Shadows of Moth (15 page)

"Hold them back!"
Koyee shouted. "Elorians, defend the night!"

More nightwolves fell. Chariots
raced between the trees, as agile as the wolves, crashing into the
lines of Elorian infantry. Blades rose upon their wheels, mowing down
men and women. Archers fired from within them. One of the projectiles
hit Koyee's shield, and another sank into her nightwolf. The beast
cried out in pain, blood spurting.

"Senduan!" Koyee
cried. She leaned down, grabbed the arrow, and tugged it free from
the nightwolf's flank. "Keep fighting, Senduan! We must hold
them back. We—"

Fire sparked ahead.

The smell of gunpowder flared.

The Timandrian troops parted,
and Koyee beheld a horror that froze her blood.

The cannon rolled forth on
wooden wheels, twenty feet long, a beast of black iron shaped as a
buffalo. Embers burned in its nostrils, and its mouth was open in a
crackling roar. Timandrian soldiers stood around it, waving their
longswords, chanting for victory.

Koyee sucked in air and tugged
her wolf aside.

"Elorians, scatter!"
she shouted hoarsely to the troops behind her. "Scatter to the
trees!"

They began to move. They were
too late. Racing away, Koyee returned her eyes to the cannon in time
to see it fire.

Flames blazed out in an inferno
like a collapsing sun. Koyee had an instant vision from years
ago—Ferius crashing into the mechanical sun at Cabera, igniting a
blast of heat and light. Smoke engulfed the dusk. The cannonball
drove forward, so fast Koyee could barely see it, a projectile larger
than her head. It slammed into the lines of Elorian troops,
pulverizing those it hit. Blood, scales of armor, and bits of hair
and flesh flew across the forest, pattering against the soil. Trees
ignited. Fire blazed across corpses and fallen branches.

For a moment the forest seemed
still and silent. Koyee could only hear the ringing in her ears. She
could only see the death, the bodies broken into smudges.

Then, with renewed howls, the
Timandrian swordsmen charged forth. The surviving Elorians, their
armor red with the blood of their friends, swung their katanas and
ran to meet them. The dusk exploded with the song of ringing steel.

Ahead, Timandrians poured new
gunpowder into the muzzle, then loaded a new cannonball. Koyee
sneered.

"To the cannon!" she
shouted. "Elorians, to the cannon!"

She kneed her wolf, and the
beast burst into a run. Senduan bounded from boulder to boulder,
corpse to corpse, claws lashing, fangs digging into men. Whoever the
nightwolf could not kill Koyee cut with her sword. The cannon rose
ahead from smoke. One man lit a new fuse, and sparks filled the air.

Koyee sneered and raced onward.

Her wolf leaped through smoke.
Her sword swung. The blade severed the lit fuse.

Men shouted around her. Swords
swung and arrows flew. Koyee leaped off the saddle. She sailed
through the air and landed atop the searing-hot cannon; her boots
sizzled against the heated iron. She swung her sword in arcs,
chopping men down. An arrow slammed into her vambrace. Another
snapped against her armor, and a third scraped along her helmet.

Her eyes fell upon barrels of
gunpowder below.

A wry smile twisted her lips.

She leaped into the air, swung
her sword, and slew two more men before her feet hit the ground. She
raced, rolled, and jumped up, stabbing another man—the one who had
lit the fuse. He fell, and his torch thumped into the dirt.

"Slay the nightcrawler!"
rose a shriek. "Kill her!"

"Hold them back, Senduan!"
Koyee shouted to her wolf. The beast was tearing into men, teeth
bloody. Two other nightwolves joined him, forming a circle around
Koyee, holding the enemy back.

She lifted the guttering torch.
Grinning savagely, Koyee sliced a barrel open. Its gunpowder spilled.

"Senduan, to me!"

The nightwolf ran toward her.

She leaped into the saddle.

She tossed her torch into the
gunpowder.

The nightwolf raced along the
cannon and vaulted off, and they soared forward like a cannonball.

For an instant, silence filled
the world.

Then that world seemed to fall
into the sun.

White, shrieking, all-consuming
fire blazed. The dusk lit up, brighter than a sunlit desert. Flames
howled. Smoke roared. Koyee and her wolf kept leaping through the
inferno, and blasts of air hit her, slamming into her back with the
strength of hammers. Her head rang. Her cloak burned.

They hit the ground, singed.

Koyee looked behind her in time
to see three more explosions, one after another, rock the
forest—three more barrels exploding.

She tumbled off her wolf, fell
onto her stomach, and covered her ears. Chunks of iron, chips of
wood, and drops of blood pattered down onto her. Her ears rang and
smoke engulfed her. Soil fell like hail.

When she finally rose to her
feet and looked around, she sucked in air between her teeth. A crater
loomed in the dusk. The cannon was gone. A hundred Timandrian bodies,
maybe more, lay in a ring around the crater. Of those who had stood
closer to the cannon nothing remained.

Behind her, the Elorians roared
with new vigor and raced forward. They slammed into the remaining
Timandrians, cutting them down. Koyee climbed back onto her wolf and
fought with them.

We
slew hundreds, maybe a thousand,
she thought.
Yet
ninety-nine thousand remain.
Her eyes stung in the smoke.
We
can bleed them, but this is a battle we cannot win. This is a battle
we cannot survive.

The Elorians fought but the
enemy kept coming. Lines of swordsmen. Iron-clad towers on wheels,
archers in their crests. Catapults that rained boulders into the
Elorian ranks. Dark mages on dark horses, blasting out living
serpents of magic that wrapped around Elorians and crushed their
bones. The forces of sunlight covered the dusk, streaming forth like
a rising sun, and Koyee shouted until she was hoarse and would not
stop swinging her sword.

 
 
CHAPTER TWELVE:
THE RED FLAME ARMADA

The Ilari Armada, Terror of the
Night Sea, sailed across the black waters toward the coast of Qaelin.

"Father, you cannot do
this!" Jitomi said. "Please. Listen to me! Listen to
reason. You are sailing against the wrong enemy. The Qaelish are our
allies. Your enemy lies in the sunlight."

Standing at the prow, Lord Okita
Hashido turned to stare at his son. His eyes narrowed and his lip
peeled back in a sneer. "Silence your sniveling, boy, lest I
stripe your back and toss you to the sharks. Your words are
treachery. Were you not my son, I'd have you flayed and burned. If
you anger me further, that can still be your fate."

The
fleet stretched across the dark sea. Hundreds of
geobukseon
ships
sailed in formations; each was a hundred feet long, their battened
sails wide, and their iron figureheads, shaped as dragons, could spew
out smoke to conceal their position in battle. Among them towered the
panokseons,
great
ships with three tiers of decks: the lower deck for rowers, the
middle deck for cannons, and the upper deck for soldiers. Those
soldiers wore heavy, lacquered armor, the metal black and red, and
helmets shaped as snarling faces hid their heads.

Jitomi
and his father, meanwhile, stood on an
atakebune—
a
floating fortress—one of only three in their fleet. Named
Daroma
Tai
—Terror
of the Water—the massive ship was large as a castle, its deck four
hundred feet long and lined with dozens of cannons. Oars emerged from
holes in its iron-clad hull like centipede feet, propelling the
vessel forward. An entire pagoda, three tiers tall, rose upon the
deck. A thousand troops filled the
Daroma
Tai
:
swordsmen in heavy steel plates, armed with katanas and throwing
stars; archers in black silken robes; and gunners in boiled leather.
A massive dragon figurehead thrust off the prow, and from its mouth
emerged a cannon like a tongue.

A true
dragon—Tianlong, the last dragon in the night—flew above the ship,
coiling and uncoiling like a great banner. His body was long and
narrow and covered in black scales. Only two small arms grew from
that body, barely larger than human arms and tipped with claws. In
sharp contrast, Tianlong's jaws were massive enough to swallow men
whole, and his teeth were long as katanas. The dragon's eyes blazed,
and his fiery red beard, mustache, and long eyebrows fluttered in the
wind.

"Magnificent
beast," said Lord Hashido, staring up at the dragon. "Strong.
Fearless in battle. A mighty warrior." He looked back at Jitomi.
"The qualities I wanted in a son. Instead you stand here as weak
as a woman, begging to return home with our tail between our legs."

"I would have
you fight with strength and pride," Jitomi said, "but not
against our Elorian brethren. I would have you fight against the
Radian Empire. Against those who invade the night."

"Those
who invade
Qaelin
!"
Hashido laughed—a horrible, barking sound. "Those who attack
our old enemy. The Magerians are strong, and the Radian Order that
rules them is a movement of pride, honor, and nobility. Like the
Ilari, the Radians respect the might of the sword, the cannon, the
arrow. Together we will defeat the Qaelish Empire and carve her
between us."

"And what
then?" Jitomi shook his head incredulously. "Do you truly
think that Lord Serin, the man who preached death to Elorians, will
simply lean back and let an Elorian empire rule in the south? No. He
would turn his wrath against Ilar too. He's simply using
divide-and-conquer tactics, Father. I'm no general, but even I know
this old trick. He's pitting Elorians against Elorians, and when we
shatter one another, he'll be there to sweep the pieces away."

Hashido
snorted. "It is true, Jitomi. You are no general. You are
nothing but a weak boy who failed at every task he was given. I tried
to teach you swordplay; you failed to wield the blade. I tried to
enlist you into the Dojai Order like your sister; Nitomi is a
prattle-mouthed, empty-headed fool, but even she became a dojai, a
feat you refused to even attempt. Finally you went off to study magic
like some illiterate village woman who believes in charms and spells,
and even at that you failed. But I, Jitomi,
am
a general. And now I am an emperor. And I will soon be a conqueror.
Look, worm! We can see the Qaelish coast. Our enemy awaits."

Jitomi stared ahead
and his heart sank. He recognized this place. The Qaelish town of
Xinsai sprawled along the coast, a strip of light. It was not a major
city like Sinyong, the great Qaelish port further west upon the
coast, a stronghold that connected the sea to the Inaro river. It was
surely not a bastion of power like Pahmey or Yintao, the two great
lights of Qaelin. Here was a simpler place, a town with only five
pagodas, their roofs blue and topped with brass dragon statues. A
couple hundred tall, narrows houses nestled between the pagodas. A
few junk ships—Qaelish vessels with triangular, battened
sails—floated in the water, humble fishermen upon them.

Why
are we sailing to Xinsai?
Jitomi
wondered at first, belly curdling. It was only a small town. It was
no threat. It was—

As the Red Fleet
sailed closer, he understood.

A port bit into the
town, surrounded by walls and turrets. Moonstar banners rose here,
and archers guarded the battlements. Hundreds of Qaelish workers
bustled upon planks and scaffolds, swung hammers, bent iron, and
pounded leather. The skeletons of several junk ships were taking form
in the water, not humble fishermen's vessels but mighty warships. As
Jitomi watched, several men turned a wince, guiding down a cannon
onto a deck. It was a shipyard, massive in size, serving the Qaelish
navy.

"Here do the
Qaelish worms build their so-called fleet," said Lord Hashido.
"We will show them the might of a true armada."

Bile rose in
Jitomi's throat. He grabbed his father's arm. "Father, these
people are not soldiers. They are workers struggling to feed their
families. You cannot—"

Hashido backhanded
him. His gauntlet connected with Jitomi's cheek with a spray of
blood.

"They will die
in our fire, boy." The lord pulled down his visor; it was shaped
like a snarling demon, forged of lacquered steel, its mustache made
of panther fur. "If you do not silence your words, you will die
with them." He turned toward the soldiers who stood behind him
on the deck. "Warriors of Ilar! We sail to conquest!"

The
soldiers on the deck, hundreds of demons in steel, raised their
swords and roared for the Red Flame. Upon the pagoda that rose from
the deck, a fortress of metal and clay, archers tugged back their
bowstrings. All across the water, the other ships of Ilar—hundreds
of them—sailed to war. The dragon figureheads of the
geobukseons
belched
out smoke; cannons hid within their iron jaws. Upon the three-tiered
panokseon
ships,
more cannons were lit, and warriors formed ranks around landing
craft. Above the fleet, Tianlong the dragon soared, and his cry
pealed across the sky.

"Father!"
Jitomi said, clutching his cut cheek. "Do not destroy! If you
must conquer, then conquer. Seize these ships for our fleet, and let
the townsfolk live. They can serve us. They need not die."

But Lord Hashido
seemed not to hear. He pointed his sword toward the coastal town, and
he shouted, voice storming across the water, "Armada—fire!"

The cannons blazed.

"No!"
Jitomi tried to grab his father, but the soldiers held him back.
"Father, stop this!"

Smoke enveloped him
as their own ship's cannons fired. He watched, eyes burning, as the
cannonballs slammed into the town of Xinsai. Several projectiles
slammed into junk ships, shattering their hulls. Others crashed into
walls and turrets, cracking bricks, sending men falling. Another
volley blasted out from the Ilari ships, and cannonballs now slammed
into city homes, shattering clay walls. A pagoda crumbled, raining
screaming men.