Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  "You're nothing but a swamp monster!" Lari screamed. She turned toward Tam. "You're nothing but a pathetic traitor who mingles with scum!"

  They thrust their blades toward her again, and Lari fled into the forest, screaming and cursing and clutching her wounded cheeks.

  * * * * *

  He stood in the tallest tower of Kingswall Palace, staring down upon a dying city.

  The Magerian enemy covered the city slopes, clogging the streets with steel. Already the Radian banners rose upon the domes and steeples of Kingswall, capital of Arden. The city gates had fallen. The countryside still swarmed with the enemy, and ever more crossed Mudwater Bridge in the south. Only this palace still stood, a single island in the Radian sea.

  Some banners, Torin saw, rose upon humble homes, willingly raised by city folk. Those people—his fellow Ardishmen—cheered along the streets and upon roofs, welcoming the enemy.

  "Death to nightcrawlers!" they chanted. "Radian rises!"

  More than the corpses at the walls, the enemy surging along the streets, or the dark magic coiling like smoke, the sight of these traitors disgusted Torin. In future tales, would bards sing of an Arden who fought nobly against Serin . . . or a kingdom that welcomed evil?

  "Where are you, Cam?" Torin whispered, staring out the window at the ruin of his city. "Where are you, my king, my friend?"

  Cam's army—myriads of archers, swordsmen, and riders—could have stopped this assault. But now the might of Arden languished in the west at Hornsford, useless as the capital shattered, as the ancient kingdom fell. When Torin lowered his gaze, he saw Magerian troops stream into the palace gardens, marching toward the gates. Soon they would storm through the throne room, climb the stairs, and finally emerge here into this tower. And it would end.

  A hand touched his shoulder. A soft voice spoke.

  "Torin. What do we do?"

  He turned around. He saw them there and his eyes stung.

  Queen Linee stood in the round chamber, her eyes wide with fear. She gripped a sword in her hands, but the blade shook. Beside her stood her son and heir, Prince Omry, his armor cracked and bloodied. He too held a blade, and a bandage covered his brow.

  What do we do . . .

  Torin looked down at his own blade, a katana of the night. Years ago, the Chanku Pack—great wolfriders of the Qaelish empire—had gifted him this blade. He had fought many men with this steel, yet now . . . now would the blade find another task?

  What we do is fall on our swords, he thought. What we do is die before they capture us. Because the fate they plan will be worse than death.

  He licked his lips, trying to speak those words. Somewhere below, men chanted, wood and stone crashed, and the tower shook.

  "They're breaking in," said Prince Omry, eyes grim. "They will be here soon."

  Torin nodded, for a moment choking, unable to breathe, unable to speak.

  I will never see my wife and daughter again. I love you, Koyee and Madori. He looked around at the chamber—the tapestries on the walls, the jeweled raven statues, the lush rugs, the giltwood tables. It was a comfortable place, a good place to die.

  He raised his blade. He spoke gently. "Let me do it. I will be quick. I—"

  A cry sounded behind him.

  Linee gasped and pointed.

  Torin spun around to face the window and his eyes widened. He lost his breath.

  Nitomi and Qato, the two dojai, hovered outside the window in a basket.

  "Hurry!" Nitomi said, gesturing for them to enter the basket. "Hop on board! Did you know that there's a giant army of thousands of swordsmen and mages and riders and archers outside, and maybe they even have elephants, and they're all over the city, and they're breaking into this palace, and—"

  "Yes, Nitomi, we know!" Torin said. He thrust his head out the window and gazed upward. Ropes connected the basket to a hot air balloon; Torin had not seen these vessels since the war in Eloria years ago. When he looked down, he saw Magerian soldiers streaming through the shattered palace gates; countless more spread across the city. A Magerian archer nocked an arrow and aimed up at the balloon; a bolt from Qato's crossbow sent the man sprawling.

  Torin pulled his head back into the chamber. He held Linee's hands and guided her out the window and into the basket. The gondola dipped several inches under her weight. The queen stood still, her sword still in her hand, a tear streaming down her cheek as she gazed upon the fall of her city.

  When Torin turned toward Prince Omry, the armored young man shook his head. He raised his sword. "I'm staying."

  Torin clutched his arm. "No. Omry, you're flying away from here. You are the heir of Arden."

  His eyes flashed. "Which is why I go down with this kingdom."

  "Your kingdom does not fall this turn." Torin tugged the boy toward the window. "Your father still fights for this kingdom. Your mother will still lead Arden from safety. If you fall with this city—if the hosts of the enemy slay the heir of Arden—that would shatter the spirit of those who still fight. If you live this day, if you speak for Arden from a place of safety, you will bring hope to the hearts of all Ardishmen."

  The prince hesitated, sword wavering. The sounds of boots stomped up the tower now; the chants of Magerians rose below.

  "Go!" Torin shouted.

  Reluctantly, the prince climbed out the window and into the basket. It dipped two full feet; it seemed barely able to stay afloat.

  More arrows whistled from below. Two slammed into the basket. Qato leaned down and fired his crossbow, hitting one archer, then another.

  "Hurry, Torin!" Nitomi cried, reaching toward him. "Into the basket! Now!"

  Torin looked at the small dojai, then back at the chamber. The walls were shaking, and a framed picture fell and shattered. The cries of Magerians rose louder as they climbed the stairs.

  The queen and prince must live to inspire hope, he thought. But I am Lord Protector of this city. I cannot abandon a sinking ship.

  He turned back to the window. "Go, Nitomi! Fly."

  Her eyes watered. "Torin, come on!"

  Behind her, Linee and Omry cried out too. "Into the basket!"

  Torin's eyes stung. "It won't support my weight." He shoved the gondola away from the tower wall. "Fly! I'll find another way."

  Tears streamed down Linee's cheeks, and she cried out to him. "Torin, please!"

  "Go!" He shoved the basket again and switched to speaking Ilari, a language of the night. "Nitomi, take them to safety. Take them to Oshy. I'll meet you there. Now go!"

  Tears streamed down the small assassin's cheeks as she tugged ropes, letting the hot air balloon soar into the air. Linee was still shouting, reaching over the basket to him, as the vessel ascended and glided eastward, arrows sailing beneath it.

  Torin stepped away from the chamber, raised his sword and shield, and faced the door just as it shattered open.

  Four mages stepped into the room, clad in black robes, their faces hidden beneath their hoods. Their garments revealed only their fingertips—pale, clawed digits. They stepped aside and stood at attention, allowing a towering figure to enter the room—a man eight feet tall, clad in black, his arms spreading out like mandibles. Red eyes blazed from within his black iron helm. A voice like a hiss rose from that helmet, unearthly, deep, echoing, twisting with cruel mirth.

  "Torin Greenmoat . . ."

  His four blades burst into white flame, crackling, spewing smoke.

  "Take him alive," spoke Gehena, field marshal of the Magerian forces. "Lord Serin will break him."

  Torin screamed and charged, sword swinging.

  The mages raised their hands.

  The smoke blasted Torin's way, crashing against him. He swung his sword, cutting through the tendrils. Blackness covered the room, darker than the night. Pain drove through Torin, creaking his bones.

  For Koyee. For Madori. For Moth.

  He screamed and lashed his sword.

  The katana clanged against Gehena and shattered into countless shards
. The steel cut into Torin, and his blood spurted, and he fell.

  Blackness enveloped him, almost soft, almost warm, cocooning him in deep slumber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:

  STEEL AND STONE

  He stood before her—Lord Tirus Serin, the new King of Mageria, the Light of Radian—the man she must kill.

  Screaming, Madori swung her shovel toward him.

  His sword slammed into the handle, diverting the blow.

  "Again we meet on the road, sweet Madori!" he said, smiling like a wolf at a sheep. "And again you lunge at me. Last time I spared your life. This time your grave is already dug and awaiting you."

  The others fought around them—Elorian outcasts battling Radian soldiers. Madori would not spare the battle a glance; here before her stood her only target. She raised her shovel, prepared to strike again, but the wooden shaft caught flame in her hands. She yelped and tossed the shovel at Serin, but it clanged uselessly against his breastplate, then fell to the ground.

  "Poor, innocent child." Serin took a step toward her. "Go on, attack me with magic. I see that you want to. I think I will toy with you a little before I—"

  Madori screamed and tossed a ball of dark magic toward his face.

  An inch away from hitting him, the projectile scattered and fell like ash.

  "Good!" said Serin. "Good. You chose the particles in the air around us, formed a perfect missile, and tossed it within a heartbeat." He tsked and shook his head. "But you forgot to form new bonds between the materials, allowing me to easily disperse the projectile." He swung his sword, slicing skin off her arm. "Try again! Every time you fail, I will cut off another piece of you."

  Madori yowled. Blood gushed from her arm. She had no time to heal the wound. Instead, she claimed his breastplate and began to heat the metal.

  He sighed like a teacher at an erring pupil, shook his head, and transferred the heat from his breastplate into his sword. The blade turned red-hot, and he swung it again, nicking Madori's shoulder. She screamed, the wound sizzling.

  "Not good enough!" Serin said. "Why heat armor without sealing the fire within?" He sighed. "Truly you mongrels are pathetic creatures. That is why you will die in our fire, and the true masters of magic—Magerians of pure blood—will rule both day and night. Try again!"

  Madori trembled, her wounds dripping, barely able to focus, barely able to muster the strength to stand up. She needed help. She needed her friends. He was too strong. But the others were fighting their own enemies; Madori faced this man alone.

  With a scream, she claimed his sword, trying to loosen the bonds within the blade, to bend the steel while it was hot. He responded by claiming the blade himself, curving it into a saber, and nicking her ear. She tried to claim the cobblestones beneath his feet, to tug them free and send him falling. He stepped aside, regained his footing, and stabbed her thigh.

  Madori screamed, more blood spilling, and fell to her knees.

  "My my." Serin shook his head sadly. "For a year you studied magic, yet you cannot even defeat an old man like me." He stepped closer to her, raised his hand, and blasted a cone of air at her chest. The blow knocked the breath out of her. She fell onto her back, gasping for air, her blood trickling.

  He placed a boot upon her chest. His sword tore through her shirt, drawing a line across her chest, and more blood flowed.

  "Foul mongrel blood," he said, pinning her down. He spat. "The pure blood of Timandra . . . mixed with poison of Eloria. It disgusts me. I will bleed you now, child—slowly, drop by drop, and you will stare upon me as your life trickles away, then join your subhuman friends in the grave you dug."

  She tried to cast her magic; she was too weak. She tried to shove his boot off; he was too strong, crushing her, and she felt that her organs could burst, her ribs snap. Her eyes rolled back. She tried to cry for help, but only a whisper left her throat.

  Breath by bre—

  Yet his boot pressed deeper, and she couldn't even breathe.

  Her eyes rolled back, and she thought she heard her friends calling to her: Tam, her oldest friend, a prince of Arden, a boy she had loved all her life; and Neekeya, her only female friend, a girl Madori loved more than life. How could they be here too? How could she fail, let them die here in the forest with her?

  I'm sorry, my friends. I'm sorry, my parents. I love you all so much.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the blood and mud.

  Serin flipped his sword over, pointing the blade downward. He raised the sword slowly, prepared to drive it down like a tent peg.

  No. How can I die here? I spent a year studying magic. How can I fail? She thought back to her professors: little Professor Fen, his mustache bristling as he taught Basic Principles; elderly Professor Yovan, a kindly graybeard who taught her the art of healing; wise Professor Maleen, poisoned by the Radians; and finally, the brightest light among them, Headmistress Egeria, the wisest woman Madori had known, a woman now imprisoned for her resistance.

  They believed in me. They taught me to be strong. How can I let them down?

  "And now," Serin said, digging his heel into her, "I gut you like a fish and watch your organs spill."

  His face changed, turning cruel, delighted, red with bloodlust. He hissed, lips peeled back, and drove his sword downward.

  With her last drops of strength, Madori chose and claimed the blade.

  As the sword plunged down, she split the blade into two halves—down to the hilt. Each half curled outward like a great, steel jaw opening wide. The two shards slammed into the earth at Madori's sides, driving deep into the mud, missing her body.

  She had no more power for magic. She grabbed a rock and hurled it, hitting his forehead.

  Serin shouted and stumbled back, blood spurting and filling his eyes.

  Dizzy and covered in blood, she tossed his broken sword aside and struggled to her feet. She stumbled a few steps toward a dead Radian soldier; she realized that most of the Radians were dead, and the Elorian outcasts were battling the last of them. Madori tugged the corpse's sword free and swung the blade at Lord Serin.

  His sword gone, he tried to parry with his arms, relying on his armor for protection. Madori's blade slammed into his hand, severing a finger. She swung again, hitting the side of his helmet, denting the steel.

  He emitted a sound like a butchered animal.

  "We'll see who's gutted!" Madori said, stepping closer to him.

  Around her, the other Elorians—bloodied, panting, and holding their own claimed swords—stepped forward with her, advancing toward the wounded Serin. Dead Radians lay upon the road around them.

  "Father!" rose a voice from the forest behind—Lari's voice, sounding afraid and young. "Father, help!"

  Madori lunged toward Serin, swinging her blade.

  The mighty lord, the Light of Radian, the King of Mageria—spun on his heel and fled. He raced into the forest, clutching the stump of his finger, calling his daughter's name.

  Madori tried to chase him. She wobbled and nearly fell. Arms caught her, and she found herself leaning against Tam.

  "She's hurt!" the prince called over his shoulder. "Neekeya, bring bandages!"

  Madori tried to free herself, to run into the forest. "We have to catch him, Tam," she whispered, blood in her mouth, blood in her eyes. "We have to kill him. We . . ."

  The world spun. She was vaguely aware of her friends placing her down on the road, of Jitomi's warms hands upon her wounds, of Neekeya whispering prayers.

  A raven circled above, cawing, the bird of Arden, of her home.

  Her eyes closed. She slept.

  * * * * *

  For a long time Tam stood in the rain, staring down at the grave, his fists clenched at his sides.

  "I'm sorry," he said, voice hoarse, as the rain streamed down his face. "My friends, I'm sorry."

  He lowered his head. Mud and stones covered the communal grave on the roadside, containing the bodies of Radian soldiers and five Elorian youths, outcast
students fallen to Serin's cruelty. The rain pattered against the grave, and Tam wanted to kneel, to dig through the mud, to check again for life signs, to save them somehow. But he only stood, ashamed.

  "You came into the lands of sunlight to learn our ways," he whispered. "You didn't distinguish between Magerians, Ardishmen, Daenorians, or any other children of sunlight; to you we were all foreigners. You came into sunlight trusting us . . . and now you lie dead. And now the forces of hatred march across this land."

  Tam knew that he wasn't to blame. He knew that he'd done all he could to protect these Elorians. Yet still the guilt coursed through him—guilt for Timandra and the blood staining these lands of eternal daylight.

  A hand touched his shoulder. He turned to see Neekeya gazing at him with soft eyes.

  "We have to go." She caressed his wet hair. "Serin will be back with more men. We have to leave now."

  He looked back at the road. The surviving Elorian students—twenty in all—were back inside the cage upon the wagon. Madori lay between them, her wounds bandaged, still unconscious. Jitomi sat with her, cradling her head in his lap. As the rain fell, the large Elorian eyes stared at him, blue and lavender, gleaming like lanterns.

  "We'll take them to Arden," Tam said. "To the city of Kingswall, where they'll find rest and supplies. From there they can continue their journey to Eloria." He lowered his head. "My days at Teel University are over. I will not return there. In this time of bloodshed, I return to my homeland, to my city, to my family."

  Neekeya clasped his hand. "And I go with you."

  He tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "But your home lies in the west, Neekeya, in the swamps of Daenor."

  She nodded. "And I will return there someday, but not yet. I will not leave you." She embraced him. "The Elorians need us; in the endless day, they are afraid, and they are weak, and they are alone. I will not abandon them any sooner than you would." She kissed him. "And I will not leave you. We'll drive this cart east. We'll bring them to safety."