Soon, she thought as she worked outside in the cold, polishing Lari's armor. Soon, once I've regained my strength, I'll be able to cast magic again. Soon I'll be able to get my hands on a blade or pickaxe. And then, Lari . . . then the madness in your eyes will turn to fear.
* * * * *
He rode across the night, leading a host of sunlight.
He was a conqueror. A lighter of darkness. An exterminator of vermin. He was Emperor Serin. He was a light to the world and a hammer to crush the worms that infested it. He was the god of Radianism, a deity among men.
"The darkness vanishes," he whispered, licking his lips. "The light rises."
Ahead of him, the great hive of nightcrawlers crumbled. Yintao, they had named it. The capital of their filthy, infested land. The magic tore into the hive, smashing walls, crumbling towers, and his hosts cheered. A hundred thousand Timandrians, children of pure sunlight, streamed into the ruins, slaying the weak, capturing the strong. Thousands of Elorians marched in chains, whipped, beaten, shivering in their nakedness and wretchedness.
"Make them suffer before they die," Serin commanded his generals. "Make the world see their baseness. Strip off their clothes. Shear off their hair. Brand their skin and let them serve us. Let them dig. Let them forge the weapons of their own destruction."
He laughed as he rode through the darkness, leading his hosts, carving the mines for the worms. He laughed as they labored, building him more swords, more spears, more arrows, more cannons, more tools for his glory. Pathetic beings—so eager to serve him, so eager to help him destroy their own kind.
This is why I rise, he thought. And this is why they fall. This is why I am their master and they are my slaves.
He rode through another town, another city, watching the towers crumble, watching the slaves emerge, watching all the darkness turn bright with his fire.
"Glorious," he whispered, sitting astride his horse, staring down the hill. Tears stung his eyes. "Beautiful."
Below him, his soldiers rolled out wagon after wagon from a crumbling city, each piled high with Elorian bodies. Serin watched, hand held to his heart, as the soldiers stacked up mountains of corpses and lit them in great pyres. The fire rose high to the sky, casting out sparks, scented of burning meat, of his glory. Serin watched these great lights in the night, and tears of joy and awe streamed down his cheeks.
"The night has ended," he whispered. "Radian has risen."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
THE WALLS OF OREWOOD
They stood upon the walls of Orewood, capital of Verilon, waiting for blood and fire.
The soldiers covered the battlements and filled the courtyards below. Ten thousand Ardishmen, banished from their homeland, waiting for vengeance. Twenty thousand Verilish warriors, meaty men with cast iron breastplates, thick fur cloaks, and beards just as thick and warm. Ravens and bears. Swords and hammers. Two forces united, ready to face the swarm.
"Bloody cold turn for a battle," Cam muttered. The short, slender king shivered, armor clanking. Snow covered his helmet, piled up upon his pauldrons, and clung to his stubbly cheeks. "We should have fled to the warm south."
Torin patted his friend's shoulder, scattering snow. "Soon we'll be warm enough. Battle heats a man's blood more than mulled wine or the love of a woman."
Cam sighed. "I'd take warm wine and a woman's love instead."
The snow suddenly seemed colder. The talk of women made Torin think of his wife, of Koyee missing. He lowered his head. "As would I."
Cam looked at him and his eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Tor. I pray every turn that we hear from her. Koyee is strong and brave, among the strongest people who live in Moth. If anyone can survive this, it's her."
Torin nodded. He stared off the rampart at the pine forest. The evergreens spread into the horizon, white with snow. A frozen stream snaked between them. The snow kept falling, and still the enemy did not appear, though Torin knew they were out there, moving closer, seeking them, seeking him.
"And the children are out there too somewhere," Torin said softly. "Madori and Tam. No word for months now." Torin clutched the merlon that rose before him. Suddenly it was a struggle to even breathe.
"I worry about them every turn, every breath." Cam's voice sounded choked. "It's a horrible thing, isn't it? Being a parent when your children are in danger. I often feel guilty, Tor." He stared at Torin with haunted eyes. "Guilty for bringing children into the world. We should have known. You and I, more than anyone. We fought in the last great war. We knew about the ugliness in the world, the cruelty in the hearts of men. And yet we brought children into this world, and now . . . now . . ." He lowered his head, overcome.
"There's not much hope," Torin said softly. "But I think that there's a little hope still. Let us cling to that sliver of hope now. It's still better than despair." He looked around him at the lines of soldiers upon the ramparts, then at the thousands of soldiers waiting in the courtyards within the city. "And that little hope lies here at the walls of Orewood."
Cam patted the icy merlon that rose before him. "Good, solid limestone." He sighed. "As if I know limestone from any other rock. Could be chalk for all I know." He looked back at Torin. "You know, I think back to the last round. To all those battles we fought. And I remember standing beside our friends, but all those old walls and battlefields merge together. I can no longer remember where it was Hem swallowed that apricot seed and nearly choked—was it Yintao? Pahmey? I can remember Bailey standing in some grand hall, trying to sing 'Old Riyonan Fields' and accidentally singing the rude lyrics Wela Brewer had invented for it." He laughed. "But I no longer remember if it was in the court of Qaelin's emperor, the halls of Ilar, or maybe just some knight's manor in the sunlight." He wiped his eyes. "I remember lots of bloodshed, horror, pain . . . but also good times. You know, I do think that old war—when we were just kids—was both the worst and greatest time in my life."
Torin nodded, head lowered. "Mine too. It's all memories of pain, but also memories of dear friends, the last memories of them we have." He caressed the hilt of his sword. "This war is turning out quite differently. And I begin to wonder if we'll ever have peace. I lie awake in bed, and I question why we fight for this world. It seems that whenever you slay one tyrant, another rises to take his place. Whenever you win one war, a generation later a new fire rises to burn the world. Do we fight for everlasting peace, or do we only fight for those brief moments in the sun, a respite from violence before blood washes us again? Perhaps the hearts of men cannot tolerate peace for more than a few years. Perhaps violence is the way of man, and all hope for ending war is just a hope for temporary victory, not an enduring end to arms. Sometimes I think that if this is so, perhaps it's better to lay down our swords, to let the enemy slay us, for even should we slay this enemy another will knock on our door. And yet I keep fighting. Not because I believe I can hold off the tide forever. I fight for those brief moments in the sun. For seeing my daughter smile. For smelling flowers bloom in spring in my gardens, even as I know winter will come again. For a dream of peace, however brief. If we vanquish this enemy, our children will fight another, or their children will, and they too will keep fighting. There will always be ugliness in the world, but perhaps there will always be beauty too. It's for those flashes of beauty that we're willing to face the endless stream of terror."
Cam nodded sagely. "I was just going to say all that myself."
Torin laughed. "I know. I . . ."
His voice died.
Men across the wall stiffened.
A distant drumming rose in the forest, and the trees upon the horizon swayed.
Cam spoke in a soft voice, barely more than a whisper. "They're here."
Across the walls of Orewood, the Ardishmen raised their bows and raised their chins. They stared into the southern forests, solemn, proud, ready to fight any terror that might emerge. Their banners unfurled in a gust of snowy wind, revealing the black raven upon the golden field. At the sight of these banners, pri
de welled in Torin.
Let the enemy see that Arden still stands with honor and pride.
Further along the walls, the soldiers of Verilon reacted somewhat differently. Here were no noble, steely soldiers in plate armor, no proud eyes, no solemn stares. The Verilish host erupted into wild jeers. Burly men—most were twice the size of the typical Ardishman—bellowed and lifted their hammers and shields high. Many held flagons of ale, and they drank between roars. Their fur cloaks billowed in the wind, and in lieu of drums, they pounded their hammers against their own iron breastplates, raising a ruckus that sent birds fleeing. Several men went even further; they turned their backs toward the forest, lowered their breeches, and gave the south a good view of their wriggling, hairy posteriors.
"They know how to enjoy war, I'll give them that," Cam muttered, watching the warriors of the bear.
The drums kept beating in the south, and the trees kept creaking, snow falling off their branches. The last birds fled the forest, and then Torin saw them, and he gripped his bow and cursed.
The Radians covered the forests, countless soldiers. This force seemed even larger than the army that had attacked Kingswall. Here was a great horde from many nations: Magerians in black steel, traitorous Ardishmen in pale armor, Nayans in tiger pelts, and even Eseerians from the distant south. Among them marched warriors Torin had never seen before—tall, broad men, as large as the Verilish, but golden haired and fair of skin. They were warriors of Orida, Torin realized, the island nation from the northern sea; they too now raised the Radian banners.
Catapults rolled forth among the enemy troops, followed by ballistae—great crossbows on wheels, large as cannons. True cannons emerged next from the forest, shaped as iron buffaloes. Wheeled battering rams swung on chains, and trebuchets swayed like pendulums as they rolled forth. But worse than all these tools of siege were the dark riders among them—robed and hooded mages.
One of these mages rode ahead of the army, twice the size of all others. Torin winced, pain shooting through him at the sight. Those red, burning eyes seemed to find him across the distance, to pierce him like spears. Four arms rose, holding four severed heads, trophies from the southern battlefields.
"Lord Gehena," Torin muttered. "He's back."
"Like a bad rash," Cam agreed.
Over the past few turns, Orewood's defenders had cleared out about a mile of forest, leaving a field of tree stumps beyond the canyon and walls. The enemy hosts paused before this cleared stretch of land, their backs to the forest; they stood just beyond the range of the defenders' arrows.
Only Gehena rode forth. His horse, several times the usual size, snorted and huffed, blasting smoke out of its nostrils. The dark lord's cloak gusted in the wind, revealing tattered, burnt hems. A stench of smoke and vinegar wafted from the mage toward the walls of Orewood.
Several soldiers beside Torin raised their arrows. Torin raised his hand, holding back the fire.
"Wait," he said.
Gehena kept riding forward until he had crossed half the distance between the forest and walls. His horse sidestepped, sneering. With a hiss that sounded halfway between water on fire and a laugh, Gehena tossed the four severed heads he held.
The grisly projectiles sailed through the air and across the walls. Torin grimaced as one landed right between him and Cam.
"By Idar," Cam said, blanching.
Torin stared down at the head and ground his teeth. It was the frozen head of Kay Wooler, his neighbor from Fairwool-by-Night, a mere girl of twenty. Her face was still twisted with fear.
A shriek rose from the field, morphing into words, high-pitched, demonic, a sound like a hailstorm.
"Here are the heads of your neighbors," cried Lord Gehena. "Here are the heads of those you abandoned, those you failed, those you let die. They are four among thousands." He looked over his shoulder. "Men of Radian! Show them your trophies!"
Across the field, thousands of Radian soldiers roared. They raised thousands of spears; each held a severed Ardish head.
Gehena laughed and turned back toward Orewood. "You tried to fight my lord, the mighty Serin. He repays treachery with death. Though as great as his might is his mercy. On his behalf, I give you one more chance to live. Surrender now. Open your gates and swear allegiance to my lord. Raise the Radian flag, fight with us against the night, and you shall live. Refuse me . . . and you will die." His laughter rose like steam. "You will all die in agony, and your heads will pelt the next city we crush."
"I say we fire those arrows now," Torin said.
Cam nodded. "Capital idea." The king raised his voice to a roar. "Archers of Arden! Fire!"
Hundreds of soldiers upon the wall raised their bows. Hundreds of arrows flew skyward, reached their zenith, and flew downward toward Gehena.
The mage pointed his four hands forward. The arrows disintegrated and fell as ash.
An instant later, the Radian soldiers blew horns and charged toward the walls of Orewood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
THE WAR ETERNAL
Koyee swung the pickaxe. Again. Again.
Pain flared across her. Again. Again.
The whips cracked. Again. Again.
The turns faded together into a long, unending nightmare. She rose. She worked in the mine, chained, with a thousand others. She suffered the shouts, the lash, the steel-tipped boots. She returned to the cave with the others, huddled together, praying, whispering.
Their captors did not feed them. While forced to clean the camp above the canyon, they scrounged around in the trash, picking out bones, peels, and whatever else remained from the Radians' meals. They drank melted snow when it fell; usually they thirsted. Their fat and muscles melted off, leaving them famished, rubbery, skin hanging off bones like white silk off hangers.
And they died.
Always they died.
A body collapsed. Again. Again.
The wheelbarrow rolled out a pile of corpses. Again. Again.
Sometimes it was hunger or thirst. Sometimes the lash of an over-eager overseer. Often it was disease; the Timandrian illnesses still ran through the mine, bringing chills, boils, fever, death.
And yet, through this pain, their labors bore fruit. Piles of arrowheads, spearheads, and swords rose in wagons, shipped off to war.
Thus we die, Koyee thought, swinging the pick. Working to slay our own people.
They worked. They suffered. They died. And sometimes . . . sometimes they fought.
One turn it was a young man, though he looked old now, who shouted in agony, tears in his eyes, and swung his pickaxe at a guard. The Magerian only laughed, dodged the blow, and knocked the Elorian down. That turn, the Magerians enjoyed hanging the prisoner above the canyon, only to lower the rope instants before death, allow the man to recover, then tighten the noose again. It was hours before the man died as the other prisoners toiled below, hearing the gasps, knowing this would be their fate too should they rebel.
Yet another prisoner, a diminutive woman with large indigo eyes, shouted the next turn after watching her son collapse. She too attacked a guard, and her pickaxe hit the man's armor, denting the steel. The Magerians beat her to death, laughing as she bled.
How can we fight them? Koyee thought, chipping out the iron ore, one chunk after another. We are weak, nearly starving, dying. They wear armor, and they carry shields and swords. She lowered her head. It's a fight we can't win.
Yet as the turns went by, she realized: We must fight nonetheless.
The next time they entered the cave to sleep, she began whispering of her plans.
"Gather, friends." She gestured for them to approach. "Gather, hear me."
The prisoners lay across the cave like discarded rags, so weak they could barely raise their heads. The cave was small; the prisoners covered the floor, leaving no room to spare. They barely seemed human to Koyee, only ravaged things, half-alive. They reminded her of the plague victims she had seen in the Hospice of Pahmey, still drawing breath but only a mockery of
true life. She could clearly see the bones and joints of her fellow prisoners; their skin hid nothing. Their eyes peered, huge and glazed, from bald, skull-like heads. She no longer knew man from woman, child from adult; all had become sickly, starving, dying things.
Now we truly look like the worms they always called us, Koyee thought.
"Come, friends, gather near."
They crawled toward her, the stronger dragging the weak. A few only raised their heads, blinking, uttering silent words. Koyee struggled onto her stick-thin legs. She stared around her, meeting gaze after gaze.
"We've been here for over a moon," she said. "If we do nothing, we will die here. So many of us have died already, and I no longer believe help will come to us. If we fight, our fate will be the same." She tried to make a fist, but she was too weak to close her fingers. "If only death awaits us, we can still choose how to die. And I say we die fighting. Together."
One of the prisoners, an Elorian youth named Baoshi, struggled to his feet too. He leaned over for a moment, coughed, and finally righted himself. He met Madori's gaze. Sweat dripped off his forehead, and the glaze of illness coated his eyes, but he managed to nod.
"I will fight with you, Koyee," he said. "I know of your tales. You are the great heroine of the first war. The Girl in the Black Dress. The Rider of Dragons. The Slayer of Ferius." He turned to look at the others. "She is a heroine. We must follow her. She will lead us to victory."
Another prisoner, a man named Chenduon, shook his head. "She will lead us to death." He coughed, holding his frail chest. "I do not want to die a hero. I want to live as long as I can. Maybe aid will arrive. Maybe Emperor Jin will send a great army to free us."
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