, lay the capital of the Radian Empire. That, Torin knew, was his destination. That, he knew, was where he'd meet Serin again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  LANTERNS IN THE DARK

  Jin, Emperor of Qaelin, sat on his nightwolf, gazing at the port of Eeshan.

  Eeshan—the Gates to the North, the largest city along the northern coast of Qaelin. Eeshan—the fair city that had fallen to Verilon in the last war, that had risen from captivity into a great hub of trade and industry. Eeshan—the last city still standing in his empire, the last city not yet fallen to the sunlight.

  Eeshan, Jin thought, the word like a prayer in his mind. Maybe our last hope in the darkness.

  All around Jin, thousands of his soldiers mustered for war. In the port ahead, the lanterns of hundreds of ships swayed.

  "For the first time," Jin whispered, "Qaelin will sail into the sunlight."

  His nightwolf growled beneath him, a beautiful silver animal named Chon Bao. Born without arms and legs, Jin sat in a custom harness that held his torso upright. Some of his empire's philosophers had wanted to construct him limbs of gold, but why should Jin pretend to have limbs? Shenlai the dragon had been limbless, and he had been a great leader who had saved Qaelin in its last war.

  Yet Shenlai, my dearest friend, has fallen. As a new fire burns, it is I who must save my empire.

  Jin had been only a child in the last war, and great warriors had helped him: Shenlai the dragon, Koyee the heroine, and Torin and Bailey of the sunlight. Now, even as an adult, even with a great army, Jin felt alone, and he was scared.

  He looked around him at the port city. Tall, narrow houses lined the streets, their tiled roofs curling up at the edges like scrolls. Lanterns hung from the eaves, the tin shaped as the mocking faces of spirits, candles within their eyes. Bats fluttered above, and a great public fireplace roared in a cobbled square, its iron grill shaped as coiling dragons and dancing maidens.

  And everywhere Jin looked, he saw his army. Qaelin's soldiers lined the streets, standing still and solemn as statues. Scale armor shone upon them. Their helmets were simple, polished steel. Each man held a spear and shield, and katanas hung across their backs. Most stood afoot, but like Jin many rode upon nightwolves, the beasts armored and as well trained as their riders.

  Jin leaned forward, then sideways, guiding his wolf with the tilt of his limbless body. Chon Bao climbed onto a bronze dragon statue, letting the troops see their emperor.

  "Soldiers of Qaelin!" he said. "Serin has destroyed the city of Pahmey, plunging it into darkness. Serin has burned Yintao and plundered its treasures. From here in Eeshan, upon our northern coast, we will strike back. We will show the Radian Empire that Qaelin still fights. We are the night!"

  Thousands of soldiers raised their spears. "We are the night!"

  Jin tilted in his harness. His nightwolf, understanding the signal, turned to face the port. When Jin leaned forward, the nightwolf jumped off the statue and began walking toward the boardwalk. The soldiers marched behind him, their boots thumping as one. In the water floated hundreds of ships: the junk ships of Qaelin, moonstars upon their sails and cannons lining their decks, and the long, elegant dragon-ships of Leen, diamonds painted upon their white hulls.

  On the boardwalk, Jin saw a group of Leenish soldiers clad in flowing white robes over silvery breastplates. Between them stood the Emperor of Leen, an old man with a long snowy beard. He wore silk robes embroidered with white dragons—images of Pirilin, fallen dragon of Leen—and a great diamond, symbol of his empire, hung around his neck. The old man turned sad, indigo eyes toward Jin.

  "Leen is a land of philosophers, harpists, poets, stargazers." The fleet's swaying lanterns reflected in his eyes. "I never imagined that Leen would invade the sunlight, would march to war.
I never imagined that my own daughter, the gentle Yiun Yee, would marry a man of the sun."

  Jin brought his nightwolf close to the old king's side. "The people of Leen are wise and peaceful, yet I've seen them fight. I rode upon Pirilin in the last war, and I fought alongside Leenish warriors." Jin shuddered to remember that war, to remember Pirilin sinking into the sea, forever lost from the night. "And your daughter's husband, they say, is himself a wise man who fights against the Radians. Yiun Yee too sails to fight Serin with the Oridian fleet. We will defeat Serin. We will save the darkness." He lowered his head. "Perhaps there's not much left to save. So much of our land has burned. Even as we speak, Radian troops assault the coasts of Leen and Ilar. But so long as we live, we will fight, even if we die upon the walls of Markfir."

  He turned to look at the sea. In Markfir, capital of Serin's empire, will I meet Koyee again? Jin had not seen his friend in many years, and he missed her. Orida sailed to war, and they said that the Ilari Armada was already sailing in the sunlight. Perhaps at Markfir all free people would meet.

  And perhaps you'll be there too, Koyee, at the great battle of our time.

  Jin rode his nightwolf along a plank and onto a junk ship with silver, battened sails. All across the port, his soldiers boarded many other ships. Most would see the sunlight for the first time. Most perhaps would never see the night again. Each soldier carried a silver lantern, thousands of lights crawling onto the ships. In the daylight, Jin knew, thousands of these lights would go out.

  They set sail, the ships of Eloria, hundreds of vessels, myriads of lanterns, and an emperor with the hopes of a nation upon his armless shoulders. The lights flowed over the black waters, across the shadows . . . and toward the light of day.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

  ELDMARK FIELDS

  Torin had been riding across the plains for many turns when he finally saw Markfir in the distance.

  After a summer of fire and blood, autumn had come to Moth, and cold wind ruffled Torin's hair and beard; both had grown long in the war, streaked with silver. His banner unfurled, revealing the black raven of Arden upon a golden field. He turned in the saddle, looking at the rest of his army. Only a dozen other raven banners rose here, a few last survivors of Arden come to join the assault.

  But despite the scarcity of Ardishmen, the force—the Northern Alliance—sprawled across the grassy plains. Many of the soldiers were men and women of Verilon. They wore cast iron breastplates and pelts of bear fur, and their shaggy brown hair streamed in the wind. They carried massive war hammers—weapons too heavy for Torin to lift—and many among them rode bears instead of horses. The brown bear of Verilon appeared upon their green banners. Warriors of Orida comprised the rest of the Northern Alliance. They were large people, not as wide as the Verilish but just as tall, their hair golden, and the men sported long beards, and the women wore their hair in two braids; they reminded Torin of Bailey, and he missed his friend whenever he looked at these northern shieldmaidens. The Oridians too raised many banners, displaying a sea of orcas, and they rode many horses.

  "Forty thousand warriors," Cam said, riding at Torin's side on a white courser. "There are more men than this defending Markfir, and they defend it from high walls." He looked at Torin. "Are we marching to an early death?"

  Torin raised an eyebrow. "We've been doing that for years now. We're still alive."

  "Some of us are," Cam said softly.

  Torin looked back toward Markfir. The city lay across the flat wastelands men called Eldmark Fields, named after an ancient Riyonan emperor who had fallen here in some forgotten battle. No Radian force was marching forth to meet the invaders; the field was barren, flat, and empty, covered with only sparse grass. The city was still too far to see clearly, but even from this distance, Torin realized it was massive; hundreds of towers rose from it. This was a city even larger than Pahmey, its walls mighty and thick. Torin had seen Markfir embroidered onto a tapestry once—five or six cotton towers, maybe thirty soldiers upon its walls. The artist had been lazy; that tapestry would have to cover a city block just to depict the true might of Markfir.

  Horse hoofs thundered, and Eris rode up to ride beside Torin. The King of Orida stared south, the wind in his golden hair, and his blue eyes narrowed. The autumn sun gleamed upon his bright armor and horned helmet.

  "The bulk of Serin's forces linger in the darkness of Eloria," the northern king said. "He has spread himself too thin, launched too many fronts. His arrogance will be his downfall. We will slam through his gates, storm his palace, and hang him in the city square."

  A shaggy bear padded forth, and upon the beast rose Hogash, burly and grumbling. Once Orewood's gatekeeper, the bearded man had risen to command Verilon's forces after his king had fallen. "Hang him?" Hogash spat across his saddle. "That death would be too kind for Serin. I will give him a better death. A slow one."

  "We'll worry about Serin's fate later," said Cam, the third commander of the Northern Alliance. "High walls, tens of thousands of Radian soldiers, and probably hundreds of mages still separate us from the emperor. Let's cross those obstacles first."

  Both Eris and Hogash nodded.

  "The little king is wise," said Hogash.

  And frightened, Torin thought, gazing at the three leaders. And I'm frightened too.

  He looked back at the city; it was closer now, the sunlight gleaming upon the armor of its distant defenders. Torin had fought many battles, but here would be the greatest battle of his life, perhaps the greatest in Moth's history. Here the fate of this world torn between day and night would be decided. Here, upon Eldmark Fields, would all civilization burn in the Radian fire or rise to defeat it.

  The Northern Alliance rode and marched onward, forty thousand soldiers and thousands of horses and bears, the free Timandrians of the north come south to strike at Serin's heart.

  It must have taken hours, but it seemed to Torin that only moments passed before they reached Markfir.

  The city lay in the shadow of the Teekat Mountains, which the Magerians called Markshade, the great range—once the western border of the fallen Riyonan Empire—that separated Mageria from Daenor in the west. To the north, east, and south of the city spread Eldmark Fields, the great grassy plains where buffaloes—sigil of the Magerian people—would roam in the turns of old, now hunted to extinction.

  A moat surrounded Markfir, and beyond the water rose a ring of guard towers—well over a hundred of them—connected with walls of grayish-brown bricks. Each guard tower stared onto the fields with arrowslits like feline eyes, and red tiles covered their conical roofs. Beyond these fortifications rose a great hill, almost large enough to be called a mountain, covered with thousands of buildings. Most of the buildings rose several stories tall, all built of the same grayish-brown bricks, and their roofs too were tiled red. A hundred towers or more rose between homes and shops, all topped with battlements and archers. Even the Idarith temples, their steeples soaring hundreds of feet tall, had been converted into forts; archers stood in their belfries. At the city's crest, perched atop the hilltop, rose Solgrad Castle—Serin's imperial palace—a great complex with thick walls and four round towers overlooking the city below.

  "By Idar," Torin whispered, sudden terror clutching him, so powerful that he winced and could barely look at the city.

  Thousands of Radian troops manned the walls and towers, and they were all shouting for war. They beat drums. They blared horns. They waved swords and axes, and they chanted for victory.

  "Radian rises!" boomed countless voices. "Radian rises!"

  "A nice welcoming party they've set up," Cam muttered. The king's horse neighed and bucked.

  Torin nodded. "We're honored guests. I say we ride up and make some trouble."

  They advanced slowly toward the city gates, riders first. They had to move slowly, for the enemy had dug many hidden holes into the fields, each covered with a blanket of grass; several horses stepped into the traps to twist and even break their legs, and several men fe
ll to crash down onto jagged spikes. Five hundred yards outside the city gates, the Northern Alliance halted.

  "I'll go deliver our terms," Cam said.

  Hogash snorted upon his bear. "Terms? The only term I have is to crush their skulls. Crush them. Like they did to Orewood."

  "I thought we'd be gentlemanly about it," Cam said. "At least before we crush them."

  The beefy Verilish commander sighed. "You Ardish are silly folk."

  Cam rode forth, and Torin rode with him, until they stood just beyond the range of arrows. The gates and walls rose ahead, topped with thousands of troops.

  Cam coned his palm around his mouth and cried out, "City of Markfir! Open your gates and send out your tyrant, the false emperor Tirus Serin. Send him forth and Markfir will be spared! Protect him and we will raze your city to the ground."

  The soldiers upon the walls laughed. They banged their swords against their shields. They spat toward the field. They cried out obscenities, detailing various carnal acts Torin and Cam probably loved performing on nightcrawlers.

  "Enough being gentlemanly for now?" Torin asked.

  Cam nodded. "Quite enough."

  The king looked over his shoulder at the rest of their troops, the forty thousand who waited in the field. He raised a silver horn and blew.

  Torin raised his shield.

  It begins.

  Arrows flew. Catapults swung. The Battle of Eldmark Fields, the great battle for all of Moth, began.

  * * * * *

  Neekeya thrust her sword, slaying the last Radian defender of the pyramid. The corpse tumbled down the staircase that rose along the pyramid's southern slope, crashing down to the swamps below.

  She looked around her, panting. Across the marshlands of Daenor, twelve other pyramids rose from the greenery, forming the shape of a great reptile. Across all thirteen peaks, soldiers climbed to tear down the Radian banners.