Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) (30 page)

She smiled too, head lowered. "I
lied. I was afraid last time too." She looked back up at him,
and her eyes sparkled with tears. She pulled him into an embrace and
laid her head upon his shoulder. "I'm glad you're here. I know
how hard it is for you, being away from Koyee and Madori. Thank you."

He was still holding her when
the alarm bells clanged across the city.

Linee gasped and stared at him
with wide eyes. Torin grimaced and clenched his fists. The bells
pealed across the gardens, not the high bells of festivals but the
deep, harsh bells of war.

It's
too soon,
Torin thought.
Serin's
forces are still at Hornsford. We're not ready.

He tore apart from Linee. He
ran.

He could barely remember leaving
the palace gardens. Within what seemed like heartbeats, he was
donning armor and riding his horse out the palace gates. A horseman
met him there, riding up from the city streets, his face dripping
sweat. Torin recognized the youth: Prince Omry, the heir to Arden, a
seventeen-year-old boy several minutes older than his twin, Prince
Tam.

"Sir Greenmoat!" said
the prince, his brown hair matted across his brow.

Torin halted his horse. The
bells still clanged across the city. "What's the news, Omry?"

"An enemy in the south!"
Omry panted. "They're emerging from the forest across the river.
They march onto Mudwater Bridge."

Torin cursed and spurred his
horse. The beast burst into a gallop, and Omry rode at his side. They
raced down the cobbled streets of Kingswall, passing between tall
buildings of white bricks and red roof tiles, leaving the palace
behind. Steeples, domed temples, and squat workshops all blurred as
he galloped, and Torin's heart seemed to beat with the same intensity
as his horse's hooves. Other soldiers were bustling around him,
heading to the southwestern wall. City folk—merchants in dyed
cotton, tradesmen in leather and wool, and commoners in
homespun—rushed into their homes, climbed onto roofs to peer south,
or prayed in the streets.

Finally Torin reached Tigers'
Gate, one of Kingswall's seven gates. Two towers framed its archway,
guarding the southwestern wall. A thousand years old, Tigers' Gate
had long been a passageway for Nayan merchants. The fur-clad,
fiery-haired rainforest dwellers often entered this gate, bringing
the bounty of their realm: tiger pelts, ivory jewels, caged birds,
cocoa and coffee beans, exotic fruits, aromatic sandalwood, and
spices not found north of the Sern River. For a thousand years,
Tigers' Gate had been the valve connecting Arden with Naya.

The bells still clanging, Torin
dismounted his horse and entered the gatehouse. He climbed the
spiraling staircase, finally emerging onto the top of the western
tower. Standing between the battlements, he stared south and felt
himself pale.

A cobbled road ran out the gate,
traveling across the plains to the Sern River, the border with Naya.
The Sern was a mile wide, gushing and uncrossable, aside from a ford
a mile southwest of the city. Here, where the river thinned, the road
connected with Mudwater Bridge. The bridge was narrow, half the size
of the great Hornsford in the north—a passageway for merchants, its
bricks mossy, its foundations overrun with reeds. A single tower
guarded the northern, Ardish side of the bridge; the southern side
disappeared into the Nayan forest. Mudwater was usually empty, only
seeing traffic every seven turns when Nayan merchants emerged from
their forest, pushing carts full of supplies.

This turn, standing atop the
tower, Torin beheld a host of hundreds emerging from the forest,
bearing Radian banners.

"Magerians," he
whispered, staring at their black steel plates, their longswords, and
the dark robes of their mages. "Serin's men."

Omry emerged onto the tower
battlements too, stared at the host, and drew the symbol of Idar—a
semicircle—upon his chest. "Idar save us."

The forest rustled behind the
enemy troops; it seemed to Torin that thousands of soldiers still hid
among the trees. The chants rose, ringing across the land.

"Radian rises! Radian
rises!"

Torin clutched the battlements,
understanding at once. Of course. He gritted his teeth, and his heart
banged against his ribs.

We
were fooled. Of course Serin let us escape at Hornsford Bridge. Of
course he let Cam and I come here with the news.

"Serin never intended to
attack at Hornsford," he muttered. "The bastard drove
through Naya, hidden in the rainforest, like a clot crawling hidden
through a vein. And now he strikes at our heart."

Below in the courtyard, Ardish
riders were gathering before the gate, their horses armored. Spears
glinted and shields displayed the raven of Arden upon gold fields.
Behind them, along the streets of Kingswall, footmen were gathering,
clad in chain mail and bearing longswords.

"It's
not enough,"
Omry
said
,
echoing
Torin's thoughts. "With most of our troops in the west, this
city is a ripe fruit for the picking."

Torin grunted. "Yet we will
fight the enemy nonetheless."

The
two men raced down the tower, ran into the courtyard, and mounted
their horses, joining two hundred other riders. Several hundred
infantrymen stood behind them, swords drawn. A squire blew a horn,
and the doors of Tigers' Gate creaked open, revealing the
countryside, the river, and the distant bridge. Already the enemy
banners—the buffalo of Mageria and the eclipse of Radianism—were
crossing toward the northern bank.

At the head of the city forces,
Torin raised his katana—the sword Eloria had gifted him almost two
decades ago, the sword he had fought the last war with, the sword he
would finally wield again. "Men of Arden!" he shouted.
"War! War is upon us. Fight with me, with Torin Greenmoat. Fight
for Arden!"

With a sound like thunder, the
riders of Arden burst out of the gates and galloped across the plains
of their kingdom.

"Sons of Arden!" cried
Prince Omry, rising at Torin's side. "Raise the raven banners
and send the enemy to the Abyss!"

The land rose and fell around
Torin—a river to his left, the plains to his right. They streamed
forward, two hundred horses, tearing up grass and dirt, as behind
them surged hundreds of footmen. Ahead, blood rose in a mist from the
center of the bridge; the Mudwater's defenders, a mere fifty
Ardishmen, were clashing swords with the enemy and falling fast.
Before Torin could even reach the bridge, the last defender fell.

Banners raised high, the riders
of Mageria streamed across the bridge, heading onto the Ardish
riverbank. Horsemen rode at their lead, all in steel, a vanguard of
two hundred riders. Behind rode robed figures upon midnight
stallions, their faces hidden inside their robes. Finally, behind
these dark mages, marched the infantry of Mageria, emerging from the
trees in two rows like serpents of many steel segments. Leading this
host rode its captain, a figure taller than any Torin had ever seen.
The man—if a man he was—rode upon a horse the size of an elephant,
and four arms sprouted from his torso, each holding a blade. Upon his
black breastplate, burning like red fire, appeared the eclipse of
Radianism, shining with horrible light.

"Here rides Lord Gehena!"
said Prince Omry, riding at Torin's side. "Books speak of him, a
man magically enhanced, mixed with the blood of ancient giants."

The dark captain raised his
head, and he seemed to stare across the plains directly at Torin. Two
hundred yards still separated the hosts, and a black helmet like a
barrel hid the giant's face, but Torin saw red eyes gleaming within,
staring into him, searing like two embers pressed against his flesh.

He swallowed down the fear that
choked him, tore his eyes away from the horrible half-man, and
shouted to his troops. "For Arden! For our home! Send the enemy
back and know no fear!"

Hoisting the raven standards,
outnumbered many times, the forces of Arden galloped to meet their
enemy.

The armies crashed on the
northern riverbank with a shower of blood and shattered steel.

Spears flew Torin's way. One
slammed into his horse, snapping against the animal's armor. Another
shattered against Torin's shield, showering wooden shards. Torin's
head spun. His heart leaped into his throat. His pulse thrummed in
his ears. His hand shook around the hilt of his katana, and he was
there again, back in the night, a youth fighting the hosts of
sunlight, Koyee at his side.

He gritted his teeth.

Breathe.

He sucked in air.

Survive
breath by breath.

He leaned forward in the saddle,
driving into the enemy.

A
rider charged toward him, swinging a sword. Torin blocked the blow
with his shield, swung his own blade, and shattered the joints of
armor at the man's elbow. The arm bent with a sickening
snap
,
and Torin thrust his sword again, denting the steel. Blood seeped. A
second rider attacked from his left, and Torin swung his shield,
driving the wooden disk into the enemy's helmet. His fellow riders
fought around him, thrusting lances and slashing swords.

"Omry, get back to the
city!" Torin shouted. "Organize a defense on the walls."

The young prince shook his head,
sweat dripping down his face. "I fight with you, Torin! I—"

Horses screamed.

The air thinned, streaming away
from Torin, leaving him gasping.

He stared ahead, saw them, and
felt the blood drain from his face.

Mages.

A dozen rode from the bridge,
the soldiers of Mageria parting to let them through. The mages' hands
were raised, collecting the air into swirling balls thick with dust,
smoke, and pieces of shattered steel. As one, the mages tossed
forward their missiles.

Torin tried to dodge the
projectile hurtling his way. He tugged his horse left, only to crash
into another animal. His horse reared, wind shrieked, and pain and
darkness flowed over Torin.

Blood splashed. Armor cracked.

He fell.

He saw nothing.

Pain drove through him, and he
realized he had fallen onto his back. Still he couldn't see. The
smoke clung to him, covering his visor, tearing at his armor like a
demon. He grunted, blinded, unable to breathe. He pulled off his
helmet and tossed it aside, and the darkness cleared, revealing a
shadowy beast that wrapped around the fallen helmet, crushing it into
a steel ball. More smoke clung to Torin's armor, scratching, tearing,
denting. Torin screamed as he tugged off the steel plates and tossed
them aside, freeing himself from the translucent creature. His armor
had shielded him from the magical attack, but Torin's heart sank to
see that his horse had been less fortunate; the smoky tendrils were
crushing the lifeless animal.

Torin barely had time to catch
his breath. Through the smoke they came marching—the ground troops
of Mageria, moving in columns, two by two, covered in steel, their
swords held before them, their shields guarding their flanks. Their
boots moved in unison, reminding Torin of a great, mechanical
centipede.

He lifted his fallen katana.
Fellow Ardishmen came to stand at his sides.

"We will send them into the
river," Torin said. "Soldiers of Arden, you will defend
your border. Turn the river red with their blood!"

His fellow Ardishmen pointed
their swords forward, shouted, and ran with Torin to meet the enemy.

The forces crashed together with
spraying blood and clanging steel.

Thousands of blades swung.

It seemed to Torin that they
fought for hours upon the riverbank. Men fell every moment, both
those of Arden and the enemy, and the river turned red. Everywhere
the enemy surged: swordsmen, riders, mages tearing off armor and
shattering flesh. Swords cut into men. Magic tugged bones out of
living bodies. Soldiers lay in the grass, clutching wounds,
screaming, weeping, calling for their mothers.

Torin limped along the bloodied
grass, an arrow in his leg, and raised his head to behold a horror
from the underworld.

The captain of the Magerian
hosts, the creature Gehena, had joined the fight, no longer content
to command the battle from the sidelines. His four arms swung, each
wielding a blade the size of a plow. Men flew like scattered toys.
The captain's horse, a towering black beast, drove down hooves larger
than human heads, crushing bodies beneath them. Arrows, broken
blades, and spears pierced the dark captain's torso, but the creature
seemed unaffected. Still his red eyes blazed within his black helm,
and still his blades swung, cutting down the men of Arden.

"The bridge is fallen!"
Prince Omry shouted, clutching Torin's arm. The young man's armor was
cracked, and blood coated him. "We must flee!"

Torin nodded grimly. Hundreds of
Magerians now covered the Ardish riverbank, flowing into the plains.
More kept emerging from the forest.

The
bridge is lost.

A squire brought him a riderless
horse. Torin climbed into the saddle and raised his banner.

"Men of Arden!" he
shouted hoarsely. "Back to the city! To Kingswall!"

They rallied around him.

They fled across the plains.

And they died.

With the bridge abandoned to the
enemy, the full wrath of Mageria flowed across the river, a great
shadow spilling forth. Arrows flew into the fleeing men. Magic tore
through them. The laughter of Gehena echoed in their ears,
high-pitched, the shriek of demons. Every step it seemed that another
man fell.

Bloodied, limping, their armor
shattered, the last defenders of Kingswall entered their city.

The gates slammed shut behind
them, sealing out the enemy.

When Torin climbed the tower
again, he clutched the battlements, shaking, barely able to breathe.