Shadows of Moth (11 page)

After climbing several hundred
steps, Jitomi paused, winded. When he looked behind him, he could see
all the port. The breakwaters stretched out like arms, holding the
warships within their embrace. Lanterns bobbed as the vessels swayed.
When Jitomi turned to look eastward, he could see the city sprawl
across the peninsula: thousands of tall, narrow homes with curling
red roofs; black temples to the Demon Gods; and many smithies to
forge blades and armor.

Finally Jitomi reached the end
of the staircase. The gates of Hashido Castle rose ahead, shaped as a
great dragon's mouth complete with a fanged portcullis. Fire burned
in two alcoves above the doors, the dragon's red eyes. Guards in
lacquered black armor stood here, bristling with blades and spears
and arrows.

"I have returned!"
Jitomi said to them, struggling to keep his voice strong. "I am
Jitomi Hashido, only son of Lord Okita. Open the gates for my
homecoming, and may the Red Flame forever burn in your hearts."

One of the soldiers clattered
forward. He was so heavy with steel, he reminded Jitomi of a great
metallic beetle. No fewer than a ten katanas and spears hung from his
belt and across his back, and a hundred red tassels decorated his
armor. His black helmet was shaped as a scowling warrior, the
mustache formed of white fur. His stare blazed through the visor's
eyeholes.

"You are not welcome here,
Jitomi, wayward son of Ilar." The man reached for the hilt of a
katana. "You father has barred these gates for your return.
Things are not as you left them, traveler of sunlight. Ilar has
changed. So has this fortress."

"Then
I will hear of these changes from my father," Jitomi said. "If
he will cast me aside, let him do so, not you. Step aside,
guard
."

The man was of noble birth—only
a noble son could defend a fortress of such might—and Jitomi knew
that calling him "guard" was like calling a mighty mage a
parlor magician.

The man sneered and began to
draw a katana. "That I cannot do. I—"

Jitomi chose the sword. He
heated the weapon, and the guard hissed and dropped the searing hilt.

"I will enter." Jitomi
took a step forward, chose the air, and sent a gust of wind against
the soldiers, knocking them sideways. Another gust of magic blew the
great doors open with a clatter. "Try to stop me and your
skeletons will litter the slope with the rest of them."

His heart thudded, and it was a
struggle to keep his voice steady, but he forced himself to stare at
the men, to keep advancing, to seem strong and proud. Strength and
pride—those were the languages of Ilar, the only languages these men
would understand.

"Sunlit sorcery!" they
muttered . . . but they stepped aside.

Jitomi nodded at them. "I've
learned the ways of our enemy, it is true. And I've come bearing
warnings of that enemy's might."

Without sparing the men another
glance, he stepped into the dragon's mouth, entering the shadows of
Hashido Castle.

Along the hall, tapering columns
rose in palisades like teeth. Arches stretched above like a metal
palate. At the back of the hall, a hundred feet away, burned a great
fireplace like a dragon's flaming gullet. Before the hearth rose a
metal throne, shaped like a rising tongue; it loomed ten feet above
the floor. A dark figure sat there, silhouetted by the raging fire.

Jitomi stepped closer, his boots
thumping against the floor.

"Father!" His voice
echoed through the hall. "I return with a warning. Enemies
muster in the sunlight. We are in danger."

The lord did not reply, only sat
still, perched upon that rising tongue of metal, only a shadow.

"Father!" Jitomi
called again. "Will you not speak to me?"

Slowly, Lord Okita Hashido
raised his head. Two blue eyes stared across the hall like forge
fires. A gust of wind blew into the hall, and the lanterns that stood
upon the columns—demon faces with flaming gullets—belched out heat
and flames. The new light fell upon the lord, illuminating a burly
frame, a white mustache, tufted eyebrows, and a black breastplate
sporting the Red Flame sigil.

"And so, the boy who
disgraced his father, who betrayed his proud empire, returns to
grovel at the first sign of danger?"

Jitomi stiffened. He forced
himself to take several deep breaths. "Father, this is no time
for games of pride. The Timandrians are mustering for a new invasion
of the night. Their armies gather on our borders. They—"

"On
our
borders?" Lord Hashido said. He rose to his feet, standing upon
his dais. "Our borders are the sea, child. Or do you mean the
dusk, the border of that wretched empire they call Qaelin? Dare you
count the Qaelish, those weak rats, amongst our people?"

Rage filled Jitomi, overpowering
his fear. "The enemy does not distinguish between Ilar, Qaelin,
Leen, Montai, or any other nation of the night. To them we are all
Elorians. Nightcrawlers, they call us—creatures to be stomped upon,
and—"

"Nightcrawlers!"
Hashido spat. "Worms. And who gave them that impression, boy?
When they named us worms, did they see proud warriors of the Red
Flame, killers clad in steel, swinging blades? Or did they see a
weak, groveling, sniveling boy come begging to learn their parlor
tricks?" He snorted. "Yes, you are like a worm that crawls
in the dust. You have nine older sisters, each mightier than you.
They are soldiers, dojai assassins, the captains of warships. And
you!" Lord Hashido pointed, finger trembling with rage. "You,
my only son, my heir . . . are weaker than them all. While your
sisters, sharpen blades, you read from books. While your sisters slay
their enemies, you come here as a weakling, begging me to fight your
battles."

Jitomi closed his eyes for a
moment, the pain driving through him. He had to steel himself with a
deep breath before staring at his father again.

"No, Father, I am no
warrior like my sisters. Yes, I traveled into sunlight to learn the
magic of our enemies. And now those enemies threaten to burn us all.
They—"

"Serin will not burn us,"
Hashido said. "He is not a fanatic like Ferius was, not a
mindless brute. He is a sunlit demon, it is true, but his heart is a
heart of flame and steel—a heart I admire. I know of his Radian
Order, boy, and I do not fear it as you do. I am no coward. We will
not fight against Serin but alongside him, warriors of darkness and
light, and our empires will rise."

Jitomi blinked. He took several
more steps forward until he stood right before the throne. Forgetting
himself, he blurted out, "You're mad! You don't know the
Radians. They hate all Elorians. They vow to kill us all, Qaelish and
Ilari alike. An alliance? Empress Hikari would never agree to such a
thing. She—"

"Do you mean this Empress
Hikari?"

It was a new voice that had
spoken—a crackling, cruel voice that spoke not in Ilari but in the
tongue of Mageria. Catching his breath, Jitomi stared to the back of
the hall. A figure stood there, cloaked in shadow; Jitomi had not
seen the man until now.

The man stepped closer, clad in
black robes. The firelight fell upon him, revealing a balding head
ringed with oily black hair, a hooked nose, and beady eyes.

"Professor Atratus,"
Jitomi whispered.

The Radian held out his arm, and
Jitomi nearly gagged. In his talon-like fingers, Atratus held a
severed head. The hair was long and white, the eyes large and blue,
and mouth still open in anguish. Jitomi had been to the capital city
enough times to recognize it.

"You killed Empress
Hikari." A tremble seized his knees.

Lord Hashido stepped off his
dais and came to stand beside Atratus. The two men—a lord of Ilar
and a Radian mage—stared together at Jitomi.

"Hikari was indeed a weak
worm," Hashido said. "Much like you, my son. We travel to
the capital! The Ilari and Radian empires will stand united. Together
we will defeat the Qaelish rats and rule both day and night."

 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT:
A BATTLE ON THE ROAD

The cart trundled on and Torin
lay in the darkness, feeling his life slip away.

They had hurt him, but he could
barely feel the pain anymore. He knew what awaited him at the end of
this road—a public execution at Markfir, capital of Mageria. He
looked forward to it. Death would be an end to pain. In death he
would see them again.

"Mother and father,"
he whispered, lips bleeding. "Grandpapa Kerof. Hem." His
eyes watered. "Bailey."

They had been waiting for him,
he knew. They had waited for so long as he lingered here in the
sunlight, in the darkness, growing older. Now he would join them. He
did not know what the afterlife was like—even among Idarith priests,
none could agree—but he knew they would be there. His only regret
would be leaving the two women of his life behind.

Koyee.
Madori. I'm sorry. I wanted to make this a better world for you. I
failed.

The cart rolled on. He slid
across the floor, chained, bruised, famished. He did not know how
long they'd been traveling. He did not know how close they were to
Markfir. He only knew that this was the last journey he would take.
After so many travels—to the bright city of Pahmey, to the wonders
of Yintao, to the terrifying beauty of Asharo, to the rainforests of
Naya, to the gleaming towers of Kingswall—this was his last road. A
road in darkness.

Shouts rose outside the cart and
Torin winced. His captors often shouted, railing against Elorians,
Ardishmen, and all other "undesirables." Whenever a man
fell ill, a meal burned, or an item of clothing tore, they would take
out their rage on him.

"Damn Ardishmen!" rose
a cry outside.

Torin grimaced, anticipating
their wrath.

A whistle sounded. A shard of
metal and wood crashed through the cart wall. The arrow tilted and
fell down by Torin's head.

"The bloody Ardish!"
shouted another man outside. "The Ardish attack!"

Torin inhaled sharply. The
Ardish.

Cam.

With strength he hadn't known
remained in him, Torin shoved himself to his feet and stumbled toward
the wall. He peered through the hole the arrow had left. Rye fields
spread outside, and archers in black and gold—Arden's colors—were
rising from among the stalks. Horses galloped and raven banners
streamed. The Magerians—a couple hundred soldiers and mages—were
already firing back, drawing swords, and casting magic.

Not
all have died.
Hope welled in Torin.
Arden
still fights.

His manacles clattering, he spun
away from the cart wall. His head swayed and he nearly fainted. Stars
floated before his eyes. Ignoring the pain—by Idar, every last inch
of him was cut and bruised—he knelt and grabbed the fallen arrow.
Its head was long, sharp iron made for punching through armor. As the
ringing of swords and the whistles of arrows sounded outside, Torin
twisted his wrists, grabbed the arrow's shaft between his teeth, and
just managed to thrust the arrowhead into the padlock securing his
chains.

"Slay the Ardish scum!"
rose an inhuman shriek outside, a sound like shattering glass—Lord
Gehena. The air howled—mages forming their projectiles.

Torin grunted. The arrow kept
slipping, and he had to bend his wrists so far they almost snapped.
Gripping the arrow's shaft between his teeth, he worked the head in
the lock. His heart pounded. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

"Drag out the prisoner!"
shrieked Gehena; it was a demonic voice that pounded through the cart
walls, shrill as rusty nails on stone. "Drag out their favorite
traitor so they can see him broken."

A gruff voice answered. "Yes,
my lord."

Heavy footfalls moved toward the
cart.

Dizzy and bleeding, Torin cursed
and worked with more fervor.

Keys jangled in the cart door's
lock. A heavy hand tugged the door open, revealing Hesh, one of the
convoy's guards—a squat man in boiled leather studded with iron
bolts. He had a gruff, unshaven face, a wide nose, and dry
bloodstains on his gloves—Torin's blood. Behind him a battle raged;
Torin could glimpse flying arrows and two men locking swords.

"Out you go, maggot."
Hesh barked a laugh, spraying spittle. "Going to hurt you a
little in front of your friends. Out!"

Torin
curled up on the floor, moaning. He twisted the arrow in the lock one
more time and heard a
clank
.

The stocky guard cursed. "Idar's
hairy bottom! Come on, you roach." He stomped into the cart.
"I'll drag you out by the ears if I have to." He leaned
down to grab Torin. "Up or I—"

Torin thrust the arrow.

The iron head drove through
Hesh's eye and deep into the skull.

Torin tugged the arrow back; it
came free with a gush of blood and bits of eyeball.

Heart thudding, he kicked off
the last chains binding him, drew Hesh's sword, and peeked outside.
The battle was raging in the fields. Blood stained the rye stalks.
Several Ardish horsemen were galloping around the Magerian convoy,
firing arrows and thrusting lances. Other troops fought on the dirt
road, swinging swords. Gehena stood with his back to Torin,
brandishing four swords, one in each hand. His blades crashed into
Ardish soldiers and sent them flying.

Cam's
troops,
Torin thought, and hope welled inside him. Last he had heard of his
friend, Cam had been leading a host to Hornsford Bridge. Torin had
assumed that force fallen. Were these the remnants of the king's
army?

All his captors were busy
fighting. While their backs were turned, Torin stumbled out of the
cart. His bare feet hit the road, and for a moment he swayed, the
sunlight blinding him. He took two steps and collapsed, nearly
falling on the sword he held. With a bolt of pain, his face hit the
dirt. Soil entered his mouth and stones jabbed his chest.