Legacy of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  The guards across the hall shifted, hands reaching toward their hilts. The blood drained from Torumun's face. Iselda approached him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and smiled.

  When Serin left the hall, he smiled too. He returned to the city walls and gazed out at the enemy besieging him. He unfolded his handkerchief, grabbed the thumb within, and tossed it off the city walls as far as he could.

  * * * * *

  The last of the demonic vultures had fallen; so had Tianlong, last dragon of the night. The mages lay dead, and the surviving allies—a great coalition of free nations from both day and night—were searching for the wounded among the piles of dead. Upon the city walls, the Radian defenders shouted and jeered, awaiting another assault. For now, only death stretched between the forces, a no man's land of scattered flames and corpses. The battle lulled. As both sides nursed their wounds, crows descended to peck at the fallen.

  Torin limped through the battlefield, aching, bleeding, cut and bruised a hundred times. But he did not care about his wounds, about the pain. He cared about only one thing now.

  The Ilari might have news. His eyes stung. If they traveled through Qaelin on their way . . . Oh, Idar, they might have seen Koyee and Madori.

  He walked between his comrades of the Northern Alliance, a collection of Timandrian warriors from three nations. He made his way past horses and bears, across a field of dead, and toward the Elorian army. The warriors of Ilar sat ahead upon great, black panthers the size of horses, the beasts' eyes glowing yellow. The riders seemed almost as beastly, clad in black steel plates, their helmets shaped as snarling demons; their large Elorian eyes glowed through holes in the visors, indigo and green and deep purple. Many katanas hung across their backs, and tassels hung from their shields.

  Torin tried to remember the Ilari dialect—it was similar to Qaelish, a language he spoke well—to ask for news about his wife. And then he saw her.

  He froze and lost his breath.

  Koyee sat upon an Ilari panther, but she wore Qaelish armor—a suit of silvery scales and a simple, unadorned helmet of bright steel which left her face bare. She turned toward him and met his eyes, and Torin felt as if the pillars of creation tumbled around him.

  He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be a soldier, a hero. But his eyes watered, and his body shook, and he could barely stay standing.

  Koyee.

  He had not seen his wife in over two years, not since that summer he had taken Madori to Teel University. Over two years of war, pain, fear. So many sleepless turns, worrying, not knowing if Koyee lived or died. So many turns in darkness, afraid, missing her, imagining her by his side.

  Koyee.

  The woman he had met over twenty years ago in the darkness of Eloria, returning her father's bones into the night. The woman he had fought in Pahmey, then loved, then protected, then married. His lantern in the darkness. The very beat of his heart. His reason to live. His love. His wife. His Koyee.

  She dismounted and seemed almost hesitant, almost unsure. Perhaps, with his beard and dented armor, she was uncertain it was him. He reached out to her.

  "Koyee."

  Her eyes flooded with tears, and she ran toward him, and she crashed into his arms, and she wept, and he wept with her. They stood in blood, death all around them, embracing, kissing each other, trembling, laughing.

  "Torin." She laughed through her tears, her body shaking with sobs. "Oh Torin. It's you. It's you."

  He couldn't speak. He could only hold her. When words finally left his mouth, all he could say was, "I love you. Koyee, I love you."

  She clung to him. "I love you too, Torin. I was so scared. Thank the stars, thank Idar, thank Xen Qae . . . oh Torin, I was so scared, and I love you so much."

  He swept back strands of her hair. "Where's Madori? Is she . . . do you have news, is—"

  "Father!"

  He turned and saw her there. Madori ran toward him across the field, and she too wore Qaelish armor and bore a sword.

  "Madori!"

  His tears flowed anew, and Madori leaped into his arms and squeezed him, nearly crushing him, crying against him. "Father! I didn't know if you were dead. Oh, Father, thank Idar you're here." She frowned and tilted her head. "You look horrible."

  He laughed weakly. "We all do. But we're together again."

  Madori leaned her head against his chest, and the three of them held one another close, standing together in ruin, never wanting to break apart.

  Horns.

  Once more, horns blared across Eldmark Fields.

  Torin turned toward the sound. From the north, great siege towers were rolling across the field. Torin narrowed his eyes. How could this be? All their siege towers had burned at the walls! Then Torin saw that here were greater structures, wider and taller, built of metal and leather. Many troops walked alongside the towers in neat rows, clad in scales and silvery cloaks, and they raised long standards bearing moonstars and diamonds. Thousands of the soldiers advanced toward the field. At their lead rode a man upon a nightwolf, armless and legless but proud and tall, a crown upon his head.

  Torin had not thought he could shed more tears, but his eyes dampened again.

  "The hosts of Qaelin and Leen," he whispered. "All of Eloria has risen."

  * * * * *

  The cannons fired for hours, blasting the walls of Markfir.

  Torin stood in the field, covering his ears as the cannonballs kept flying. The projectiles shot across Eldmark Fields, slamming into the walls again and again, chipping off stones. Cracks spread across the ramparts. A turret crumbled and fell. Yet still the walls stood, for they were several feet thick, and even the guns of Eloria could not shatter them, no more than they could have shattered the mountains beyond.

  "Keep firing at the gates!" Emperor Jin shouted, riding his nightwolf between the guns. "Smash them open!"

  A cannon fired, rolling backwards in the field. Its cannonball flew across the field and moat and hit the city gates. The doors, carved of thick stone and reinforced with iron, withstood the attack.

  Perhaps magic too reinforces them, Torin thought. Perhaps we—

  Cannons fired from the city walls, great guns shaped as buffaloes, larger than the Elorian weapons. Cannonballs flew toward the Alliance. Torin cursed and raced for cover, diving into the ditch he had dug earlier that turn. More guns blasted. His head spun. Smoke covered the world. Men screamed. When Torin rose from the ditch, he found that an enemy cannonball had hit one Elorian fire team; the gunners lay dead, their corpses torn apart, little of them left to bury.

  His ears ringing and his stomach churning, Torin turned away from the carnage. As healers rushed forth to scour the field for pieces of the dead, Torin walked toward Jin. The limbless emperor turned on his nightwolf. His face was sweaty, his eyes weary.

  "How do you Timandrians stand this sunlight?" the Qaelish emperor said. "It's so bright and hot and burns the skin."

  Torin looked up toward the veiled sky. "You're lucky it's overcast." He returned his eyes to the emperor. "Jin, the guns have done their work. We're already low on gunpowder. With your forces and siege towers, we have the might to assault the walls again." Torin sighed. "Our guns will be heard across Moth. Serin has more armies in this world, and they will be heading back home. We must slay him before he receives aid."

  The young emperor nodded. "I'll summon the council."

  As guns and catapults kept firing from both sides, the commanders of the Alliance met in the field. Several Elorians stood to one side: Emperor Jin, limbless, astride a nightwolf, leading the forces of Qaelin; Princess Yiun Yee and her father, the wise old Emperor of Leen; and Jitomi alongside several of his nobles, commanders of the Ilari host. With them gathered the commanders of the Timandrian forces opposing Serin: King Camlin and Queen Linee of Arden, and with them Torin; King Eris of Orida, tall and fair, his golden beard singed from enemy fire; and finally Lord Hogash, the bluff gatekeeper who now commanded Verilon's forces. After only a quick gathering, the guns blast
ing as they spoke, they parted.

  The Alliance gathered for another assault. Nine Qaelish siege towers, constructed of metal sheets over iron beams, arranged themselves in a line. Men stood within them upon platforms, ready to turn levers and spin gears and wheels.

  "Stay behind," Torin said to his daughter. He placed a helmet over his head. "Stay at the back of the battle where it's safe."

  She glared and placed her hands on her hips. "Father, there's no way I'm staying behind. I fought for two years in this war, and I slew Professor Atratus myself, and I'm not staying behind now, and—"

  "All right."

  "—I refuse to just hide when the end is here, and I insist on killing Serin myself too, and—"

  "All right, Madori." Torin scratched his chin.

  "—and how dare you tell me to stay behind when . . ." She blinked. "Oh. All right." She grinned and leaped toward a siege engine. "I'll just climb in and—"

  This time, it was not horns that rose across the field, interrupting her words. It was the sound of drums and the roar of countless men and beasts, a cry cruel and thirsty for blood.

  Torin felt cold sweat trickle down his back.

  Oh Idar . . . what fresh evil assaults us now?

  The sound came from the south. He and Madori turned and stared, and both drew their swords.

  With so many people already in Eldmark Fields, Torin could scarcely imagine more souls in one place. Yet now countless troops marched from the southern plains, swallowing the land. He dared not even estimate their numbers; he would not have been surprised if a hundred thousand marched here. Some rode camels and wore white robes, and they carried scimitars and spears. Others in this new host sported red, braided beards and wore tiger pelts, and they led living tigers upon leashes. All raised the Radian banners.

  "The forces of Naya and Eseer," Torin said grimly. "Come to rescue Serin."

  The new forces kept marching, no end to them. They beat their war drums, and they chanted for war.

  "Radian rises! Radian rises!"

  Horns blared across the Alliance camp. Men abandoned the siege towers and formed ranks, turning away from the city and toward the south. Torin mounted his horse, and Madori hopped onto her nightwolf. Koyee raced forward on her panther, her sword raised, charging toward the southern hosts.

  "Alliance, attack! Fight!"

  A heartbeat later, the alliance armies—a great gathering of free nations—charged after her, roaring and holding their weapons high. The hosts streamed across Eldmark Fields, banners high, horns blaring, countless troops covering the land, and slammed together in a great crash of metal and wood and screams.

  Hope had begun to spring in Torin. He had thought that, with the Elorian hosts bolstering the Alliance, with the avalerions and the mages slain, they could scale the city walls, open the gates, storm the streets and slay Serin. Now he doubted they'd ever reach those walls again. The new enemies charged everywhere. Men and women rose upon camels, white robes flying in the wind, lashing scimitars. Tigers raced through the battle, tearing into soldiers. Jungle warriors fought in a wild horde, thrusting spears, laughing as they killed.

  And everywhere, Alliance soldiers fell. The Elorians' eyes were weak in the sunlight, and when the clouds cleared, revealing the blazing sun, their eyesight grew even weaker. The enemy swarmed through their lines, cutting them down. The Timandrians of the Alliance were weary and wounded after long battles, and they too fell to the enemy swords and arrows.

  We cannot defeat this new Radian army, Torin realized. They are too many, too strong.

  A rainforest warrior raced toward him, swinging a sword. Torin parried from his horse and slew the man. At his side, more enemy soldiers swarmed toward Koyee, cutting into her panther. She fell off the beast, landed on her feet, and swung her katana in circles, holding them back. A crowd of men shoved forward, and Madori vanished into their ranks, crying out in fear and rage.

  A tiger leaped toward Torin. His horse neighed and bucked, and the tiger lashed its claws, knocking the stallion down. Torin thumped down onto the ground. He swung his sword in mad arcs, struggling to hold back the enemy. He could no longer see his daughter and wife, no longer see any of his comrades. All he saw were the swords of the enemy and the dead around him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

  THE GATES OF SUNLIGHT

  As Neekeya rode the elephant down the mountain pass, she beheld a nightmare of such terror that she lost her breath.

  "By Cetela," she whispered, feeling the blood drain from her face.

  The city of Markfir still stood, its walls cracked but its gates still closed. Armies from every nation covered Eldmark Fields outside the city walls, spreading as far as Neekeya could see. To the north spread a great alliance of free nations from both day and night. To the south, charging against them, sprawled a force of Radians from the rainforest and desert. The enemy seemed more numerous than trees in the swamps, than grains of sand upon a beach, than the stars in the night sky which Madori had described so often. The chants rose from below, again and again. Radian rises! Radian rises!

  Neekeya could barely breathe. The fear seized her.

  She looked behind her. The combined forces of Daenor and Sania spread across the mountain pass. The Daenorians had come here from both the marshlands and their northern plains, uniting under her leadership. They wore crocodile armor and bore longswords and shields. The hosts of Sania bore wicker shields, spears, and many arrows, and many among them rode the fabled elephants of their island kingdom.

  Prince Kota sat with her upon their elephant, holding a bow. War paints coiled across his chest, and strings of beads hung around his neck. The Sanian warriors fought bare-chested, fast and light, letting no armor slow them down. Kota turned in the saddle toward her, reached out, and squeezed her arm.

  "We will fight together again, Neekeya, my swamp warrior."

  She stared down at the enemy, then back up at her betrothed. Her breath shook, but she nodded. "We will fight well."

  Neekeya had fought in battles before, but this one dwarfed them. All her other conflicts, combined, would have formed but a small corner of the battle of Eldmark Fields. Her fingers shook. Her chest constricted. She wanted to turn back, to flee, to hide behind the mountains. She could hardly bare to look at the bloodshed below, the carnage of Mythimna.

  Then she saw a single raven banner rising from the crowd.

  The banner of Arden. Tam's kingdom.

  Her eyes stung. Tam had fallen saving her life. She would not abandon this fight, not abandon his memory.

  She rose upon the elephant. She raised her crocodile standard in one hand, her sword in the other, and she cried for her troops.

  "Warriors of Daenor! Warriors of Sania!" They stared at her, many thousands upon the mountains. "The enemy musters in the fields. We fight now. We fight for truth, for life, for freedom. I am Neekeya, a free woman. Fight now—with me!"

  They roared and raised their swords and spears. Their cries seemed to shake the mountain.

  They charged into battle, weapons rising as a forest.

  Below upon the field, the Radian forces turned toward them, trapped between two foes. Commanders barked orders. Pikemen arranged themselves in lines, weapons thrust out. Archers tugged back bowstrings. Swordsmen stood in formations, blades drawn.

  Neekeya's elephant kept charging down the mountains. Many more of the animals charged with her, and thousands of soldiers afoot raced behind. They reached the fields. Arrows tore into their ranks, but they kept charging. They flowed across the field. They slammed into the enemy with screams, blood, and a song of arrows and spears.

  Neekeya fought in a haze, firing arrows down upon the enemy. When her elephant fell to their pikes, she fought afoot, swinging her blade. She was fighting in Teel again against Lari and her friends. She was fighting in the marshlands against the invading enemy. She was fighting to save her father, her husband, those fallen, those she knew were beyond saving.

  She fought, shouting hoarse
ly, until her armor was dented, her arms sore, her sword chipped.

  "Victory!" Kota was shouting.

  "Victory!" cried Princess Adisa.

  But there would be no victory to Neekeya, even as the enemy surrendered, as they turned to flee, as they lay dead. Too many had fallen, and she could find no joy in the death around her.

  She stumbled through Eldmark Fields, over corpses, between cheering victors and kneeling prisoners, through smoke and scattered flames, a woman alone in a crowd of myriads.

  Finally she saw them ahead, visions from her youth, two figures she had dreamed of so often, whom she had never thought she'd see again.

  "Neekeya!" Jitomi cried and ran toward her.

  "By Idar's soggy old britches, it's her!" shouted Madori, running forward.

  They ran toward her across the charred, bloody field, leaping over shattered blades and shattered men. Until they had grabbed her, shaken her, called her name again and again, Neekeya did not believe they were real, did not believe that she still lived while so many had fallen.

  "She's hurt," Jitomi said.

  Madori examined her. "Covered in more bruises and scrapes than a cat in a doghouse. But they're only flesh wounds." She shook Neekeya. "Can you hear me?"

  Neekeya blinked, looked around her, and finally her eyes dampened. It was real. They were here. She was alive.

  "Madori," she whispered. "Jitomi."

  She pulled them into her arms, held them close, and wept.

  * * * * *

  Eldmark Fields lay in desolation, a plain of ash and shattered spears, and Madori's heart felt just as broken.

  The Alliance surrounded Markfir, half a league away from the walls. For an hourglass turn, they were besieging the city. For an hourglass turn, none would die. It was a time for burying the dead, a time for mourning, a time for shedding tears instead of blood. The banners of many nations were lowered across the Alliance camp, and the only horns that played were horns of mourning, not war.