Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (15 page)

His riders fought around him,
wolves clawing, swords lashing. Some fell to the maces. Most fought
on, shouting, slaying the enemy. Blood and shattered weapons littered
the riverbank. Across the water, the city burned and the banners of
Sailith filled the sky. Death rolled over the night.

When the battle ended, Okado
panted and gazed upon the slaughter. Hundreds lay dead around him,
Timandrians and Elorians alike, men and women and wolves. Not one of
the monks had fled. Not one had surrendered. They had fought to the
last man, dying with smiles and prayers upon their lips; two hundred
lay torn apart, steel and bodies shattered. Riders and wolves lay
dead among them, blood soaking fur.

Suntai rode her wolf toward him.
The blood of her enemies splattered her face. She licked it off her
teeth, spat, and gazed at him.

"My mate," she said,
"the city burns. I hear the cries from here. Thousands die."

Okado wheeled his wolf toward
the river. He gazed across the water at Pahmey, his belly tightened,
and he gnashed his teeth. A mace's wound drove into his leg, but he
did not feel the pain. No more screams rose from the distant city;
the cries of the dying now rose only in memory. He heard only the
chants of Sailith, only their prayers.

"Death to Elorians! Death
to Elorians!"

Okado's fist shook around his
hilt, and his eyes burned. "A hundred thousand Timandrians or
more fill that city. How can we fight them, Suntai? How can we avenge
our fallen?"

A soft voice answered him, but
it was not Suntai speaking. This voice was higher, fair and young, a
voice like summer rain upon stone.

"We will raise the night.
Eloria must fight as one."

Okado spun back toward the
southern plains. He saw her there, standing among the corpses, blood
staining her bare feet. She was no rider of Chanku; in the fashion of
Pahmey, she wore a silk tunic and a sash around her waist, and a
katana hung at her side. Her long, white hair flowed in the wind, and
her lavender eyes gazed at him. Three scars rifted her face—the
scars of nightwolf claws, old and white. She was only a youth, but
her eyes seemed old. There was pain and wisdom and haunting ghosts in
those eyes.

Okado dismounted his wolf,
walked through the blood, and stood before her. Other riders
surrounded her, trapping her in a ring of blades and fangs. Here
stood a woman of Pahmey, their ancient enemy. Okado snapped his teeth
at those riders and wolves who approached.

"Stand back, riders!"

He stared down at the young
woman; she stood barely taller than his shoulder, and she was
probably only half his weight. Yet she met his eyes with serene
strength; hers were not fierce, flashing eyes like those of Suntai,
but two pools of ancient water.

"I saw you flee the river
with several others," Okado said. "Have they fallen in the
battle?"

The young woman shook her head,
curtains of hair swaying. "They hide in the darkness behind the
hills. Fifty people of Pahmey are among them; most are wounded. Five
Timandrians there are too." The riders growled at this, and the
woman spoke louder. "They helped us flee the city where their
monks butcher our people; these five turned against their rulers and
joined the night. You will not harm them, riders of Chanku. Yes, I
know your name. Many speak of the fierce outlaws who torment the
plains, their riders no more noble than beasts." She smiled
crookedly. "Here I see that both beasts and riders are as noble
as dragons. I thank you."

Okado looked back at the distant
city. Smoke plumed from its streets and the chants of soldiers rolled
across the water. The banners of the enemy fluttered from towers.

"How many have died in the
city?" he said, turning back toward the young woman.

She lowered her head.
"Thousands. Perhaps all. King Ceranor, who led the sunlit
kingdom of Arden, lies dead. He was a conqueror and cruel, but an
even crueler tyrant usurped him. The demon Ferius rules now,
commanding both monks and soldiers. He seeks to slay every child of
the night. We fled him and come to seek aid."

"The sunlit demons are too
many," Okado said. "Thousands lurk within that city.
Countless more swarm across the lands of Eloria. All we can do in
these times of fire, daughter of Pahmey, is retreat to our dens,
defend them as we can, and survive in shadow."

Her eyes narrowed and finally
some fire filled them. "There will be no more shadows, master of
wolves. The sunlit demons will light the darkness." She drew her
katana. "I have fled slaughter, but not the war. I will fight."

A few of the riders around her,
even the women, sneered at this youth with her bold words and naked
blade, a slight thing clad only in silk, no wolf between her legs.
But Okado did not sneer. A gasp fled his lips, and his brow furrowed.
He took a step closer to her, leaned down, and stared at her sword.

The smell of cooking crayfish
filled his nostrils. The songs his mother would sing filled his ears.
Ghosts danced before his eyes: a brazier crackling in a hut, a sister
playing with clay dolls, and a father polishing an ancient blade he
had carried to war against the Ilari Empire.

Okado stared at the sword the
woman held, and he knew it; he had held it himself, dreaming of
becoming a soldier someday, a hero like his father. Swirls and
mottles coiled across the folded steel. Blue silk wrapped around its
hilt. Upon its guard, he saw the old etchings of lighting and stars.

"Sheytusung," he
whispered. "You bear a blade of legend." Rage filled him,
emerging as a growl. "Where did you find this sword, girl? How
dare you raise Sheytusung, the blade of a hero, a sword that slew
many in Ilar, that . . ."

Seeing her eyes widen, his voice
trailed off. The young woman tilted her head, and her brow furrowed,
and she gasped. She took a frightened step back, still holding her
sword, and mouthed silent words.

Okado stared at her and his own
eyes widened. His breath died in his lungs.

"Okado, Okado!" a
young girl had cried years ago. "Okado, come play in the water!"

His sister, a mere child of six
years, had tugged him into the Inaro and swam with him. They
collected river stones, gems of the water, blue and green and
shimmering black. His sister had thought them jewels and collected
them in her boxes at home.

"Okado, look, a blue one!"
she had said, emerging from the water, laughter on her lips, stars in
her eyes. "Here, for you."

He had left her that year. He
had been sixteen, old enough to follow his own path, to seek his
fortune in the east. He traveled for many hourglass turns across the
plains. He hunted and lived wild in the night. He found the great
Chanku Pack, warriors of legend, and joined their ranks, serving
first as omega, scouring pots and skinning hunted game until he rose
to command. Yet he had never forgotten her. He reached into his
pocket now, a man and leader of men, and brought out the blue river
stone she had gifted him.

When she saw the stone, the
young woman gasped. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Okado?" she
whispered.

The other riders be damned.
Okado stepped toward her, pulled her into an embrace, and nearly
crushed her. She clung to him, whispering his name, and he held her
head and gazed upon her and laughed.

"My sister." Fire rose
behind him and death crawled upon the land, but standing here in
blood, Okado laughed. "My sister. Koyee."

 
 
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
THE FIRE

The
child huddled in the darkness, tugging the claws off living crayfish.
He laughed as the animals squirmed and died upon the floor.

"You
will suffer." The child licked his lips, brought a severed claw
to his lips, and sucked the juice. "You will watch me feed upon
you."

He
laughed and grabbed another animal from the bucket. Crayfish were
weak. Crayfish couldn't mock him, shove him, laugh at his small eyes.
Their eyes were even smaller and beadier than his. The child snarled.
He wanted to pluck off their eyes, to blind them, make sure they
could never look at him. He hated eyes looking at him.

He
tore off another claw, but now his fists shook, his teeth gnashed,
and too much pain filled him for laughter. He tossed the mangled
crayfish down, rose to his feet, and stepped on the animal, grinding
his heel, snickering as the pathetic thing cracked.

"Ferius,
Ferius!" rose the voices outside. "Come play, Ferius!"

The
child froze.

"Ferius!"
the other children cried outside the hut. "Come play with us."

The
child sucked in his breath. The other children . . . wanted to play
with him? With the half-demon, the child born of a sunlit father, his
hair dark, his black eyes too small for the darkness?

"I
. . ." Ferius swallowed. "I'm coming."

He
rushed to the door, yanked it open, and burst outside. The village of
Oshy spread before him, its round clay huts encircling a cobbled
square, moonstar runes glowing upon their doors. The river flowed to
the south, lined with docks and swaying boats. The Nighttower rose in
the north, a sentinel watching the glow of dusk. In the west, that
strip of orange blazed, an eternal scar across the land.

The
border with the day. Ferius stared at the glow, his throat
tightening. His father had come from within that light. His father
had loved an Elorian woman of the night. Ferius's eyes—the small
eyes of a Timandrian—burned with tears.
My
father left me.

"Ferius,
do you want to play?"

He
blinked, noticing the children for the first time. They held no
lanterns, and Ferius's eyes were too small to see what others could.
When he squinted, he could just make out five of them—children his
age. Full-blooded Elorians, they had pale skin, white hair, and
gleaming blue eyes twice the size of his.

"You
. . ." Ferius could barely speak. "You really want to play
with me?"

"Of
course!" one child said, a girl named Sanira. She was twelve
years old, a couple years older than Ferius, and she had never before
spoken to him.

Hope
welled within Ferius. The children's eyes gleamed, and Ferius felt a
smile tickling the corners of his lips. It was true! For years, the
other children had shunned him. His blood was impure; his father had
been a demon of sunlight. For years they had mocked him, called him
Fish Eyes, and tugged at his black, coarse hair—a tattered rug
compared to their smooth, white hair like silk. But now they wanted
his company!

His
smile growing, Ferius took a step closer to them. He still could not
see them well—only a few lanterns hung from poles across the
courtyard, casting dim light—but he could see their smiles. It was
enough for him.

"What
game do you want to play?" he asked.

Their
grins widened. "Swim-in-the-dark!" they announced as one
and leaped toward him.

Confused,
Ferius only stood frozen as the children grabbed his arms and legs.
He only blinked, blinded and dizzy, as they hoisted him above their
heads. They carried him across the square, chanting and laughing.
"Swim-in-the-dark, swim-in-the-dark!"

Ferius
didn't like this. Lifted above them, he felt much like the crayfish
he had tormented. He imagined these children tormenting him the same
way, ripping off his arms to feed upon them. His eyes stung.

"Put
me down!" he said. "I don't like this game. I—"

His
breath died when he saw the docks ahead. The children carried him
along the boardwalk and onto a pier. Ferius struggled, but they were
too many, and he was too weak—the shortest and weakest among them, a
scrawny boy half-blind in the endless night.

"Swim-in-the-dark!"
the children shouted, and tossed him into the river.

Ferius
crashed into the icy water. Instinctively, he opened his mouth to
scream and swallowed water. He thrashed madly, his head bobbed over
the surface, and he coughed and gulped air.

"Help!"
he shouted, floundering. "I can't swim."

The
children raced along the boardwalk, laughing and pointing as the
current tugged Ferius downriver.

"Swim
away, Fish Eyes!" shouted one child.

"You
are a half-demon!" said Sanira—beautiful, pale Sarina whom he
had secretly loved. "You don't belong with us. Your blood is
full of sunlight. Drown in the darkness!"

He
gave her a last look, tears in his eyes, and his head sank underwater
again. He could hear them laughing as he floated away.

For
a mile or more, he sputtered, rising over the water and sinking
again. Finally the river slammed him into a jutting boulder, and he
cried in pain. He clung to the rock and climbed out of the water,
shivering, his teeth chattering. The river flowed all around him, a
mile wide.

The
village was only a distant glow of lanterns now. All around him
spread the darkness of endless night. The stars shone above. The
water flowed silver in the moonlight. Everywhere else there was only
the cold, black emptiness of Eloria.

Eyes
stinging, Ferius rose to his shaky feet upon the boulder, his little
island in the river. He turned toward the west, and he saw it there.

The
orange shine of dusk.

As
Ferius shivered, tears flowed down his cheeks.

"You
came from there, Father," he whispered, lips trembling. "You
are a Timandrian, a sunlit demon. A creature of the land of light and
fire." He nearly slipped from the boulder, stretched out his
arms, and righted himself. "You made me. You cursed me. You
created a . . . a half-demon, a creature like a duskmoth, half light
and half dark, torn." His chest heaved with sobs. "I will
find you, Father. I will travel the lands of sunlight and find you.
And I will kill you."

It
was an hour or more before a fishing boat arrived, his mother rowing
downriver and calling his name. When Ferius climbed into her boat,
she tried to embrace him, and tears filled her eyes, but Ferius only
shoved her back.
He
was there.
He
was in the boat, sleeping in his crib. His mother's new, pure-blooded
son. The boy meant to replace Ferius. The babe Okado.