Finally he looked behind him at the Watchtower, a stone steeple that rose from the hilltop. It dwarfed every other building in the village, even the temple, and battlements crowned its top. Torin had climbed the tower many times since joining the Village Guard last autumn. From its crest he could see for miles, past the dusk and into the night itself. For hundreds of years, the Watchtower had guarded the border of night. For hundreds of years, its guard had been peaceful.
And now a child lies dead, Torin thought. And now this peace is shattered.
He returned his eyes to the crowd of villagers. Farmers, shepherds, and tradesmen, they wore woolen tunics and leather shoes, and they clutched what weapons they had—sickles, hammers, and knives. Their faces were pale. Their eyes darted. Some shouted for vengeance, others for calm. One woman wailed that Fairwool-by-Night was too close to the border, and that the entire village should be uprooted and moved upriver.
“Everyone, calm down and listen!” Torin said, but the villagers ignored him.
He turned toward Lord Kerof, the mayor of Fairwool-by-Night, who sat by his side in a wicker chair. Torin placed his hand upon the old man’s shoulder.
“Grandpapa, they need you to speak,” Torin said softly. “They’re frightened. They need to hear that everything will be all right.”
The old man looked up at him, blinking rheumy eyes. The breeze ruffled his thinning white hair. He licked his lips and tried to speak but only coughed.
Torin lowered his head, remembering how strong the man used to be. Ten years ago, after the plague had torn through Fairwool-by-Night, Kerof had adopted two children to live in his manor. One was Bailey, his granddaughter, her parents fallen to the illness. The other was Torin, the quiet son of a soldier. Lord Kerof had been a tall, bluff man in those days, his shoulders broad, his hair thick and grizzled. The loss of his sons, the passing years, and the infiltration of the Sailith Order had done their work. Now Kerof could only walk with a cane, speak with a rasp, and see little but smudges.
“Grandpapa,” Torin said again. He always called him that, despite not sharing his blood. “Will you speak to them?”
As the villagers bustled and cried out, Lord Kerof clutched the arms of his wicker chair. His fists trembled as he pushed himself to his feet. Torin helped him stand, holding his arm. Kerof cleared his throat, then spoke in a scratchy voice.
“Fellow Fairwoolians!” he said and raised a shaky hand. “Hear me.”
The villagers finally fell silent. If they ignored young Torin, a humble gardener, they would still listen to their mayor, old and feeble as he was. Kerof cleared his throat and continued.
“You have nothing to fear, my people,” said the elderly lord. “You’re safe here in the sunlit lands. Our courageous Village Guard protects you.”
Faces in the crowd soothed, and men lowered their sickles and clubs. Torin looked around at his fellow guards. Bailey stood up in the Watchtower now, her bow and arrow aimed at the night beyond. The remainder of the Village Guard stood by a mulberry tree here below—young Camlin, wiry and shrewd, and Hemstad, large and lumbering and licking mulberry juice off his fingers. The two friends were seventeen—a year younger than Torin—and inseparable.
He sighed. The Village Guard was only the four of them; not one had yet turned twenty. Torin was gardener, Cam was a shepherd, and Hem was a baker. As for Bailey, the mayor’s granddaughter, Torin wasn’t sure she even had a trade. Every few hours, one of them donned a breastplate, grabbed a sword and a bow, and climbed the Watchtower to gaze into the night. The rest of the time, Torin tended to his gardens, Cam herded his sheep, Hem baked his breads, and Bailey explored the countryside to return with scraped knees, bee stings, and stories of adventure.
We’re not much of a military force, Torin thought, sighing as he watched Hem bite his tongue and wail. But if we can calm the villagers, we’ve done our job.
“We’ve increased our patrols,” Torin spoke up, drawing confidence from Kerof standing at his side. “At any given moment one of us is up in the tower, watching the night. We’re always here to protect the village. So long as we stay out of the dusk, we’re safe. I promise you.”
His words seemed to have the desired effect. Women lowered rolling pins and pans. Men grumbled and lowered clubs and pitchforks. One by one, the villagers began to disperse, heading downhill and back toward the village.
Torin breathed a sigh of relief … then froze when he saw the robed figure trudging uphill.
His relieved sigh turned into a groan.
“Ferius,” he muttered and clenched his fists.
The short, broad-shouldered man wore the yellow robes of the Sailith Order. Three of his monks walked behind him, their faces hidden under their hoods. Ferius raised his fist and cried out to the crowd.
“Turn away soothing words that seek to blind you!” His voice hissed like a viper. “Only the Sailith Faith speaks truth. And the truth is that danger lurks. You are all in grave peril, friends of mine.”
The people paled and mumbled fearful prayers. Once more, the villagers raised their makeshift weapons. Torin muttered under his breath.
He hated Ferius. He hated him more than all the weeds, bee stings, and leaf-rot in the world. The monk, as he called himself, had arrived in Fairwool-by-Night three years ago to build his temple and spread his faith.
These monks called Sailith the one true religion, but Torin didn’t see how it was a religion at all. He and his friends, like most decent folk, followed the old faith of Idarism; they worshiped Idar, the god of sunlight, and the green things that he grew. If this new Sailith Order had a god, its adherents never spoke of him. They preached only one message: hatred of Eloria.
“Ferius, return to your temple,” Torin said, not bothering to mask the disgust in his voice. “Do not spread your fear here. I told the villagers we were safe. I do not lie.”
The monk reached him and hissed, tongue darting between small, sharp teeth. Torin was not a tall man, and Ferius stood even shorter, though his strong frame bulged against his yellow robes. The monk’s skin too bore a yellow tinge. His eyes were beady, far-set, and pale blue. His eyebrows were so sparse Torin could barely see them. The monk was only in his thirties, but already his black hair was thinning; he wore it slicked back from his broad, protruding brow.
“Oh, but you do lie,” Ferius said in that slithering voice. He leaned closer, squinted, and scrutinized Torin like an undertaker examining a body. “All you speak is falsehood, Torin the Gardener.” He spat out that last word as an insult, then turned toward the crowd and raised his voice. “My people, reject those who would pull the wool over your eyes. The heathen speaks of safety, and yet a child lies dead. The heathen is nothing but a coward. His cowardice would bring the enemy to the very edge of the dusk—to your very doorsteps. His lies mean more dead children.”
Some villagers muttered agreements, and one farmer waved a sickle and shouted for blood. Mothers clutched their children to their breasts. Yana had been a plague orphan like Torin—she had no relatives to mourn her, yet in a village of only five hundred souls, every orphan was loved. More iron tools rose, and shouts rang across the hill.
Old Mayor Kerof, white hair billowing, blustered and raised his hands and urged calm, but his cough silenced his words. Torin helped the kindly elder back into his wicker seat, turned back toward the crowd, and shouted.
“So what will you do? March into Nightside? Fight a war with farm tools and bread knives?” Torin shook his head. “My friends, return to your fields, workshops, and pastures. Let us in the Village Guard do our job. We will defend you.”
Ferius snorted a laugh. “Hear the heathen speak his deception! He claims to protect you? Did he protect our dearest Yana, a beautiful child snatched too soon?” His beady eyes blazed. “The demons slew her. The dwellers of the dark.” Ferius’s lips peeled back, baring his teeth. “The creatures slew a being of the light. Only Sailith can defend us blessed, sunlit children from the beasts of darkness. Only Sailith can defeat
the Elorians.”
Those words swept through the crowd like wildfire. Men shouted and brandished their weapons. Children wailed and one woman fainted.
“We must kill one of their own!” shouted a farmer.
“We must fight back!” cried a woman, face red, and raised a cleaver.
“We will fight back.” Ferius raised his arms. “My friends, the Sailith Order does not merely claim to defend you while letting children die. Sailith fights against evil.”
Torin began to object, but it seemed nobody heard him. Voices rang out. Fear boiled into anger. Smiling thinly, Ferius reached into his robes and pulled out an effigy of wicker and wood. He held the doll over his head. It was shaped as an Elorian—its eyes oversized, its hair white, its wooden claws painted red.
“Sailith does not cower!” Ferius shouted. “Sailith will slay the beasts.”
He snapped his fingers. As if by magic, a spark flew toward the effigy. The small, wicker Elorian burst into flames. The villagers cheered, raised their fists, and waved their weapons. Ferius tossed down the effigy and stamped it with his boot.
“Death to Elorians!” the monk shouted, and the people answered his call.
“Death to Elorians! Death to Elorians!”
Torin raised his hands and shouted above them. “My friends, please. Calm yourselves. Do not spread more violence.”
Those words only seemed to whip Ferius into a deeper frenzy. He paced across the hilltop, robes swaying and eyes wild.
“See how the heathen loves the nightfolk,” the monk cried. “See how he wishes to protect them. See his darkened left eye, an eye blind to the sunlight; does his evil eye gaze eternally into the night?”
The people grumbled, pointed at Torin, and muttered of treachery. Torin fumed. He held no love for Elorians. He had seen Yana’s body cut and butchered. He had walked to the very cusp of darkness and gazed upon its unholy plains. His parents had died in the plague—an illness the people claimed Eloria had spread. And now he was accused of loving the enemy?
“I only want to stop more bloodshed—” he began, but Ferius was already walking downhill, calling for the people to follow.
“My monks bear lanterns, my friends,” he said. “We will bring light to the darkness. We will march into the dusk, and we will find the demon that slew our child. We will have vengeance!”
The mob roared. “Vengeance! Vengeance!”
Robes swaying, Ferius led the people downhill toward the shadowy, eastern forests—the realms of dusk where the sun faded into the eternal night. His three followers, hooded and silent monks, walked at his sides. They produced oil lanterns from their packs, lit flames within, and held the lights high. Lanterns had no use in Fairwool-by-Night, a village drenched in eternal sunlight, yet all followers of Sailith carried them, symbols of their faith.
“We will light the darkness!” Ferius shouted, raising his own lantern. “We will instill fear in the demons’ hearts.”
Torin grumbled and fear filled his own heart. He had loved the girl Yana, yet she had wandered into the shadows. She had placed herself in danger. And now Ferius would lead fifty people into the same danger. How many would the Elorians slaughter—like they had slaughtered Yana?
Reluctantly, he began to follow the mob downhill. He could perhaps not sway them away from the darkness, but he was still a Village Guardian, and he would do his best to protect them. He passed by his fellow guards and gestured for them to follow.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going with them.”
Short, scrawny Cam raised an eyebrow. Tall, portly Hem swallowed a handful of mulberries and wiped his hands on his pants.
“Are you quite mad?” the rotund youth said, lips stained blue. “It’s dangerous out there.”
Half the baker’s size, Cam nodded. “Hem only fears two things: an empty pantry and a land with no fruit trees. I only fear one thing: a hungry Hem. I ain’t going nightward either.”
Torin growled and grabbed both boys. He began tugging them downhill after the mob, ignoring their objections.
“We’re Village Guardians,” he said. “Our job is to protect the villagers, even if they’re naive enough to march right into danger. Now put down those mulberries, draw your swords, and follow.”
Ahead, Ferius was already nearing the shadows, lamp held before him. The people followed in a mass, brandishing their cleavers, sickles, and clubs. As Torin trailed behind, he sighed. These villagers were no warriors, but neither were he and his friends—they were a gardener, a shepherd, and a baker who sometimes grabbed a bow and climbed a tower.
Yet now we march into the darkness, he thought. He clutched his sword and shivered.
He looked back up at the Watchtower. He could see Bailey upon the battlements, an arrow nocked in her bow. She looked down toward him, hundreds of feet away. It was too far to see clearly, but Torin thought she looked pale, her eyes wide with fear.
“We will light the darkness!” Ferius shouted ahead. “Death to Elorians! Sailith will cast the light.”
The villagers left the sunlit hillside. They entered the shadowy, twisting forest where Torin had walked with Bailey only hours ago. As they moved deeper into the shadows, Torin remembered Yana’s dead eyes and dried blood. His heart thudded, and even with fifty people around him, cold sweat trickled down his back.
CHAPTER THREE
A DUEL IN THE DARK
They walked along the riverbanks, fifty villagers shouting for blood. For the first mile, alders and rushes grew along the water, swaying in the breeze. Caterpillars crawled on leaves, grasshoppers bustled, and chickadees and robins sang upon the branches. Farther along the river, the sun began to sink behind them, casting dapples across the water. After a mile or two, the light was dim. The trees grew stunted here, and the rushes hung wilted and pale. No more birds flew. Shadows stretched ahead.
“Raise your lanterns, brothers and sisters!” Ferius cried, leading the procession. He and his monks raised their lights, casting a golden glow. “Follow and fear no darkness.”
Torin followed the mob, but he did fear this darkness. He had seen the evil that lurked ahead. He had seen the dead, had seen a lifeless land and a sky strewn with stars.
“The bloody fools,” he muttered. “Why do they listen to Ferius?”
Hemstad Baker trundled at his side. He was the tallest man in Fairwool-by-Night, but also the widest, and he struggled to keep up. The pots and pans he always carried, even on short journeys, clanked across his back. With every step, his sword swung between his legs like a tail. His ample belly swung almost as wildly, sweat soaked his face, and his breath wheezed.
“Did you see one, Tor?” he asked. “An … an Elorian?”
Cam walked at their side, a smirk on his face. The rushes, tall enough to brush the others’ shoulders, nearly rose above his head. The diminutive shepherd had sharp features, dark hair, and intelligent eyes. Rarely seen far from Hem, young Cam was also never slow to scold his friend.
“Of course he didn’t see one, Hem,” the shepherd said. “They don’t really exist—sort of like leftovers on your plate. Ferius, that sheep’s dropping, just made them up to frighten us.”
Hem bit his wobbling lip and trudged on, pots clattering like a suit of armor. “Why would he want to do that?” He gulped. “I don’t like being frightened.”
“Hem, your mind is woolly as fleece,” said Cam. “A frightened man is a follower. That’s all Ferius and his monks want—people to follow them.” He swept his arm across the twilit landscape. “And it’s working. Look. Fifty villagers follow him the way my sheep follow me across the field.”
Hem stepped on a rock, wobbled, and steadied himself with a ruckus of banging iron. “Well, I’m only following because Tor insisted we do.” He stared at Torin. “Why are we following again?”
As he walked along the darkening riverbanks, the grass and rushes fading down to a rocky path, Torin asked himself the same question. If the people wanted to follow Ferius, perhaps he should let the
m. Why was it his concern? If they all wanted to march into darkness and die, why should he stop them?
He looked ahead at the group—four monks and fifty raging villagers. He sighed.
“Twenty years ago, my father came home from the war with Verilon. You’ve heard stories of that war, haven’t you?” When his friends nodded, Torin continued. “He lived in the capital at first. He was a broken man then, scarred, haunted, one of his legs gone to a Verilish blade. Many doubted he would live much longer; he drank to drown his demons. When he moved to Fairwool-by-Night, he found new life. He met my mother in our village; they were happy here. My parents died in Fairwool, but they died together—peacefully.” Torin looked behind him at the dwindling light of his home. “I owe this village a debt. I’ll do my best to protect its people. Even if I have to follow them into the very darkness of Eloria.”
Hem mewled. “Please don’t say that name. Just … just call it Nightside like honest folk do. Not … not its real name.” He shuddered. “They say its real name is cursed.”
Torin was about to reply when movement caught his eye. He looked up to see a speck flutter near his head. He started, sure it was a steel throwing star, a weapon like the one he’d found buried in Yana’s neck. A heartbeat later, a grin spread across Torin’s face. He reached out and closed his hand around his quarry.
Hem mewled and stepped back, but Cam leaned forward, squinting.
“What is it?” the shepherd asked.
Torin loosened his grip to reveal a moth, one of its wings white, the other black. He kept it trapped between his fingers. The moth seemed to regard him, moving its feathery antennae.
“It’s a duskmoth. They only live here in the dusk. See its wings?” Torin smiled. “I never knew they were real. I thought they were only a legendary creature, meant to symbolize our world. Look, it’s even shaped like Mythimna. Its left wing is white like Timandra. Its right wing is black like Eloria.” He opened his fingers, letting it fly away.
Torin had seen maps of the world. The shape of its landforms reminded him of a moth, two great wings of earth stretching out into the sea, one drenched in eternal light, the other dark in endless night. The old books called the world Mythimna, an ancient name. Now most folk simply called it Moth, the proper title all but forgotten.
Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels Page 2