"A statue of Gashdov," Torin said. His horse nickered beneath him, breath frosting. "The fabled Guardian Bear of Verilon, a god of the north. They say the true Gashdov isn't much smaller than this statue, a beast to dwarf all others."
Cam bit his lip, staring up from his own horse. "This marks the border between Arden and Verilon. The city of Orewood is near."
Behind Torin and Cam rode their retinue—five knights and thirty men-at-arms, all clad in steel plates, the ravens of Arden upon their shields. Their banners fluttered in the cold wind, and snow coated their woolen cloaks. Torin himself wore a woolen tunic under his armor, and a thick black cloak hung around his shoulders, yet he couldn't stop shivering, and his teeth chattered. Verilon seemed even colder than the darkness of Eloria, or perhaps he was simply older, thinner, still wounded and weary. Whatever the case, a cough kept rising in his throat, and he couldn't wait to finally sit by a roaring fire, a mug of mulled wine in his hands.
Torin sighed. Last war, when I was half as old, I didn't care about the cold, and I didn't long for a hearth or wine. He was turning forty this winter, and with every year, he cared less for swords and more for mugs, less for saddles and more for armchairs.
They kept riding north, leaving the bear statue behind. The forest had changed over the past few leagues. Few of the maples, birches, and oaks of Arden grew here. Here was a forest of towering pines like steeples. Wolves ran between the evergreens and hawks glided above, and several times the riders saw true bears; the beasts fed from icy streams, catching salmon in their jaws. The snow kept falling, and with every gust of wind, clumps of snow fell from the trees with thumps.
Torin kept looking around for Verilish soldiers, guardians of the border, but saw none. Here was a vast land, as large as Arden and Mageria combined, covered with ice and boulders and thick woods. Perhaps Verilon depended more on its harsh hinterlands for defense than any wall or guard along its borders.
They were weary, but they did not wish to set camp here in the wilderness of a foreign land. They rode on, breath frosting, lips blue, and the snow would not stop falling. They ate as they rode, and Torin found himself nodding off in the saddle, despite the pain in his limbs and the blisters growing on his thighs.
Dreams of half-wakefulness filled his mind. He was young again in these visions, traveling into the night for the first time, Bailey at his side. When wolves stared between the pines, eyes glowing, he saw Koyee's eyes—large and lavender, peering from behind a boulder near the village of Oshy, a turn almost two decades ago . . . the first time he had seen her. And he saw Madori's eyes, just as large and purple. Those eyes stared at him, blinking, confused, after she had first emerged from the womb. They stared at him with love, a girl still innocent about the horrors in the world. They stared at him with anger, a rebellious youth, as he took her to Teel University in the vipers' nest.
Will I see their eyes again? he wondered. A lump filled his throat. He missed his family so badly his chest ached and his belly felt full of snow.
And as always, he thought of those he had lost: of his dear friend Hem, that lumbering giant of a boy; of his parents, fallen to the plague; of Bailey, the dearest friend he'd ever had, the twin light of his heart. No matter how far he traveled from home, those he left behind still filled him with memories and pain.
They had ridden for several more hours when they saw the walls rise ahead.
"The city of Orewood," Torin said, and a chill ran through him. "Looks more like a mausoleum for giants."
The great wall stretched across the snowy forest, rising a hundred feet tall. Built of rugged, dark gray bricks, the wall reminded Torin of many tombstones cobbled together. Icicles hung from the battlements, and snow topped the merlons. As the Ardish convoy rode closer, Torin saw the banners of Verilon rising from guard towers; they displayed a brown bear upon a green field. Soldiers stood upon the walls. Their beards were brown and bushy, and they wore crude, iron breastplates over fur, and more pelts hung around their shoulders and peeked from under their helmets. Their bows were long and their spears longer, and their eyes were dark.
Torin and Cam rode closer, leading their convoy toward a gatehouse. Two round towers rose here, each large enough to be a fortress in its own right. Across a ravine rose a stone archway, its doors hidden behind a raised drawbridge. A dozen Verilish soldiers stood upon the gatehouse battlements, staring down with nocked arrows in their bows.
The Ardish company halted across the chasm. The snow rose a foot deep, hiding their horse's hooves. Their banners unfurled once in the wind, revealing the ravens of Arden, then wilted. Torin glanced at his companions, then rode several feet forward, bringing himself to the edge of the ravine. He hefted his raven shield, coned a gloved hand around his mouth, and cried up to the guards.
"Men of Verilon! I am Sir Torin Greenmoat of Arden. With me rides King Camlin, lord of our realm. Three knights and thirty men-at-arms are with us. We've ridden for many turns and seek your hospitality."
The guards upon the gatehouse battlements seemed to stare at one another; it was hard to see from so far below, especially with the snow in the wind.
"We've come as allies of Verilon!" Torin cried. "As war rages across Mythimna, and as the Radian Empire clashes against Verilon along the Icenflow, we offer our friendship. Will you let us enter and speak with your king?"
For long moments nothing happened. No voice from above answered. But no arrows fell either; Torin took that as a good sign.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, metal chains creaked, and the drawbridge began to descend. When it clanked down across the gorge, it revealed a rising portcullis and swinging, iron-banded doors.
Torin turned his head and looked at his companions. They stared back. Cam nodded and the companions rode onto the drawbridge, leaving the forest and entering the city of Orewood.
Torin entered first. He found himself in a cobbled courtyard surrounded by a hundred archers and swordsmen. More archers stood in towers ahead, pointing their arrows down at him. Beyond the courtyard he glimpsed many log houses, the stone domes of temples, and several distant fortresses.
A Verilish man wobbled forth, his cast iron breastplate barely able to contain his massive gut. His beard was almost as large, hanging down to his belt, and his cheeks were ruddy. He must have stood seven feet tall, and a war hammer—its head was large as a boot—hung across his back. Beneath his armor, he wore fur pelts, and he carried a pewter tankard overflowing with frothy ale.
"Men of Arden!" he boomed. "I am Hogash, Captain of the Southern Gates. We will welcome you into our halls, where you will feast upon bloody meat and drink frothy ale, but first you will disarm yourselves. No swords, no arrows, no blades. Leave all your weapons at the gates, and leave your horses; they will be tended to. And if you try to slip any weapons past us, we'll flay you alive and feed your living, writhing remains to the bears." He slapped his belly and burst out with laughter, as if he had just told the world's funniest joke.
Cam glanced at Torin, then back at his men and nodded. The Ardishmen dismounted and began to unhook their weapons and hand them over to the Verilish guards: longswords, daggers, bows, quivers of arrows, and lances. Cam watched the weapons and horses being escorted away, looking like a starving man who had just seen a dog snatch away his meal.
"When I was a shepherd, I never thought I'd miss having a sword," the king muttered to Torin. "Now I feel naked without one."
The corpulent captain turned and waddled toward a street, and the Ardish company followed. As they walked, Torin looked around, soaking in the sights of Orewood, capital of Verilon.
Log houses lined the streets, their sloping roofs coated with snow, and icicles hung from their eaves. Chimneys pumped out smoke, and through open window shutters, Torin glimpsed bear rugs and crackling hearths. The city folk wore fur and leather, and their cheeks were red. Men sported proud beards and women hid their hair under shawls. They were a heavyset people, wide of bodies and wide of faces, but their eyes s
eemed kind to Torin, their ways simple and old. The sounds of the city rose in a symphony: chickens clucking in backyards and pecking for seeds in the snow, cats mewling upon roofs, hammers ringing in smithies, men singing drunkenly in taverns over mugs of ale, and stocky housewives beating the dust out of rugs. Like its music, the city's aroma was intoxicating; Torin smelled rich stews cooking in homes, tangy sausages hanging in butcher shop windows, oiled iron and soft fur pelts, and finally the stench of gutters flowing with the contents of emptied chamber pots.
As they kept walking, heading deeper into the city, stone buildings began to rise among the log homes. Several buildings seemed to be temples, their roofs topped with bronzed domes, and statues of bears stood outside their gates. Others buildings were manors for the city's wealthy; several sported silver domes, and one's dome was even gilded. Finally, Torin saw several fortresses, and many soldiers stood outside them, massive men with barrel chests, bushy beards, and war hammers. Each warrior of Verilon seemed twice the size of an Ardish or Magerian soldier.
After walking for an hour or two, Torin saw the fabled Geroshahall—palace of Verilon.
"By Idar's swollen feet," he muttered.
Geroshahall was massive, easily five times the size of Arden's royal palace back at Kingswall. It was carved of the same rough, gray bricks as the rest of the city, and icicles hung from its turrets and battlements. Soldiers stood upon its encircling wall, and between them rose the bear banners. Beyond the wall rose a dozen wide, circular towers topped with gold, bronze, silver, and iron domes. While Arden's palace was elegant, pale, and delicate, here was a powerful, looming structure, more a fortress than a palace. While guards in Arden wore polished steel and golden cloaks, here the guards looked as scruffy as woodsmen, their cast iron breastplates as crude as peasants' frying pans, their furs coated with snow and mud, their beards untamed.
Arden's palace is a fine maiden, perfumed and fair, Torin reflected. Verilon's palace is the gruff, burly enforcer who tosses drunkards out of the tavern.
Hogash, Captain of the Southern Gates, spoke to the guards of Geroshahall. The surly men gave the Ardish companions stern looks, muttered under their breath, and hefted their hammers. Finally, cursing and spitting, they shoved open Geroshahall's iron-banded doors.
Hogash drank deeply from his stein, wiped suds off his mustache, and lumbered into the hall. Torin, Cam, and their retinue followed, entering the heart of Verilon.
They found themselves in a massive hall—the largest indoor structure Torin had ever seen. Six rows of columns, each as wide as a guard tower, supported a ceiling so distant it all but vanished into shadows. The floor was rough and pitted, and a dozen great fireplaces roared in the walls, filling the chamber with heat, light, and smoke.
Men and women feasted at pine trestle tables. Upon iron platters lay steaming venison, smoked sausages, and roasted geese. Ale flowed from tankards. Clad in fur and metal, the diners ate with only large knives for cutlery, carving up meat and stuffing it greedily into their mouths. Ale beaded upon beards, and grease dripped down iron breastplates. Belches, laughter, and crude songs wafted through the air like the meaty scents. Dogs scurried underfoot, feasting upon bones and scraps the diners tossed their way.
"By Idar," Cam whispered to Torin, his eyes wide with awe. "This is what we need back in Arden. Not fancy lords nibbling on crumpets with forks thinner than my pinky finger."
Torin grimaced. "Right now, Serin's troops are feasting in Arden's palace. I'd take all the dessert forks in the world over a hall full of Radians."
As they walked closer to the trestle tables, the diners noticed them and raised their tankards in welcome, spilling droplets of the amber ale. At the head of the table rose a chair larger than the others; Torin assumed that it served as Verilon's throne. The massive, wooden seat was carved into the shape of an upright bear complete with iron claws that sprouted from the armrests. A man sat here, looking much like a bear himself. His chest was wide as a wagon, and his belly seemed large enough to digest a entire roast pig. Ale and grease filled his beard, and his cheeks were flushed red. He stared at the Ardishmen from under bushy eyebrows. Above his furs, he wore a dark breastplate engraved with the emblem of a rearing bear. Upon his head perched a crown—not a crown of gold as southern kings wore but a heavy, iron construction shaped as bear claws thrusting upwards.
Hogash shouted out the introduction, "Here sits Ashmog, son of Fargosh, King of Verilon!"
The king belched, wiped suds off his mouth, and rose to his feet with the sound of clanking armor and creaking wood.
"Look at that one!" the king boomed, pointing a turkey leg at Cam. "I've eaten meals larger than him. And that one!" He thrust the turkey leg toward Torin. "His beard is shorter than the hairs on my backside."
The king roared with laughter, spraying out bits of half-chewed meat. The hall roared with him, and men banged tankards against the tabletop in approval.
Hogash gestured at the Ardish companions. "My king! Here before you stands Camlin, King of Arden. And with him thirty ravens of his flock."
King Ashmog snorted. "Former king perhaps. I hear the Radians' backsides are warming his throne now." The king lumbered around the table and across the hall, his feet pounding against the stone floor. Two war hammers hung across his back, their heads as large as loaves of bread. He came to stand before the Ardish company, towering above them; Torin's head barely reached the man's chin, while Cam stood shorter than his shoulders.
"Your Highness." Cam bowed his head. "I've come here to—"
Ashmog thrust out a massive hand—it looked more like a paw—and grabbed Cam's chin, forcing his head up. "Look me in the eyes! No man who bows can call himself a king." Ashmog snorted and spat sideways. "Is that why you lost your throne, runt? Did you bow as the Radians invaded rather than fight?" He raised his arms and roared for all the hall to hear. "But King Ashmog fights! Ashmog will lead the Motherland to victory!" Across the hall, his men roared and banged the tabletops. Ashmog spun in circles, arms raised, bellowing. "The Radian scum think they can cross the Icenflow, that they can invade our forests, that their magic makes them strong. But Verilon is stronger! We crushed their ships on the Icenflow, and we will drive them out of our forests." He spun back toward Cam, leaned down, and narrowed his eyes. "Here you see true might, little king, true warriors who will crush the enemy like a bear crushes a deer."
Cam's cheeks reddened. He stared up at the larger man. "We in Arden have been fighting this war every turn. I've led many raids against the Radian supply lines. I fought Serin's forces upon the open fields. I thrust my sword into Lord Gehena. I—"
"You," said Ashmog, "are now here, seeking sanctuary." He jabbed Cam's chest with his turkey leg. "If the Ardish were so mighty, your kingdom would still stand." He stuffed the turkey leg into his mouth and sucked up all the meat at once, leaving a clean bone. He spoke as he chewed. "Why are you here, ravens? Have you come to seek safety from the cold of winter and the Radian fire?"
"We've come to forge an alliance," said Cam. "Ten thousand Ardish troops camp along the border. South of them, at Kingswall,
a Radian army of fifty thousand prepares to march north . . . and they will come here. They will lay siege to Orewood, and their machines of war will smash your walls and towers as they did at Kingswall. Let us aid you, King Ashmog. Let my army join yours, and together we will defend these walls."
Ashmog snorted and swallowed his meat. He grabbed a tankard of ale and drank deeply. "So I was right. You've come here for safety. You fear to face the Radians in the field, and you seek to shelter your forces behind my walls." He snorted. "You think that Serin, that lump of bear dung, poses a threat to me? Verilon is stronger than he can imagine. If Serin marches here, we don't need a few Ardish birds to help us. Our gates can withstand any catapult or battering ram."
Torin spoke for the first time. He stepped closer to the king and met the large man's gaze. "But can your gates withstand magic? Have you ever faced mages in battle? I have.
" Torin shuddered at the memories. "I saw mages spew out dark smoke, crumbling the walls of Sinyong, a great port city in the night. I saw mages smash down the walls of my own city in Arden. I saw their magic crush steel armor as if it were tin, tug bones out of flesh, and melt stone." He clenched his fists at his sides. "You not only face a great horde of soldiers. You face mages, King Ashmog, and to defeat them, you need all the help you can get. In this hour, all free folk of Moth must fight together against the rising Radian Empire."
The king's brown eyes narrowed, becoming sly slits beneath his bushy eyebrows. He leaned down, scrutinizing Torin. Slowly his cheeks reddened and his teeth clenched. He spun around, staring at Captain Hogash.
"Hogash! Who is this man? I've heard tales of men with mismatches eyes, one green like Timandra, the other dark as the night."
The Captain of the Gates raised his chin. "He identified himself as Sir Torin Greenmoat. He—"
"Torin Greenmoat!" roared Ashmog. The king tossed back his head and raised his hands, spilling ale from his tankard. His howl seemed to shake the hall. "Torin Greenmoat, son of Teramin! Here is the son of Fargosh's Bane!" The king slammed his fist against a table, shattering it. Iron plates and pewter mugs crashed onto the floor. He spun back toward Torin, face red, saliva spraying. "Your father was a murderer, a coward, a sneaky beast who stabbed my own father in the back."
Torin felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He cleared his throat. "My father fought the previous king of Verilon. It's true. But he never killed him. He took the war hammer onto his shield, and—"
Ashmog roared and tossed his tankard across the hall. "Our last king lived to an old age and died with only daughters. He was my uncle. He raised me as a son—after your father slew mine in the forest. Or do your people not tell that tale?"
Shadows of Moth Page 14
