SHADOWS OF MOTH
THE MOTH SAGA, BOOK FIVE
by
Daniel Arenson
Copyright © 2014 by Daniel Arenson
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
FOREWORD
MAP
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AFTERWORD
NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON
KEEP IN TOUCH
FOREWORD
Shadows of Moth is the fifth volume of The Moth Saga, continuing the tale of a world torn in two—one half always in sunlight, the other always dark. If you're new to the series, you'll probably still get the gist of things here, though I do recommend reading the first four books first: Moth, Empires of Moth, Secrets of Moth, and Daughter of Moth.
Between chapters, you might like to visit the Moth website, where you can find: a large map (more detailed than the one in this ebook), original music, artwork, a Moth wiki, and more. Visit the website at: DanielArenson.com/Moth
And now . . . let us reenter a world of light and darkness . . .
CHAPTER ONE:
THE BUSKER AT DUSK
Little Maniko hobbled through the dusky forest, moving toward the searing light of the sunlit demons. He was seeking a gift for a child.
His every footstep shuffled. His gnarled fist clutched his cane. Black trees coiled around him, just as gnarled and knobby. They were small trees—they couldn't grow any larger here in the dusk, still far from the full daylight—but they towered over Maniko. He had always been small, under four feet at his tallest, and he had shrunk with age. His white beard trailed along the ground, longer than his body, thinner than he remembered. It seemed that beard grew thinner every turn, his back more stooped, his cane more wobbly.
"This might be my last trip into the dusk," he muttered, voice hoarse.
How old was he now? He did not remember. He had been old already when he first met Koyee—that scruffy urchin on the streets of Pahmey. And that had been a long time ago, he thought. A generation ago.
Little Maniko smiled, remembering. Ah, the lights of Pahmey! Lanterns floating toward the stars. Towers of glass rising to the moon. Dirty streets and shadowy corners, and him playing his lute for passersby, collecting his coins, feasting upon meals of stewed mushrooms and salted bat wings, and finally meeting Koyee, playing music with her, then fighting at her side as the sunlit demons swarmed through their streets. His same old lute still hung across his back. That city had fallen then, and now Maniko lived in a village by the dusk, a little place they called Oshy. And now he was old. And now his legs shook as he walked, and every season his eyes grew dimmer. Yet still he came here, walking into the dusk, seeking the gift, seeking a little hope in a world of darkness.
The trees grew taller as he walked, sprouting pale leaves, and moss soon covered the boulders. The light grew, casting orange beams between the trees. Pollen glimmered and the air grew warmer. The sun of Timandra was just over the horizon now; he was almost in the full daylight, in that land of his enemies, the land he had fought so many years ago. Duskmoths rose to fly around him, animals of the borderlands, this glowing strip between day and night. Their left wings were white, the right wings black, animals torn in two like this world the old books called Mythimna and most folk simply called Moth.
"Ah!" His eyes widened, and a smile curled his lips. He saw the bush ahead. The sun's rim rose behind it, a crown of gold. The plant almost seemed to burn in the light. Upon its coiling branches, like beads of blood, grew the duskberries.
Maniko hobbled forward with more vigor, his chin raised. His cane rapped against the hard earth, his lute swung across his back, and his beard whispered as it dragged along the ground.
"You've always loved duskberries, Koyee," he said, his smile widening. Or was it Madori? Sometimes Maniko stumbled, confusing the two, mother and daughter. Sometimes he thought Madori was the woman he had played music with in the dregs of Pahmey, his "partner in grime" as he called her. Other times he realized that Madori hadn't even been born then.
When you're old like me, he thought, faces blur together, and all memories become like an oil painting under rain, smudges of color and light and beauty. That was how Maniko knew his time was near, his life drawing to an end. All his life seemed to be unraveling behind him like the hem of his silken robe, all just strands of color fading into shadow.
"Best to just give both the berries," he muttered and barked a laugh. He reached the bush, squinting in the light of the sun, and began to pick the fruit into his basket.
The people of Oshy had told him to stop coming here, to stop collecting these berries. They said it was dangerous getting so close to Dayside. They said that the sunlit demons mustered here, preparing for war. Maniko snorted as he plucked the berries. He had fought hunger on the streets of Pahmey for decades. He had fought Timandrian soldiers in that city, and later in the southern empire of Ilar, slaying many, even at his size. He was very old now, and he was no longer afraid.
"Let them come." He huffed, placed another berry into his basket, and patted the dagger that hung from his belt. To him it was as large as a sword. He had slain Timandrians with this blade before. If any attacked again, they would find that Little Maniko—though smaller than ever, stooped and wizened—still had a little fight in him. If he wanted to pick berries for Madori—or was it for Koyee?—he would travel into the very courts of sunlight and pluck them right off Lord Serin's plate.
He snorted again. "Lord Serin." A silly name. A silly man. They said the tyrant was mustering his forces right beyond these hills, prepared to invade the night—just like that fool Ferius had done in the last war. Koyee had slain Ferius, and if this new demon wanted to attack, they would slay him too.
Maniko drew his dagger and sliced the air. "That's right, Serin! If you step forth, you will taste Elorian steel." As he thrust and parried in the air, he could see it again—the old war, the enemies charging, and his blade flashing. "This old busker is also an old soldier. I still have some music in me. And I still have some fight too."
He smiled as he dreamed, remembering those old turns. He had been afraid then. But he had fought alongside greatness—with Koyee, with Emperor Jin of Qaelin, with Empress Hikari of Ilar, and with Tianlong, the last dragon of the night. He had risen from a humble busker on a street corner to a warrior. His breastplate had been only a frying pan strapped across his chest, and his sword had been only this humble knife, but he had fought with heroes. He had become more than a busker. T
ears filled his eyes.
I became your friend, Koyee.
He sighed. Those turns were long gone. He sheathed his dagger, hefted his basket of berries, and prepared to shuffle back into the darkness. He had taken only one step away when the voice rose from the light.
"Look, Father! A little old nightcrawler who thinks he's a warrior."
Slowly, Maniko turned back toward the light.
A young Timandrian woman stood there, beams of light falling upon her golden hair, steel armor, and drawn sword. Her eyes were so small—half the size of Elorian eyes—and they glittered with cruelty. A tall Timandrian man stepped out from the light, joining the girl. His hair too was golden, and his eyes too were small blue shards. He wore priceless armor, the steel filigreed. An eclipse sigil adorned his breastplate, formed of many gemstones.
Maniko snarled. He knew that sigil—the sigil of the Radian Order, a new movement in the lands of sunlight. They said the Radians saw Elorians as lower than worms, pests to step on. Slowly, Maniko placed down his basket of berries. He drew his dagger. He pointed the blade forward with one hand, his cane with the other.
"Return to the daylight, Timandrians!" He knew his voice was high-pitched, wavering, weak, but he gave it all the gravity he could. "You step too close to Eloria. Leave now, sunlit demons, and never return."
The Timandrians looked at each other, then burst out laughing.
"Truly a worm, Lari!" said the man. "Barely larger than the worms in my garden back home. Is this the warrior they chose to guard their border? A decrepit dwarf?"
The Timandrian man raised his hand, and a blast of air slammed into Maniko. He cried out and fell down hard. His tailbone slammed against a rock, and he gasped in pain. Tears leaped into his eyes, and his dagger clattered to the ground.
The two Timandrians stepped closer and gazed down at him. The young woman—Lari, her name was—shook her head with mock sadness.
"Now he crawls through the dirt like a true worm." Eyes soft, she knelt and placed her hand against Maniko's cheek as if to stroke him. Then her expression changed, her lips peeling back in a snarl. Rather than caress him, her hand shoved his face into the dirt. "Eat the mud, vermin!" Her knee drove into his belly. "Eat the dirt like the nightcrawler that you are."
Maniko coughed as mud entered his mouth. He pawed for his fallen dagger but could not find it. Instead he swung his cane, rapping Lari's wrist.
The young woman hissed and straightened. Her knee left Maniko's belly, and he drew a ragged breath. He coughed out mud and pushed himself to his feet, legs shaking. His basket lay fallen, the berries spilled across the forest floor.
"Return now!" Maniko said. "Or—"
"Do you know who I am, nightcrawler?" said the tall man. He tapped the eclipse on his breastplate. "Do you know this sigil? We've met before."
Maniko's eyes had dimmed with age. He had trouble seeing and remembering faces. He spat. "You're a lout. Come here and I'll rap you too with my cane."
The tall man laughed. "Yes, I remember your spirit. You were spirited even back in the war, and you were ancient even then, if I recall correctly. I was only a young soldier, fighting my first battle. I assaulted the walls of Asharo, the capital of Ilar, and I slew many nightcrawlers. And I remember one among them—a little soldier who barely reached my belt. A frying pan formed his breastplate, and he bore a little dagger like a sword. I laughed at him then. And now, twenty years later . . . I see him again. It's funny. As I prepare to conquer the night, I find not the barbaric soldiers of Eloria opposing me here, but that same silly little creature."
And Maniko knew who this was, knew who this had to be. His eyes narrowed. "Lord Tirus Serin." He swung his blade through the air. "I do not remember you from the war; you were just another sunlit fool, one among many. A fool you are still."
Maniko looked around for his dagger, and his heart sank to see that Lari had lifted the blade from the muck. She held the dagger in one hand, her sword in the other. When Maniko took a step closer to the two, swinging his cane, Serin raised his palm again. This time no air blew to knock down Maniko. Instead, Maniko's cane cracked, then shattered into countless shards. Bits of the wood slammed into Maniko, cutting his skin.
These ones are no mere soldiers, he realized. They are mages.
Lord Serin drew his sword, a magnificent blade longer than Maniko's entire body. The steel glimmered red in the sun as if already bloodied.
"I forged this blade from the steel of slain nightcrawlers." Serin pointed the blade at Maniko's neck. "I slew over a hundred in the war. I collected bits from each—a shard of helmet here, a chip of a sword there—and had Mageria's greatest smith morph them into this blade. Sunsteel, I named it. A blade for cutting worms. You should be proud, little one! You will be the first nightcrawler to die upon it."
Maniko's dagger and cane were gone. But he still had what had always been his greatest weapon—the weapon that had served him for decades on the streets of Pahmey, that had helped him survive through grime and hunger, that had given strength to Koyee. With trembling fingers, he drew his lute from across his back. With stiff fingers, he began to play.
Gentle notes rose from the lute, taking form as he played, soon becoming that same old song he had first taught Koyee, the song called "Sailing Alone." And as he played, Maniko was there again, back home on the streets of Pahmey. The great public fireplace roared across the square, its iron grill shaped as dragons. The young women of the city's crest strolled toward the market, clad in fine silk dresses, their sashes embroidered. Peddlers rode upon bluefeather birds, hawking gemstones, ointments, charms, and sundry other items from many pouches. Past the tiled roofs of the city dregs, he could see them them there—the towers of the upper city, and above them all Minlao Palace, its dome shaped like the moon. Koyee stood with him again, a scrawny merchant in a tattered fur tunic, playing her bone flute. Two buskers in a world of dirt, hunger, fear, and darkness. Two warriors.
I played this song when we met, Koyee, he thought, eyes damp. And I play it now in farewell to you. It was an old song, a song of a girl who sailed alone into a new city. And now I too sail alone . . . sail toward the great land beyond the stars.
As the blade thrust into his belly, Maniko lost only a single note. Even as he fell, even as his blood spilled into the soil, he played on.
He lay on his back, his lifeblood draining away, the notes floating around him. He looked up. The two Timandrians stood above him, mere ghosts in the mist, and Maniko smiled as they faded away, as the lights of his old city washed over him, as the lanterns floated toward starlight.
"You are a natural, Koyee Mai!" he said. "Go and play your music. Make Little Maniko proud, and perhaps someday we will play together."
A girl with long silvery hair, bright lavender eyes, and a warm smile, she kissed his forehead. "Thank you, Little Maniko."
Koyee tried to give him the coin, but he brushed it away.
"This money is yours. Now go! Make beautiful music."
She left him that turn, and she left him now, a spirit of music and warm light. Little Maniko smiled, his notes weaker now, shaking like falling leaves in the wind.
Now go! Make beautiful music.
His tears flowed as she faded, as he sailed alone upon a shadowy river. One song ended, and then he heard it—the endless music of starlight, music welcoming him home.
CHAPTER TWO:
A LEGACY OF STEEL
"I'm joining the garrison." Madori stamped her feet. "I'm joining now and you can't stop me. I will wield a sword. I will fight. I already cut off one of Serin's fingers, and I'll cut the rest of him to shreds!"
She stood on the riverbank, panting with rage. The night was peaceful. The stars shone above, no clouds to hide them. Fishermen trawled up and down the Inaro in boats constructed of leather stretched over whale ribs, their lanterns bobbing, and every few moments a glowing fish emerged like a rising star, caught on the hook. The water sang softly, and wind chimes played among the clay village hu
ts that rose behind her. Far beyond the huts, upon the hill, stood Salai Castle, its lanterns bright, and more music rose there: the song of soldiers chanting to the stars.
But one song is forever silenced, Madori thought, eyes burning. Little Maniko will never more play his lute.
Madori's mother stood beside her. Koyee had shed tears during the funeral, but now her large lavender eyes were dry. Clad in scale armor, her katana hanging from her belt, she stared at Madori sternly.
"No, Madori. You will travel east to Pahmey. I've sent word downriver, and Lord Xei Kuan will provide you with shelter in the Night Castle, and—"
"I will not be shipped away to safety while you stay and fight!" Madori's eyes burned, and her tears flowed down her cheeks, those cheeks scarred from Lari's assault at Teel. She pointed at those scars. "See these? My face is scarred like yours. We both fought battles. We both bear the marks. I fought Lari and Serin, and I will fight their army too. Give me a sword! I will fight here in Salai Castle." She gestured at the pagoda upon the hill. "I will wear armor and wield a sword, and I will slay the Radians if they dare invade. I will avenge Maniko."
Madori's body shook. She had grown up listening to Little Maniko's music. The little old man—Madori herself was short, and he had stood shorter than her shoulders—had once performed upon the streets of Pahmey. After the war, with so much of Eloria in ruin, he had settled here in Oshy. Madori had spent her summers here, and many of those summer hours had been idled away in the village square, listening to Maniko play his lute, pipe, and harp. He would play all the classic tunes of the night: "Sailing Alone," "Darkness Falls," "The Journey Home," "Call of the Clans," and many others.
Who will play the night's music now? Madori thought, gazing at the empty village square where Maniko used to sit. Whose songs will now guide us through the darkness?
She looked back at her mother. "Please," Madori whispered. "I'm seventeen already. You were younger when you sailed alone to Pahmey, when you fought with Maniko, when you saved the darkness. Let me fight too. I am the daughter of Koyee, the great heroine. How can I hide in safety when sunfire once more threatens the night?" She tugged at the two long, black strands of hair that framed her face. "True, I have dark hair and tanned skin. I'm half Timandrian. But my father too fought for the night. I don't know if Father is even alive or dead, and I'm so scared, and I have to fight. I have to."
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