Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (11 page)

She swallowed. Perhaps even
what? A man she could love? Bailey laughed mirthlessly. Such thoughts
had been filling her mind too often of late; again she shoved them
out, snickering at herself.

"When I find you, Torin,
I'm going to beat you up for making me worry so much about you."

She crested the last few steps,
hurried between two columns, and stepped onto a shadowy portico.
Flagstones spread toward a pair of stone doors.

Bailey froze.

He stood across the portico,
maybe fifty feet ahead. Torin. In his arms, he was holding the young
Elorian woman. Koyee. Their lips were locked in a kiss.

Bailey stared, feeling like the
columns were crashing around her.

"I'll be back with more
people," Torin was saying to the girl. "Goodbye, Koyee."

He parted from her, turned from
the hospice doors, and hurried away. After a few steps, he saw Bailey
and the boys standing between the columns. His eyes widened and
relief swept across his face. He ran toward them, pulled all three
into a great embrace, and squeezed them.

"Thank Idar!" he said.
"Bailey! Boys! I'm glad to see you here. It's a damn nightmare
out there. I brought two wounded Elorians into the hospice, but . . .
by the light, they're killing so many."

When seeking Torin through the
city, Bailey had imagined squeezing him in her embrace, kissing his
cheek, mussing his hair, then slapping him a few times for making her
worry, only to then smile and kiss him again. Now she only stood
stiffly in his arms, and a strange coldness filled her, and the image
of him kissing Koyee kept dancing in her mind.

This
is no time for jealousy, you woolhead!
she scolded herself.
The
city is drenched in blood, and Torin is only a winky-eyed babyface
besides. Stop acting like a stupid, lovestruck girl.

She pulled away from the
embrace. The four friends, once the Village Guard and now occupiers
of the night, stood between the columns, faces pale, armor splashed
with blood. For a moment, all four could only stare in silence. The
three looked at her—Hem with his plump cheeks and wobbling lip; Cam
with his sharp features, his normally mocking grin gone from his
face; and Torin, once a soft youth, now a grim and silent soldier.

Bailey grimaced and looked at
her feet.

They
look at me for guidance,
she thought. The oldest, loudest, tallest, and bravest one of the
group, she had always been their leader. Back in the sunlight, she
had run at their lead through the forests, swam ahead of them in the
river, scolded them for torn clothes or dented armor, praised them
for a song well sung or a tree well climbed, and even comforted them
through the sadness of lost pets, wilted crops, or broken hearts.
Here too, she knew, they wanted her leadership. They wanted the
brazen Bailey Berin, daughter of their mayor, to lead them through
the shadow.

But things were different here.
She could perhaps lead the boys up trees, through fields, and across
rivers, but how could she lead them through blood and darkness? This
was too big for her. She was the granddaughter of a mayor, destined
to rule a village of five hundred souls. Here in Pahmey, hundreds of
thousands were suffering, dying, desperate for aid; how could she be
a leader here?

It's
too big for me,
she thought, throat tight.

"Bailey," Hem
ventured, his voice meek and shaking. "What do we do now?"

She forced herself to swallow
the lump in her throat. She tightened her lips, nodded, and glared at
the three boys.

"What do you think we do?"
she said, hands on her hips. "We do what Winky did. We sneak
more Elorians into this hospice." She stared at the babyface.
"You saved two? I bet I can save twenty."

He barked a mirthless laugh.
"Everything is a contest with you, isn't it?"

She nodded and jabbed a finger
against his chest. "You know it is. Now come on!" She
grabbed his hand and began dragging him downstairs and away from the
hospice. "We're going to save whoever we can. Boys! You too.
Winky and I will head along the east road; you two lumps go west.
Grab whoever you can and smuggle them here—under your cloaks, inside
barrels, I don't care how, just get people into this hospice."

They clanked and clattered
downstairs. Fire blazed inside Bailey, searing her fear. This was
better. This was a plan. This would make her forget Torin kissing
that . . . that . . .

No.
She
gnashed her teeth.
Don't
you think about that now, Bailey Berin, or I'll slap myself right in
the face.

They hurried downstairs and into
the square again. Blood smeared the cobblestones. An Elorian family
lay dead, arrows in their backs. Emerging from a narrow road lined
with shops, several Elorian children tried to race across the square
toward the hospice; a Timandrian knight rode his horse in pursuit,
cut the children down, then turned to ride back onto the road.
Elorians fled before him.

Bailey snarled and gripped her
sword. She tugged Torin's hand.

"Come
on
,
Winky! Down that road." She turned toward a second road, this
one lined with glass homes and mushroom gardens. "Boys! You head
down that way. We meet back at the hospice doors."

She raced down the road,
dragging Torin behind her. Cam and Hem hurried down the second path.
As Bailey ran, nausea rose inside her. The corpses of Elorians
littered the streets, slashed with swords, beaten with clubs, and
trampled with hooves. The knight ahead was galloping down the road.
Other Timandrians, these ones marching afoot, were smashing the doors
and windows of shops. They laughed as they plundered, scattering
pottery, hourglasses, musical instruments, and mushrooms across the
street.

"The savages cower like
rats!" one soldier said and smashed a window. He peered inside.
"Nightfolk, nightfolk, come out to see the light!"

His companion, a soldier missing
two teeth, laughed and kicked a stray cat. "Where are they? Have
we killed them all? I want more to kill."

As Bailey and Torin approached,
the soldiers—there were about a dozen of them—turned toward them.
They laughed and gestured at the ruin of the street. Shattered glass
and smashed goods lay everywhere. Several corpses bled.

"You're too late,"
said one soldier, laughing. "We killed them all, we did."
He kicked a corpse. "Help us find more. I reckon these nightfolk
are hiding in every house."

A few soldiers stepped into one
shop and began to topple shelves. A creak sounded above, and Bailey
looked up to see two Elorian children—they looked no older than five
or six—peering down from a shop's attic. Their gleaming eyes widened
with fear, and they retreated from the window.

Torin met her gaze; he had seen
them too. The soldiers around them, however, were too busy
ransacking, smashing, and biting into mushrooms.

"I saw a couple!"
Bailey said. Torin gasped and she shot him a withering stare. "I
saw two Elorians."

The soldiers turned toward her,
blood on their weapons, their eyes thirsting for more. She pointed
down the road.

"They went there, around
the corner. Little sneaky ones."

The soldiers hooted and laughed,
nudged one another, and turned to run in pursuit.

"More vermin to kill!"
one called.

"More cockroaches to
crush!"

Hooting and laughing, the
soldiers raced around the corner, disappearing from view. Bailey let
out a shaky breath. She grabbed Torin's hand again.

"Let's get them into the
hospice; the attic won't hide them for much longer, not if they keep
peering outside."

Torin looked around the street,
face ashen. For a moment he only stood staring at the corpses; ten or
more lay across the street. Finally he tightened his lips, nodded,
and moved toward the shop.

They stepped into a room of torn
parchment, smashed clay, and blood. This had once been a pottery
shop; bowls, jugs, and mugs lay shattered across the floor. Two
corpses, a man and woman in blue silk, lay with slit necks. Bailey
clenched her jaw to stop from vomiting. The sound of weeping children
rose from the attic, though Bailey was tempted to dart outside, race
through the streets until she found Ferius, and stab him dead.

She sucked in breath between her
teeth. Ferius rode with hundreds of soldiers; here two children
needed her. Fists trembling, she waded through the broken pottery
toward a staircase. Torin moved at her side, eyes dark and mouth a
tight line.

They climbed a narrow stairway,
opened a trapdoor, and emerged into an attic full of uncooked clay
wrapped in cloth. The two children saw them and cowered into the
corner, shivering and begging. Bailey couldn't understand all their
words—Torin was better at Qaelish than her—but she didn't need to.

They're
begging for their lives.

"We here for help,"
Bailey said, speaking in Qaelish, which she had only been studying
for several months; the words felt stiff and clumsy in her mouth.
Though her eyes stung, she smiled gently and reached out her hand.
"We help. Come."

The children only cowered deeper
into the shadows. Tears flowed from their violet eyes, large Elorian
eyes for seeing in the darkness. Their lips shook. One was a boy, the
other a girl; neither seemed older than six.

"Please," the girl
begged, shivering as she hugged a rag doll shaped like a dragon.
"Please, my dragon is scared. I want my mama. Where is my mama?"

Bailey lowered herself onto her
hands and knees, crawled forward, and smiled.

"What doll's name?"
she asked, hoping they could understand her accent.

"Shenlai," said the
girl. "Like the real Shenlai in the east. He's scared and he
wants our mama."

"Can I pat him?"
Bailey asked. When the girl nodded, she reached out and patted the
dragon's silken head.

From outside, the thud of boots
and shouts of soldiers rose again. A distant scream of pain tore
across the street. Torin stiffened beside her, armor clanking.

"Bailey, we have to go,"
he said.

She nodded and smiled again at
the young children. "Shenlai be very brave. You two be brave
too. Hold our backs, under . . ." She couldn't remember the
Qaelish word for cloaks. " . . .under back blankets."

With a few more smiles and
soothing words, she got the little girl to cling to her back, hidden
under her cloak. The young boy piggybacked onto Torin, similarly
hidden. When they stepped outside the shop, they saw an Elorian man
race along the street, yowling with fear. Five Timandrian soldiers
ran in pursuit, laughing, their swords drawn.

Bailey closed her eyes for just
a moment, steeled herself with a deep breath, and began to walk
across puddles of blood. Torin walked at her side. Under their
cloaks, the children clung silently to their backs.

"Back to the hospice,"
she said. "Then back to the streets. Again and again." She
growled and tasted tears on her lips. "Thousands will die, but
we can save a few. We can save a few."

They made their way down the
road. Around them, the screams and blood flowed across the city.

 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT:
INTO DARKNESS

They kept arriving—two refugee
children, then a family, then a pair of young women, then an elder
hobbling on a cane. Every hour, Torin or one of his friends rushed
into the hospice, sneaking an Elorian under a cloak, inside
Timandrian robes of wool, or—in the case of one toddler—even
wrapped inside a blanket.

Standing in the hospice cellar,
Koyee had removed her Sisterhood mask. Clad in her leather robes, she
rushed from person to person. She tended to wounds. She dried
children's tears and whispered comforts. She stroked hair and prayed.

"Be strong, children of
Eloria," she said, throat feeling so tight. "We are the
night."

The cellar was cramped, a place
for storing food, vinegar, and bandages, a place of shadow lit by
only several candles. Fifty or more Elorians now hid here, bloodied,
shivering, some weeping. Between shelves and chests, their eyes
stared at her, gleaming in the dark. They repeated the words of their
people—not just of this city, not just of their empire of Qaelin,
but the words shared by all Elorians, dwellers Moth's dark half. "We
are the night."

The door burst open. As she did
every time, Koyee started and reached for her sword, sure that Ferius
or his thugs had invaded the hospice and found them. But it was only
Torin and Bailey, faces flushed, leading in three more
Elorians—children in torn clothes who huddled together, splashed
with blood. Koyee rushed forward and began tending to the wounds.
Only moments later, Cam and Hem entered the chamber too, leading
several more city folk. The cellar was full to the brim.

"It's bad out there,"
said Cam, the short and slim soldier—he stood barely taller than
Koyee. "We were by the library and . . ." His face paled
and his words trailed off.

Hem—the largest man Koyee had
ever seen—covered his face. "Ferius was there. He's horrible.
His yellow robes were all red with blood, and his warriors were with
him, monks in crimson armor. They . . . they . . ." Hem too
could no longer continue.

Koyee narrowed her eyes, stepped
forward, and placed her hands on the boys' shoulders; Hem's shoulder
was taller than her head.

"What?" she said.
"Tell me."

Cam swallowed and wiped sweat
off his brow. "At first, I thought Ferius and his followers only
wanted to let out steam—to plunder, smash, and destroy for a
turn—and then things would go back to normal. But . . . oh Idar. He
stood upon the library steps and raised his hands, and he shouted to
an army of soldiers. He ordered them to kill every Elorian in this
city. Liquidation, he called it. 'Leave no Elorian alive!' he
shouted, face all red, blood on his hands."