Moth (12 page)

Torin froze, considering. He thought back to the Elorian burned at the pyre. He remembered the Elorian girl peering at him from behind a boulder. They had not seemed cruel, but then again, Ferius had slain one of their own. Wouldn't the other nightfolk want revenge? Torin didn't know what to believe.

Before he could formulate a reply, the door banged open. Red-faced and huffing, Cam and Hem burst into the house.

Soot still filled their hair, and bandages patched a dozen wounds across them. Wheezing for breath, Hem had his arm in a sling. Cam was limping and leaning against his shepherd's crook.

"Bailey, the snake's at it again!" Cam said, cheeks flushed. The young shepherd coughed and wiped soot off his brow. "He's ranting about Eloria more than ever, and I think he's up to—" Cam froze, stared at Torin, and his eyes widened. "Torin, old boy! You're awake. Did you enjoy your nap?"

Twice his friend's size, Hem grinned. "Torin! By Idar, I thought you were dead when I saw those arrows slam into you."

Cam rolled his eyes. "The arrows were harmless.
You
almost killed him, jumping over him like that. Imagine you landed on him, a boy your size; you'd have crushed him like an ant."

The larger boy growled. "I saved his life. Careful that I don't crush
you
. You're about the size of an ant."

Cam glowered and shoved Hem, who shoved back, and soon the two were slapping at each other, grumbling and cursing. It took Bailey to step between them, place her hands on their chests, and shove them apart.

"You two can bicker like an old married couple later," the young woman said. "Right now, save your strength for battling Ferius, not each other."

She grabbed their ears and twisted. The two boys yowled, bent over, and winced. Bailey dragged them toward the door as they mewled, tugging their ears like leashes.

With a sigh, Torin stepped out of bed, pulled a tunic over his head, and followed. The four friends, the only members of the Village Guard, stepped out the door and into the sunlight.

When Torin beheld the village, his chest deflated and his lungs blazed anew.

It looked even worse than he'd expected. Several houses had burned to the ground; nothing remained but clay shells, charred furniture within. Their gardens, which Torin had lovingly grown over a span of years, had turned to ash. The maple tree still stood, but its leaves had burned off and soot covered its trunk; Torin doubted it would ever sprout again. Blood still coated the cobblestones of the village square. A charred robin's nest lay upon the ground, the eggs inside smashed.

"By Idar," Torin whispered.

Bailey placed a hand on his shoulder. "You slept during the funerals; you were hurt and we couldn't wake you." Her eyes hardened, her cheeks flushed, and her fingers tightened around his shoulders. "Ferius buried them in his temple graveyard. Fifteen bodies. Most of them were Idarith, not followers of his twisted order, and yet he took their bones and claimed their souls."

Queasy, Torin took a few steps farther into the village square. Past the charred maple, he turned to see the Sailith temple. Aside from the Watchtower upon the hill, the temple was the only building in Fairwool-by-Night built of stone, and it had survived the flames. Outside its gates stood the statue of a noble Timandrian crushing a twisted Elorian. Behind the sculpture, thick with brambles, sprawled the graveyard. The fresh graves rose in mounds.

"Why did Lord Kerof allow this?" Torin whispered.

Bailey lowered her head. "Grandpapa weakens every hourglass turn, his cough deeper, his limbs thinner. I fear he no longer has the strength to resist the temple." She looked at Torin, her brown eyes haunted. "I fear that Ferius has become the true ruler of this village."

As if on cue, the monk's voice rose from within the temple, twisted with fury. Standing outside in the square, Torin couldn't make out the words, but the monk's tone sounded venomous as ever. Bile rose in Torin's throat.

"He will demand another raid," Torin said and held Bailey's hand. "He will cross the dusk again and avenge this new death, and more blood will spill."

His wounds still blazing, Torin limped across the square, heading toward the temple. The stone structure towered above the smaller houses, its steeple seeming to tilt against the gliding clouds. Still holding hands, Torin and Bailey climbed the stairs toward the temple doors.

When he stood within the archway, Torin beheld a crowded chamber. A hundred people or more filled the place, covering the stone tiles. Despite the daylight slanting through the windows, torches crackled upon the walls. At the back of the room, Ferius stood at a stone altar, arms raised, a candle in each hand. The monk's eyes were closed and he chanted prayers, vowing to bring light to the darkness, to burn the demons of the night.

Two of his monks stood silently at his sides, faces hidden in their hoods. With every prayer their leader uttered, the monks mumbled their approval.

"See, Torin?" Bailey whispered, standing beside him within the doorframe. "Only two monks here. He used to have three. Remember the Elorian I killed?" Her voice dropped even lower. "I reckon it was a monk my sword slew, not an Elorian at all."

Ferius's words died on his lips. Across the hall, he lowered his arms and gazed toward the doorway. His eyes narrowed and he smiled thinly.

"And so," said the monk, "our brave defenders come to share the glory of the Sailith light. Have you come to beg forgiveness after cowering during the battle?"

Bailey snarled, drew half of her blade, and stepped forward. Torin grabbed her shoulder, holding her back; if she attacked Ferius now, she'd only be playing to his fiddle.

Torin took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. "Ferius, you've brought enough death to this village. You have—"

The crowd of villagers jeered, and Ferius spoke above them, his voice twisted with laughter. "Again you blame others, Torin the Gardener, for the sins of your demon friends. The nightfolk slew many in this village while you, supposed guardian, failed to defend us. But the Sailith Order will defend Timandra."

Bailey gave a wordless cry, tore herself free from Torin's grasp, and elbowed her way through the crowd.

"You venomous snake!" she shouted, face flushed. "You lying worm that crawls under stones. The Elorians did not slay our villagers.
You
did. Where were you in the battle? Hidden under cloaks, I reckon, disguised as Elorians as you burned and murdered."

Silence fell over the crowd.

All eyes turned to stare at Bailey. She stood fuming, fists clenched, glaring up Ferius.

The monk placed down his candles. Yellow robes swaying, he left the altar. He moved through the crowd, villagers parting to let him pass. When he reached Bailey, he leaned so close his nose almost touched her.

"Bailey Berin," he said, voice dripping disgust. He stood several inches shorter, but with his broad shoulders, bulging brow, and beady eyes, he seemed as menacing as an enraged bull. "Beware, girl, whom you choose as your enemy. The power of Sailith is greater than you can imagine. If you are not careful, it will burn you."

Torin stomped forward, placed his hands on Ferius's chest, and pushed the man back. He had never dared lay hands on Ferius before, but seeing the monk threaten Bailey, his dearest friend, sent rage shooting through him.

"Threaten her again," Torin said, "and you'll lie buried among those you killed."

Ferius hunched over, tightened his cloak around him, and glared up at Torin. With his sallow complexion and darting tongue, he seemed less a man and more a rabid beast.

"Your father would be ashamed of you, Torin the Gardener. He defended our kingdom. He fought the enemies of Arden. You betray your own people, and you spit on his memory." As if to demonstrate, Ferius spat onto Torin's boot. "Instead of fighting the true enemies of the sun, you have made an even greater enemy, boy." Fingers twisted into claws, Ferius began trudging toward the doors. "Make way, my people! Follow me to the river."

Ferius barreled past Torin and Bailey, knocking them back, and barged out the gateway into the sunlight. The people followed in a torrent. The congregation drained out into the square. Ferius walked at their lead, heading toward the docks.

Several boats moored upon the river. A month from now, on the summer solstice, the sheep of Fairwool-by-Night would be shorn, and these boats would be loaded with wool for the capital. A month later they would return, laden with iron ore, smoked sausages, parchment, furs, lumber, and other goods the village needed. But now the boats were empty, awaiting the busy summer. Ferius climbed into one boat, gesturing for his two monks to follow.

"People of Fairwool-by-Night!" he said. He stood in the boat, wobbling but speaking firmly. "I travel to Kingswall. I will speak with King Ceranor, my dear friend. I will return with armies!" He raised his fist. "I will bring brave men with swords and armor, true warriors, not gardeners and shepherds and bakers." He shot Torin a venomous look. "I will return with the might of Arden's hosts, and we will crush the enemy."

Silent and shadowed in their hoods, his monks untethered the boat, grabbed oars, and steered away from the docks. Once in deeper waters, the men unfurled the boat's sail. It caught the wind, propelling the vessel upriver

"The Sailith light will protect you, friends!" Ferius called from the stern. "We will return."

Torin stood on the riverbanks, watching the boat shrink into the distance.

Cam and Hem came to stand at side, the former grumbling curses after the dwindling boat, the latter nibbling on a pickle.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," Cam said and shook his fist at the distant boat. "We'll enjoy a few days without that snake. I hope he drowns and never returns."

Hem nodded, chewing. "Me too, I— Hey!" The baker's boy whined as Cam snatched the pickle from his hand.

"I told you, don't speak with your mouth full!" Cam tossed the pickle into the water.

Shoulders slumped, Hem watched his snack float away. "You didn't have to throw it into the water." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a second pickle, and began nibbling again. "As I was saying, I'm glad Ferius is gone. Did you hear how he said you're not a real soldier, Cam? Finally we can get some peace and quiet around here. Now come on, let's go grab a pint. Tor, old boy, I'm buying yours. You deserve it."

The two boys turned toward Torin, eyes eager and mouths smacking.

Torin looked at his friends and sighed. He wanted nothing more than to sit in The Shadowed Firkin tavern and enjoy some cold ale. Hem would sing his drinking songs, his voice surprisingly mellifluous, and Cam would entertain them by juggling turnips. Bailey would sit by the fireplace, beautiful and smiling, and maybe kiss Torin's cheeks like she did sometimes after a few drinks. He sighed again. Since the plague that had swept through Fairwool-by-Night, his tavern visits had soothed him almost as much as gardening.

"I can't," he said, looking at his friends. "I have to go after Ferius."

Cam gave a choking sound, and Hem dropped his second pickle into the river. Both gaped at him, eyes wide and jaws unhinged. Only Bailey did not seem surprised. She looked at Torin sadly and nodded, understanding.

You always understood me more than anyone, Bailey,
he thought, looking into her brown eyes, and his heart gave a twist. He would miss her on his journey. All his life, Bailey would mock him, dare him into trouble, and wrestle him when her temper flared. But she had also shared her roof with him for ten years, and she knew his heart, and she loved him.

"Why?" Cam sputtered. "Torin, let that weasel sail far away and forget about him. Why chase him?"

Hem nodded. "We're finally rid of him."

Torin stepped closer to his friends. "We're not rid of him for long. You heard what Ferius said. He plans to bring an army back here. He doesn't simply wish to protect our village." Torin shuddered. "He means to lead men into the night. He means to butcher Elorians in revenge." His friends paled, and Torin continued speaking, voice low. "I must travel to the capital too, and I must speak to the king. I must stop Ferius from sparking a full blown war."

Hem whimpered. "A war . . .  Arden hasn't fought a war since . . . not since your father's days."

Torin nodded. "Yes, not since my father fought alongside the king, battling Verilon. The northerners were a cruel foe, my father said, bearded barbarians clad in furs, riding bears into battle, swinging hammers as large as plows. But as cruel as Verilon is, and as strange with its snow and pines, it's still a kingdom in Timandra. Its people are still fellow children of the light. But a war with Eloria . . ." Torin looked eastward toward the dusk; he could just see the shadows beyond the fields and trees. "This is a war that could destroy not just our village, not just our kingdom, but the world. I have to stop this."

"But how?" Cam demanded, fists clenched at his sides. The scrawny shepherd shook his head. "Ferius is a monk, and the king is, well . . . a king. You're a
gardener
. Who will listen to you?"

"The king will," Torin replied, voice soft. "My father saved his life." They stared at him silently, and Torin closed his eyes. "It was in the forests of Verilon. The king had lost almost all of his forces, just as many fallen to the cold as to the Verilish hammers. They were only a thousand left, trudging along an icy mountain, when a Verilish horde attacked. My father said there were at least ten thousand of them, burly men all in fur and iron, riding bears. Their leader, a towering man with a great yellow beard, swung a hammer at King Ceranor. My father leaped, taking the blow against his shield. The shield shattered, its shards blinding the barbarian, saving the king's life." Torin had heard the story many times as a child. He opened his eyes. "The king will listen to me, the son of his friend. Do you remember when he visited my father's funeral in Fairwool-by-Night? I was very young then, but the king will remember me. He owes my family a debt. I won't let Ferius poison his mind. I will urge calm and we can end the bloodshed."

Bailey nodded, came to stand beside him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.