Serin narrowed his eyes, staring at Atratus. "And I presume that you have such a man in mind."
Atratus bowed his head. "Master, you've named me your chief mage, and I've championed your cause for many years. I would gladly marry the girl Lari, even this . . . new Lari. I would give you a grandson of pure blood, strong of magic."
Serin stared at the headmaster, and a fire ignited inside him. How dared that twisted, bony creature crave his daughter, crave to steal Serin's precious prize? Serin had already lost his first Lari. He would keep his second Lari close. Precious. Safe. He glanced back toward his daughter, admiring her curved form, her large eyes, her pink lips.
She's not really my daughter, whispered a voice in his head. I can claim her as my own. I can impregnate her myself. I can father my own grandson and heir.
He turned back toward the battlements and gazed east. The alliance of rebels—those scum from the north—were setting camp across the field, raising tents and spreading out their forces.
"The enemy will not attempt to scale these walls again," Serin said, watching them. "They tested our strength. They failed. They will not be so foolish again. They will lay siege to our city, blocking the roads, cutting off our supplies. Half a million souls live in this city, and the enemy will attempt to starve us." He looked back at Atratus. "I will allow no siege. The mages of Markfir must ride out and crush the enemy. And you will lead them, Atratus."
Atratus inhaled sharply. "Master, I am an educator. A man of learning, a teacher of youths." He glanced toward the hosts of thousands, then back at his emperor. "Master, I would remain at your side, your adviser, not rush into the field like a common soldier, like—"
"You taught Offensive Magic at the university, did you not?" said Serin. "You taught the art of war. Does the great teacher of war dare not ride to one?"
Atratus licked his dry lips. He glanced at the field, and a bead of sweat appeared on his brow. Yet he straightened as far as he could and nodded. "I will lead the assault, Master. Three hundred mages protect this city. I will lead them out." His voice trembled only the slightest. "Three hundred should be more than sufficient for our task. But . . ." He cleared his throat and twisted his fingers. "I would suggest bringing the avalerions. To strike fear into their hearts."
Serin sighed. "And to offer you some protection. But yes. The avalerions will rise and fly. And the enemy will fall."
* * * * *
Torin stood in a tent pavilion, his wounds bandaged. The commanders of the Northern Alliance stood with him: King Camlin of Arden, Lord Hogash of Verilon, and King Eris of Orida. With them stood a host of other lords, and Eris's Elorian wife stood here too—Princess Yiun Yee of Leen, clad in silk robes and no armor. As they gathered here in the field, the Radians still chanted upon the city walls.
"Our siege towers are gone, and there's not enough wood in these barren plains to construct more," Eris said, face grim. "It's unnatural for a land to be so barren of trees. It chills me."
"And even if we built more siege towers, the walls are too well defended," Torin said, wincing with the pain of his wounds. "Thousands of soldiers man those walls."
Cam pointed at the table that lay before them. A map of Mageria was unrolled across it. "So we set siege to the city. Serin will find little aid. Much of his Sunmotte garrison fell in Orewood, and most of his men are still deep in Eloria. If we cannot enter the city, then no one will—no farmer bearing produce, no merchant with supplies, no shepherd with sheep or goats. We'll starve him out."
"That can take a year or longer," Tanin said. "The city must be stocked well enough to last a long time."
Cam nodded. "We've been fighting this war for two years already. So long as we keep our supply lines open, we'll be well fed here. So we wait. Another year and Serin will be forced to open the gates, or he'll starve. He—"
Horns blared from the city.
Torin spun around to stare. He felt the blood drain from his face.
"Has it been a year already?" A chill ran through his bones. "The city gates are opening."
They stepped out from the pavilion and stared across Eldmark Fields. Indeed the enemy had opened the city's thick oaken doors, and a drawbridge slammed down, spanning the moat. Black horses began emerging from the city, two by two, and soon three hundred rode across the field. On them rode men in black robes, hooded, carrying no weapons and wearing no armor. The enemy's horns blared again and again from the walls, signaling doom.
"Mages," Cam said. He raised his own horn and trumpeted over the enemy's wails. A single, long blast. Attack.
Torin mounted his horse, a brown stallion named Geranfon, a gift from King Eris. He gritted his teeth and galloped forth to meet the mages.
Cam blared the horn again. Attack! Attack!
The Northern Alliance raced toward the enemy: thousands of riders upon horses, bearing swords, and thousands of Verilish warriors upon bears, swinging their war hammers. Only three hundred mages rode toward them, but Torin knew that one mage could slay many soldiers.
When only a hundred yards separated the forces, the mages stretched out their arms and blasted forth their magic.
"Shields up!" Torin shouted.
Streams of black smoke shot toward the charging riders. One blast slammed into Torin's shield, cracked the wood in half, and crawled up his arm, tearing at his vambrace. Torin grunted, tossed the halved shield aside, and kept riding. A mage galloped toward him, casting more magic. Torin rode by, rose in his stirrups, and swung his sword.
The blade sank into a protective shield of air, doing the mage no harm.
Torin spun his horse around to see the mages tearing through the Northern Alliance. Smoke tugged down horses and bears, ripped off armor, and tugged bones out from flesh. A smoky strand grabbed an Oridian rider several feet away and squeezed, crushing the armor like a tin cup. Blood leaked from inside.
Horror clutched Torin. We were fools to ride here. We should have fled.
He gritted his teeth.
No fear. Not now.
He charged back toward the mages and swung his sword at one of the robed, hooded men. The mage blocked the blade with a blast of magic. The man's black hood fell back, and Torin gasped.
He knew that face! He had seen it before! The man was balding, a ring of oily black hair surrounding his head. His nose was hooked, his eyes dark and glittering. He reminded Torin of a vulture, and then he remembered.
"Professor Atratus," Torin said, the name tasting like ash. He had seen the man only briefly when bringing Madori to Teel University, but he hadn't forgotten the malice in that face.
Atratus sneered and raised his hands. He blasted forth magic.
The black energy slammed into Torin's breastplate. His horse reared beneath him, and Torin fell from the saddle. He hit the ground.
"Warriors of Verilon, slay them!" rose a cry, and a herd of bears came charging forth. Hogash rode at their lead, swinging a war hammer, and behind him a hundred other warriors of Verilon brandished their own hammers and roared for victory. With a sneer, Atratus turned away from Torin—perhaps thinking him dead already—and blasted his magic toward the Verilish assault.
Torin leaped to his feet. He tried to find Geranfon, but the horse had run off. All around him, mages, horsemen, and bears clashed in battle. Swords sliced at mages, struggling to tear through their shields of air. A Verilish man rode by and swung his hammer, knocking a mage off his horse. The young man—an albino mage with pink eyes—slammed down at Torin's feet. Torin growled and drove down his sword. The blade pierced through the mage's shield and into flesh, and the man gasped and reached out, struggling to summon more magic before Torin swung his sword again, finishing the job.
"I killed one!" Torin shouted. "They can be killed! Knock them off their horses, break their concentration, and slay them!"
All around him, the riders of the Northern Alliance—thousands of them—swung their weapons. King Eris thrust his lance forward, piercing a mage and knocking him off his horse. Anot
her mage fell dead nearby, crushed by Verilon's hammers. Strands of magic shot out from the remaining mages, scattering corpses. Torin looked around for Atratus, but he could no longer see the mage. The dead covered the field; hundreds had already fallen.
But we're winning, Torin thought, panting as he moved through the battle, swinging his sword. We're slaying the mages.
He looked toward the city walls. "Is that all you've got, Serin? Only three hundred mages for us to crush?"
As if to answer him, shrieks louder than any horn rose from the city walls.
Torin looked up and froze. His hopes shattered and burned like the siege engines.
Great vultures were rising from the city, each as large as a dragon. Dank, oily feathers grew across their wings, though their bodies were naked as if plucked, their skin gray and bumpy. They opened their beaks and screeched again, revealing white tongues. Their claws were larger than swords, and their eyes shone red. Torin was instantly reminded of Gehena; these birds seemed molded from the same dark magic, stitched together, grown to monstrous size. An unholy cloud spread above them, shielding the sun, as if the sky offended them. Shadows fell across Eldmark Fields. The mages cheered at the sight of the beasts, crying out to them, "Avalerions! Avalerions!" Seven of the creatures flew toward the Northern Alliance . . . and swooped.
The oversized vultures plowed through the forces. Their talons slammed into bears, ripping them open. They scooped up horses and tossed them down. Their beaks tore through armor and bones.
"Shoot them down!" Cam was shouting somewhere in the distance. "Archers, fire!"
Archers rushed forth, knelt in the field, and fired their arrows skyward. The missiles slammed into the avalerions, seeming only to annoy them. The demonic vultures swooped again, driving through the hosts, tearing through the riders like wolves through a chicken coop.
Torin grabbed a horse, shoved off its dead rider, and climbed into the saddle. He raised his sword. "Men, rally here! Cut them when they swoop!"
The avalerions rose higher, circled beneath the clouds, and dived again. Claws drove through the army. Soldiers flew through the air, torn apart. Horses crumbled. Bears collapsed. The blood spilled everywhere. One of the avalerions flew toward Torin, screeching madly, rot dripping from its beak. Torin swung his sword. It clanged against the beast's talons, doing it no harm. The oversized vulture rose higher, dived again, and slammed into a host of charging horses—including Torin's. He flew through the air and crashed down hard. Men rained down around him.
The corpses of his comrades lay strewn around Torin, and the avalerions kept attacking, lifting men, tossing them down, and the remaining mages kept moving through the field, blasting out their magic. And Torin knew there was no hope.
Hope dies in Eldmark Fields, he thought, lying on his back, too weak to rise.
Horns.
More horns blared.
Not the shrieking horns of the enemy. Not the high, metallic calls of the Northern Alliance. Here were pure clarion calls, a sound like music.
Torin raised his head and stared to the east.
And there he saw it.
"Hope reborn," he whispered.
They marched across the plains, countless, covering the horizon. The dark clouds of magic parted as if driven back, and the sun emerged, its rays falling upon the new host. Their banners rose high, displaying a red flame upon a black field. A great serpent flew above them, a dragon of the night, his beard red, his scales black—the same dragon Torin had ridden as a young man.
"The army of Ilar," Torin whispered, tears in his eyes. "Elorians arrive. The night has fallen upon the lands of the day."
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
LAST OF THE DRAGONS
Sitting upon Grayhem's back, Madori stared at the battle ahead and felt the blood drain from her face.
"Shan dei," she cursed.
The city of Markfir, a massive hive of towers and walls as large as fallen Pahmey, rose a mile away beneath a mountain range. Before the city spread a great killing field.
"Others attack Markfir," said Koyee, sitting at Madori's side upon a shadow panther. "Orca banners—Orida from North Timandra. Bear banners—that's Verilon of the pine forests. And . . . raven banners. Only a few but rising proud."
"Arden," Madori whispered, and tears leaped into her eyes. "Arden fights. Maybe Father is here."
Shrieks sounded on the wind, and Madori grimaced. Massive vultures, the size of dragons, were tearing into the assaulting free forces. Here flew avalerions; she had learned about such creatures at Teel University, foul things created from dead flesh and fire. Beneath the avalerions, mages rode black horses across the field, casting their magic, tearing apart the attackers. Thousands of Magerians still stood upon the city walls, mere specks from this distance, a massive force. Thousands of dead already covered Eldmark Fields.
Madori stared, barely able to breathe. Her fingers tingled. Her skull felt too fight. She had spent the journey here eager for battle, eager to strike at Serin. Now, seeing the death and bloodshed, she was afraid.
Tianlong streamed above, and upon the dragon's back, Emperor Jitomi blew his horn and cried out, "Ilar, hear me! Warriors of the Red Flame, fear no sunlight! We will crush the enemy. We will smash the city gates and slay the cruel tyrant. We are Eloria. We are the night!"
Upon thousands of panthers, Ilari warriors raised their katanas. Their eyes were weak in the daylight, but clouds hid the sun. They spread across the fields, some mounted, some afoot, some bearing swords, others bows and arrows, the might of Ilar—a hundred thousand strong. They all cried out together.
"We are the night!"
And Madori shouted with them, her katana raised above her head. She was not Ilari; she was a child of Qaelin, a different land of darkness. She was not even fully Elorian; her father was a man of sunlight. Yet now, chanting here, none of that mattered. She was a warrior—not fighting for one kingdom, not even fighting for one half of Moth. She would fight against evil, against the cruelty of the Radian Empire. With Ilar. With the free Timandrians fighting ahead. With Jitomi, the man she loved. With her mother. With all who fought against tyranny.
I am Madori Billy Greenmoat, she thought as the army roared for the night. I was named after Bailey Berin, the great heroine of the first war. I will be brave like her.
Koyee stood in her stirrups, clad in silvery scales. "Eloria! Ride! Ride for the night. Ride for fire and for shadow. Ride with me! To war! To victory! To shattering swords and singing arrows! Ride!"
And they rode, an emperor upon a dragon, thousands of Elorians upon panthers, and a single half-breed woman upon a nightwolf.
They rode across the fields, through light and shadow, toward the enemy.
The mages in the field turned toward the Elorians and reached out their arms. Bolts of magic blasted forth.
"Ride!" Koyee shouted.
"Ride!" Madori cried with her.
The Elorian army thundered across the field, the panthers growling, their eyes glowing. The blasts of magic hit them. A ball of smoke and metal shards crashed into a panther at Madori's side. The beast collapsed and rolled, spilling its rider. Another blast of magic plunged down like a comet, slamming into another Elorian. The man and his panther fell, crushed and burnt.
"Ride!" Madori shouted, sword raised. "We are the night!"
The projectiles kept slamming into them, tearing down rider after rider, but the survivors kept racing forward, thousands of them. The great avalerions swooped forth, and above her, Madori glimpsed Tianlong battling the beasts, snapping his jaws and whipping his tail. One avalerion plunged down, its throat torn out, and slammed into the ground ahead of Madori. Grayhem raced over the corpse as if bounding over a hill. Panthers growled and followed. Another avalerion crashed down dead, and Elorians fired from their panthers, slamming their arrows into the remaining beasts.
"For Eloria!" Madori cried, riding toward the mages ahead.
She raced between free Timandrians now—Verilish riders on bears, O
ridians on horses—and reached the dark mages of the enemy.
The mages did not retreat. One, hidden in his black robes, blasted out magic and tore down three panthers. Another mage ascended in the air and shot out electricity, tearing Elorians off their mounts. Grayhem weaved between the enemies, leaping over blasts of magic, and bounded toward a mage ahead.
The mage turned his horse around to face Madori.
She lost her breath.
She trembled.
The mage stared at her, and his face twisted into a cruel smile.
"Atratus," she whispered.
His smile widened, revealing his small, sharp teeth, his hooked nose drooping to hide his top two incisors. He began walking toward her, stepping over corpses. "Hello, mongrel." He raised his hands, the fingers crackling with energy. "You have returned to me for your final lesson."
Madori screamed and hurtled forth her magic.
Her former professor sneered and blasted forth his own foul spells.
The projectiles crashed in midair, exploding and showering sparks. Instantly, Madori raised a shield of protective air. Not a second later, Atratus's magic flared again, slamming into the force field. Madori screamed, her shield shattering, the blast knocking her down.
She leaped up at once. She levitated shards of broken steel and tossed them forward. He waved the projectiles aside, cast out a ball of air and hardened smoke, and knocked her down again. She yowled, blood dripping down her chest.
Atratus stepped closer toward her, moving through the battle. All around the combatants fought—mages tearing down men and beasts, avalerions and dragon battling above. Fires blazed across the field and smoke unfurled. The stooped headmaster leaned over Madori and licked his chops.
"Your death will not be quick," he said, sending down tendrils of smoke. The strands wrapped around her. "I will toy with you first."
She tried to claim the strands, to rip them off, but his magic was too strong. She tried claiming his flesh, to tear it open, but a shield of air surrounded him; she could not break through. Tears budded in her eyes as he levitated her, as his strands squeezed, constricting her breath.
Legacy of Moth Page 17
