Shadows of Moth (30 page)

"Make them
suffer before they die," Serin commanded his generals. "Make
the world see their baseness. Strip off their clothes. Shear off
their hair. Brand their skin and let them serve us. Let them dig. Let
them forge the weapons of their own destruction."

He laughed as he
rode through the darkness, leading his hosts, carving the mines for
the worms. He laughed as they labored, building him more swords, more
spears, more arrows, more cannons, more tools for his glory. Pathetic
beings—so eager to serve him, so eager to help him destroy their own
kind.

This
is why I rise,
he thought.
And
this is why they fall. This is why I am their master and they are my
slaves.

He rode through
another town, another city, watching the towers crumble, watching the
slaves emerge, watching all the darkness turn bright with his fire.

"Glorious,"
he whispered, sitting astride his horse, staring down the hill. Tears
stung his eyes. "Beautiful."

Below him, his
soldiers rolled out wagon after wagon from a crumbling city, each
piled high with Elorian bodies. Serin watched, hand held to his
heart, as the soldiers stacked up mountains of corpses and lit them
in great pyres. The fire rose high to the sky, casting out sparks,
scented of burning meat, of his glory. Serin watched these great
lights in the night, and tears of joy and awe streamed down his
cheeks.

"The night has
ended," he whispered. "Radian has risen."

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
THE WALLS OF OREWOOD

They stood upon the
walls of Orewood, capital of Verilon, waiting for blood and fire.

The soldiers
covered the battlements and filled the courtyards below. Ten thousand
Ardishmen, banished from their homeland, waiting for vengeance.
Twenty thousand Verilish warriors, meaty men with cast iron
breastplates, thick fur cloaks, and beards just as thick and warm.
Ravens and bears. Swords and hammers. Two forces united, ready to
face the swarm.

"Bloody cold
turn for a battle," Cam muttered. The short, slender king
shivered, armor clanking. Snow covered his helmet, piled up upon his
pauldrons, and clung to his stubbly cheeks. "We should have fled
to the warm south."

Torin patted his
friend's shoulder, scattering snow. "Soon we'll be warm enough.
Battle heats a man's blood more than mulled wine or the love of a
woman."

Cam sighed. "I'd
take warm wine and a woman's love instead."

The snow suddenly
seemed colder. The talk of women made Torin think of his wife, of
Koyee missing. He lowered his head. "As would I."

Cam looked at him
and his eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Tor. I pray every turn that
we hear from her. Koyee is strong and brave, among the strongest
people who live in Moth. If anyone can survive this, it's her."

Torin nodded. He
stared off the rampart at the pine forest. The evergreens spread into
the horizon, white with snow. A frozen stream snaked between them.
The snow kept falling, and still the enemy did not appear, though
Torin knew they were out there, moving closer, seeking them, seeking
him.

"And the
children are out there too somewhere," Torin said softly.
"Madori and Tam. No word for months now." Torin clutched
the merlon that rose before him. Suddenly it was a struggle to even
breathe.

"I worry about
them every turn, every breath." Cam's voice sounded choked.
"It's a horrible thing, isn't it? Being a parent when your
children are in danger. I often feel guilty, Tor." He stared at
Torin with haunted eyes. "Guilty for bringing children into the
world. We should have known. You and I, more than anyone. We fought
in the last great war. We knew about the ugliness in the world, the
cruelty in the hearts of men. And yet we brought children into this
world, and now . . . now . . ." He lowered his head, overcome.

"There's not
much hope," Torin said softly. "But I think that there's a
little hope still. Let us cling to that sliver of hope now. It's
still better than despair." He looked around him at the lines of
soldiers upon the ramparts, then at the thousands of soldiers waiting
in the courtyards within the city. "And that little hope lies
here at the walls of Orewood."

Cam patted the icy
merlon that rose before him. "Good, solid limestone." He
sighed. "As if I know limestone from any other rock. Could be
chalk for all I know." He looked back at Torin. "You know,
I think back to the last round. To all those battles we fought. And I
remember standing beside our friends, but all those old walls and
battlefields merge together. I can no longer remember where it was
Hem swallowed that apricot seed and nearly choked—was it Yintao?
Pahmey? I can remember Bailey standing in some grand hall, trying to
sing 'Old Riyonan Fields' and accidentally singing the rude lyrics
Wela Brewer had invented for it." He laughed. "But I no
longer remember if it was in the court of Qaelin's emperor, the halls
of Ilar, or maybe just some knight's manor in the sunlight." He
wiped his eyes. "I remember lots of bloodshed, horror, pain . .
. but also good times. You know, I do think that old war—when we
were just kids—was both the worst and greatest time in my life."

Torin nodded, head
lowered. "Mine too. It's all memories of pain, but also memories
of dear friends, the last memories of them we have." He caressed
the hilt of his sword. "This war is turning out quite
differently. And I begin to wonder if we'll ever have peace. I lie
awake in bed, and I question why we fight for this world. It seems
that whenever you slay one tyrant, another rises to take his place.
Whenever you win one war, a generation later a new fire rises to burn
the world. Do we fight for everlasting peace, or do we only fight for
those brief moments in the sun, a respite from violence before blood
washes us again? Perhaps the hearts of men cannot tolerate peace for
more than a few years. Perhaps violence is the way of man, and all
hope for ending war is just a hope for temporary victory, not an
enduring end to arms. Sometimes I think that if this is so, perhaps
it's better to lay down our swords, to let the enemy slay us, for
even should we slay this enemy another will knock on our door. And
yet I keep fighting. Not because I believe I can hold off the tide
forever. I fight for those brief moments in the sun. For seeing my
daughter smile. For smelling flowers bloom in spring in my gardens,
even as I know winter will come again. For a dream of peace, however
brief. If we vanquish this enemy, our children will fight another, or
their children will, and they too will keep fighting. There will
always be ugliness in the world, but perhaps there will always be
beauty too. It's for those flashes of beauty that we're willing to
face the endless stream of terror."

Cam nodded sagely.
"I was just going to say all that myself."

Torin laughed. "I
know. I . . ."

His voice died.

Men across the wall
stiffened.

A distant drumming
rose in the forest, and the trees upon the horizon swayed.

Cam spoke in a soft
voice, barely more than a whisper. "They're here."

Across the walls of
Orewood, the Ardishmen raised their bows and raised their chins. They
stared into the southern forests, solemn, proud, ready to fight any
terror that might emerge. Their banners unfurled in a gust of snowy
wind, revealing the black raven upon the golden field. At the sight
of these banners, pride welled in Torin.

Let
the enemy see that Arden still stands with honor and pride.

Further along the
walls, the soldiers of Verilon reacted somewhat differently. Here
were no noble, steely soldiers in plate armor, no proud eyes, no
solemn stares. The Verilish host erupted into wild jeers. Burly
men—most were twice the size of the typical Ardishman—bellowed and
lifted their hammers and shields high. Many held flagons of ale, and
they drank between roars. Their fur cloaks billowed in the wind, and
in lieu of drums, they pounded their hammers against their own iron
breastplates, raising a ruckus that sent birds fleeing. Several men
went even further; they turned their backs toward the forest, lowered
their breeches, and gave the south a good view of their wriggling,
hairy posteriors.

"They know how
to enjoy war, I'll give them that," Cam muttered, watching the
warriors of the bear.

The drums kept
beating in the south, and the trees kept creaking, snow falling off
their branches. The last birds fled the forest, and then Torin saw
them, and he gripped his bow and cursed.

The Radians covered
the forests, countless soldiers. This force seemed even larger than
the army that had attacked Kingswall. Here was a great horde from
many nations: Magerians in black steel, traitorous Ardishmen in pale
armor, Nayans in tiger pelts, and even Eseerians from the distant
south. Among them marched warriors Torin had never seen before—tall,
broad men, as large as the Verilish, but golden haired and fair of
skin. They were warriors of Orida, Torin realized, the island nation
from the northern sea; they too now raised the Radian banners.

Catapults rolled
forth among the enemy troops, followed by ballistae—great crossbows
on wheels, large as cannons. True cannons emerged next from the
forest, shaped as iron buffaloes. Wheeled battering rams swung on
chains, and trebuchets swayed like pendulums as they rolled forth.
But worse than all these tools of siege were the dark riders among
them—robed and hooded mages.

One of these mages
rode ahead of the army, twice the size of all others. Torin winced,
pain shooting through him at the sight. Those red, burning eyes
seemed to find him across the distance, to pierce him like spears.
Four arms rose, holding four severed heads, trophies from the
southern battlefields.

"Lord Gehena,"
Torin muttered. "He's back."

"Like a bad
rash," Cam agreed.

Over the past few
turns, Orewood's defenders had cleared out about a mile of forest,
leaving a field of tree stumps beyond the canyon and walls. The enemy
hosts paused before this cleared stretch of land, their backs to the
forest; they stood just beyond the range of the defenders' arrows.

Only Gehena rode
forth. His horse, several times the usual size, snorted and huffed,
blasting smoke out of its nostrils. The dark lord's cloak gusted in
the wind, revealing tattered, burnt hems. A stench of smoke and
vinegar wafted from the mage toward the walls of Orewood.

Several soldiers
beside Torin raised their arrows. Torin raised his hand, holding back
the fire.

"Wait,"
he said.

Gehena kept riding
forward until he had crossed half the distance between the forest and
walls. His horse sidestepped, sneering. With a hiss that sounded
halfway between water on fire and a laugh, Gehena tossed the four
severed heads he held.

The grisly
projectiles sailed through the air and across the walls. Torin
grimaced as one landed right between him and Cam.

"By Idar,"
Cam said, blanching.

Torin stared down
at the head and ground his teeth. It was the frozen head of Kay
Wooler, his neighbor from Fairwool-by-Night, a mere girl of twenty.
Her face was still twisted with fear.

A shriek rose from
the field, morphing into words, high-pitched, demonic, a sound like a
hailstorm.

"Here are the
heads of your neighbors," cried Lord Gehena. "Here are the
heads of those you abandoned, those you failed, those you let die.
They are four among thousands." He looked over his shoulder.
"Men of Radian! Show them your trophies!"

Across the field,
thousands of Radian soldiers roared. They raised thousands of spears;
each held a severed Ardish head.

Gehena laughed and
turned back toward Orewood. "You tried to fight my lord, the
mighty Serin. He repays treachery with death. Though as great as his
might is his mercy. On his behalf, I give you one more chance to
live. Surrender now. Open your gates and swear allegiance to my lord.
Raise the Radian flag, fight with us against the night, and you shall
live. Refuse me . . . and you will die." His laughter rose like
steam. "You will all die in agony, and your heads will pelt the
next city we crush."

"I say we fire
those arrows now," Torin said.

Cam nodded.
"Capital idea." The king raised his voice to a roar.
"Archers of Arden! Fire!"

Hundreds of
soldiers upon the wall raised their bows. Hundreds of arrows flew
skyward, reached their zenith, and flew downward toward Gehena.

The mage pointed
his four hands forward. The arrows disintegrated and fell as ash.

An instant later,
the Radian soldiers blew horns and charged toward the walls of
Orewood.

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
THE WAR ETERNAL

Koyee swung the
pickaxe. Again. Again.

Pain flared across
her. Again. Again.

The whips cracked.
Again. Again.

The turns faded
together into a long, unending nightmare. She rose. She worked in the
mine, chained, with a thousand others. She suffered the shouts, the
lash, the steel-tipped boots. She returned to the cave with the
others, huddled together, praying, whispering.

Their captors did
not feed them. While forced to clean the camp above the canyon, they
scrounged around in the trash, picking out bones, peels, and whatever
else remained from the Radians' meals. They drank melted snow when it
fell; usually they thirsted. Their fat and muscles melted off,
leaving them famished, rubbery, skin hanging off bones like white
silk off hangers.

And they died.

Always they died.

A body collapsed.
Again. Again.

The wheelbarrow
rolled out a pile of corpses. Again. Again.

Sometimes it was
hunger or thirst. Sometimes the lash of an over-eager overseer. Often
it was disease; the Timandrian illnesses still ran through the mine,
bringing chills, boils, fever, death.