Moth (3 page)

Some villagers muttered agreements, and one farmer waved a sickle and shouted for blood. Mothers clutched their children to their breasts. Yana had been a plague orphan like Torin—she had no relatives to mourn her, yet in a village of only five hundred souls, every orphan was loved. More iron tools rose, and shouts rang across the hill.

Old Mayor Kerof, white hair billowing, blustered and raised his hands and urged calm, but his cough silenced his words. Torin helped the kindly elder back into his wicker seat, turned back toward the crowd, and shouted.

"So what will you do? March into Nightside? Fight a war with farm tools and bread knives?" Torin shook his head. "My friends, return to your fields, workshops, and pastures. Let us in the Village Guard do our job. We will defend you."

Ferius snorted a laugh. "Hear the heathen speak his deception! He claims to protect you? Did he protect our dearest Yana, a beautiful child snatched too soon?" His beady eyes blazed. "The demons slew her. The dwellers of the dark." Ferius's lips peeled back, baring his teeth. "The creatures slew a being of the light. Only Sailith can defend us blessed, sunlit children from the beasts of darkness. Only Sailith can defeat the Elorians."

Those words swept through the crowd like wildfire. Men shouted and brandished their weapons. Children wailed and one woman fainted.

"We must kill one of their own!" shouted a farmer.

"We must fight back!" cried a woman, face red, and raised a cleaver.

"We
will
fight back." Ferius raised his arms. "My friends, the Sailith Order does not merely claim to defend you while letting children die. Sailith fights against evil."

Torin began to object, but it seemed nobody heard him. Voices rang out. Fear boiled into anger. Smiling thinly, Ferius reached into his robes and pulled out an effigy of wicker and wood. He held the doll over his head. It was shaped as an Elorian—its eyes oversized, its hair white, its wooden claws painted red.

"Sailith does not cower!" Ferius shouted. "Sailith will slay the beasts."

He snapped his fingers. As if by magic, a spark flew toward the effigy. The small, wicker Elorian burst into flames. The villagers cheered, raised their fists, and waved their weapons. Ferius tossed down the effigy and stamped it with his boot.

"Death to Elorians!" the monk shouted, and the people answered his call.

"Death to Elorians! Death to Elorians!"

Torin raised his hands and shouted above them. "My friends, please. Calm yourselves. Do not spread more violence."

Those words only seemed to whip Ferius into a deeper frenzy. He paced across the hilltop, robes swaying and eyes wild.

"See how the heathen loves the nightfolk," the monk cried. "See how he wishes to protect them. See his darkened left eye, an eye blind to the sunlight; does his evil eye gaze eternally into the night?"

The people grumbled, pointed at Torin, and muttered of treachery. Torin fumed. He held no love for Elorians. He had seen Yana's body cut and butchered. He had walked to the very cusp of darkness and gazed upon its unholy plains. His parents had died in the plague—an illness the people claimed Eloria had spread. And now he was accused of loving the enemy?

"I only want to stop more bloodshed—" he began, but Ferius was already walking downhill, calling for the people to follow.

"My monks bear lanterns, my friends," he said. "We will bring light to the darkness. We will march into the dusk, and we will find the demon that slew our child. We will have vengeance!"

The mob roared. "Vengeance! Vengeance!"

Robes swaying, Ferius led the people downhill toward the shadowy, eastern forests—the realms of dusk where the sun faded into the eternal night. His three followers, hooded and silent monks, walked at his sides. They produced oil lanterns from their packs, lit flames within, and held the lights high. Lanterns had no use in Fairwool-by-Night, a village drenched in eternal sunlight, yet all followers of Sailith carried them, symbols of their faith.

"We will light the darkness!" Ferius shouted, raising his own lantern. "We will instill fear in the demons' hearts."

Torin grumbled and fear filled his own heart. He had loved the girl Yana, yet she had wandered into the shadows. She had placed herself in danger. And now Ferius would lead fifty people into the same danger. How many would the Elorians slaughter—like they had slaughtered Yana?

Reluctantly, he began to follow the mob downhill. He could perhaps not sway them away from the darkness, but he was still a Village Guardian, and he would do his best to protect them. He passed by his fellow guards and gestured for them to follow.

"Come on," he said. "We're going with them."

Short, scrawny Cam raised an eyebrow. Tall, portly Hem swallowed a handful of mulberries and wiped his hands on his pants.

"Are you quite mad?" the rotund youth said, lips stained blue. "It's dangerous out there."

Half the baker's size, Cam nodded. "Hem only fears two things: an empty pantry and a land with no fruit trees. I only fear one thing: a hungry Hem. I ain't going nightward either."

Torin growled and grabbed both boys. He began tugging them downhill after the mob, ignoring their objections.

"We're Village Guardians," he said. "Our job is to protect the villagers, even if they're naive enough to march right into danger. Now put down those mulberries, draw your swords, and follow."

Ahead, Ferius was already nearing the shadows, lamp held before him. The people followed in a mass, brandishing their cleavers, sickles, and clubs. As Torin trailed behind, he sighed. These villagers were no warriors, but neither were he and his friends—they were a gardener, a shepherd, and a baker who sometimes grabbed a bow and climbed a tower.

Yet now we march into the darkness,
he thought. He clutched his sword and shivered.

He looked back up at the Watchtower. He could see Bailey upon the battlements, an arrow nocked in her bow. She looked down toward him, hundreds of feet away. It was too far to see clearly, but Torin thought she looked pale, her eyes wide with fear.

"We will light the darkness!" Ferius shouted ahead. "Death to Elorians! Sailith will cast the light."

The villagers left the sunlit hillside. They entered the shadowy, twisting forest where Torin had walked with Bailey only hours ago. As they moved deeper into the shadows, Torin remembered Yana's dead eyes and dried blood. His heart thudded, and even with fifty people around him, cold sweat trickled down his back.

 
 
CHAPTER THREE:
A DUEL IN THE DARK

They walked along the riverbanks, fifty villagers shouting for blood. For the first mile, alders and rushes grew along the water, swaying in the breeze. Caterpillars crawled on leaves, grasshoppers bustled, and chickadees and robins sang upon the branches. Farther along the river, the sun began to sink behind them, casting dapples across the water. After a mile or two, the light was dim. The trees grew stunted here, and the rushes hung wilted and pale. No more birds flew. Shadows stretched ahead.

"Raise your lanterns, brothers and sisters!" Ferius cried, leading the procession. He and his monks raised their lights, casting a golden glow. "Follow and fear no darkness."

Torin followed the mob, but he did fear this darkness. He had seen the evil that lurked ahead. He had seen the dead, had seen a lifeless land and a sky strewn with stars.

"The bloody fools," he muttered. "Why do they listen to Ferius?"

Hemstad Baker trundled at his side. He was the tallest man in Fairwool-by-Night, but also the widest, and he struggled to keep up. The pots and pans he always carried, even on short journeys, clanked across his back. With every step, his sword swung between his legs like a tail. His ample belly swung almost as wildly, sweat soaked his face, and his breath wheezed.

"Did you see one, Tor?" he asked. "An . . . an Elorian?"

Cam walked at their side, a smirk on his face. The rushes, tall enough to brush the others' shoulders, nearly rose above his head. The diminutive shepherd had sharp features, dark hair, and intelligent eyes. Rarely seen far from Hem, young Cam was also never slow to scold his friend.

"Of course he didn't see one, Hem," the shepherd said. "They don't really exist—sort of like leftovers on your plate. Ferius, that sheep's dropping, just made them up to frighten us."

Hem bit his wobbling lip and trudged on, pots clattering like a suit of armor. "Why would he want to do that?" He gulped. "I don't like being frightened."

"Hem, your mind is woolly as fleece," said Cam. "A frightened man is a follower. That's all Ferius and his monks want—people to follow them." He swept his arm across the twilit landscape. "And it's working. Look. Fifty villagers follow him the way my sheep follow me across the field."

Hem stepped on a rock, wobbled, and steadied himself with a ruckus of banging iron. "Well, I'm only following because Tor insisted we do." He stared at Torin. "Why
are
we following again?"

As he walked along the darkening riverbanks, the grass and rushes fading down to a rocky path, Torin asked himself the same question. If the people wanted to follow Ferius, perhaps he should let them. Why was it his concern? If they all wanted to march into darkness and die, why should he stop them?

He looked ahead at the group—four monks and fifty raging villagers. He sighed.

"Twenty years ago, my father came home from the war with Verilon. You've heard stories of that war, haven't you?" When his friends nodded, Torin continued. "He lived in the capital at first. He was a broken man then, scarred, haunted, one of his legs gone to a Verilish blade. Many doubted he would live much longer; he drank to drown his demons. When he moved to Fairwool-by-Night, he found new life. He met my mother in our village; they were happy here. My parents died in Fairwool, but they died together—peacefully." Torin looked behind him at the dwindling light of his home. "I owe this village a debt. I'll do my best to protect its people. Even if I have to follow them into the very darkness of Eloria."

Hem mewled. "Please don't say that name. Just . . . just call it Nightside like honest folk do. Not . . . not its
real
name." He shuddered. "They say its real name is cursed."

Torin was about to reply when movement caught his eye. He looked up to see a speck flutter near his head. He started, sure it was a steel throwing star, a weapon like the one he'd found buried in Yana's neck. A heartbeat later, a grin spread across Torin's face. He reached out and closed his hand around his quarry.

Hem mewled and stepped back, but Cam leaned forward, squinting.

"What is it?" the shepherd asked.

Torin loosened his grip to reveal a moth, one of its wings white, the other black. He kept it trapped between his fingers. The moth seemed to regard him, moving its feathery antennae.

"It's a duskmoth. They only live here in the dusk. See its wings?" Torin smiled. "I never knew they were real. I thought they were only a legendary creature, meant to symbolize our world. Look, it's even shaped like Mythimna. Its left wing is white like Timandra. Its right wing is black like Eloria." He opened his fingers, letting it fly away.

Torin had seen maps of the world. The shape of its landforms reminded him of a moth, two great wings of earth stretching out into the sea, one drenched in eternal light, the other dark in endless night. The old books called the world
Mythimna
, an ancient name. Now most folk simply called it Moth, the proper title all but forgotten.

He watched the released moth flutter into the distance. With his mismatched eyes, Torin felt linked to this animal with mismatched wings. Perhaps the entire world was like that small, insignificant creature, torn in two, floating through some vast sky, one wing light and one dark.

"It's pretty," Hem said, watching the moth flutter away.

Cam rolled his eyes. "Merciful Idar, you're a man of the Village Guard, and you're about as big as an ox. You shouldn't think butterflies are pretty."

The lumbering baker thrust out his bottom lip. "It's a
moth
, not a butterfly. And you're about as small as a moth yourself, so be quiet."

Torin stood watching until the moth disappeared into the distance, then tightened his lips. The villagers had gone farther east along the river, and he rushed to catch up. Cam and Hem hurried at his side, their swords clanking and their boots thumping.

Soon the last grass and bushes faded. The sun touched the horizon behind them, an orange disk, casting long shadows. Another mile and the sun would disappear, and they would reach Eloria itself. Torin had seen that land from the hilltop, and the memory still haunted him. He had no wish to actually set foot in the night. He raced ahead, whipping around the villagers, and approached Ferius.

The monk led the procession, lamp held high. The light gleamed against his waxy skin. His tongue licked his teeth. He reminded Torin of some diseased snake slithering toward a mouse.

"Ferius, you've taken them far enough," he said. "Stop this madness. Another mile and we'll emerge from the dusk into Nightside itself."

The monk turned toward him, and his lips twisted into a grin. He hissed between his teeth.

"Do you fear the darkness, little child?"

"I do. And so should you." Torin swallowed. "You didn't see Yana's body. You didn't see her wounds. Ferius, if you take us any deeper into this darkness, you'll be accountable for any other deaths."

Ferius's grin widened. "Oh, innocent child of daylight. What do you know of death? I will not shy away from the dark. I will not live an ideal, oblivious life in the sunlight, not when evil lurks so near to home." He brandished his lamp. "The followers of Sailith are brave, and we do not fear the shadow. We march to banish it. To bring light." He raised his voice. "We will burn the enemy with the fires of the sun!"

Torin shook his head. "You're mad."

Ferius didn't seem to hear him. The monk marched on and the mob followed. Torin tried to speak to them. He tried to turn them back. Yet their souls were swayed; he could not stop them. Orange light still glowed in the west, but in the east, the sky turned a deep indigo like a bruise. The Nighttower rose upon the distant hill, a shard like a stalagmite. The moon emerged above the steeple, casting a silvery ring. Seeing this god of night, the people gasped and pointed, but they did not slow.