Shadows of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  Koyee's eyes softened, and she pulled Madori into an embrace. "My sweet daughter. Don't you see?" She touched Madori's scarred cheek, and pain filled her eyes. "I never wanted this for you. Yes, I was younger than you when I fought a war. And I was afraid then. I was hurt. I was alone in darkness, scarred, bleeding, so afraid . . . always so afraid. When I had you, Madori, I swore to the stars of the night, and to the memory of Xen Qae, and to any god who would listen . . . I swore that I would give you a better life. That you would never have to face war like I did. That you would never be alone, scared, bleeding in the dark. How can I let you fight now? How I can break my vow?"

  "It is already broken," Madori said. "I already fought, and I was already afraid, and I already saw death. I watched Lord Serin and his men murder five of my friends on the road. I lay in the mud, bleeding as his sword drove into me. I saw the cruelty of sunlight. No, I did not fight a war like you did, but I'm ready to fight one. Bravely. At your side." She touched her mother's armor, fine scale armor forged by the master smiths of Qaelin, their empire of darkness. "Clad me in armor like the one you wear. Place a sword in my hand. And you will not see a frightened, bleeding girl but a proud woman of the night. I will make you proud, Mother. That is my own vow."

  For you, Little Maniko. For you, my friends of Teel who fell on the road. For all children of darkness. Her tears no longer fell, and she raised her chin. I was born split between day and night. I will find my honor as a pure warrior of shadow.

  A boat sailed by along the river, its lantern bobbing. Beads of light danced upon the gurgling water. The old fisherman, his beard long and white, reached over the hull. When a glowing lanternfish breached the surface, intrigued by the lamplight, the elder caught the animal in a net. Koyee and Madori stood in silence for a moment, watching the boat until it sailed by.

  Finally Koyee spoke, her voice low and careful. "I will allow you to fight with me, daughter, but only if you train."

  Madori's heart leaped. "Yes! I will train in the fortress. I will swing every sword you have, I will—"

  "No." Koyee shook her head. "The soldiers in Salai Castle are hardened and grim, prepared for war. They don't need a pup scuttling between their feet. You will seek Old Master Lan Tao in the darkness. He trained your grandfather in swordplay. He will teach you to become a swordswoman, ready for battle, solemn and steady with the blade, not a rash youth. Only when he says you're prepared will I let you fight in this fort."

  Madori wanted to shout again. Training? To be sent off into the darkness? The battle was near! Maniko had only been buried this turn, and—

  And yet her rage faded as quickly as it had risen. To train with Old Master Lan Tao . . . the man who had taught Grandfather . . .

  Madori had never met her mother's father, the wise warrior Salai, but she had heard many tales of his bravery. Salai had been the first Elorian soldier to face the attacking Timandrians in the Great War, perhaps the first Elorian to ever see a Timandrian. They said he had killed many of the sunlit demons before Ferius, the Lord of Light, had murdered him. Grandfather Salai lay buried below the fortress that bore his name. In Madori's mind, Salai had always been old—even older than Little Maniko had been. She could barely imagine him as a young man, let alone that his teacher—who surely was even older!—could still live.

  "He must be right old," she blurted out.

  Koyee laughed softly. "Old Master Lan Tao is well into his eighties, but he's still quick of mind and blade. I myself only met him a year ago. I traveled into the Desolation, the craggy wastelands in the northern darkness. I found him in his cave, and I begged him to come to Salai Castle, to train my men. He refused. He said that after my father died, he swore to never train another soldier. He loved my father. He mourned his death. Now, Master Lan Tao claimed, he lives to meditate, to gaze upon the stars, and to breathe. Mostly to breathe, he said, though I'm still not sure of his meaning."

  Madori bit his lip. "So why would he agree to train me?"

  A gust of wind fluttered Koyee's long white hair and silken cloak. Koyee—the Girl in the Black Dress, the Heroine of Moth—solemnly met her daughter's gaze. They both had the same eyes, large and purple and deep as starlit skies. Wordlessly, Koyee unhooked her katana from her belt—the legendary Sheytusung. She held it out toward Madori.

  Madori stared at the sword, hesitant. "You . . . want me to take it?"

  Her mother stared at her, eyes unflinching. "Master smiths forged this blade in Pahmey under the light of its towers. My father fought with this sword in the great southern war against Ilar, then against the Timandrians in the dusk. I fought with this blade against the hordes of sunlight in Pahmey, in Yintao, and at Cabera Mountain. This blade has defended the night for two generations. Now it must pass to a third. Take this sword, Madori. Take it into the darkness, and learn how to wield it. I was never trained with the katana, but you will study with the master who first taught our family how to swing it. Master Lan Tao will not have forgotten Sheytusung." Koyee smiled thinly. "When he sees the granddaughter of Salai, bearing this sword of legend, he will train you."

  Madori still hesitated. She had grown up hearing many tales of this blade, had grown up seeing this blade hanging upon their wall, a relic she was forbidden to touch. The sword that had killed so many Timandrians, that had defended Eloria, that had traveled with her grandfather to Ilar, that had been with her mother in her most desperate hours—on the streets of Pahmey, in the gauntlet of Yintao, in the carnage at Sinyong and Asharo, and finally at the great battle atop Cabera Mountain.

  And now this sword comes to me. Madori took a deep, shaky breath. Now a torch of starlight passes into my hand, my burden to bear. Now I shall become a protector of darkness.

  With a single, swift movement, she grabbed the katana and drew the blade. The folded steal gleamed, and she raised it above her head. It was light as silk and as deadly as dragon claws, and a chill ran through Madori.

  She thought of Lari's mocking smile. She thought of Professor Atratus's sneer. She thought of Lord Serin's cruel eyes.

  They're coming here, she thought. The wrath and cruelty of sunlight prepares to wash over the night. She looked up at her sword; it seemed to cleave the moon.

  "With this blade, I will fight them. With this blade, I am Madori of the night."

  * * * * *

  Pain and memory.

  It was all that remained.

  A field of thorns had shredded the tapestry of Torin's life, and every thistle held a rent of cloth, scraps of memories over stabbing pain. Sounds. Smells. Reflections in shattered glass.

  In the darkness, he was broken, scattered, clinging to those memories, reaching for them through the haze of his broken body.

  He lay in a cart, he thought, the walls windowless, a box on wheels. He lay chained. He lay bruised, famished, cut, bleeding. For a long time—months, maybe years—he had languished in a dungeon. They were moving him now. He remembered them dragging him out of his prison cell, beating him, tossing him into this cart. How long had he lingered in these shadows? He didn't know. The cart jostled along a road, and every bump shot more pain through him. His head kept banging against the floor; he was too weak to raise it.

  Like the scattered shards of broken bones, the memories spread around him, broken pieces.

  In the darkness of the trundling cart, Torin saw the sky of Eloria again. The stars shone, a great field of constellations, a silvery path like a dragon's tail, a cratered moon, a wonder of endless depths. It was the first time he'd seen the night. He stood upon the hill with Bailey, with his dearest, his oldest friend.

  "Bailey," he whispered in the cart, voice hoarse.

  "Bailey," said a boy, his cheeks soft, a youth who had just joined the Village Guard.

  Bailey stood beside him upon the hill, a year older, a couple inches taller, and a whole lot braver and stronger. She gave him a crooked smile, mussed his hair, and kissed his cheek.

  "Scared, Winky?" she asked.

  He nodded. "Yes
, and you should be too. They live out there. Elorians."

  Bailey only blew out her breath, fluttering her lips. "If you ask me, 'Lorians are just a myth." Then she laughed and grabbed his arm. "Come on, Babyface! Let's explore."

  They ran. They ran through darkness. They ran through the fire in Pahmey. They ran through blood and death in Yintao. They ran through the fields of time, up a mountainside in the dusk, toward an ancient clock, and toward . . .

  Pain.

  Tears flowed down Torin's cheeks.

  "Bailey!" he cried, holding her lifeless body, praying for her to wake up, to stay with him. "Please. Bailey. I love you. Don't leave me."

  He stood under sunrise, and he placed flowers upon her grave.

  Darkness.

  Trailing stars in a lifeless land of rock, water, and shadows.

  And two more lights there in the darkness, as bright as the moon and stars. Two eyes, large, lavender, afraid. The woman peered from behind a boulder as he wheeled forth the bones of her father. The woman stared from atop the city walls, firing her arrows at him. The woman lay naked in his arms, and he kissed her, made love to her. The woman walked toward him, clad in white, holding a lantern. His bride. His Koyee.

  "Where are you, Koyee?" His lips cracked as he spoke. He tasted his blood. "He's coming. Serin. Into the night."

  He groaned, the words scratching his throat. His many wounds throbbed. His belly clenched and his head pounded. More images floated before him, faces and smiles and bright eyes. A babe, newborn, lying in her mother's arms, wrapped in cotton. A daughter running through the fields of Fairwool-by-Night, gazing in wonder at the stars above Oshy, fishing with him in the river, growing into a wise, strong woman . . . then leaving. Vanishing in this war.

  Where are you, Madori?

  His family—broken like his body, scattered like these lanterns of memory.

  The cart bounced, knocking his head against the floor, then rolled to a halt. Torin moaned and smelled his blood. He winced, anticipating more pain. The last few times they had stopped moving, they had hurt him. He felt too weak for more pain, for more screaming.

  Curses and grumbles rose outside. A lock jostled. Rough hands tugged open the cart door.

  Sunlight flooded the cart, blinding Torin. He moaned, wincing, able to see nothing but the searing light. It felt like fire burning him, driving into every cut on his body, raging inside his skull like flames inside an oven.

  "Out!" rose the voice. "Out of the cart, traitor."

  Eyes narrowed to slits, Torin saw them—Magerian soldiers. They had fought for Mageria long before Serin had taken power, and they still displayed a painted buffalo upon their chests—the ancient sigil of their kingdom. But now they also sported eclipse pins upon their cloaks—the symbol of Serin's Radian Order, the cruel ideology that had overtaken their land. The soldiers' eyes were cruel, their faces weathered and scarred. One man hefted a spear, thrust it into the cart, and goaded Torin. The spearhead nicked his thigh, drawing blood, and Torin shouted hoarsely.

  "Into the sunlight, nightcrawler-lover." The soldier spat. "You're in Timandra now. Into the light."

  Torin coughed and crawled out of the cart, chains dragging. He thumped down into grass, swayed for a moment on his feet, then fell to his knees, too weak to stand. He blinked feebly, eyes adjusting to the sunlight, and looked around him. The convoy had camped alongside a dirt road—a few wooden carts, a hundred soldiers, and three robed mages upon dark horses. Fields of wild grass sprawled toward faded blue mountains. A herd of buffalo roamed across a distant hill, and hawks glided overhead. Shattered columns rose on a second hill like broken ribs rising from a corpse—remnants of Old Riyona, the empire that had once ruled the lands north of the Sern.

  We're heading down Riyonan Road, Torin thought, and a chill washed over him. Toward Markfir, Capital of Mageria. Toward Serin's court.

  Torin knew what would happen once they reached the walls of Markfir. He had heard enough tales of Mageria's cruelty in its last war against Arden. Torin doubted he'd be lucky enough for a painless death. More likely they would torture him—cut open his belly, quarter him, and flay him before finally letting him die. They would hang his mutilated remains above the gates of the city, the traitor of sunlight, a lesson for all to see.

  Torin winced.

  But not before they hurt me some more.

  Snorts rose from the head of the convoy. A massive dark horse, twice the usual size, moved off the road, a beast of black fur, oozing red eyes, and nostrils that leaked smoke and sparks of fire. Perhaps the creature had once been an ordinary stallion, augmented with magic, bloated into this terror of muscle and rank flesh. Flies bustled around it, and its stench wafted across the camp. Upon the beast rode a towering man, eight or nine feet tall, wrapped in a black cloak. Four arms sprouted from his torso, and each hand held a serrated blade. A helmet like an iron bucket encircled his head, and red eyes like embers blazed through the eye holes, staring at Torin, boring into him. Torin grimaced under the gaze; those eyes burned him like true embers pressed against his skin.

  Lord Gehena, Torin thought, his teeth rattling and his jaw creaking. Serin's most prized soldier. The man who had crushed Arden. The man who would deliver the famous Torin Greenmoat to his capital.

  The dark warrior dismounted and walked across the camp, heading toward Torin. Buckles jingled upon his boots, and each footfall crushed stones beneath it. Shadows writhed around the man—if a man he truly was—like smoky snakes. His cloak fluttered in the wind, its hem burnt and tattered. Tools hung from his belt: pliers, pincers, thumbscrews, hammers, and vials of acid.

  Chains jangling, Torin struggled to rise to his feet. He stared at Gehena, forcing himself to meet the burning red gaze.

  "My value to you lessens with every wound," Torin said. "If you want ransom, the queen will onl—"

  Gehena raised one of his four hands. Bolts of magic blasted out of his black dagger, screeched through the air, and slammed into Torin.

  He fell, writhing. The magic crawled into him, racing through his veins like parasites. Torin couldn't help it. He screamed. When the magic finally left him, he trembled.

  One of Gehena's boots—twice the size of a normal man's foot—stepped onto Torin's chest. His ribs creaked, and Torin couldn't even scream, couldn't even breathe.

  A hissing voice like astral smoke wafted out of Gehena's helmet. "I care not for ransom."

  Another blast of magic slammed into Torin. The tiny shards of pain drove through him, exploring his innards, and finally tore out of his skin with a bloody mist.

  "I've told you everything I know!" Torin shouted, almost blind with the pain. "I have no information to give you. I—"

  Gehena laughed, a horrible sound like thunder rolling through a cave. Strands of magic tugged Torin to his feet, then into the air, squeezing him, crushing him. The magic levitated him to eye level with Gehena. The creature stared at him, those eyes all-consuming, burning with cold fire. Torin hovered two feet above the ground, his blood dripping into the grass.

  "I don't care for information either," said Gehena. "You betrayed the sunlight. You fought for the night. I care only . . . for your pain."

  That pain blasted out of Gehena in a holocaust of blinding fire.

  Torin screamed.

  The red light washed over him, and he saw no more.

  CHAPTER THREE:

  THE LORDS OF LIGHT

  Koyee knelt by her bed, her chest constricting, barely able to breathe. Her head spun and she had to force in air. She had fought many battles, yet now she felt faint, felt her world crashing down. Her home's walls, simple clay adorned with prayer scrolls, seemed to close in around her.

  "We swore to protect her, Torin," Koyee whispered. "We swore to give her a better world. Swore she'd never fight like we did."

  She trembled to remember that turn seventeen years ago when Madori had been born. Koyee had been so afraid then, holding the little bundle. Most mothers felt joy when holding their babes, b
ut Koyee had felt fear, guilt, and crushing sadness. A child of both day and night. A torn child in a torn world.

  "How could I have brought life into this world?" she had whispered to Torin.

  He had comforted her, telling her that the world was healed now, that Ferius was dead, that peace had come. Yet now . . . now her dear husband was missing, perhaps dead in a new war that engulfed Timandra. And now her daughter, though returned to Eloria, would train to be a warrior.

  "I wanted you to be a gardener, perhaps a healer," Koyee whispered, clutching her palms upon her bed. "Not this. Not a soldier."

  Why had she given Madori the sword? She could have shouted, could have insisted Madori sailed to safety. She could have dragged Madori to safety herself. What kind of mother sent her child to train to become a killer?

  Koyee sighed. She knew the answer.

  "Because there is no safety anywhere in Moth," she whispered to herself. "Because only killers will survive now. Because the fire of sunlight is returning to our lands, and only with steel will Madori survive now. Only in the wilderness of Eloria, training to become a warrior, will Madori find some hope."

  She silently added words she would not speak. Please, spirit of Xen Qae, let her training in the darkness last for many moons. If the fire of war must blaze, let it burn and die before Madori can return. Her breath trembled. Do not let my sweet daughter turn into a killer. Do not let her take lives as I've taken lives.

  Koyee did not know how many men she had killed; she had slain too many to count, and each was a weight upon her soul, another scar inside her. Madori's cheeks perhaps were scarred now, but her heart was still pure.