Torin watched a bumblebee fly from flower to flower. "Lord Serin sits upon Mageria's throne, and he will not sit idly, content to rule one land. He does not muster his forces for defense but for war. Eloria is the prize he craves . . . and we stand in his way."
Linee nodded. "And we will remain standing. We've sent word to the night; troops will arrive from Qaelin, swelling our numbers. Already our smiths work turn by turn, forging new swords and armor. Already our commanders train new men to fight upon our walls and in our fields." She touched Torin's arm. "We've faced enemies before and defeated them. Last war, we were not afraid."
He smiled thinly. "Last war we were young. Youths are too naive for fear, perhaps. But now we're older, and now, yes Linee, I'm afraid."
She smiled too, head lowered. "I lied. I was afraid last time too." She looked back up at him, and her eyes sparkled with tears. She pulled him into an embrace and laid her head upon his shoulder. "I'm glad you're here. I know how hard it is for you, being away from Koyee and Madori. Thank you."
He was still holding her when the alarm bells clanged across the city.
Linee gasped and stared at him with wide eyes. Torin grimaced and clenched his fists. The bells pealed across the gardens, not the high bells of festivals but the deep, harsh bells of war.
It's too soon, Torin thought. Serin's forces are still at Hornsford. We're not ready.
He tore apart from Linee. He ran.
He could barely remember leaving the palace gardens. Within what seemed like heartbeats, he was donning armor and riding his horse out the palace gates. A horseman met him there, riding up from the city streets, his face dripping sweat. Torin recognized the youth: Prince Omry, the heir to Arden, a seventeen-year-old boy several minutes older than his twin, Prince Tam.
"Sir Greenmoat!" said the prince, his brown hair matted across his brow.
Torin halted his horse. The bells still clanged across the city. "What's the news, Omry?"
"An enemy in the south!" Omry panted. "They're emerging from the forest across the river. They march onto Mudwater Bridge."
Torin cursed and spurred his horse. The beast burst into a gallop, and Omry rode at his side. They raced down the cobbled streets of Kingswall, passing between tall buildings of white bricks and red roof tiles, leaving the palace behind. Steeples, domed temples, and squat workshops all blurred as he galloped, and Torin's heart seemed to beat with the same intensity as his horse's hooves. Other soldiers were bustling around him, heading to the southwestern wall. City folk—merchants in dyed cotton, tradesmen in leather and wool, and commoners in homespun—rushed into their homes, climbed onto roofs to peer south, or prayed in the streets.
Finally Torin reached Tigers' Gate, one of Kingswall's seven gates. Two towers framed its archway, guarding the southwestern wall. A thousand years old, Tigers' Gate had long been a passageway for Nayan merchants. The fur-clad, fiery-haired rainforest dwellers often entered this gate, bringing the bounty of their realm: tiger pelts, ivory jewels, caged birds, cocoa and coffee beans, exotic fruits, aromatic sandalwood, and spices not found north of the Sern River. For a thousand years, Tigers' Gate had been the valve connecting Arden with Naya.
The bells still clanging, Torin dismounted his horse and entered the gatehouse. He climbed the spiraling staircase, finally emerging onto the top of the western tower. Standing between the battlements, he stared south and felt himself pale.
A cobbled road ran out the gate, traveling across the plains to the Sern River, the border with Naya. The Sern was a mile wide, gushing and uncrossable, aside from a ford a mile southwest of the city. Here, where the river thinned, the road connected with Mudwater Bridge. The bridge was narrow, half the size of the great Hornsford in the north—a passageway for merchants, its bricks mossy, its foundations overrun with reeds. A single tower guarded the northern, Ardish side of the bridge; the southern side disappeared into the Nayan forest. Mudwater was usually empty, only seeing traffic every seven turns when Nayan merchants emerged from their forest, pushing carts full of supplies.
This turn, standing atop the tower, Torin beheld a host of hundreds emerging from the forest, bearing Radian banners.
"Magerians," he whispered, staring at their black steel plates, their longswords, and the dark robes of their mages. "Serin's men."
Omry emerged onto the tower battlements too, stared at the host, and drew the symbol of Idar—a semicircle—upon his chest. "Idar save us."
The forest rustled behind the enemy troops; it seemed to Torin that thousands of soldiers still hid among the trees. The chants rose, ringing across the land.
"Radian rises! Radian rises!"
Torin clutched the battlements, understanding at once. Of course. He gritted his teeth, and his heart banged against his ribs.
We were fooled. Of course Serin let us escape at Hornsford Bridge. Of course he let Cam and I come here with the news.
"Serin never intended to attack at Hornsford," he muttered. "The bastard drove through Naya, hidden in the rainforest, like a clot crawling hidden through a vein. And now he strikes at our heart."
Below in the courtyard, Ardish riders were gathering before the gate, their horses armored. Spears glinted and shields displayed the raven of Arden upon gold fields. Behind them, along the streets of Kingswall, footmen were gathering, clad in chain mail and bearing longswords.
"It's not enough," Omry said, echoing Torin's thoughts. "With most of our troops in the west, this city is a ripe fruit for the picking."
Torin grunted. "Yet we will fight the enemy nonetheless."
The two men raced down the tower, ran into the courtyard, and mounted their horses, joining two hundred other riders. Several hundred infantrymen stood behind them, swords drawn. A squire blew a horn, and the doors of Tigers' Gate creaked open, revealing the countryside, the river, and the distant bridge. Already the enemy banners—the buffalo of Mageria and the eclipse of Radianism—were crossing toward the northern bank.
At the head of the city forces, Torin raised his katana—the sword Eloria had gifted him almost two decades ago, the sword he had fought the last war with, the sword he would finally wield again. "Men of Arden!" he shouted. "War! War is upon us. Fight with me, with Torin Greenmoat. Fight for Arden!"
With a sound like thunder, the riders of Arden burst out of the gates and galloped across the plains of their kingdom.
"Sons of Arden!" cried Prince Omry, rising at Torin's side. "Raise the raven banners and send the enemy to the Abyss!"
The land rose and fell around Torin—a river to his left, the plains to his right. They streamed forward, two hundred horses, tearing up grass and dirt, as behind them surged hundreds of footmen. Ahead, blood rose in a mist from the center of the bridge; the Mudwater's defenders, a mere fifty Ardishmen, were clashing swords with the enemy and falling fast. Before Torin could even reach the bridge, the last defender fell.
Banners raised high, the riders of Mageria streamed across the bridge, heading onto the Ardish riverbank. Horsemen rode at their lead, all in steel, a vanguard of two hundred riders. Behind rode robed figures upon midnight stallions, their faces hidden inside their robes. Finally, behind these dark mages, marched the infantry of Mageria, emerging from the trees in two rows like serpents of many steel segments. Leading this host rode its captain, a figure taller than any Torin had ever seen. The man—if a man he was—rode upon a horse the size of an elephant, and four arms sprouted from his torso, each holding a blade. Upon his black breastplate, burning like red fire, appeared the eclipse of Radianism, shining with horrible light.
"Here rides Lord Gehena!" said Prince Omry, riding at Torin's side. "Books speak of him, a man magically enhanced, mixed with the blood of ancient giants."
The dark captain raised his head, and he seemed to stare across the plains directly at Torin. Two hundred yards still separated the hosts, and a black helmet like a barrel hid the giant's face, but Torin saw red eyes gleaming within, staring into him, searing like two embers pressed against his
flesh.
He swallowed down the fear that choked him, tore his eyes away from the horrible half-man, and shouted to his troops. "For Arden! For our home! Send the enemy back and know no fear!"
Hoisting the raven standards, outnumbered many times, the forces of Arden galloped to meet their enemy.
The armies crashed on the northern riverbank with a shower of blood and shattered steel.
Spears flew Torin's way. One slammed into his horse, snapping against the animal's armor. Another shattered against Torin's shield, showering wooden shards. Torin's head spun. His heart leaped into his throat. His pulse thrummed in his ears. His hand shook around the hilt of his katana, and he was there again, back in the night, a youth fighting the hosts of sunlight, Koyee at his side.
He gritted his teeth.
Breathe.
He sucked in air.
Survive breath by breath.
He leaned forward in the saddle, driving into the enemy.
A rider charged toward him, swinging a sword. Torin blocked the blow with his shield, swung his own blade, and shattered the joints of armor at the man's elbow. The arm bent with a sickening snap, and Torin thrust his sword again, denting the steel. Blood seeped. A second rider attacked from his left, and Torin swung his shield, driving the wooden disk into the enemy's helmet. His fellow riders fought around him, thrusting lances and slashing swords.
"Omry, get back to the city!" Torin shouted. "Organize a defense on the walls."
The young prince shook his head, sweat dripping down his face. "I fight with you, Torin! I—"
Horses screamed.
The air thinned, streaming away from Torin, leaving him gasping.
He stared ahead, saw them, and felt the blood drain from his face.
Mages.
A dozen rode from the bridge, the soldiers of Mageria parting to let them through. The mages' hands were raised, collecting the air into swirling balls thick with dust, smoke, and pieces of shattered steel. As one, the mages tossed forward their missiles.
Torin tried to dodge the projectile hurtling his way. He tugged his horse left, only to crash into another animal. His horse reared, wind shrieked, and pain and darkness flowed over Torin.
Blood splashed. Armor cracked.
He fell.
He saw nothing.
Pain drove through him, and he realized he had fallen onto his back. Still he couldn't see. The smoke clung to him, covering his visor, tearing at his armor like a demon. He grunted, blinded, unable to breathe. He pulled off his helmet and tossed it aside, and the darkness cleared, revealing a shadowy beast that wrapped around the fallen helmet, crushing it into a steel ball. More smoke clung to Torin's armor, scratching, tearing, denting. Torin screamed as he tugged off the steel plates and tossed them aside, freeing himself from the translucent creature. His armor had shielded him from the magical attack, but Torin's heart sank to see that his horse had been less fortunate; the smoky tendrils were crushing the lifeless animal.
Torin barely had time to catch his breath. Through the smoke they came marching—the ground troops of Mageria, moving in columns, two by two, covered in steel, their swords held before them, their shields guarding their flanks. Their boots moved in unison, reminding Torin of a great, mechanical centipede.
He lifted his fallen katana. Fellow Ardishmen came to stand at his sides.
"We will send them into the river," Torin said. "Soldiers of Arden, you will defend your border. Turn the river red with their blood!"
His fellow Ardishmen pointed their swords forward, shouted, and ran with Torin to meet the enemy.
The forces crashed together with spraying blood and clanging steel.
Thousands of blades swung.
It seemed to Torin that they fought for hours upon the riverbank. Men fell every moment, both those of Arden and the enemy, and the river turned red. Everywhere the enemy surged: swordsmen, riders, mages tearing off armor and shattering flesh. Swords cut into men. Magic tugged bones out of living bodies. Soldiers lay in the grass, clutching wounds, screaming, weeping, calling for their mothers.
Torin limped along the bloodied grass, an arrow in his leg, and raised his head to behold a horror from the underworld.
The captain of the Magerian hosts, the creature Gehena, had joined the fight, no longer content to command the battle from the sidelines. His four arms swung, each wielding a blade the size of a plow. Men flew like scattered toys. The captain's horse, a towering black beast, drove down hooves larger than human heads, crushing bodies beneath them. Arrows, broken blades, and spears pierced the dark captain's torso, but the creature seemed unaffected. Still his red eyes blazed within his black helm, and still his blades swung, cutting down the men of Arden.
"The bridge is fallen!" Prince Omry shouted, clutching Torin's arm. The young man's armor was cracked, and blood coated him. "We must flee!"
Torin nodded grimly. Hundreds of Magerians now covered the Ardish riverbank, flowing into the plains. More kept emerging from the forest.
The bridge is lost.
A squire brought him a riderless horse. Torin climbed into the saddle and raised his banner.
"Men of Arden!" he shouted hoarsely. "Back to the city! To Kingswall!"
They rallied around him.
They fled across the plains.
And they died.
With the bridge abandoned to the enemy, the full wrath of Mageria flowed across the river, a great shadow spilling forth. Arrows flew into the fleeing men. Magic tore through them. The laughter of Gehena echoed in their ears, high-pitched, the shriek of demons. Every step it seemed that another man fell.
Bloodied, limping, their armor shattered, the last defenders of Kingswall entered their city.
The gates slammed shut behind them, sealing out the enemy.
When Torin climbed the tower again, he clutched the battlements, shaking, barely able to breathe.
The enemy covered the land in a carpet of black steel. A hundred thousand troops or more hid the plains, chanting, waving the Radian banners. Dark mages rode upon dark mounts. Siege towers rolled forth, topped with steel, as tall as the city walls. Catapults and trebuchets rolled into formation, their boulders ready to fire. A great wheeled cannon rolled among them, forged as an iron buffalo; Torin had seen these weapons in Eloria but never in the lands of sunlight. And still more enemies flowed across the bridge, a never-ending stream like gushing oil.
"Death," Prince Omry whispered, standing at Torin's side upon the gatehouse.
Torin closed his eyes for only a moment.
I love you, Koyee. I love you, Madori. I miss you and love you both so much. I wish I could tell you that one last time.
He forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath.
Again.
Again.
He opened his eyes, looked at Prince Omry, and held the young man's arm.
"Death," he agreed. "But first war. We die here, but not without a fight. We go down firing our arrows, swinging our swords, and singing of our home."
The prince nodded, his eyes damp, and raised his sword upon the wall. Around them, a hundred archers emerged to nock arrows and tug back their bowstrings.
Ahead in the fields, the trebuchets and catapults swung. Boulders, arrows, and blasts of dark magic flew toward the city of Kingswall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
GRAVES
Lord Serin stood among the trees, smiling thinly as he examined the Elorian prisoners.
"Men!" he said. "Step forth. Hand them their shovels."
Five Radian soldiers emerged from the forest. Three held loaded crossbows, pointing them at the outcast students. Two other soldiers tossed down long leather bundles; they thumped against the ground and unfolded, revealing many shovels.
"What are you doing here, Serin?" Madori spat out. Her ankles and wrists still chained, she hobbled closer to him. "Go back to your lair and leave us."
The tall lord burst into laughter. He looked over his shoulder and spoke to the shadows. "You
were right about her, my daughter! She's a vicious little thing. I do admire the scars on her cheeks. Your work, no doubt?"
"But of course." A sweet smile on her lips, Lari stepped out from the forest, holding a crossbow. She aimed the weapon at Madori. "And I will hurt her worse if she tries to escape."
Madori sneered and made to leap at Lari, but the girl placed her finger against the trigger. The crossbow creaked and Madori froze, glaring at the girl and her father.
"Very good," Lari said, still smiling sweetly. "You will stand still. If you try to attack me, you will die. If you try to escape, you will die. You and your nightcrawler friends will do as we command." Her voice rose to a shout. "Dig!"
Madori growled, looking between daughter to father. "How about you two go suck on rotten eggs?"
Lord Serin sighed and nodded toward his daughter. Lari grinned, raised her crossbow, and fired.
An Elorian student—a studious boy named Shen—clutched his chest, a quarrel in his heart. He gasped, gazed at Madori, then fell.
Other Elorians screamed. Madori began to rush toward the fallen boy. Jitomi hissed and stepped toward Lari, hands crackling with magic. Soldiers laughed.
"Freeze!" Serin barked. "Any one of you nightcrawler scum moves an inch, unless it's to dig, your death will follow. Lari, if anyone else causes trouble, fire again. Fire at random." Serin's lips peeled back in a horrible grin. "Now, nightcrawlers, you will behave. Lift the shovels and begin to dig. Dig a trench here on the roadside. Go!"
Glancing around nervously, some weeping, the Elorians lifted their shovels. They approached the roadside and began to dig. Only Madori stood still, chin raised.
"I can't dig with these chains on me," she said, glaring at Serin.
He snapped his fingers, and her chains shattered and fell to the ground.
Madori brought her arms forward. After being chained for so long, her muscles screamed in protest, and blood covered her wrists. She was free! She could lunge at Lari and Serin. She could fight. She could—
Lari fired her crossbow. The quarrel whizzed by Madori's head.
"Dig!" the girl shouted, already loading another quarrel. "Dig or the next one hits your twisted mongrel heart."
Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) Page 22