Shadows of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  The younger Baoshi laughed bitterly. "You are delirious. There is no aid for us; the emperor might be dead, all his halls fallen." He shuddered. "I was in Pahmey. I saw the mages of sunlight sink the whole city into the pit. Now I envy those who fell. And I do not believe there is hope for aid. All of Eloria must have fallen, not only Qaelin but Ilar and Leen too. Perhaps we are the last Elorians alive."

  A woman struggled to her feet—Shinquon, once a fisherman's wife. "If all Eloria is fallen, maybe the sunlit masters will show us mercy." A tear streamed into her sunken cheek. "They will no longer need weapons if their war is won. Maybe they will soon free us." She turned to glare at Koyee. "I too want to stay alive as long as possible. Every turn that we still live brings hope, if only a whisper of hope. If we fight, we know for certain that we die."

  Young Baoshi spun toward the woman, then had to lean down for a moment, coughing. Finally he managed to speak again. "I'm willing to die fighting. But perhaps we will win." He looked at Koyee. "Right, Koyee? We have a chance to win, do we not? I believe."

  Koyee sighed. She looked around her. Everyone was now watching from across the cave. She spoke softly. "Our hope to defeat our masters is as small as our hope for rescue. I believe that there is almost no hope at all. I will not lie to you; I would lead you to fight not because I think we can win, but because I prefer to die fighting, to die proud, to show them—with our last breath—that we are no worms, that we are proud Elorians, proud children of darkness. But if hope drives you, and if hope is what helps you swing a pick at a soldier, then cling to that hope. Foster it. Because even though hope is small, barely more than a speck, I do not believe that hope is ever dead. We were born in the night, and more than anyone, we know this: Even in the greatest darkness there is some light. Even beyond the greatest fear there is courage. Even in the greatest pain there is joy."

  Their eyes gleamed with tears. Koyee had to close her own eyes; seeing them looking at her, finding hope in her, was suddenly too much. She was a woman now with a grown daughter, and she was a leader, a heroine and legend, so why did she so often still feel like a child? Even now, she often felt no older, no braver, than that youth who had sailed alone upon the Inaro River, an orphan girl more than twenty years ago. Back then, she had sought the aid of others—from leaders, from soldiers, from emperors. She had relied on so many others to teach her—on Little Maniko and his courage, Empress Hikari and her strength, and Shenlai the dragon for his wisdom. Always there had been somebody older, somebody wiser and stronger, somebody to guide her. Yet all those souls had died, and now she was the wise one, the one others approached for leadership. And the weight nearly crushed her.

  Inside I still feel like a child . . . somebody who needs leadership in others. How can I now lead them, give them the strength and wisdom others gave me?

  She looked at them. They nodded, one by one.

  "When the moon is gone from the sky, and the Timandrians' eyes are weakest, we attack together," Koyee said. "We will raise our pickaxes. And we will swing them not at stone but at our oppressors. We will slay them or we will die as heroes, and any who survive this war will sing of our courage for eternity."

  * * * * *

  Jitomi stood on the prow of the Tai Lar—the Waterfire—the new flagship of his armada. Behind him sailed hundreds of ships, the might of his empire. Ahead, flowing down the dark waters of the Inaro, sailed the sunlit fleet.

  "Now the true mettle of the night will be tested," Jitomi said. "Now the might of the Red Flame will be judged not by burning fellow Elorians . . . but by facing an empire of sunlight."

  Lord Dorashi, Captain of the Tai Lar, stood beside him. A gruff man of fifty years, Dorashi wore crimson armor, the bulky plates tasseled and engraved with black dragon motifs. His face was leathery, his eyes hard and narrowed. A thick white mustache drooped over his thin mouth. His shoulders were broad, his helmet horned. His family ruled the distant, southern coast of Ilar, and they had long been aligned with the Hashido nobles, Jitomi's family from the northern peninsula.

  "We will smash through them," Captain Dorashi said. "The Red Flame Armada has never been stronger, and Tianlong flies with us."

  The leathery captain raised his eyes skyward. Jitomi followed his gaze. Clouds hid the moon and stars, and in the darkness, Tianlong was but a shadow, a coiling serpent of the night. The dragon's red beard fluttered like a banner, a hint of red like blood staining the clouds.

  This battle I will fight upon the water, Jitomi thought. With my people. One among them.

  He had removed his mage's robes, and now he wore the armor of an Ilari warrior—armor he had once refused to don. Now he bore a katana and shield. Now he led an empire, a nation. Now he fought for all the night.

  The Radian fleet sailed closer, moving toward them across the mile-wide river. Hundreds of carracks sailed there, their white sails sporting the golden eclipse of the Radian Order. Cannons lined their hulls, the knowledge of their construction stolen from Eloria in the last war. Lanterns hung from their masts, casting light upon thousands of archers and swordsmen. This force had smashed the towns and cities along the river, moving south, crushing all in its path, devastating Qaelin, the mainland of Eloria.

  They stop here, Jitomi thought.

  He turned to look behind him. Hundreds of Ilari warriors stood upon the deck of the Tai Lar: swordsmen all in steel, gunners manning their cannons, and even riders astride growling black panthers. A pagoda rose from the deck, three tiers tall, and archers stood within it, bows ready. Behind the Tai Lar sailed many more ships, all ready for battle.

  "Ilar!" Jitomi shouted. He drew his katana and raised the blade. "Sons of Ilar, hear me! I am Jitomi Hashido, Emperor of the Red Flame. An enemy of sunlight approaches. The Radian Empire which has deceived us, which has slain our brothers, sails to crush us. We will smash the enemy! For the Red Flame and for Eloria, we will triumph!"

  They roared, thousands of voices. Thousands of swords rose. Thousands of horned, demonic helmets blazed in the light of torches. Above, the dragon Tianlong let out his cry.

  Captain Dorashi raised a red banner. "Smoke!" he roared. "Light the dragons!"

  Across the Ilari fleet, men lit the dragon figureheads of their ships. Black and yellow smoke rose from the iron jaws, scented of sulfur, obscuring their locations. Ilari warriors loved fighting in shadows and smoke, hidden, smashing through their blinded enemies.

  Jitomi turned to face the north again. He could see only smoke now, not the enemy fleet. But he could hear the Radians. Their war drums boomed. Their horns blared. Their voices shouted out as one: "Radian rises! Radian rises!"

  Jitomi squared his jaw. For the darkness. And for Madori. For the woman I love.

  He stepped closer to the prow. He shouted at the top of his lungs. "Fire!"

  Fire crackled. Black smoke blasted out. Ahead of Jitomi, the dragon figurehead of the Tai Lar blasted out fire. The ship shook. A cannonball shot through the smoke, cutting a path of clear sky. A ship emerged from the clouds ahead, and an instant later, the cannonball slammed into its hull.

  A thousand other cannons blasted from both fleets.

  Fire and sound washed over the world.

  One cannonball slammed into the Tai Lar's hull only feet away from Jitomi. The iron-clad ship shook madly. Jitomi nearly fell. For an instant he thought the hull had collapsed, but its iron flanks had withstood the blow. A dozen other cannons fired upon the deck. Men screamed. Fire blazed across the Radians' wooden ships.

  "Archers!" Jitomi cried. "Fire!"

  Flaming arrows flew through the night to slice through the enemy's canvas sails. The sails burst into flame, and firelight lit the darkness. Enemy arrows flew in response, and Jitomi raised his shield. Flaming projectiles slammed against him, shattering against his shield and armor and peppering the deck around him.

  Cannons blasted again. The fleets kept sailing toward each other . . . then crashed together with blood and flame.

  A Radian ship rammed int
o the Tai Lar, its figurehead denting the iron starboard. The Tai Lar's own figurehead scraped across the enemy's weaker hull, scattering shards of wood. Planks drove down from ship to ship, and soldiers charged into battle.

  Jitomi grimaced as two Radian swordsmen ran toward him, swinging longswords—blades heavier and longer than his katana. He chose and claimed one man's sword, then heated the hilt; the soldier screamed and dropped the weapon. The second soldier thrust his blade, and Jitomi blocked the blow with his shield, then swung his katana upwards. He drove the blade into the man's armpit where his armor was weak, and blood showered. Another swing of the katana and the man fell.

  All around Jitomi upon the Tai Lar's deck, soldiers of day and night battled. Men raced across the planks or swung upon ropes from deck to deck. All across the Inaro, ships burned, archers fired, cannons blasted, and men thrashed in the water. Tianlong roared above, dipping down to slam through enemy hulls, sending the ships into the water.

  "Drive through them!" Captain Dorashi was howling, holding a bloody katana in each hand. "Smash the enemy!"

  Arrows sailed overhead from the ship's pagoda. Men screamed and blood washed the deck.

  Jitomi swung his blade again and again, parrying, killing. One arrow punched through his armor and entered his arm. He growled but kept fighting with blade and magic. All around him, the fire lit the night and the blood painted the river red.

  * * * * *

  The assault on Orewood began with cannon fire, swinging catapults, and shrieking ballistae.

  "There will be no siege!" Lord Gehena's voice rose like a storm, inhumanly loud, high-pitched like shattering glass. "All who oppose Serin will die, and Orewood will be his trophy."

  A boulder slammed into the rampart beside Torin, cracking the stone. A ballista's iron projectile, longer than a man, sailed overhead to smash a home beyond the walls. A cannonball drove into a guard tower, and the turret collapsed in a pile of bricks.

  "Fire your arrows!" Torin shouted. "Men of Arden, take them down! Aim at the gunners! Aim at the catapults!"

  He nocked an arrow and fired. Across the walls of Orewood, thousands of archers fired with him. Thousands of arrows flew from the walls, the guard towers, the roofs behind. A rain of steel, wood, and flame descended upon the enemy. Radian troops fell, pierced with arrows, only for their comrades to trample the corpses as they charged.

  "Scale the walls!" Gehena screeched upon his horse. "Shatter the gates! Claim this city for the Light of Radian!"

  The Radian hordes swept forth like the sea. Great ladders swung, snapping onto the walls with iron brackets. A battering ram swung on chains, slamming into the doors, chipping the wood. Trebuchets twanged in the field, tossing flaming barrels and spiked boulders over the walls and into the city. Log homes collapsed. Fires crackled. People shouted and fled deeper into the city, clogging the streets.

  "Oil!" Torin shouted. "Burn them!"

  Across the walls, oil bubbled within cauldrons. Torin helped tilt one pot over a murder hole carved into the rampart. The oil slid down the stone tunnel, fell through the open air, and sizzled over the troops below. The Magerians screamed, the oil trickling under their armor and searing their flesh.

  And still the enemy kept coming.

  Mages shot black, astral whips that rose hundreds of feet tall. The lashes grabbed onto the ramparts and tugged back, tearing down merlons and turrets. Bricks rained down into the field. Men rained with them. Cannonballs sailed overhead and crashed into homes beyond the wall. Fires spread across the city. Red smoke rose in clouds, hiding the sky.

  It is a war we cannot win, Torin thought. It is a war without end.

  He shouted hoarsely. He fired arrows. He spilled oil. When the enemy climbed the ladders, he swung his sword, and he fought them on the walls, and he slew men, and his blade ran red with blood. But through roaring fire, blasting cannons, and the screams of the dying, all seemed muffled, the whole world a haze.

  It is the war eternal. It is the curse of Moth. Will we always bleed?

  He knew they could not win this battle. Not with the magic tearing the walls apart, ripping down brick by brick. Not with the cannons firing, the rams swinging. The gates shattered below. A mile in the northwest, he heard distant screams, and he saw the city's western gates shatter, the enemy stream into the streets. To his right, a great section of wall crumble, and the enemy surged, climbing over the rubble into Orewood.

  The dams collapsed.

  The Radian forces swept into the city with chants, with galloping horses, and with myriads of swinging swords.

  A war eternal, Torin thought, standing atop a pillar of stone, one of the few sections of wall still standing. Blood without end.

  "Torin!" The voice seemed miles away, ages away, a voice from another world, from memory. Was it his wife calling to him? He had fought his wife once. In the city of Pahmey, she had fired an arrow at him. She—

  "Torin, damn it! Come on!"

  A hand grabbed his arm. He looked down. Cam was tugging him, shouting something. Torin could barely hear. His head rang. When he touched his forehead, his fingers came away bloody.

  "I don't remember being hit," he whispered.

  "Tor, come on, damn you!" Cam shouted.

  Torin nodded. Cam tugging him, they raced down a stone staircase instants before it collapsed. Bricks and dust rained. They ran into a courtyard covered with bricks, cloven helms, and bodies. A few scattered Ardishmen stood with raised swords. Hundreds of Radians surrounded them.

  "Does it end here?" Torin asked his friend.

  Cam spat and raised his sword. "If it does, we go down together, old boy. Now let's kill a few of these bastards first."

  The two men shouted and charged toward the enemy.

  Across the city of Orewood, buildings collapsed, horses galloped, cannons fired, and blood flowed. A temple's columns cracked and fell, and the roof slammed down onto men. Fire blazed across wooden homes. Helmets rolled across the streets. Hammers swung, cleaving breastplates. Men fell and cannons rolled through the city, their wheels bristly with arrows. Bears charged at horses and lances thrust. Everywhere the fire burned. Smoke rose, black and red, hiding the crumbling city under a blanket of heat and ash.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:

  DAGGER AND BONES

  Madori knelt on the cold, rocky ground of the courtyard, polishing Lari's armor. She had been working for an hour with rags and oil, shining each piece at a time—pauldrons, breastplate, vambraces, greaves, gauntlets, and helmet. Each piece of steel was filigreed with golden buffaloes and Radian eclipses, symbols of Old Mageria and the new Radian Empire it had become. Each of these pieces was priceless, worth more than anything Madori had ever owned, probably worth more than all that had been in Fairwool-by-Night.

  You destroyed that village, Lari, Madori thought as she worked, shining the rubies inlaid into the breastplate. Her eyes stung. You crushed and burned it to the ground. And some turn I will avenge it. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but you will pay for your crimes.

  She lifted one of the Lari's gauntlets—the one that had struck Madori's own cheek only last turn, leaving an ugly gash. She began to polish it carefully, moving the oiled rag over each finger, cleaning off her own blood. Last time Madori had failed to polish the armor carefully enough, Lari had ordered her men to beat Madori unconscious. Luckily, in her weakened state, that had not taken more than a couple blows, but it was enough that Madori had never missed a spot since.

  She had been here for two moons now—two moons of beatings, of hunger, of disease—and Madori was fading away. Every turn as she awoke, she was surprised to find herself still alive.

  "Lari doesn't even need armor in this place," Madori mumbled as she worked. "We're so weak we couldn't crush a mouse beneath our heels."

  A voice boomed out behind her. "Work silently, worm, or you'll taste the back of my hand."

  She looked over her shoulder. One of Lari's guards stood there—a yellow-haired, rat-faced man named Derin
. Madori scowled at him, prepared to talk back, but when he raised his hand, she swallowed her words and returned to the armor. Derin had beaten her often enough—it seemed every guard here had—that she had lost the appetite for defiance.

  If I were still strong enough to cast magic, I would crush you like a bug, she thought. Often she had tried to use her magic here, to cast a shield of air around her, to protect herself from the blows. But her body was too weak, her mind too muzzy. Whenever she tried to use magic, her skull seemed to contract, and she saw stars. A few times she had managed to create a protective shield of air around her during the beating, but the effort had sucked up so much energy, she had spent hours afterward dizzy and gagging.

  The tents of soldiers rose around her. Beyond them, scaffolding rose in the night; workers bustled there, constructing a fortress for the Magerians. To her east, Madori could make out a line of soldiers guarding the canyon. The sounds of the mining rose from the chasm—pickaxes against stone and whips against flesh. Several times, Madori had tried to creep toward that canyon, to gaze down into the shadows, to see if her mother still lived. But guards always caught her and tossed her back to Lari and her wrath. And so Madori remained above in the Magerian camp, the only Elorian here, serving the princess.

  "Make way!" rose a voice. "Make way—nightcrawler corpses! Make way!"

  Oiled rag in hand, Madori sucked in her breath. She spun toward the voice, and she saw him there. It was Peras this time, a wiry soldier with graying hair, who was shoving the wheelbarrow through the camp. Within lay a dozen starved Elorian corpses.

  Forgetting the armor, Madori hobbled toward the wheelbarrow. The chains around her ankles jangled, and tears filled her eyes.

  "Please, Peras," she said. "Let me see them."

  Radian soldiers gathered around, chortling.

  "Let her look!" said rat-faced Derin. "I like it when she looks."