They docked at a pier. Jitomi walked along the plank and, for the first time in over a year, stepped onto the shore of his homeland.
Ilar. Land of my fathers. Land of—
He felt queasy. His legs swayed. He leaned over the pier and lost his lunch into the water.
He wiped his lips and sighed. The proud warrior returns.
Fishermen in silk robes moved about the boardwalk, pulling in nets of glowing lanternfish, angler fish that sprouted dangling bulbs of light, and octopi with glowing tentacles. Soldiers stood here too, beefy men in black and red armor. Their helmets were shaped as snarling faces complete with bristly fur mustaches, and many tassels hung from their breastplates. Katanas hung at their sides, and through holes in their visors, their blue and violet eyes stared at Jitomi. If they recognized him, the son of their lord, they gave no note of it.
Now I am a disgraced son, Jitomi thought with a sigh. Even the fishermen's children, scrawny little things who wore rags, had more honor here now.
A mountain rose beyond the boardwalk, its slopes jagged with boulders the size of horses. A narrow stone staircase stretched up between the boulders, the steps carved into the living rock. Two palisades of lanterns framed the stairway, their iron carved into the shape of demonic faces, red fire burning within their eyes and mouths. The passageway stretched upward, hundreds of steps long, leading toward the castle. Jitomi craned back his neck and stared at his old home.
"Hashido Castle," he said, the wind whipping his words away.
The pagoda loomed, five tiers tall. Its roofs were tiled crimson, their edges curling up like wet parchment. Upon the black walls, arrow slits revealed red fire that blazed within; the slits reminded Jitomi of blazing panther eyes. Upon the uppermost roof perched a dragon statue, life-sized and carved of iron, its jaws raised to the sky. From within those metal jaws rose a fountain of fire, shrieking and crackling, a living representation of the empire's Red Flame sigil. Hundreds of soldiers served in this fortress. A dozen warships patrolled its waters. Thirty thousand souls lived upon the peninsula it defended. In all of Ilar, perhaps only the Imperial Palace in Asharo was mightier. Here was the Blade of the Sea, the stronghold of the Hashido noble family, a family that had produced many warriors, dojai assassins, captains of warships, and . . .
"And me," Jitomi said. "A skinny failed wizard."
He raised his chin. He squared his shoulders. Perhaps he would seem weak here, but now he had a task, and he would complete it. He began to climb.
The stairs curved madly, tall and narrow, threatening to send the weak and infirm crashing down to the boulders below. Any invaders who attacked would have to climb these stairs in single file, heavy in their armor. When Jitomi glanced to his sides, he saw hidden pillboxes carved into the boulders. Soldiers lurked within, holding bows and arrows, ready to fire. Jitomi nodded at the arrowslits in the boulders, hoping the hidden men within recognized him as a son of this fortress. No words came in reply, but no arrows either. He kept climbing.
Not only living soldiers lined the mountainside. Skeletons lay between the boulders, still wearing rusted armor. The eye sockets were small, only half the normal size—Timandrian skulls. Here were the remains of the sunlit demons who had attacked Ilar years ago, who had fallen attempting to capture this fort. Jitomi's father had left the bones here, a warning to future invaders.
Some of these skeletons were mages trained at Teel University, Jitomi thought and winced. Every time his father climbed these stairs, he would think of Jitomi studying at Teel, and his rage would grow.
After climbing several hundred steps, Jitomi paused, winded. When he looked behind him, he could see all the port. The breakwaters stretched out like arms, holding the warships within their embrace. Lanterns bobbed as the vessels swayed. When Jitomi turned to look eastward, he could see the city sprawl across the peninsula: thousands of tall, narrow homes with curling red roofs; black temples to the Demon Gods; and many smithies to forge blades and armor.
Finally Jitomi reached the end of the staircase. The gates of Hashido Castle rose ahead, shaped as a great dragon's mouth complete with a fanged portcullis. Fire burned in two alcoves above the doors, the dragon's red eyes. Guards in lacquered black armor stood here, bristling with blades and spears and arrows.
"I have returned!" Jitomi said to them, struggling to keep his voice strong. "I am Jitomi Hashido, only son of Lord Okita. Open the gates for my homecoming, and may the Red Flame forever burn in your hearts."
One of the soldiers clattered forward. He was so heavy with steel, he reminded Jitomi of a great metallic beetle. No fewer than a ten katanas and spears hung from his belt and across his back, and a hundred red tassels decorated his armor. His black helmet was shaped as a scowling warrior, the mustache formed of white fur. His stare blazed through the visor's eyeholes.
"You are not welcome here, Jitomi, wayward son of Ilar." The man reached for the hilt of a katana. "You father has barred these gates for your return. Things are not as you left them, traveler of sunlight. Ilar has changed. So has this fortress."
"Then I will hear of these changes from my father," Jitomi said. "If he will cast me aside, let him do so, not you. Step aside, guard."
The man was of noble birth—only a noble son could defend a fortress of such might—and Jitomi knew that calling him "guard" was like calling a mighty mage a parlor magician.
The man sneered and began to draw a katana. "That I cannot do. I—"
Jitomi chose the sword. He heated the weapon, and the guard hissed and dropped the searing hilt.
"I will enter." Jitomi took a step forward, chose the air, and sent a gust of wind against the soldiers, knocking them sideways. Another gust of magic blew the great doors open with a clatter. "Try to stop me and your skeletons will litter the slope with the rest of them."
His heart thudded, and it was a struggle to keep his voice steady, but he forced himself to stare at the men, to keep advancing, to seem strong and proud. Strength and pride—those were the languages of Ilar, the only languages these men would understand.
"Sunlit sorcery!" they muttered . . . but they stepped aside.
Jitomi nodded at them. "I've learned the ways of our enemy, it is true. And I've come bearing warnings of that enemy's might."
Without sparing the men another glance, he stepped into the dragon's mouth, entering the shadows of Hashido Castle.
Along the hall, tapering columns rose in palisades like teeth. Arches stretched above like a metal palate. At the back of the hall, a hundred feet away, burned a great fireplace like a dragon's flaming gullet. Before the hearth rose a metal throne, shaped like a rising tongue; it loomed ten feet above the floor. A dark figure sat there, silhouetted by the raging fire.
Jitomi stepped closer, his boots thumping against the floor.
"Father!" His voice echoed through the hall. "I return with a warning. Enemies muster in the sunlight. We are in danger."
The lord did not reply, only sat still, perched upon that rising tongue of metal, only a shadow.
"Father!" Jitomi called again. "Will you not speak to me?"
Slowly, Lord Okita Hashido raised his head. Two blue eyes stared across the hall like forge fires. A gust of wind blew into the hall, and the lanterns that stood upon the columns—demon faces with flaming gullets—belched out heat and flames. The new light fell upon the lord, illuminating a burly frame, a white mustache, tufted eyebrows, and a black breastplate sporting the Red Flame sigil.
"And so, the boy who disgraced his father, who betrayed his proud empire, returns to grovel at the first sign of danger?"
Jitomi stiffened. He forced himself to take several deep breaths. "Father, this is no time for games of pride. The Timandrians are mustering for a new invasion of the night. Their armies gather on our borders. They—"
"On our borders?" Lord Hashido said. He rose to his feet, standing upon his dais. "Our borders are the sea, child. Or do you mean the dusk, the border of that wretched empire they call Qaelin? Da
re you count the Qaelish, those weak rats, amongst our people?"
Rage filled Jitomi, overpowering his fear. "The enemy does not distinguish between Ilar, Qaelin, Leen, Montai, or any other nation of the night. To them we are all Elorians. Nightcrawlers, they call us—creatures to be stomped upon, and—"
"Nightcrawlers!" Hashido spat. "Worms. And who gave them that impression, boy? When they named us worms, did they see proud warriors of the Red Flame, killers clad in steel, swinging blades? Or did they see a weak, groveling, sniveling boy come begging to learn their parlor tricks?" He snorted. "Yes, you are like a worm that crawls in the dust. You have nine older sisters, each mightier than you. They are soldiers, dojai assassins, the captains of warships. And you!" Lord Hashido pointed, finger trembling with rage. "You, my only son, my heir . . . are weaker than them all. While your sisters, sharpen blades, you read from books. While your sisters slay their enemies, you come here as a weakling, begging me to fight your battles."
Jitomi closed his eyes for a moment, the pain driving through him. He had to steel himself with a deep breath before staring at his father again.
"No, Father, I am no warrior like my sisters. Yes, I traveled into sunlight to learn the magic of our enemies. And now those enemies threaten to burn us all. They—"
"Serin will not burn us," Hashido said. "He is not a fanatic like Ferius was, not a mindless brute. He is a sunlit demon, it is true, but his heart is a heart of flame and steel—a heart I admire. I know of his Radian Order, boy, and I do not fear it as you do. I am no coward. We will not fight against Serin but alongside him, warriors of darkness and light, and our empires will rise."
Jitomi blinked. He took several more steps forward until he stood right before the throne. Forgetting himself, he blurted out, "You're mad! You don't know the Radians. They hate all Elorians. They vow to kill us all, Qaelish and Ilari alike. An alliance? Empress Hikari would never agree to such a thing. She—"
"Do you mean this Empress Hikari?"
It was a new voice that had spoken—a crackling, cruel voice that spoke not in Ilari but in the tongue of Mageria. Catching his breath, Jitomi stared to the back of the hall. A figure stood there, cloaked in shadow; Jitomi had not seen the man until now.
The man stepped closer, clad in black robes. The firelight fell upon him, revealing a balding head ringed with oily black hair, a hooked nose, and beady eyes.
"Professor Atratus," Jitomi whispered.
The Radian held out his arm, and Jitomi nearly gagged. In his talon-like fingers, Atratus held a severed head. The hair was long and white, the eyes large and blue, and mouth still open in anguish. Jitomi had been to the capital city enough times to recognize it.
"You killed Empress Hikari." A tremble seized his knees.
Lord Hashido stepped off his dais and came to stand beside Atratus. The two men—a lord of Ilar and a Radian mage—stared together at Jitomi.
"Hikari was indeed a weak worm," Hashido said. "Much like you, my son. We travel to the capital! The Ilari and Radian empires will stand united. Together we will defeat the Qaelish rats and rule both day and night."
CHAPTER EIGHT:
A BATTLE ON THE ROAD
The cart trundled on and Torin lay in the darkness, feeling his life slip away.
They had hurt him, but he could barely feel the pain anymore. He knew what awaited him at the end of this road—a public execution at Markfir, capital of Mageria. He looked forward to it. Death would be an end to pain. In death he would see them again.
"Mother and father," he whispered, lips bleeding. "Grandpapa Kerof. Hem." His eyes watered. "Bailey."
They had been waiting for him, he knew. They had waited for so long as he lingered here in the sunlight, in the darkness, growing older. Now he would join them. He did not know what the afterlife was like—even among Idarith priests, none could agree—but he knew they would be there. His only regret would be leaving the two women of his life behind.
Koyee. Madori. I'm sorry. I wanted to make this a better world for you. I failed.
The cart rolled on. He slid across the floor, chained, bruised, famished. He did not know how long they'd been traveling. He did not know how close they were to Markfir. He only knew that this was the last journey he would take. After so many travels—to the bright city of Pahmey, to the wonders of Yintao, to the terrifying beauty of Asharo, to the rainforests of Naya, to the gleaming towers of Kingswall—this was his last road. A road in darkness.
Shouts rose outside the cart and Torin winced. His captors often shouted, railing against Elorians, Ardishmen, and all other "undesirables." Whenever a man fell ill, a meal burned, or an item of clothing tore, they would take out their rage on him.
"Damn Ardishmen!" rose a cry outside.
Torin grimaced, anticipating their wrath.
A whistle sounded. A shard of metal and wood crashed through the cart wall. The arrow tilted and fell down by Torin's head.
"The bloody Ardish!" shouted another man outside. "The Ardish attack!"
Torin inhaled sharply. The Ardish.
Cam.
With strength he hadn't known remained in him, Torin shoved himself to his feet and stumbled toward the wall. He peered through the hole the arrow had left. Rye fields spread outside, and archers in black and gold—Arden's colors—were rising from among the stalks. Horses galloped and raven banners streamed. The Magerians—a couple hundred soldiers and mages—were already firing back, drawing swords, and casting magic.
Not all have died. Hope welled in Torin. Arden still fights.
His manacles clattering, he spun away from the cart wall. His head swayed and he nearly fainted. Stars floated before his eyes. Ignoring the pain—by Idar, every last inch of him was cut and bruised—he knelt and grabbed the fallen arrow. Its head was long, sharp iron made for punching through armor. As the ringing of swords and the whistles of arrows sounded outside, Torin twisted his wrists, grabbed the arrow's shaft between his teeth, and just managed to thrust the arrowhead into the padlock securing his chains.
"Slay the Ardish scum!" rose an inhuman shriek outside, a sound like shattering glass—Lord Gehena. The air howled—mages forming their projectiles.
Torin grunted. The arrow kept slipping, and he had to bend his wrists so far they almost snapped. Gripping the arrow's shaft between his teeth, he worked the head in the lock. His heart pounded. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
"Drag out the prisoner!" shrieked Gehena; it was a demonic voice that pounded through the cart walls, shrill as rusty nails on stone. "Drag out their favorite traitor so they can see him broken."
A gruff voice answered. "Yes, my lord."
Heavy footfalls moved toward the cart.
Dizzy and bleeding, Torin cursed and worked with more fervor.
Keys jangled in the cart door's lock. A heavy hand tugged the door open, revealing Hesh, one of the convoy's guards—a squat man in boiled leather studded with iron bolts. He had a gruff, unshaven face, a wide nose, and dry bloodstains on his gloves—Torin's blood. Behind him a battle raged; Torin could glimpse flying arrows and two men locking swords.
"Out you go, maggot." Hesh barked a laugh, spraying spittle. "Going to hurt you a little in front of your friends. Out!"
Torin curled up on the floor, moaning. He twisted the arrow in the lock one more time and heard a clank.
The stocky guard cursed. "Idar's hairy bottom! Come on, you roach." He stomped into the cart. "I'll drag you out by the ears if I have to." He leaned down to grab Torin. "Up or I—"
Torin thrust the arrow.
The iron head drove through Hesh's eye and deep into the skull.
Torin tugged the arrow back; it came free with a gush of blood and bits of eyeball.
Heart thudding, he kicked off the last chains binding him, drew Hesh's sword, and peeked outside. The battle was raging in the fields. Blood stained the rye stalks. Several Ardish horsemen were galloping around the Magerian convoy, firing arrows and thrusting lances. Other troops fought on the dirt r
oad, swinging swords. Gehena stood with his back to Torin, brandishing four swords, one in each hand. His blades crashed into Ardish soldiers and sent them flying.
Cam's troops, Torin thought, and hope welled inside him. Last he had heard of his friend, Cam had been leading a host to Hornsford Bridge. Torin had assumed that force fallen. Were these the remnants of the king's army?
All his captors were busy fighting. While their backs were turned, Torin stumbled out of the cart. His bare feet hit the road, and for a moment he swayed, the sunlight blinding him. He took two steps and collapsed, nearly falling on the sword he held. With a bolt of pain, his face hit the dirt. Soil entered his mouth and stones jabbed his chest.
Breathe. Move.
He ground his teeth, struggling not to pass out. Clutching his sword in one hand, he crawled off the road and into the rye field. The golden stalks rose tall around him, swaying in the wind. The smell was intoxicating. The soft brown soil crumbled under him; several ants walked across it, holding seeds. The sky was blue and a cool breeze rustled.
It's beautiful, Torin thought, eyes dampening. It's so beautiful. He had forgotten the scent, the freshness, the beauty of the world outside the cart.
"Damn your hide to the Abyss!"
The voice shouted beside him. The stalks swayed. A boot slammed down near Torin and blood sprayed. With a thump, a corpse thudded down, cracking stalks. The head hit the ground beside Torin, staring at him with lifeless eyes. The man wore a black and gold cloak—a man of Arden. When Torin glanced upward, he saw a Magerian soldier tug his blade free. The man did not see him; he cursed and stepped away, already attacking another Ardishman.
Torin kept crawling.
Boots stomped around him, blood sprayed, and more bodies fell, but none of the living saw him. Torin kept moving. A horse galloped by, its hooves missing him by inches. A fallen helmet crashed down before him, and Torin placed it over his own head.
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