Shadows of Moth (3 page)

They're
coming here,
she thought.
The
wrath and cruelty of sunlight prepares to wash over the night.
She looked up at her sword; it seemed to cleave the moon.

"With this blade, I will
fight them. With this blade, I am Madori of the night."

* * * * *

Pain and memory.

It was all that remained.

A field of thorns had shredded
the tapestry of Torin's life, and every thistle held a rent of cloth,
scraps of memories over stabbing pain. Sounds. Smells. Reflections in
shattered glass.

In the darkness, he was broken,
scattered, clinging to those memories, reaching for them through the
haze of his broken body.

He lay in a cart, he thought,
the walls windowless, a box on wheels. He lay chained. He lay
bruised, famished, cut, bleeding. For a long time—months, maybe
years—he had languished in a dungeon. They were moving him now. He
remembered them dragging him out of his prison cell, beating him,
tossing him into this cart. How long had he lingered in these
shadows? He didn't know. The cart jostled along a road, and every
bump shot more pain through him. His head kept banging against the
floor; he was too weak to raise it.

Like the scattered shards of
broken bones, the memories spread around him, broken pieces.

In the darkness of the trundling
cart, Torin saw the sky of Eloria again. The stars shone, a great
field of constellations, a silvery path like a dragon's tail, a
cratered moon, a wonder of endless depths. It was the first time he'd
seen the night. He stood upon the hill with Bailey, with his dearest,
his oldest friend.

"Bailey," he whispered
in the cart, voice hoarse.

"Bailey," said a boy,
his cheeks soft, a youth who had just joined the Village Guard.

Bailey stood beside him upon the
hill, a year older, a couple inches taller, and a whole lot braver
and stronger. She gave him a crooked smile, mussed his hair, and
kissed his cheek.

"Scared, Winky?" she
asked.

He nodded. "Yes, and you
should be too. They live out there. Elorians."

Bailey only blew out her breath,
fluttering her lips. "If you ask me, 'Lorians are just a myth."
Then she laughed and grabbed his arm. "Come on, Babyface! Let's
explore."

They ran. They ran through
darkness. They ran through the fire in Pahmey. They ran through blood
and death in Yintao. They ran through the fields of time, up a
mountainside in the dusk, toward an ancient clock, and toward . . .

Pain.

Tears flowed down Torin's
cheeks.

"Bailey!" he cried,
holding her lifeless body, praying for her to wake up, to stay with
him. "Please. Bailey. I love you. Don't leave me."

He stood under sunrise, and he
placed flowers upon her grave.

Darkness.

Trailing stars in a lifeless
land of rock, water, and shadows.

And two more lights there in the
darkness, as bright as the moon and stars. Two eyes, large, lavender,
afraid. The woman peered from behind a boulder as he wheeled forth
the bones of her father. The woman stared from atop the city walls,
firing her arrows at him. The woman lay naked in his arms, and he
kissed her, made love to her. The woman walked toward him, clad in
white, holding a lantern. His bride. His Koyee.

"Where are you, Koyee?"
His lips cracked as he spoke. He tasted his blood. "He's coming.
Serin. Into the night."

He groaned, the words scratching
his throat. His many wounds throbbed. His belly clenched and his head
pounded. More images floated before him, faces and smiles and bright
eyes. A babe, newborn, lying in her mother's arms, wrapped in cotton.
A daughter running through the fields of Fairwool-by-Night, gazing in
wonder at the stars above Oshy, fishing with him in the river,
growing into a wise, strong woman . . . then leaving. Vanishing in
this war.

Where
are you, Madori?

His family—broken like his
body, scattered like these lanterns of memory.

The cart bounced, knocking his
head against the floor, then rolled to a halt. Torin moaned and
smelled his blood. He winced, anticipating more pain. The last few
times they had stopped moving, they had hurt him. He felt too weak
for more pain, for more screaming.

Curses and grumbles rose
outside. A lock jostled. Rough hands tugged open the cart door.

Sunlight flooded the cart,
blinding Torin. He moaned, wincing, able to see nothing but the
searing light. It felt like fire burning him, driving into every cut
on his body, raging inside his skull like flames inside an oven.

"Out!" rose the voice.
"Out of the cart, traitor."

Eyes narrowed to slits, Torin
saw them—Magerian soldiers. They had fought for Mageria long before
Serin had taken power, and they still displayed a painted buffalo
upon their chests—the ancient sigil of their kingdom. But now they
also sported eclipse pins upon their cloaks—the symbol of Serin's
Radian Order, the cruel ideology that had overtaken their land. The
soldiers' eyes were cruel, their faces weathered and scarred. One man
hefted a spear, thrust it into the cart, and goaded Torin. The
spearhead nicked his thigh, drawing blood, and Torin shouted
hoarsely.

"Into the sunlight,
nightcrawler-lover." The soldier spat. "You're in Timandra
now. Into the light."

Torin coughed and crawled out of
the cart, chains dragging. He thumped down into grass, swayed for a
moment on his feet, then fell to his knees, too weak to stand. He
blinked feebly, eyes adjusting to the sunlight, and looked around
him. The convoy had camped alongside a dirt road—a few wooden carts,
a hundred soldiers, and three robed mages upon dark horses. Fields of
wild grass sprawled toward faded blue mountains. A herd of buffalo
roamed across a distant hill, and hawks glided overhead. Shattered
columns rose on a second hill like broken ribs rising from a
corpse—remnants of Old Riyona, the empire that had once ruled the
lands north of the Sern.

We're
heading down Riyonan Road,
Torin thought, and a chill washed over him.
Toward
Markfir, Capital of Mageria. Toward Serin's court.

Torin knew what would happen
once they reached the walls of Markfir. He had heard enough tales of
Mageria's cruelty in its last war against Arden. Torin doubted he'd
be lucky enough for a painless death. More likely they would torture
him—cut open his belly, quarter him, and flay him before finally
letting him die. They would hang his mutilated remains above the
gates of the city, the traitor of sunlight, a lesson for all to see.

Torin winced.

But
not before they hurt me some more.

Snorts rose from the head of the
convoy. A massive dark horse, twice the usual size, moved off the
road, a beast of black fur, oozing red eyes, and nostrils that leaked
smoke and sparks of fire. Perhaps the creature had once been an
ordinary stallion, augmented with magic, bloated into this terror of
muscle and rank flesh. Flies bustled around it, and its stench wafted
across the camp. Upon the beast rode a towering man, eight or nine
feet tall, wrapped in a black cloak. Four arms sprouted from his
torso, and each hand held a serrated blade. A helmet like an iron
bucket encircled his head, and red eyes like embers blazed through
the eye holes, staring at Torin, boring into him. Torin grimaced
under the gaze; those eyes burned him like true embers pressed
against his skin.

Lord
Gehena,
Torin thought, his teeth rattling and his jaw creaking. Serin's most
prized soldier. The man who had crushed Arden. The man who would
deliver the famous Torin Greenmoat to his capital.

The dark warrior dismounted and
walked across the camp, heading toward Torin. Buckles jingled upon
his boots, and each footfall crushed stones beneath it. Shadows
writhed around the man—if a man he truly was—like smoky snakes. His
cloak fluttered in the wind, its hem burnt and tattered. Tools hung
from his belt: pliers, pincers, thumbscrews, hammers, and vials of
acid.

Chains jangling, Torin struggled
to rise to his feet. He stared at Gehena, forcing himself to meet the
burning red gaze.

"My value to you lessens
with every wound," Torin said. "If you want ransom, the
queen will onl—"

Gehena raised one of his four
hands. Bolts of magic blasted out of his black dagger, screeched
through the air, and slammed into Torin.

He fell, writhing. The magic
crawled into him, racing through his veins like parasites. Torin
couldn't help it. He screamed. When the magic finally left him, he
trembled.

One of Gehena's boots—twice the
size of a normal man's foot—stepped onto Torin's chest. His ribs
creaked, and Torin couldn't even scream, couldn't even breathe.

A hissing voice like astral
smoke wafted out of Gehena's helmet. "I care not for ransom."

Another blast of magic slammed
into Torin. The tiny shards of pain drove through him, exploring his
innards, and finally tore out of his skin with a bloody mist.

"I've told you everything I
know!" Torin shouted, almost blind with the pain. "I have
no information to give you. I—"

Gehena laughed, a horrible sound
like thunder rolling through a cave. Strands of magic tugged Torin to
his feet, then into the air, squeezing him, crushing him. The magic
levitated him to eye level with Gehena. The creature stared at him,
those eyes all-consuming, burning with cold fire. Torin hovered two
feet above the ground, his blood dripping into the grass.

"I don't care for
information either," said Gehena. "You betrayed the
sunlight. You fought for the night. I care only . . . for your pain."

That pain blasted out of Gehena
in a holocaust of blinding fire.

Torin screamed.

The red light washed over him,
and he saw no more.

 
 
CHAPTER THREE:
THE LORDS OF LIGHT

Koyee knelt by her bed, her chest
constricting, barely able to breathe. Her head spun and she had to
force in air. She had fought many battles, yet now she felt faint,
felt her world crashing down. Her home's walls, simple clay adorned
with prayer scrolls, seemed to close in around her.

"We swore to protect her,
Torin," Koyee whispered. "We swore to give her a better
world. Swore she'd never fight like we did."

She trembled to remember that
turn seventeen years ago when Madori had been born. Koyee had been so
afraid then, holding the little bundle. Most mothers felt joy when
holding their babes, but Koyee had felt fear, guilt, and crushing
sadness. A child of both day and night. A torn child in a torn world.

"How could I have brought
life into this world?" she had whispered to Torin.

He had comforted her, telling
her that the world was healed now, that Ferius was dead, that peace
had come. Yet now . . . now her dear husband was missing, perhaps
dead in a new war that engulfed Timandra. And now her daughter,
though returned to Eloria, would train to be a warrior.

"I wanted you to be a
gardener, perhaps a healer," Koyee whispered, clutching her
palms upon her bed. "Not this. Not a soldier."

Why had she given Madori the
sword? She could have shouted, could have insisted Madori sailed to
safety. She could have dragged Madori to safety herself. What kind of
mother sent her child to train to become a killer?

Koyee sighed. She knew the
answer.

"Because there is no safety
anywhere in Moth," she whispered to herself. "Because only
killers will survive now. Because the fire of sunlight is returning
to our lands, and only with steel will Madori survive now. Only in
the wilderness of Eloria, training to become a warrior, will Madori
find some hope."

She
silently added words she would not speak.
Please,
spirit of Xen Qae, let her training in the darkness last for many
moons. If the fire of war must blaze, let it burn and die before
Madori can return.
Her breath trembled.
Do
not let my sweet daughter turn into a killer. Do not let her take
lives as I've taken lives.

Koyee did not know how many men
she had killed; she had slain too many to count, and each was a
weight upon her soul, another scar inside her. Madori's cheeks
perhaps were scarred now, but her heart was still pure.

Every
time you take a life, you chip off another piece of your soul.
Koyee
lowered her head, eyes squeezed shut.
Please,
Xen Qae, if you watch over me, keep my daughter's soul pure.

A knock sounded on the door—so
loud that Koyee started. An instant later, Madori stepped into the
room.

Koyee rubbed her eyes. "Madori,
by Xen Qae . . . I don't know why you even knock if you just barge in
anyway."

Madori bristled. "I don't
know why you even talk if it's just to scold me."

Koyee sighed. "What have
you come for?"

"Well, nothing now."
Madori's eyes reddened. "I had a gift for you, but I'm tossing
it out." She turned to leave.

Koyee's heart twisted. She
leaped forward and grabbed her daughter. "Madori, wait. Please."

The girl reeled toward her, eyes
red. "What?"

"I don't want to fight. All
we ever do is fight. Let's not part like this." Koyee guided her
daughter into the room and they sat on the bed. "What have you
brought me?"

Madori chewed her lip and
clenched and unclenched her fists, seeming torn between her anger and
forgiveness. Whenever they talked, it seemed like this—Madori
forever torn between love and hatred, confusion and rage. Finally the
girl relaxed, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a silver locket
on a chain.

"For you," she said.

Koyee took the gift and smiled.
"It's beautiful. Where did you get this?"

"Old Shinluan made it for
me in the village. It's real silver. Look inside."

Koyee snapped the locket open.
Inside she saw a delicate painting of Madori's face, perfectly
lifelike.