Shadows of Moth (25 page)

They had left
Pahmey with two thousand Elorian survivors. By the time the second
turn of marching ended, only a thousand still lived.

The moon and stars
kept moving across the sky. Based on what Madori knew of their dance,
they must have been walking for three turns now. The Magerian shifts
changed again, the sleepers emerging from their wagon with renewed
cruelty. Madori swayed as she walked. Tears streamed down her face.
Her knees ached and her lungs could barely suck in air. She kept
trying to summon her magic, to break her chains, but could not; she
was too weak, too wounded. Dying.

Breathe,
she thought.
Like
Master Lan Tao taught you.
Yet how could she breathe when her lungs blazed with fire?

"Hurry up,
mongrel!" Gora called from his horse. He swung his spear,
cracking the wooden shaft against her back. "You're slowing
down."

The pain was too
much.

Madori fell to her
knees.

An instant later,
her face hit the dirt.

I
can't go on. It's over.

Gora dismounted his
horse and knelt beside her. He grabbed her hair and tugged her head
up.

"Stand!"
he barked. "Serin insisted you live. Stand! Walk."

She tried. She
pushed herself onto her elbows, but her arms wobbled, and she crashed
back down.

Gora's boot drove
into her belly. "Up!"

She wept. She could
no longer move.

I
will die here,
she thought, staring at the dust around her.
I
will die here under the stars of my home.

"Up!"

She stared up, and
she saw them there—the constellations of Eloria. The racing wolf.
The leaping fish. The proud warrior. She remembered seeing these
constellations in her book back in the daylight. Her mother would
read the book to her, describing all the great beings in the sky.
Madori remembered the taste of the tea her mother would brew, the
softness of Koyee's silken dresses, the warmth of the hearth in their
home, the comfort of her dolls.

I
miss that home,
she thought,
though
it lies in ruins. And I miss you, Mother, though I don't even know if
you live or lie dead. But I can't go on. I can't.

With her last drop
of strength, Madori raised her head, and a glint caught her eye.

She gasped.

Gora, cruel captain
of the march, was wearing her locket around his neck.

He must have been
hiding it under his shirt until now. In his fervor of kicking and
shouting, the locket had emerged from under his collar and swung
open. Inside Madori saw the view from the second locket.

This time, it did
not show Emperor Serin.

Instead, it was
Lari's face in the locket.

The young woman was
dressed in splendor: she wore gilded armor, a samite cloak, and a
jeweled tiara. Her golden hair flowed across her shoulders, rich and
lustrous. Powder and rouge hid the scars Tam and Neekeya had given
her cheeks outside of Teel, and fine cosmetics adorned her eyelids
and lips. Through the locket, she stared into Madori's eyes and
smiled—that old smile that dripped both honey and poison.

"Look,"
Lari mouthed silently.

The view in the
locket moved.

Madori cried out.

"Mother!"
Tears sprang into her eyes. "Mother!"

Koyee lay in the
dirt, covered in dust and blood. She was barely recognizable. Koyee
too wore a burlap tunic, and her captors had sheared off her hair,
leaving her scalp nicked and dripping blood. Bruises covered her
face. But Madori knew it was her mother, and she cried out to her.

Trembling, Koyee
looked up into the locket. She saw Madori and tears filled her eyes.
She reached out a trembling hand, crying out words Madori could not
hear.

Gora grunted,
snapped the locket shut, and tucked it back under his collar.

Even through the
pain and weariness, even as she lay on the ground, perhaps dying,
rage flared in Madori.

Lari
and Serin are torturing my mother.

She roared.

I
will save you, Mother. I'm coming. I promise.

Teeth clenched and
limbs shaking, Madori pushed herself to her feet.

She rejoined the
Elorian procession. Her chains rattling, she walked with the others,
jaw clenched, eyes narrowed.

Step
by step,
she thought.
Walk.
Ignore the pain. Pain is irrelevant.
She focused only on her breath, letting the pain flow away like her
thoughts.
Even
if your body blazes with agony, keep walking. Never stop.

Her eyes leaked,
and she clenched her fists. She stepped over a fallen body. She
walked on.

"I'm coming
for you, Mother," she whispered. "And I'm coming for you
too, Lari and Serin . . . and somehow, with magic, with my chains, or
only with my fingernails and teeth, I will kill you."

Another body
crashed down before her. Chin raised, Madori stared ahead across the
marching prisoners and laughing Radians.

The march continued
into the endless, cold darkness of the night.

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:
INTO DARKNESS

The Red Flame Armada
sailed up the Inaro River, driving deep into the dark wilderness of
Qaelin.

Jitomi, the new
emperor of Ilar, flew above his fleet upon Tianlong's back. The
dragon coiled beneath him, red beard fluttering and black scales
chinking. Below, upon the silver river, the five hundred ships formed
a great serpent of lights, their lanterns red and orange. Battened
sails rose high, catching the wind. Many oars pounded the river,
driving the ships upstream. Cannons, soldiers in steel, and pagodas
bearing archers rose upon the decks. It was the greatest fleet in the
world, a machine of war, a floating empire. Tens of thousands of
troops stood upon these decks or within the hulls, waiting to kill.
Thousands of cannons stood ready to fire into the enemy.

"This is,"
Jitomi whispered, "the hope of the night."

Tianlong grunted,
his scales chinking. "Ilar has always been smaller than Qaelin,
but its armies greater, its ships mightier. For too many generations,
we tormented the northern coast, slaying our own brothers and
sisters." The dragon bared his fangs. "But now the might of
Ilar will crush Timandrians, even if we must sail into the very lands
of sunlight." The dragon looked over his shoulder at Jitomi, and
his red eyes narrowed. "You will lead us to glory, my emperor."

Jitomi took a
shuddering breath. Emperor . . . No, he had never wished to be Ilar's
Emperor. His head still spun to consider it. For many generations,
the Hashido family had been powerful, wealthy, a protector of the
coast. But to usurp Empress Hikari, to begin a new, imperial dynasty
. . .

"I never
wanted this, Tianlong," he said softly. "I never imagined
my father would seize the throne. I never imagined he would die and I
would inherit that throne. I'm not a leader." He looked down at
the hundreds of sailing ships. "They will know. They will find
out that I'm not a warrior, not an emperor to fear. And fear has
always been the glue holding Ilar together."

Coiling across the
sky, Tianlong puffed smoke out from his nostrils. "Jitomi, I
have protected Ilar for thousands of years, and I have seen many
emperors rise and fall. I have seen a dozen dynasties claw their way
up from the dirt, reach glory, and fade. One dynasty ends, another
begins. This has always been the way of Ilar."

Jitomi nodded. "I
know the history. But all those emperors were great warriors—like
Hikari. Like my father. Like all the conquerors before them. What
chance do I have?" He shook his head. "I defeated Lord
Naroma, but how long until another lord rises to challenge me, to
usurp my reign with armies and many ships?"

The dragon raised
his eyebrows and thrust out his jaw. "Probably not very long."
He looked back at Jitomi, and a hint of amusement filled his eyes.
"Were you hoping I'd tell you that you're strong too, or that
you can find inner strength and lead this nation for many years? No.
That would be a lie." He laughed, spewing smoke. "Truth is,
Jitomi, you won't last long upon this throne. You are gentle and
kind—admirable qualities for a man, poor qualities for an Ilari
emperor. If you were to seek my advice, I would tell you to flee into
the wilderness, to hide, to never emerge back into the night, for you
speak truth: the lords of other houses will rebel against you, and
even within your own house you will face challengers, for your elder
sisters will lust for the throne. They will see you for what you are:
a mere boy. And they will crush you."

Jitomi
tightened his hands around the saddle's horn. He stared forward along
the Inaro River that snaked northward through the dark lands of
Qaelin. "So I cannot keep this throne. But maybe I can lead this
fleet for just long enough—long enough to find her." His throat
felt too tight. "To find Madori. And long enough to fight Serin.
Tianlong, will you help me? Will
you
be loyal to me, at least until we can win this war? I can't do this
without you. The nobles will not fear or respect me, but they still
respect you."

The black dragon
licked his chops. His fangs gleamed. "I am loyal only to Ilar,
little emperor. For thousands of years, I fought only for the Red
Flame, not for any mortal man or woman." He snorted. "Some
emperors claimed to be immortal, to be deities of the night. They lie
buried underground and I still fly." Fire kindled in his eyes.
"I am the last dragon in all of Mythimna. Did you know that,
Jitomi?"

Hail filled the
wind, pattering against Jitomi's armor. He pulled down the visor of
his helmet. The ice crashed against the steel. "I do." His
voice barely carried over the wind. "Your two last
siblings—Shenlai of Qaelin and Pirilin of Leen—fell in the War of
Day and Night. The Timandrians slew them. I emerged into the world as
Pirilin fell. I was born during that great last battle in Asharo."

Rage and pain
twisted the dragon's voice. "The Timandrians slew them. I was
there when Pirilin died. I saw the cruelty of sunlight. I fought with
Hikari, a noble empress, against the hosts of the light." He
tossed back his head and let out a roar. "And I mourn my
siblings still. Now Timandra attacks again. Your father wanted to
join the Timandrians, to lie down with demons. You, Jitomi, want to
fight." The dragon's face split into a horrible, toothy grin.
"So yes, I will help you for now. I will keep you alive even as
the nobles may plot to slay you. And we will fight the sunlight
together."

Jitomi closed his
eyes. He thought back to his first battle. It had been on the road
outside of Teel University in Mageria, his friends at his side. He
had fought Lari herself then, and he had nearly died in the dirt. He
had been only a boy, cast out from his father's court, alone, afraid.

He opened his eyes
and looked back down at the fleet, the legendary mighty of Ilar. Upon
hundreds of decks, men were beating drums. Thousands of oars rowed to
the beat. Thousands of soldiers all in steel, their helmets shaped as
snarling demon faces, prepared for war. Jitomi clutched the hilt of
his own sword.

Now
I return with an army.

The armada sailed
on through the night, heading north toward the fires of war.

* * * * *

They stood outside
the pyramid gates, hundreds of feet above the marshlands, watching
the enemy close in like a noose.

"Daenor is
fallen," Lord Kee'an whispered, eyes damp. "The swamps are
lost."

Standing beside
him, Neekeya snarled and clutched her sword. "Not as I still
breathe. Not as I still wield steel."

They stood on a
stone ledge outside the throne room. Behind them rose the archway
that led into the pyramid's crest. Before them a staircase trailed
down the pyramid's southern facade, leading to the swamp. A hundred
soldiers of Eetek Pyramid stood upon this staircase, guarding the
passage to the throne room, but Neekeya knew they were but ants
facing a herd of buffaloes. Her eyes stung to gaze at the lands
around her.

The swamps shook
and wept as the Radian forces poured in.

From the east came
those enemies Neekeya had failed to stop in the mountains. Nayan
elephants waded through the marshlands, archers upon their backs, and
many Nayan warriors, their beards and hair flaming red, walked behind
them, leading leashed tigers. Magerians walked there too, their steel
plates tinted black, and mages moved among them, their dark horses
walking knee-deep through the water. The enemy covered the land like
a swarm of insects, and as they moved, they destroyed—cutting down
trees, burning the huts and gardens of farmers, crushing fruit
groves.

When Neekeya turned
to look south, she saw more enemies arrive. Here marched Eseerians,
warriors of the southern desert realms. Thousands of years ago,
Eseerians and Daenorians were said to have been one people, a tribe
of mountain dwellers; still many of their words were the same, and
even their gods shared kins of family. Yet the Daenorians had
migrated north into the marshlands, the Eseerians south to the
desert, and now these warriors, clad in white robes and bearing
scimitars, advanced north to crush their cousins, and they too bore
the Radian banners, sworn to Serin.

Neekeya stepped to
the edge of the platform, climbed onto a statue of the god Cetela,
and stared around the pyramid's crest toward the north. There too she
saw an enemy, and these forces chilled her most of all. Fellow
Daenorians swarmed from there, her northern kin who dwelled in the
open plains, their skin lighter, their clothes, castles, and customs
mimicking those found east of the mountains in the realms of fallen
Riyona. For many years, the North Daenorians had turned against the
old ways of their southern kin, building castles instead of pyramids,
donning wool instead of crocodile skin, dining upon fine pastries
instead of frog legs and chestnut stews.