Shadows of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  The last defenders of Daenor, only several hundred, fled down the western mountainside, bleeding, shouting, heading down into the swamplands. Behind them like a rising sun charged the Radian forces, beating drums and chanting for victory.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

  SHATTERING

  Madori rode through the darkness, the wind ruffling her hair and Grayhem's fur. She leaned forward upon the nightwolf, staring south into the shadows.

  "Hurry, Grayhem," she pleaded. "We have to hurry."

  The wolf panted but kept racing across the wilderness. The land was flat and rocky and black, the great emptiness north of the Inaro River and west of the Iron Road. The lights of the night sky shone above: the constellations, a crescent moon, the faded trail of light men called the White Dragon's Tail, and those moving stars Koyee claimed were distant worlds, sisters to Moth. But Madori kept waiting to see other lights—the lights of Pahmey, the great western city of Qaelin, a hub of life in the darkness of endless night.

  She held up her locket and flicked it open as she rode. As before, it showed nothing. If Koyee still had her locket, it was closed.

  "Stars damn it, Mother!" Madori cried into the wind. "Where are you?"

  She had not seen a vision in the locket for hours, or maybe it had been full turns now. The last vision had shown Koyee sailing on a boat of refugees, heading toward the glass towers of Pahmey. Madori had never been to that city, but she had seen it painted upon many scrolls: a city of high walls bedecked with lamps, of glass towers that shone with inner lights, of domes like the moon, and of floating lanterns. If Serin's forces had truly driven into the night, would the Elorians meet them there in battle?

  "Keep running, Grayhem," she said, stroking his fur as he raced across the land.

  Her sword hung across her back—the blade renamed, no longer Sheytusung but Min Tey, the glow of the water, for her mind was now like a clear pond reflecting the moonlight. With the wisdom of Yin Shi, she knew she could keep her rage and fear under control, could keep her mind clear even while in danger. She hadn't completed her training in Yin Shi, as she hadn't completed her training of magic at Teel University, but she would take all knew of both skills, and she would use them in battle.

  I will meet you again, Serin, she swore. And this time I will not just cut off your finger but your head. You have not yet met Min Tey in battle.

  She rode on through the endless night.

  She rode for many turns.

  When they were too tired to continue, Grayhem and she slept under the stars. When they were hungry, they searched the moist earth for mushrooms and truffles, and when they raced over rocky plains, they dug for underground beetles, worms, and rodents, horrid little things that made Madori queasy but kept her alive. She drank melted snow. She rode on.

  Through the cold and darkness, a song kept playing in her mind, and soon she was singing it as she rode, her voice soft. She sang "The Journey Home," one of the oldest songs of Eloria, the song her mother had taught her. Koyee had sailed alone upon the Inaro as a youth, and "Sailing Alone" had become an anthem to her, the song she had played on the streets and in the glittering burrows of the yezyani. But Madori, torn between day and night, always seeking a home, had another song to her heart, and in the darkness, seeking Pahmey, seeking a battle to fight, seeking a home, her voice rang with her song and filled the night.

  Ten turns after leaving Master Lan Tao in the northern Desolation, Madori finally saw the lights of Pahmey ahead.

  Upon a hilltop, she halted her nightwolf and gasped, staring at the distant city.

  Pahmey rose upon the northern bank of the silver Inaro River. Black walls surrounded the city, topped with many lanterns. Beyond the walls, Madori saw thousands of homes built of opaque glass bricks, their roofs riled red, green, and gold, their edges curling upwards like scrolls. Many pagodas rose among the houses, dragon statues atop their roofs—temples to Xen Qae and to the constellations. At the city's crest, glass towers rose toward the sky, and they shone with inner lights of silver, lavender, and blue. The greatest tower among them—Minlao Palace—supported a silver dome shaped like the moon. Even higher up, hot air balloons hovered in the sky between floating lanterns.

  It was a city of light, of beauty, of knowledge, an oasis in the dark wilderness.

  It was a city under attack.

  Myriads of Magerian troops surrounded the city. The enemy's warships floated in the river, eclipses painted upon their sails, showing the golden sun hiding the moon. Thousands of riders sat upon horses, and countless footmen stood behind them, their black armor reflecting the light of their torches. Barely visible, mere specks in the night, were the mages. Madori had never seen so many of them in one place, not even at Teel—a thousand mages or more rode upon black horses, the vanguard of the host. The Radian army surrounded Pahmey like a colony of ants surrounding a fallen morsel.

  "Mother," Madori whispered, chest shaking. "Mother, where are you?"

  She pulled the locket from under her shirt. When she flipped it open, a gasp fled her lips.

  "Mother!" she cried.

  Koyee's locket was open, and some hope filled Madori. Did that mean Koyee was still alive? The view in the locket showed the Radian host up close: lines of troops in dark steel, their torches crackling; mages upon horses, hidden in black robes; warships in the river, cannons on their decks; and beyond the soldiers and masts, the towering walls of Pahmey, and upon them Elorian archers in steel scales.

  "Why . . . why are you among the Radians?" Madori whispered. How could Koyee's locket be showing her a view from outside the city?

  The view in the locket spun madly. When the locket finally steadied, it revealed a familiar face.

  Madori felt faint.

  It was Serin.

  The Emperor, Lord of the Radian Order, stared through the locket directly into Madori's eyes . . . and smiled.

  With a cry, Madori slapped her locket shut.

  She trembled. Her heart beat madly. Her head spun.

  "Mother . . ."

  Was Koyee dead? Had Serin killed her and claimed her locket?

  "Mother!" she cried toward the distant city. Her tears burned. She panted. She—

  Breathe. Slowly. Focus.

  It was Master Lan Tao speaking in her mind. Nostrils flaring, Madori obeyed him. She slowly inhaled, filling her lungs from bottom to top, letting the soothing air flow across every part of her, down to her toes, along her arms, and inside her head. With every new breath, she let the panic flow away. With every breath, she focused her awareness on where she was: the feel of Grayhem's fur against her thighs, the softness of her silk dress against her body, the chill of the wind that streamed her two long strands of black hair. Slowly she became fully aware of herself, in control again, grounded.

  "I have to find you, Mother," she said into the wind. "I have to fight at your side."

  Distant shouts in Qaelish rose from the city walls. The banners of Qaelin rose from the city's battlements—a silver moon within a star upon a black field. Soldiers in scale armor cried out the words of their empire: "We are the night!" And under this night sky, Madori—born half of sunlight—felt a full child of darkness. Under this sky, facing this battle, she was a child of Qaelin, of Eloria, and she would fight for the darkness.

  "We are the night!" they cried below, and their arrows flew from the walls toward the enemy hosts. Bronze cannons shaped as dragons fired from the battlements, and their cannonballs crashed into the forces of sunlight.

  The battle began.

  Madori drew her sword, kneed her nightwolf, and leaned forward over his back.

  "Run, Grayhem! To war!"

  He ran.

  Madori raised her sword, charging down the hills toward the enemy troops. She would die here, she knew; she was a lone woman charging toward thousands. But she would not cower as her mother needed her, as her city—and this turn Pahmey was her city, the beacon of her heart—lay surrounded by light.

  She had ridden only hal
fway toward the enemy when the walls of Pahmey began to shake.

  Madori hissed, eyes wide.

  The thousand mages surrounded the city like a noose, riding upon their black mares, and each bore a crackling red torch. Their free hands pointed toward Pahmey, and dark magic oozed from them, tendrils of black and silver coiling like serpents.

  One glass tower, hundreds of feet tall and filled with blue light, cracked. The sound of shattering glass pounded against Madori's ears even as she rode. With a great shriek, the tower collapsed. Elorians—small as ants from here—tumbled from its windows. Shards of glass showered over surrounding roofs. Finally the tower vanished in a cloud of dust.

  Madori could barely breathe.

  "Serin!" she shouted. She doubted her voice could he heard; thousands of voices were now screaming from the city. "Serin, stop this!"

  A second tower crashed down, its glass walls shattering. Screams rose from the city. Cracks raced along the walls. The mages kept casting their magic, and Madori rode as fast as Grayhem would carry her, but she could not help, could not avoid seeing the devastation.

  One chunk of wall fell, its turrets and ramparts slamming into the ground. Behind it, houses collapsed and vanished into sinkholes. More towers crumbled. Dust rose in clouds, thick with glass fragments that flew like snow, a million lights reflecting the fires. More of the wall fell. Canyons were tearing open. Sinkholes greedily swallowed buildings like gluttons guzzling down food. Elorians began to flee the city, racing out the gates into the wilderness, only to encounter the enemies' swords.

  Madori was only a mile away, charging toward the enemy troops, when a great crack tore across the land, louder than anything she had heard. She was forced to cover her ears, and even Grayhem yowled. A thousand buildings in Pahmey tilted inward, their walls crumbling. Dust blasted out. A massive sinkhole opened within Pahmey's center . . . and the ruins of the city vanished.

  Mewling, Grayhem stopped running, stared down, and whimpered.

  When the dust settled, all that remained of Pahmey was a ring of cracked walls, a few odd houses clinging to the rim, and a great hole in the center.

  "They're all gone," Madori whispered. "Thousands of buildings. Countless people. A history of thousands of years. Gone."

  Her tears flowed. She had never seen such devastation. She had heard stories of the last war, of how King Ceranor of Arden had attacked this city, how thousands of Elorians had died defending it. But this . . . this wasn't conquest. This was genocide. This was the effacement of a civilization.

  Madori stared in horror. "Pahmey is gone."

  For long moments, the land was eerily silent.

  Then the Radian troops began to cheer.

  Men waved banners and blew trumpets. Joyous songs erupted. Effigies of Elorians, constructed of wood and straw, were set aflame. White doves were released into the sky. Everywhere the troops cried out in joy, celebrating the destruction.

  Only a few Elorians had survived along the sinkhole's rim—a couple thousand, that was all, a fraction of the city's lost civilization. The Radian soldiers mobbed them, chained them together, whipped them, kicked them, and howled with laughter as they bled.

  Madori watched from the distance, still hidden in shadows, her wolf panting beneath her.

  "What do I do?" She shuddered. "Stars of the night, what do I do?"

  She looked into the locket again but saw nothing; its twin locket was closed. Was Koyee dead, one of the hundreds of thousands of fallen? Even Yin Shi could not calm Madori now, and her tears flowed.

  "And so I will die with my mother." She raised her sword, and she roared into the darkness. "We are the night!"

  A lone woman upon a lone wolf, she charged down toward the tens of thousands of Radian soldiers.

  They turned toward her, amusement in their eyes, and Madori crashed against them, screaming and swinging her sword.

  She fought in a mad fury. She fought with magic, blasting out bolts of power. She fought with Yin Shi, aware of every swing of a sword, and she cut men down, driving her katana through steel as easily as silk. Beneath her, Grayhem bit and clawed, driving through the enemy. Madori fought with tears in her eyes, a roar in her throat, a wild woman of darkness. Blood flew around her. Men toppled at her wolf's feet.

  She was still screaming as blasts of magic knocked her off her wolf, as clubs slammed against her, as hands grabbed her, as chains wrapped around her ankles and wrists. Pain exploded across her. Fists drove into her face. Her wolf growled somewhere in the distance, and all she saw was a sea of Radian soldiers.

  "Mother!" she cried hoarsely, blood in her mouth.

  Hands yanked her to her feet. A canvas sack was thrust over her head. Blows drove into her stomach, and she doubled over, and a kick sent her sprawling. Her head hit something hard, and Madori wept for the loss of darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

  THE BEAR OF VERILON

  Torin stood in the arena, chained to the pole, as the crowd roared around him.

  Many years ago, Torin had stood in the arena of Asharo, Capital of Ilar, in the darkness of Eloria. There he had seen Koyee fight Tianlong, the black dragon of the night. Despite its horrors, that had been a grand amphitheater carved of polished stone, a marvel of architecture. This place, in the sunlit kingdom of Verilon, was only a crude pit dug into the dirt. The hole was a good ten feet deep, perhaps a hundred feet wide, and around it rose a ring of wooden bleachers. Hundreds of Verilish men and women sat upon the crude wooden seats, roaring down at the pit. They drank from pewter steins, dribbling ale onto their beards and thick fur cloaks, but their true thirst this turn was for blood.

  My blood, Torin thought.

  In the arena's center, a wooden pole rose from the frozen earth. A chain ran from the pole to Torin's ankle, perhaps ten feet long. He stood barefoot on the cold soil, clad in nothing but a woolen tunic, armed with nothing but the humble dagger they had given him. Like this, chained and shivering with cold, thousands of men watching and roaring for his blood, Torin waited to die.

  I survived the great War of Day and Night—the dark magic at Sinyong, the inferno at Yintao, the bloodshed in Naya. I survived the torture of Lord Gehena. I lived through fire, through darkness, through war and disease. He clutched his dagger. And now I die like this, a fool for their amusement.

  He scanned the crowd above, finally locating Ashmog. The King of Verilon was chewing on a pig's trotter between gulps of ale. Grease filled his bushy brown beard. Two young women sat on his lap, one on each knee, stroking the king's hair as he feasted.

  "Ashmog!" Torin shouted up toward the king. "Ashmog, hear me! This is not the way. I've come here to aid you, not to fight for your pleasure."

  The king gulped down a chunk of meat, looked from one of his women to the other, then burst out laughing. His two companions laughed with him, and soon the entire amphitheater was roaring.

  "Oh, I don't expect you to fight much, murderer's son!" the king shouted down. He drank deeply, coating his mustache with foam. "You'll probably curl up and die begging for mercy." The king rose to his feet upon the bleacher, knocking his companions down. He pointed at Torin from above, his eyebrows pushed down, and his voice boomed. "My father fought nobly. He died with a bloody sword in his hand, slaying enemies, even as your father stabbed him in the back. But you . . . you will die squealing."

  Torin grumbled. He refused to believe his father would ever stab a man in the back. His father had been a noble knight. Torin was about to shout back at the king, to defend Teramin Greenmoat's honor, when iron doors creaked open in the arena's wall.

  Torin spun toward the exposed tunnel. A roar sounded from within. A great paw reached out from the tunnel, the claws as long as swords. All around the arena, the spectators upon the bleachers roared with new vigor.

  By Idar . . .

  The beast was too large to stand in the tunnel; it had to crawl out like a creature emerging from the womb. Its fangs were like spears, its eyes like smelters. When it rose to its f
eet, it towered like a great oak, twenty feet tall. Here stood the great bear Gashdov, a deity of the northern pine forests, symbol of Verilon—an ancient creature who fed upon the flesh of men.

  Torin raised his dagger—a puny piece of metal.

  The towering bear slammed its front paws against the ground. The arena shook. The crowd cheered. Roaring, Gashdov raced toward Torin, strings of saliva quivering between its teeth.

  "Shan dei!" Torin cursed, switching to Qaelish in his fright. He ran behind the wooden pole. His chain clattered. An instant later, the bear's paw slammed down where Torin had stood, the claws digging into the frozen soil.

  Torin's heart pounded and sweat washed him even in the cold. He clutched his dagger but knew he could not win this fight. He could barely even call this a fight; it was an execution.

  I'll never see my wife and daughter again, he thought. He did not fear death, but how could he let Koyee become a widow, to let Madori live without a father?

  The bear lolloped around the pole and faced Torin again. It rose to its hind feet, roared, and swiped its claws again.

  Torin leaped back. The chain pulled tight, and he fell onto his back. The claws swiped over his head. Torin thrust up his dagger, and the blade cut into the bear's paw. The beast roared; the dagger was like a thorn's prick, enraging the bear but doing no harm.

  The claws lashed again, each like a katana. One claw nicked Torin's shoulder. His blood splattered the icy floor. The crowd roared with a sound like a thunderstorm, and the arena shook.

  "Eat his flesh!" Ashmog cried above. "Eat, Gashdov!"

  The bear roared above Torin, mouth stretched wide. All Torin saw was the great gullet, the massive teeth, the swinging uvula.

  Thrust your dagger! whispered a voice inside him. Fight it! Stab it!

  Ignoring that voice, he tossed his dagger aside.

  He forced himself to go limp.

  I did not win the last war with violence, he thought. I won by fixing the Cabera Clock. By healing something broken.