Torin swayed on his horse, still weak. Bandages covered his wounds, and as he rode, he nursed a wineskin. His head still spun, and his limbs were thinner than he'd ever seen them. He had been imprisoned for almost eight months, Cam had told him, most of them spent in a Kingswall dungeon. It had felt like eight decades.
But he was healing already. After several turns of riding in the open air, eating real food—bread cooked fresh over campfires, roasted venison, and wild berries—the pain had begun to fade, the haze to lift. He wore armor now, no longer rags. Arden's raven appeared upon his breastplate, and a new longsword hung at his side. He looked around him at the other riders, the survivors of Arden's army. They looked healthier than him, but they too were haggard. Stubble covered their faces, dents and scratches marred their armor, and their eyes were sunken and hollow.
"All right, old boy?" Cam rode his destrier closer to him.
Torin nodded and scratched his newly trimmed beard. "I feel like one of your shorn sheep. My beard and hair grew monstrously long in captivity. I must have lost half my weight when I finally trimmed them."
Cam smiled wanly. "You're looking stronger every turn."
"I'm ready to face Serin himself in battle." Torin gazed at his hazy reflection in his vambrace. "Even if I have a few more white hairs on my head. A prison cell will do that to you."
Snow began to fall around them, and icicles hung from the oaks, maples, and birches. Several coyotes stared from between the trees, eyes golden, then turned to flee. As the riders traveled northward, the land became colder. Torin had lived most of his life at Arden's southern border along the Sern River, the great pipeline connecting Mageria, Naya, Arden, and Qaelin in the night. Here they were traveling across the northern hinterlands of Arden, a thickly forested land near the border of Verilon, the sprawling kingdom that ruled the sub-arctic realms of North Timandra. Frost covered the riders' armor, their breath plumed in clouds, and steam rose from the horses' backs. Here was a vast, cold, empty wilderness, a place to hide, to survive, as the Radian fire burned in the south.
"There it is," Cam finally said. He pointed north between the snowy trees. "Welcome, Torin old boy, to what remains of Free Arden. Welcome to our camp."
A palisade of sharpened logs stretched between the trees, forming a crude wall. Trophies hung from some logs—the helmets and cloven shields of the Radian empire, still coated with blood. Ardish troops patrolled the perimeter, clad in frosted steel, and upon makeshift, wooden towers stood archers in snow-coated cloaks. A dirt path led toward gates in the wall, and the convoy—led by King Camlin—rode into the camp.
Riding close behind his friend and king, Torin gazed around. After long moons of war and fear—parting from his family, seeing Kingswall fall, enduring torture and hunger—Torin finally felt a little ray of hope pierce the clouds.
Arden has not yet fallen.
Thousands of Ardish men and women moved about the camp, most of them soldiers in steel, swords at their waists. Tents and wooden huts stretched in neat rows. Deer cooked upon campfires, and fur pelts hung on ropes, freshly cured. In a dirt square, men were drilling with blades, polishing swords, and practicing their archery. Many here were wounded—some bandaged, others burnt, and a few missing their limbs—but most still seemed strong, ready to keep fighting. The raven banners rose proudly above the camp, thudding in the wind.
"We have fifteen thousand men and women here," Cam said to Torin. "Most are soldiers, the survivors of the war, but many are townsfolk and farmers who fled the Radian onslaught. Food is lean and the winter is harsh, but we're surviving. We're still fighting."
As they rode by, soldiers bowed and cried out, "King Camlin! King Camlin returns!"
Cam nodded to all those they passed. Behind the king, the soldiers who had ridden south upended sacks, spilling out their treasure—the armor, weapons, and gold of the Magerians they had slain on the road. Men cheered and rushed forward to collect the bounty.
"We'll use the armor and weapons for those who joined our camp," Cam said. "We must all become soldiers. Now come, we'll find something to eat—and some good company too."
Riding side by side, Cam and Torin made their way down the dirt road between the soldiers. They rounded a great oak, rode into a dirt square, and approached a campfire. Several people stood here, tending to roasting deer.
Torin's eyes widened. "Linee! Omry!"
The Queen and Prince of Arden ran toward him. Rather than a gown—her usual raiment—Linee now wore tan leggings and a vest of boiled leather. Her golden hair spilled from under a round helmet, and a sword hung from her belt. Prince Omry wore heavy steel armor—a breastplate, greaves, and wide pauldrons—and a double-handed sword hung across his back. When Torin dismounted his horse, the two crashed into him, wrapped their arms around him, and squeezed.
"Go easy on me!" Torin winced. "I'm still wounded."
Laughing and shedding tears, Linee jabbed his chest with her finger. "You're late."
He nodded. "I was delayed. Took a little detour with our Radian friends." He pulled Linee back into his embrace. "It's good to see you again."
A high-pitched voice rose from farther back. A small dark shape bounded forward. "Torin! Torin, you've come back! I was so worried about you. We searched all over with our hot air balloon, but they took you away, and it was horrible, and I had to take the others here, I had to!" Little Nitomi, the Elorian spy, jumped onto Torin, wrapped all four limbs around him, and clung. Tears filled her eyes. "Thank the Red Flame you're here. I've been watching over the others while you were away. Are you hurt? Do you want to eat some mushrooms? We have mushrooms here! Not as good as the ones in Eloria, but I found some that I like, and I'm so happy you're here!"
Tall, pale Qato—never far from his cousin—stepped forward. The towering Elorian stared at Torin with a blank, stony expression. "Qato happy."
Soon the companions sat around the fire on logs, eating a meal of roasted deer, stewed mushrooms Nitomi had cooked, and oatmeal. They washed the food down with red wine and cold ale, bounty captured in a previous raid. As they ate and drank, Cam talked, bringing Torin up to speed.
"Serin's mustering on the eastern front now, Tor," he said, chewing on a strip of venison. "I didn't want to tell you on the road, not with you still recovering from your injuries. Serin plans to invade Qaelin. Maybe the invasion has begun already."
The food turned to ash in Torin's mouth. He turned toward Linee and spoke softly. "Any news of Koyee and Madori? Last Cam heard from them, both were in Oshy across the border. Has any news arrived while Cam and I were away?"
The queen lowered her head. "No news from the east for a month now. According to our last report, Madori had crossed Arden behind enemy lines, entered the darkness, and joined Koyee at Salai Castle. We know nothing more."
Torin's eyes stung. "That plucky little thing. All my months of captivity, I was so worried about the Billygoat. And there she is! She made it across the war and into the darkness."
But Cam's eyes remained dark. "Tor . . . there something else I didn't want to tell you on the road. Last we've heard, Serin had destroyed Fairwool-by-Night. He burned down the houses. He . . ." Cam's voice choked. "He slew everyone there, we think, and now he musters an army on the ruins. Koyee and Madori are right across the border. I pray to Idar that they fled to safety deeper in the night."
Torin lowered his head and his eyes burned. "After I saw what Serin did to Kingswall, I feared as much." His breath shook in his lungs. "Our home is gone."
A dead, empty space filled Torin, a cavity in his chest. Fairwool-by-Night. His home. Burned down. The Shadowed Firkin, the tavern where he had spent so many hours with his friends. His home, the cottage where Mayor Kerof had raised him, where he had grown up with Bailey, where he had married Koyee, where he had raised Madori. The maple tree. The library. The fields of rye and the gardens he had spent his life tending to. All gone. All his friends and neighbors—fallen.
How can I go on? he thought. How can I keep
fighting when it feels like I have nothing left to fight for?
Nitomi looked up from her bowl of mushrooms. She spoke softly, interrupting his thoughts. "And I pray for my brother, for little Jitomi. He was with Madori at Teel, did you know? In her last letter to us—it was a whole moon ago!—Koyee said that Jitomi was with her in Oshy, but that he planned to leave, to return to Ilar, to my father." Nitomi shuddered. "Oh, my father was always so mean to him."
Torin rose to his feet, his appetite gone. "Serin is attacking Qaelin through the dusk? So we cut off his supplies." He pounded his fist into his palm, sudden rage washing over his grief. "Mageria is in the west. Qaelin is in the east. We're here right in the middle, sitting above his supply lines. We keep raiding the roads. We cut off his eastern host from his western kingdom. He can't fight a war if he's starved for food." He gripped his sword. "Why are we here? Let us organize another raid, a larger raid. Surely Serin's wagons are rolling east along the roads, his ships sailing east along the river. We'll burn them."
Cam sighed, placed down his bowl, and stared at the campfire. "Not so simple, old boy. There's a new Radian army mustering in Kingswall. They're not just Magerians either; a whole lot of Nayans have joined them, and even Ardishmen who've turned coat and now raise the eclipse banners. They're calling themselves a united army of the Radian Empire. And they're about to march north, to seek us in the forests, and to try and stamp us out. They're fifty thousand strong, we hear." Cam grimaced. "They have mages. Chariots. Cannons, Torin! We have ten thousand weary, hungry soldiers and five thousand refugees to protect. The enemy might already be marching; they might be here by the full moon."
Nitomi nodded. "Qato and I saw them from our hot air balloon. They have elephants too, Torin! Real elephants. I always thought I'd love elephants, but these ones are wearing armor, and there are little towers on them—howdahs, they're called—and there are archers inside, and they're going to come here, and I really don't want to kill those elephants, and . . ." The dojai covered her eyes. Hulking Qato patted her shoulder, silently comforting her.
Torin felt queasy. He couldn't take another bite of his meal. "Serin might have rallied Nayans and even some Ardishmen, but not all in the sunlight flock to his banners. On the road, I heard Gehena and his soldiers speak." Torin grimaced to remember those long turns of pain in darkness, tortured and famished. He suppressed a shudder. "They spoke of battles along the Icenflow northwest from here. The kingdom of Verilon has refused to join this so-called Radian Empire. From snippets I've heard, it sounded like Serin has been sending troops across the Icenflow to raid Verilon's forests. Only one Magerian returned from each raid, speaking of Verilish warriors butchering his comrades and feeding them to the bears."
Cam blew out his breath, eyebrows raised. "Lovely folk, the Verilish." He chewed his lip. "Right now, I don't even know if I'm serious or sarcastic."
Torin clutched the hilt of his sword, seeking comfort from the heavy leather grip. "My father fought Verilon in a war many years ago—before I was even born. He spoke of horrible barbarians, great bearded warriors who rode on bears and wielded hammers that weighed more than a man. In his stories, the Verilish were like monsters. If they now fight Serin, we have powerful allies." He stared at Cam over the campfire. "We need not fight the Radians in this forest, humble wooden walls around us. Verilon lies only a three turn ride north. Let us join our forces to theirs. When Mageria's buffaloes open a northeastern front, they will meet an alliance of bears and ravens."
With creaking armor and creaking joints, Cam rose to his feet and paced around the campfire. "Will Verilon welcome us? The raven and bear have never been the best of friends."
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as the old cliche goes." Torin smiled wryly. "Serin has committed the bulk of his troops to the eastern front, to conquering the night. Many of his other troops are mustering in the west, besieging the marshlands of Daenor; many Daenorians too fight against him. Serin thinks his army at Kingswall is enough to conquer the north." He sneered, surprised by the sudden rage that flowed through him. "We will make him bleed in the north."
Cam stepped closer to Torin, grabbed his arm, and whispered into his ear, "Tor, I've seen Orewood, the great Verilish city on the border. Massive towers. Huge walls coated in ice. Thousands of iron-clad warriors thrice my size. If we march there, there's a good chance Verilon will slay us and feed us to the bears."
Torin smiled grimly. "And if we stay here, the Radians will crush our camp. I'll take my chances with the bears. Massive towers? Huge walls? Burly warriors? Good. I'd like that on our side."
They turned toward the others—Queen Linee, Prince Omry, and the two dojai. Beyond them, many soldiers moved back and forth, preparing for battle.
Torin looked back at his friend. "What do you say, Cam? You and me. We'll ride ahead, just the two of us, like in the old turns. We'll knock on those great frozen walls and forge us a little alliance, then invite the rest of this lot over."
The king rubbed his shoulders. "The last time we rode out together, we ended up jumping into a river, arrows raining down onto us."
"Exactly." Torin smiled. "It's always fun. But if you insist, we'll bring a few guards this time."
As fresh snow fell upon the forest, Torin, Cam, and a handful of soldiers rode out of their camp, heading north through the wilderness toward the distant city of ice and snow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
BLOOD IN THE DUSK
Ten thousand Elorians stood in the dusk, the orange light shining upon their scale armor, the silver moonstars on their shields, and their drawn katanas. Ten thousand pairs of blue, silver, and purple eyes gleamed, staring west, waiting. Ten thousand hearts beat with fear. The Host of Twilit Spirits, the Qaelish empire's western division, waited for battle.
Koyee sat at their lead upon a nightwolf, a shaggy black beast named Senduan. Her scale armor hugged her, and her long white hair hid within her helmet. She held a round shield in one hand, its surface engraved with a moon within a star, sigil of her empire. In her other hand, she held a new katana, a sword she had named Tuanshey—slayer of light.
"Once more, we stand ready for battle, Eelani," she whispered.
Her invisible friend rested upon her shoulder, a hint of warmth and a barely perceptible weight. Little hands seemed to caress Koyee's cheek.
"I know you're scared, Eelani," Koyee said. Her voice was so low she barely heard herself. "I am too."
She thought back to her first battle—a great dance of fire and steel upon the walls of Pahmey. That had been twenty-one years ago, and she had been only a youth, only a girl of sixteen—younger than her daughter was now. Back then she had been quicker, perhaps braver, a mere urchin with nothing to lose but a bone flute and a few copper coins. Now she was a wife, a mother, a leader, a protector of an empire. And the fear was greater than ever, the weight upon her shoulders nearly too much to bear.
Yet I will bear it nonetheless, she swore to herself and tightened her fist around the silk-wrapped hilt of her sword. And I will fight with more courage than ever.
She gently nudged Senduan. The shaggy nightwolf—he was large as a horse—stepped forward, parting from the ranks of troops. The gloaming spread around Koyee, the orange light falling upon pale grass, twisted trees, and brambles—the only flora that could survive in the shadows. Duskmoths flew around her, and one landed on the hilt of her sword. She turned to face her troops. The ten thousand stood in orderly lines, a machine of metal as fine as any clock. They were young men and women, many barely older than her daughter, all clad in the same scales, all holding the same swords. Boys. Girls. Their eyes frightened but determined, shining in the twilight.
"Soldiers of Eloria!" Koyee called to them. Her voice carried across the dusky forest. "I am Koyee, Daughter of Salai. You've heard tales of the battles I fought. Many of you were just babes when I slew Timandrians in the great War of Day and Night. Now the sun rises to burn us again. From the towers of Salai Castle, we have seen them muster, and now we
have seen them enter the dusk. Twenty years ago, they took Eloria by surprise. This time we will cast them back into the light." She banged her sword against her shield. "We are the night!"
Ten thousand blades clanged against shields. Their voices rose as one. "We are the night!"
"Show no fear!" Koyee shouted. "Show no weakness to the enemy. Do not despair in the face of battle, not even in the face of death. We will shed the blood of Timandra! We will defend the darkness. For Eloria!"
"For Eloria!" they cried, swords rising like a forest of steel.
Though her words perhaps inspired courage, Koyee's innards trembled. Yes, she had seen the enemy from the rooftop of Salai Castle. She had seen a hundred thousand troops gather—swordsmen, pikemen, archers. She had seen five thousand horses bearing armored riders. She had seen scythed chariots, siege engines on great wheels, battering rams on chains, catapults and ballistae, and even cannons shaped as life-sized buffaloes. Worst of all, she had seen hundreds of mages in black robes. At the thought of them, the scars that snaked around her arm—given to her by a mage in Sinyong years ago—blazed with new pain.
This is a battle we cannot win, she knew. She had sent messengers to all corners of the night. She had begged for aid, for more troops, for anyone who could wield and sword. Yet here were all the swords Eloria could wield. For every ten living souls in Timandra, only one lived in Eloria; there were no more soldiers to spare.
She tightened her lips. They outnumber us ten to one. So each among us will have to kill ten of them. And I will kill many more than that.
The enemy's chants rose in the west, and Koyee turned back toward the light. Her heart pounded and her breath fluttered in her mouth. Her nightwolf growled beneath her, fangs bared.
"They're here."
She couldn't see them yet, but their sound rose slowly, louder with every heartbeat. Thousands of thumping boots. Stamping hooves. Chinking armor. War drums that beat a rhythm of slaughter. Boom. Boom. Boom. A blaring horn that sounded like a dying beast. Chants in many languages all united under the eclipse banner. More drums. Boom. Boom.
Shadows of Moth Page 10