Shadows of Moth (29 page)

They stood holding
each other for long moments, the chasm of lava to one side, the
cellar of minemoles to the other, and the staircase behind them.
Finally Neekeya broke apart from the embrace. She placed one foot
upon the staircase and reached out to him.

"We climb."

Before she could
take another step, a voice rose from across the chasm.

"You cannot
escape, Neekeya. It's over."

Prince Felsar came
walking along the rails over the pit of lava. Behind him walked a
dozen Magerian soldiers and three mages in black armor.

Neekeya hissed,
crouched, and claimed the track. She tugged the metal, intending to
shatter the rails again, to send the enemy plunging down into the
lava. The rails began to bend. But the three Magerian mages—they
seemed to hover above the track—seized control of the magic,
pressing the rails back into place. They raised their hands, and
blasts of magic shot across the chasm to slam into Neekeya and Tam.

The two fell,
writhing in pain.

The pain ended as
fast as it had begun. Neekeya lay gasping, electricity crackling
across her. She struggled to her feet, and Tam rose beside her,
coughing. Sweat dripped down their foreheads.

Neekeya took
another step onto the staircase.

More magic blasted
out, knocking her down. She screamed. Blood dipped from her mouth,
and the minemoles shrieked in their enclosure, banging against the
bars, begging to feed.

When the pain
ended, Neekeya spun back toward the track that spanned the chasm.
Felsar and the mages had crossed half the bridge now. Hoods hid the
mages' faces, but Neekeya could see Felsar clearly. He was smiling.

"You
cannot escape us," the prince said. "Even if you make it up
the stairs—and perhaps I will let you climb them for sport—we will
hunt you in the marshes. Perhaps I will keep you alive. Perhaps I
will drag you to Emperor Serin in chains, so he may torture you
himself. The
Latani
of Eetek and the Price of Arden . . . fine prizes." The prince
licked his lips. "Fine prizes that would elevate me to glory in
the court of my lord."

Tam coughed and
hugged himself. Blood dripped from cuts the magic had left across
him. The minemoles were shrieking, reaching their paws between the
bars of their enclosure, consumed with bloodlust, desperate for their
crimson drink.

Neekeya's limbs
shook. Her head spun. Coughing and bleeding, she struggled back up to
her feet. Tam grasped her arms. He stared at her, sweat dripping into
his eyes.

"Climb,
Neekeya." He stroked a strand of her hair; it was wet with blood
and sweat. "Run."

She looked back at
the tracks. The enemy was advancing, the lava gurgling below. If she
stepped onto the stairs again, the mages would blast their magic, she
knew. What could she do? She was trapped. She had failed. She—

"Run!"
Tam shouted.

He spun toward the
enclosure in the wall. Magic blasted out from his hand, shattering
the metal bars. With a single swift movement, Tam swiped his hand
across his blade, then lifted his bleeding palm.

The minemoles raced
toward him, clawing over one another in a mad dash.

"Up the
stairs, Neekeya!" the Prince of Arden shouted . . . and leaped
onto the track.

"Tam!"
she shouted.

He ran across the
metal track over the chasm, heading toward the enemy. Neekeya cried
out and tried to run after him, but the minemoles raced around her,
each as large as a boar. They slammed into her, knocking her down, in
their mad dash after Tam's dripping blood. The creatures scurried
along the track like rats along a rope.

Upon the track,
high above the lava, Tam swung his sword, parrying a bolt of magic.
Shouting wordlessly, he slammed into Felsar.

"Tam!"
Neekeya shouted, tears in her eyes.

An instant later, a
dozen minemoles leaped onto Tam, Felsar, and the soldiers on the
track. Magic blasted out. Men screamed. Blood showered. Fire
exploded.

With creaks and
snaps, the iron rails shattered.

Both men and
minemoles fell.

Neekeya reached
across the chasm, screaming, watching the rails plummet.

The lava showered
up toward the ceiling and walls, greedy tongues licking chops of
stone, satisfied after a hearty meal.

"Tam . . ."

Neekeya remained
upon the stone ledge, reaching down toward the lava. Her body shook.
Tears gushed from her eyes.

"My husband .
. ."

The lava settled
and gurgled peacefully, a red river. The bridge had vanished, leaving
only a few shattered spikes of metal. All that remained of men and
minemoles was the echo of a scream, perhaps only a memory. All that
remained of Neekeya's life was a hollow, empty shell.

She wept. Her life
was saved. Her husband was gone.

"Tam . . .
please," she whispered. "Please, let this be a trick. Let
this be some illusion of your magic. Tam . . ."

More Magerian
soldiers emerged across the chasm from the opposite tunnel. They saw
Neekeya, raised crossbows, and fired. Several quarrels clattered
around her, and one drove into her thigh. She screamed.

I'm
sorry, Tam. I'm sorry.

She turned and ran
up the staircase, quarrels pattering around her feet. She climbed for
hundreds of steps, moving higher and higher, her blood dripping, her
tears falling. Finally she emerged back into the marshlands, turned
around, and saw the Pyramid of Eetek a mile away. Radian banners rose
from its crest, and Magerians blew horns in victory.

Covered in blood,
dust, and mud, Neekeya stood in the marshes, the water up to her
knees. She lowered her head and clutched the hilt of her sword.

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
THE BLOOD OF ELORIA

Lari leaned back in
her lush armchair, placed her feet upon her embroidered footstool,
and sipped from her glass of wine.

"Well, well."
She examined Madori. "The war hasn't been good to you, has it?"

The camp
outside—Iron Mine Number One—was a nightmarish land of screams,
blood, and death. Here in this tent was an oasis of comfort and
splendor. The tent walls were woven of rich, crimson wool embroidered
with golden thread. Golden bowls of fruit, jeweled jugs of wine, and
ivory cutlery rested upon giltwood tables. Statues of rearing
buffaloes—symbols of Old Mageria—held crackling embers in their
mouths, and their ruby eyes gleamed.

And
in the center of this splendor is me,
Madori thought.

She looked into a
tall mirror, its frame golden. She did not recognize the creature she
had become. Cuts bled upon her naked scalp. Grime covered her body.
That body was thinner than she'd ever known it, her ribs visible
between the tatters of her rags, her joints knobby. The brand still
blazed upon her shoulder, raw and red, and the stripes of Gora's whip
marked her skin.

She looked back at
Lari. As wretched as Madori was, Lari was resplendent. The princess
wore a burgundy gown strewn with golden suns, and rubies hung around
her neck. Her blond hair cascaded, scented with sweet oils, and even
here in the camp, the princess kept her face finely painted—her
eyelids powdered blue, her lips tinted red, her cheeks kissed with
pink. On her fingers shone rings, each one worth more than Madori's
old house and everything it had contained.

"What do you
want from me?" Madori asked.

Lari sloshed the
wine in her mouth, swallowed, and raised her eyebrow. "Why, I
should think it clear, mongrel. I want you to suffer. I want you to
stay alive to endure all the pain I can give you. I want you to
remain the last living nightcrawler after all others have perished,
and to remain by my side, to watch the destruction of the night with
me." Lari leaned forward, her teeth stained red with wine. "And
then, mongrel, I will return you to the sunlight, where I will parade
you around as a freak, a creature for a menagerie. Men and women from
across the empire will travel to see you, to pelt you with stones, to
laugh at the deformed creature of darkness that I tamed. That is what
I will turn you into."

The princess's
cheeks flushed, and her grin stretched obscenely wide—so wide it
almost seemed to split her face. Her eyes blazed with fire. With her
garish makeup and hissing grin, she suddenly seemed less like a woman
and more like some demonic jester.

She's
insane,
Madori realized.
She's
not just cruel, not just hateful. She's utterly mad.

"So why keep
me here?" Madori said. "Why not toss me into the mine with
the others?"

Lari plucked a
grape from a bowl and chewed. "Too easy for you to kill yourself
down there. I've seen one do it—slam the pickaxe right into his own
head." She laughed—a trill shriek of a sound. "You will
not leave my sight. You will not be a miner. You will be my servant;
that is a better fate for you. Until the war is over and all the
nightcrawlers are dead, you will prepare my meals, wash my clothes,
empty my chamber pot, clean my dishes, and mostly watch with me. Yes,
mostly you will stand with me above the canyon, watching as the
nightcrawlers wither away, watching as they die." Lari rose from
her chair, approached Madori, and held her arms. Her eyes blazed with
the white light of a madwoman. "It will be glorious."

Madori stared into
those two blue orbs of insanity. She shook her head. "I refuse.
I will not serve you, Lari. You've gone mad with your power."
Hesitantly, she touched Lari's shoulder. "You don't have to
become this person. You don't have to let your father turn you into
this. I can help you. I—"

Lari screamed and
backhanded her. Madori clutched her blazing cheek.

"Be silent,
mongrel, or I'll cut out your tongue." Lari grabbed a pitcher
and tossed it at Madori. It slammed against her chest and spilled its
wine. "I thought you might refuse. I knew you would. But I have
ways of forcing you to obey."

"If you hurt
me," Madori said softly, "I will endure it."

"May be."
Lari laughed. "But I think, if I hurt another, you will find it
harder to resist." She shouted toward the tent's entrance.
"Gora! Bring her in!"

The tent flap
opened. Gora and two other guards dragged in a bald, beaten Elorian.

Madori's eyes
dampened.

Her heart seemed to
fall still.

Mother.

"Mother!"
she cried, leaped forward, and pulled Koyee into an embrace.

Tears streamed down
Koyee's bruised face. "Madori! Oh, Madori!" Koyee trembled,
caressing Madori's cheek again and again. "I'm so sorry. I'm so
sorry, daughter."

Madori could not
speak, only weep. Gone was the proud, noble mother she had known, a
warrior of starlight. Koyee was now battered, bleeding, her head
bald, her hands raw and blistered, her limbs stick-thin. Tears flowed
down Madori's cheeks.

"It'll be all
right, Mother," she finally whispered through shaking lips,
holding Koyee close. "Help will come to us. We—"

"Pull them
apart!" Lari shrieked. "Gora! Make the mother suffer. Let
the mongrel watch."

With a few grunts
and curses, the Magerians grabbed mother and daughter and tugged them
apart. Madori wailed and reached out to Koyee, but the guards only
laughed, their grips like iron.

With a grin, Gora
struck Koyee, knocking her down.

"Damn you!"
Madori howled. She struggled against the guards gripping her but
couldn't free herself.

Gora chortled and
raised his whip above Koyee. Coughing out blood, Koyee struggled to
rise, but her arms wobbled, too weak to support her.

"Stop!"
Madori cried. She turned toward Lari. "Stop. I'll do as you say.
Just let her go."

Gora froze, his
whip held in the air, and glanced at Lari. The emperor's daughter
nodded. Disappointment clouded Gora's face, and he hawked and seemed
ready to spit, then apparently remembered where he stood and
swallowed. With a grunt, he grabbed Koyee and manhandled her out of
the tent.

"Be strong,
Mother!" Madori called after her. "I love you. I love you .
. ."

The other guards
shuffled out, leaving Madori alone again with Lari in the tent.

Lari cleared her
throat, sat back down in her armchair, and placed her feet back upon
the footstool. "Now, my dear mongrel, I thirst for wine. Pour me
a new cup. Afterward you may fetch me my dinner from the kitchens,
then wash my boots and gown; both are dirty from my ride last turn.
Well . . . get to work. Or shall I call your nightcrawler mother back
in?"

For the next few
hours, Madori worked in silence—serving Lari, cleaning her plates,
cleaning her clothes, grooming her horse, and obeying her every
command. Her head would not stop spinning, and her limbs would not
stop shaking, and she wondered how long she would remain alive, how
long any of them would. Her chains rattled with every step.

Soon,
she thought as she worked outside in the cold, polishing Lari's
armor.
Soon,
once I've regained my strength, I'll be able to cast magic again.
Soon I'll be able to get my hands on a blade or pickaxe. And then,
Lari . . . then the madness in your eyes will turn to fear.

* * * * *

He rode across the
night, leading a host of sunlight.

He was a conqueror.
A lighter of darkness. An exterminator of vermin. He was Emperor
Serin. He was a light to the world and a hammer to crush the worms
that infested it. He was the god of Radianism, a deity among men.

"The darkness
vanishes," he whispered, licking his lips. "The light
rises."

Ahead of him, the
great hive of nightcrawlers crumbled. Yintao, they had named it. The
capital of their filthy, infested land. The magic tore into the hive,
smashing walls, crumbling towers, and his hosts cheered. A hundred
thousand Timandrians, children of pure sunlight, streamed into the
ruins, slaying the weak, capturing the strong. Thousands of Elorians
marched in chains, whipped, beaten, shivering in their nakedness and
wretchedness.