Shadows of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  Koyee huddled among the others. The cave was so small they all pressed together; they barely had room to lie down. Cold wind shrieked through the entrance, and the prisoners shivered. Yet cold as the wind was, Koyee felt hot; when she touched her forehead, it felt on fire, and her limbs would not stop trembling. Around her, she saw sweat bead upon brows. Prisoners coughed blood. She wondered what would kill them first: the whip, the cold, the hunger, or the fever.

  She closed her eyes, remembering a time many years ago when she had been but a youth, no older than Madori was now. She had worked in the Hospice of Pahmey, wearing the uniform of the Sisterhood—a heavy leather cloak, thick gloves, and a mask with a beak full of herbs. That outfit had protected her from the diseases that Timandrians carried, illnesses they were immune to but which ravaged so many Elorians. Now she was exposed. Now, instead of a healing, she was dying.

  Does my life end here? she wondered, coughing and huddling with the others in the darkness. After all my battles, all my victories, all my pain and joy, do I—Koyee of Qaelin, the Girl in the Black Dress—fade away in darkness?

  "I miss you, Torin," she whispered and tasted her tears. "I miss you, Madori. Remember me as I was, a warrior in armor, a brave woman, her white hair streaming in the wind." She was almost grateful her family could not see her now, the creature she had become.

  "Please, Madori," she whispered. "If you're alive, run from here. Run as far as you can. Run and hide."

  The Elorians around her wept, prayed, and shivered, and Koyee closed her eyes, hugged her knees, and struggled to take breath by breath.

  * * * * *

  Pahmey's prisoners entered the mine with screams, the cracks of whips, and the smell of blood. Madori stared in silence.

  Serrated steel fences surrounded the camp, tipped with blades, and many Magerian guards patrolled them, clad in dark steel and armed with longswords and crossbows. Large dogs barked between them, tugging at their chains, their fangs bared; they seemed desperate to rip into Elorian flesh. An archway broke these walls of steel, and above it hung a sign in both the languages of Mageria and Qaelin: "Labor Brings Light"

  Gora, the squat captain who had led the march here, shouted, "Nightcrawlers, enter your new home! Move, worms!"

  The survivors of Pahmey, coughing and trembling, hobbled under the archway and into the camp. Chains jangled between their ankles and wrists, and dust and blood caked their skin. Madori blinked, barely able to drag her feet forward. Every last inch of her was bruised, cut, or swelling. She coughed and tasted blood.

  "The journey is over," she whispered. "Finally over."

  She trembled as she walked. Even in the shrieking cold wind of Eloria's winter, her skin burned and sweat dripped down her brow. How long had she been marching? She did not know; it felt like many turns. She vaguely remembered many Elorians leaving Pahmey, two thousand or more. When she blinked, looking ahead at the others, she saw only several hundred. The rest still lay in the wilderness, a long road of death, fallen to the march. Their bones would perhaps forever mark the path of Eloria's fall.

  And hundreds of thousands vanished into the sinkhole that was Pahmey, she thought, shuffling forward with the others. And perhaps millions of nightcrawlers now lie dead across the rest of the night.

  She blinked and clenched her fists.

  No! We are Elorians. Not nightcrawlers. I must never let them reduce me to a worm. I am Elorian, as pure as any other now. We are a proud people, even as we bleed, even as we shuffle through the dust. We will never be the creatures they want us to become.

  Gora rode his horse beside her. "Be a good mongrel." He drank deeply from a wineskin. Crimson liquid dripped down his chin. "Your little pleasure walk is ending. Here you will find no mercy."

  The prisoners filed into the camp. Madori, walking at the back, entered last. Here, at the end of her journey, every step was a battle of will, requiring all her strength. Every step blazed like a thousand whips. She forced herself to keep walking. If she fell, she would die. If she fell, she would never see her mother again. And so she forced herself to keep going, past the archway, into the camp.

  She blinked, looking around at the swaying world. Several long black tents rose here, their walls painted with Radian eclipses. Magerian troops moved among them, armed with swords and crossbows. Iron braziers crackled, full of red flames; while Elorians could see by moonlight alone, these soldiers of Timandra needed the light of fire.

  Farther back rose a fine tent of lush, black fabric rich with golden embroidery. Guards surrounded it, armed with pikes. This was no simple military tent but a place of wealth. Madori stared at it, her belly knotting.

  Serin must be in there, she thought. Maybe Lari too.

  She wanted to race across the camp, to challenge the pair, to slay them with magic or with tooth and nail. But she could barely even walk, and a hundred soldiers separated her from the emperor.

  Not yet, Madori, she told herself. First learn the lay of the land. First find Mother. First regain some strength. Then fight.

  She looked away from the tent. To her left gaped a shadowy canyon; with the braziers filling the camp with smoke, she hadn't seen it until now. This was no natural chasm, she realized, but an iron mine. Cauldrons belched out fumes below, full of molten metal. Pickaxes rested in a pile, and Madori shuddered to see bloodstains on the stones. She couldn't see any miners.

  "Line up, nightcrawlers!" Gora rode his horse around the Elorian prisoners. "Line up for inspection. Gather here! Line up."

  With whips and spears, Gora and his men herded the Elorians into a fenced courtyard. Torches crackled and blood stained the stony ground. A butcher's block rose ahead by a smoking brazier.

  "Line up!"

  With a few cracks of the whip, the Elorians entered the courtyard and lined up before the stone block. Madori swayed on her feet. She wanted to do something—to flee, to fight, to scream for her mother. Yet she could barely stay standing, and when once she swayed, Gora's whip bit her shoulder, lapping at her blood. It was all she could do not to fall. One Elorian, a young man who stood before her in line, did fall, dead before he hit the ground. Two Magerian soldiers guffawed and dragged the corpse away.

  Stay alive, Madori. Just stay alive for now.

  "One by one, to the block!" Gora shouted. "Go on, nightcrawlers, to the block! You first." He pointed at a pale Elorian man with sunken eyes. "To the block."

  Madori winced. That's a butcher's block. Her eyes stung. They marched us all the way here to behead us.

  The man made a half-hearted attempt to flee. Gora kicked, driving his steel-tipped boot into the small of the man's back. The Elorian gasped with pain, and Gora manhandled him forward. The man was too weak to resist, famished after long turns on the road, broken and bleeding. Chortling, Gora shoved the man's head down onto the block and drew a curved, ugly knife.

  Madori grimaced. Oh Idar . . . oh stars of Eloria . . .

  Licking his chops, Gora brought the blade down close to the Elorian's face.

  Madori closed her eyes.

  She heard the Elorian grunt, heard the prisoners gasp, heard Gora laugh. She peeked through narrowed eyelids, expecting to see a rolling head . . . but Gora had not beheaded his prisoner. Instead, he was using the blade to shear the man's hair. The brute chuckled as he worked, tugging the strands violently, cutting the scalp as often as the hair.

  "We'll keep you scum alive for now," he said when the man was finally bald. His grin widening, Gora grabbed an iron poker from the brazier, hefted it lovingly, and brought a red-hot brand down onto the Elorian's shoulder.

  The prisoner screamed. His flesh sizzled. When Gora finally pulled the brand back, an ugly Radian eclipse smoldered upon the Elorian's shoulder.

  "Next prisoner!" Gora shouted.

  Some Elorians tried to escape, others to fight. Blades quickly thrust into their throats, and Magerians dragged the corpses away. Most of the prisoners shuffled forward, too weak to resist, to suffer having their hair sheared and t
heir shoulders branded.

  I won't scream, Madori thought as Gora shaved her head, scraping his dulled blade against her scalp. Blood dripped down her forehead and neck. I won't—

  When the brand pressed against her shoulder, she gritted her teeth, and she thought of the Desolation, of Master Lan Tao, of the dear eyes of Grayhem who was lost to her. Even as he held the brand against her for agonizing moments, laughing above her, she did not scream.

  Magerians shoved her back toward the others. The prisoners huddled together, beaten, chained, famished, and now bald and branded.

  They truly turned us into worms, Madori thought. They preached that we're not human, so they made us less than human.

  Suddenly the Magerian soldiers, who had spent turns laughing and spitting and singing rude songs, stood at attention. They slammed their fists against their chests.

  "Radian rises!" shouted Gora, standing stiff, chin raised. "Blessed be Emperor Serin!"

  A trumpet blasted. Hooves thundered. With a flourish of golden banners, a pair of white horses entered the courtyard. Upon them sat two riders—two resplendent deities. Their armor was bright and worked with silver filigree. Cloaks of samite hung across their backs, fastened with golden pins. Strings of jewels hung around their necks and gleamed upon the pommels and scabbards of their swords. The two riders gazed down at the prisoners with haughty blue eyes, and smiles played upon their lips.

  A beaten waif, only half-alive, Madori stared up at them and her innards burned.

  Serin and Lari.

  The emperor and his daughter stared at the hundreds of Elorian prisoners. Lari held an embroidered handkerchief to her nose.

  "These ones stink even worse than the first batch," the princess said. "Disgusting creatures."

  Madori glared up at the pair, fists clenched. Her father was Serin's cousin—the two men's mothers had been sisters—and Madori shared their blood, but she felt as different from these two as a dog from toads. They didn't recognize her. How could they? If Madori saw herself in a mirror, she doubted she would recognize herself. She no longer looked like a fiery mongrel with strange hair; she was now only a starving, bleeding imitation of a woman, just another branded prisoner, one among all the rest. Lari had perhaps recognized Madori when first staring into the locket, but as Madori now stood among the others, bald and beaten and caked with blood and dust, she blended in—just another nightcrawler.

  Emperor Serin cleared his throat. He spoke in a deep voice, addressing the prisoners. "Welcome to your new home! Welcome to Iron Mine Number One, the first of many that will dot the night. Here you will aid the war effort. Here you will dig for iron, melt the metal, and forge new blades and arrowheads and spearheads. With the weapons you make, we will slay your brothers and sisters. With the weapons you bleed for, we will crush the rest of the night. For your service, you'll be allowed to live a few months longer. But be sure, dear nightcrawlers, you will not live forever. And you will be grateful for it."

  Lari grinned at his side. "We will show the world what pathetic, sniveling creatures nightcrawlers are. You are nothing but worms. Stinking, disgusting worms. Look at you." She made a gagging sound. "You sicken me."

  Lunge at her, Madori told herself. Her fists trembled. Pull her off her horse. Wring her neck!

  Yet how could she? They wore armor and bore blades, and many soldiers stood around them. Madori was so weak she could barely stand, and chains hobbled her.

  Now is not the time to fight, she thought. I'm too weak to use magic, and I have no weapons. But in the mine they'll give me food, and they'll give me a pickaxe. She gritted her teeth. And first chance I get, I'll drive that pickaxe into Lari's head.

  "I will be returning now to the war!" Serin announced, voice ringing across the camp. "There are many more Elorian cities to destroy, many more nightcrawlers to kill or enslave. As you work, slaves, think of them. Think of their agony. And think of how you suffer. Radian is the true light of the world. You now feel its burn." He turned his horse back toward the camp gates. "As I conquer and kill, Princess Lari Serin will remain to command you. Obey her every order, or I promise you: she has new ways of hurting you that will make you miss the whip."

  With that, the emperor spurred his horse and rode off, leaving Lari in the courtyard.

  The young princess, her golden hair cascading in perfect locks, turned toward Gora.

  "Toss these ones in with the others, soldier," she said. "Those worms have lazed about long enough. Let them all dig together. Let them dig for the iron that will slay their own miserable kind." She snorted. "And next ones that die, burn them outside the camp; my tent still stinks of the last nightcrawlers you burned."

  Gora bowed his head. "Yes, Your Highness." He turned toward the Elorian prisoners. "All right, worms! Move! It's into the mine with you. Time to dig or die. Go!"

  He cracked his whip, and the Elorians began to shuffle out of the courtyard. Their chains jangled, and their brands blazed against their shoulders, raw and red. Most of the prisoners were too weary to lift their heads. Madori herself struggled for every breath. How could she possibly dig in this state? She doubted she could even raise a quill, let alone a pickaxe.

  "If you want us to dig," she blurted out, "let us eat and drink and rest first!" She knew she was being a fool, but she couldn't stop the stream of words. "We're almost dead. We've just walked for turns. If you want us to be good workers, give us a meal! Give us water. Give us a turn to sleep."

  Gora growled and, as expected, his whip slammed against Madori's back. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath.

  Hooves pounded as Lari rode her horse near. The princess laughed icily. "A feisty one we have here! Beat her to death, Gora. Make it last a while. I would like to—" Lari froze. Her eyes narrowed. The princess inhaled sharply, dismounted, and knelt beside Madori. "By the sunlight . . ."

  Madori stared into Lari's eyes, saying nothing.

  Lari's face split into a huge, toothy grin. She looked like a child who had just been given the world's largest cake. "I know this one!" Lari laughed. "The mongrel! It's Madori the mongrel!" She turned toward Gora. "I changed my mind. This one will live. In fact, this one will not be a miner." Lari looked back at Madori, and her smile turned cruel, predatory. "She will be my personal servant. I'm in need of a handmaiden in this camp. Yes, this mongrel will suffer a special fate."

  Madori cursed herself. To the song of whips and wails, the Elorians' slavery began.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:

  UNDERGROUND

  Neekeya ran through the tunnel, Tam at her side.

  Father . . .

  She panted. Her eyes stung.

  Father, where are you?

  The tunnel walls raced at her sides, painted with murals of crocodiles, cranes, and reed boats navigating marshlands. The torch she carried flickered, the only source of light. The floor sloped steeply, and the tunnel wound like a corkscrew, moving down the pyramid. They had been running for what seemed like ages; surely they were beneath ground level now, plunging deep into the earth, fleeing the threat above.

  "We will live." Tam, who ran at her side, met her eyes. "I promise you."

  Live? What use was there for life as a coward? She was fleeing battle. She had left her father to die. She had left her kingdom to burn and all her people to perish in the Radian fire. She wanted to shout these things at him, but she only nodded silently.

  Yes, perhaps I must live now, a last promise to my father. The pain squeezed her chest. To bring new life to a fallen dynasty. To live as beggars, exiles, wandering the world, alone, forgotten . . . carrying a secret light.

  "Find the swamp wench and the boy!" rose a shout above. "Slay them!"

  Neekeya growled. She recognized that voice.

  "Prince Felsar," she muttered.

  Last she had seen him, the Prince of North Daenor, traitor to the kingdom, had been caged outside the pyramid, imprisoned for joining the Radian Order and threatening Eetek with destruction. Now destruction had fallen, and N
eekeya felt sick at the thought of the traitor freed.

  "You cannot escape me, Neekeya!" His voice rang above, and his laughter echoed. "I have seen you flee into the tunnels as a rat. Come face me, coward, and die salvaging some of your honor."

  Neekeya drew her sword and made to spin around, to charge back up and face him. Tam grabbed her arm, holding her fast.

  "No, Neekeya." He tugged her. "I promised your father I'd lead you to safety. Felsar will have many men with him. Now is not our time to fight him."

  She trembled with rage, but she nodded and kept running further down the tunnel with Tam. She cursed herself for not slaying the prince when she'd last faced him.

  The tunnel leveled off and widened into a great hall, large enough for a dragon to fly through. They had reached the great Eetek Mines, the source of her family's power and wealth. Many crystals gleamed upon the cavern walls, and carts full of mined gems gleamed upon tracks. Amethysts, topaz, emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds all shone here. The miners were gone—whether they had left to fight or seek safety elsewhere Neekeya did not know. Metal tracks plunged into shadows, leading to the deeper mines. A crevice split the floor, and peering down, Neekeya saw a rivulet of lava gurgling in a red river.

  "The Mines of Eetek," she whispered. "A place of wealth, beauty, and magic." Even in the horror of war, she paused for a heartbeat, marveling at the beauty of the place.

  Shouts rose behind her.

  Tam and Neekeya spun around, swords raised.

  Prince Felsar emerged from the tunnel into the mine. With him ran a hundred soldiers or more—Magerians in black steel. Felsar himself wore a black breastplate now; it sported the Radian sigil.

  He pointed his sword at her—the long, thin sword of a Magerian. "There they are."

  Neekeya sneered. "Felsar! You are a fool." She spat. "Do you really think you're one of them? You clad yourself in Magerian armor, but I still see your dusky skin. You wear the sigil of the eastern empire, but the blood of a Daenorian still pumps through your veins. You are a traitor."