Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) (33 page)

Torin pulled his head back into
the chamber. He held Linee's hands and guided her out the window and
into the basket. The gondola dipped several inches under her weight.
The queen stood still, her sword still in her hand, a tear streaming
down her cheek as she gazed upon the fall of her city.

When Torin turned toward Prince
Omry, the armored young man shook his head. He raised his sword. "I'm
staying."

Torin clutched his arm. "No.
Omry, you're flying away from here. You are the heir of Arden."

His eyes flashed. "Which is
why I go down with this kingdom."

"Your kingdom does not fall
this turn." Torin tugged the boy toward the window. "Your
father still fights for this kingdom. Your mother will still lead
Arden from safety. If you fall with this city—if the hosts of the
enemy slay the heir of Arden—that would shatter the spirit of those
who still fight. If you live this day, if you speak for Arden from a
place of safety, you will bring hope to the hearts of all Ardishmen."

The prince hesitated, sword
wavering. The sounds of boots stomped up the tower now; the chants of
Magerians rose below.

"Go!" Torin shouted.

Reluctantly, the prince climbed
out the window and into the basket. It dipped two full feet; it
seemed barely able to stay afloat.

More arrows whistled from below.
Two slammed into the basket. Qato leaned down and fired his crossbow,
hitting one archer, then another.

"Hurry, Torin!" Nitomi
cried, reaching toward him. "Into the basket! Now!"

Torin looked at the small dojai,
then back at the chamber. The walls were shaking, and a framed
picture fell and shattered. The cries of Magerians rose louder as
they climbed the stairs.

The
queen and prince must live to inspire hope,
he thought.
But
I am Lord Protector of this city. I cannot abandon a sinking ship.

He turned back to the window.
"Go, Nitomi! Fly."

Her eyes watered. "Torin,
come on!"

Behind her, Linee and Omry cried
out too. "Into the basket!"

Torin's eyes stung. "It
won't support my weight." He shoved the gondola away from the
tower wall. "Fly! I'll find another way."

Tears streamed down Linee's
cheeks, and she cried out to him. "Torin, please!"

"Go!" He shoved the
basket again and switched to speaking Ilari, a language of the night.
"Nitomi, take them to safety. Take them to Oshy. I'll meet you
there. Now go!"

Tears streamed down the small
assassin's cheeks as she tugged ropes, letting the hot air balloon
soar into the air. Linee was still shouting, reaching over the basket
to him, as the vessel ascended and glided eastward, arrows sailing
beneath it.

Torin stepped away from the
chamber, raised his sword and shield, and faced the door just as it
shattered open.

Four mages stepped into the
room, clad in black robes, their faces hidden beneath their hoods.
Their garments revealed only their fingertips—pale, clawed digits.
They stepped aside and stood at attention, allowing a towering figure
to enter the room—a man eight feet tall, clad in black, his arms
spreading out like mandibles. Red eyes blazed from within his black
iron helm. A voice like a hiss rose from that helmet, unearthly,
deep, echoing, twisting with cruel mirth.

"Torin Greenmoat . . ."

His four blades burst into white
flame, crackling, spewing smoke.

"Take him alive,"
spoke Gehena, field marshal of the Magerian forces. "Lord Serin
will break him."

Torin screamed and charged,
sword swinging.

The mages raised their hands.

The smoke blasted Torin's way,
crashing against him. He swung his sword, cutting through the
tendrils. Blackness covered the room, darker than the night. Pain
drove through Torin, creaking his bones.

For
Koyee. For Madori. For Moth.

He screamed and lashed his
sword.

The katana clanged against
Gehena and shattered into countless shards. The steel cut into Torin,
and his blood spurted, and he fell.

Blackness enveloped him, almost
soft, almost warm, cocooning him in deep slumber.

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:
STEEL AND STONE

He stood before her—Lord Tirus
Serin, the new King of Mageria, the Light of Radian—the man she must
kill.

Screaming, Madori swung her
shovel toward him.

His sword slammed into the
handle, diverting the blow.

"Again we meet on the road,
sweet Madori!" he said, smiling like a wolf at a sheep. "And
again you lunge at me. Last time I spared your life. This time your
grave is already dug and awaiting you."

The others fought around
them—Elorian outcasts battling Radian soldiers. Madori would not
spare the battle a glance; here before her stood her only target. She
raised her shovel, prepared to strike again, but the wooden shaft
caught flame in her hands. She yelped and tossed the shovel at Serin,
but it clanged uselessly against his breastplate, then fell to the
ground.

"Poor, innocent child."
Serin took a step toward her. "Go on, attack me with magic. I
see that you want to. I think I will toy with you a little before
I—"

Madori screamed and tossed a
ball of dark magic toward his face.

An inch away from hitting him,
the projectile scattered and fell like ash.

"Good!" said Serin.
"Good. You chose the particles in the air around us, formed a
perfect missile, and tossed it within a heartbeat." He tsked and
shook his head. "But you forgot to form new bonds between the
materials, allowing me to easily disperse the projectile." He
swung his sword, slicing skin off her arm. "Try again! Every
time you fail, I will cut off another piece of you."

Madori yowled. Blood gushed from
her arm. She had no time to heal the wound. Instead, she claimed his
breastplate and began to heat the metal.

He sighed like a teacher at an
erring pupil, shook his head, and transferred the heat from his
breastplate into his sword. The blade turned red-hot, and he swung it
again, nicking Madori's shoulder. She screamed, the wound sizzling.

"Not good enough!"
Serin said. "Why heat armor without sealing the fire within?"
He sighed. "Truly you mongrels are pathetic creatures. That is
why you will die in our fire, and the true masters of
magic—Magerians of pure blood—will rule both day and night. Try
again!"

Madori trembled, her wounds
dripping, barely able to focus, barely able to muster the strength to
stand up. She needed help. She needed her friends. He was too strong.
But the others were fighting their own enemies; Madori faced this man
alone.

With a scream, she claimed his
sword, trying to loosen the bonds within the blade, to bend the steel
while it was hot. He responded by claiming the blade himself, curving
it into a saber, and nicking her ear. She tried to claim the
cobblestones beneath his feet, to tug them free and send him falling.
He stepped aside, regained his footing, and stabbed her thigh.

Madori screamed, more blood
spilling, and fell to her knees.

"My my." Serin shook
his head sadly. "For a year you studied magic, yet you cannot
even defeat an old man like me." He stepped closer to her,
raised his hand, and blasted a cone of air at her chest. The blow
knocked the breath out of her. She fell onto her back, gasping for
air, her blood trickling.

He placed a boot upon her chest.
His sword tore through her shirt, drawing a line across her chest,
and more blood flowed.

"Foul mongrel blood,"
he said, pinning her down. He spat. "The pure blood of Timandra
. . . mixed with poison of Eloria. It disgusts me. I will bleed you
now, child—slowly, drop by drop, and you will stare upon me as your
life trickles away, then join your subhuman friends in the grave you
dug."

She tried to cast her magic; she
was too weak. She tried to shove his boot off; he was too strong,
crushing her, and she felt that her organs could burst, her ribs
snap. Her eyes rolled back. She tried to cry for help, but only a
whisper left her throat.

Breath
by bre—

Yet his boot pressed deeper, and
she couldn't even breathe.

Her eyes rolled back, and she
thought she heard her friends calling to her: Tam, her oldest friend,
a prince of Arden, a boy she had loved all her life; and Neekeya, her
only female friend, a girl Madori loved more than life. How could
they be here too? How could she fail, let them die here in the forest
with her?

I'm
sorry, my friends. I'm sorry, my parents. I love you all so much.

Tears streamed down her cheeks,
mingling with the blood and mud.

Serin flipped his sword over,
pointing the blade downward. He raised the sword slowly, prepared to
drive it down like a tent peg.

No.
How can I die here? I spent a year studying magic. How can I fail?
She
thought back to her professors: little Professor Fen, his mustache
bristling as he taught Basic Principles; elderly Professor Yovan, a
kindly graybeard who taught her the art of healing; wise Professor
Maleen, poisoned by the Radians; and finally, the brightest light
among them, Headmistress Egeria, the wisest woman Madori had known, a
woman now imprisoned for her resistance.

They
believed in me. They taught me to be strong. How can I let them down?

"And now," Serin said,
digging his heel into her, "I gut you like a fish and watch your
organs spill."

His face changed, turning cruel,
delighted, red with bloodlust. He hissed, lips peeled back, and drove
his sword downward.

With her last drops of strength,
Madori chose and claimed the blade.

As the sword plunged down, she
split the blade into two halves—down to the hilt. Each half curled
outward like a great, steel jaw opening wide. The two shards slammed
into the earth at Madori's sides, driving deep into the mud, missing
her body.

She had no more power for magic.
She grabbed a rock and hurled it, hitting his forehead.

Serin shouted and stumbled back,
blood spurting and filling his eyes.

Dizzy and covered in blood, she
tossed his broken sword aside and struggled to her feet. She stumbled
a few steps toward a dead Radian soldier; she realized that most of
the Radians were dead, and the Elorian outcasts were battling the
last of them. Madori tugged the corpse's sword free and swung the
blade at Lord Serin.

His sword gone, he tried to
parry with his arms, relying on his armor for protection. Madori's
blade slammed into his hand, severing a finger. She swung again,
hitting the side of his helmet, denting the steel.

He emitted a sound like a
butchered animal.

"We'll see who's gutted!"
Madori said, stepping closer to him.

Around her, the other
Elorians—bloodied, panting, and holding their own claimed
swords—stepped forward with her, advancing toward the wounded Serin.
Dead Radians lay upon the road around them.

"Father!" rose a voice
from the forest behind—Lari's voice, sounding afraid and young.
"Father, help!"

Madori lunged toward Serin,
swinging her blade.

The mighty lord, the Light of
Radian, the King of Mageria—spun on his heel and fled. He raced into
the forest, clutching the stump of his finger, calling his daughter's
name.

Madori tried to chase him. She
wobbled and nearly fell. Arms caught her, and she found herself
leaning against Tam.

"She's hurt!" the
prince called over his shoulder. "Neekeya, bring bandages!"

Madori tried to free herself, to
run into the forest. "We have to catch him, Tam," she
whispered, blood in her mouth, blood in her eyes. "We have to
kill him. We . . ."

The world spun. She was vaguely
aware of her friends placing her down on the road, of Jitomi's warms
hands upon her wounds, of Neekeya whispering prayers.

A raven circled above, cawing,
the bird of Arden, of her home.

Her eyes closed. She slept.

For a long time Tam stood in the
rain, staring down at the grave, his fists clenched at his sides.

"I'm sorry," he said,
voice hoarse, as the rain streamed down his face. "My friends,
I'm sorry."

He lowered his head. Mud and
stones covered the communal grave on the roadside, containing the
bodies of Radian soldiers and five Elorian youths, outcast students
fallen to Serin's cruelty. The rain pattered against the grave, and
Tam wanted to kneel, to dig through the mud, to check again for life
signs, to save them somehow. But he only stood, ashamed.

"You came into the lands of
sunlight to learn our ways," he whispered. "You didn't
distinguish between Magerians, Ardishmen, Daenorians, or any other
children of sunlight; to you we were all foreigners. You came into
sunlight trusting us . . . and now you lie dead. And now the forces
of hatred march across this land."

Tam knew that he wasn't to
blame. He knew that he'd done all he could to protect these Elorians.
Yet still the guilt coursed through him—guilt for Timandra and the
blood staining these lands of eternal daylight.

A hand touched his shoulder. He
turned to see Neekeya gazing at him with soft eyes.

"We have to go." She
caressed his wet hair. "Serin will be back with more men. We
have to leave now."

He looked back at the road. The
surviving Elorian students—twenty in all—were back inside the cage
upon the wagon. Madori lay between them, her wounds bandaged, still
unconscious. Jitomi sat with her, cradling her head in his lap. As
the rain fell, the large Elorian eyes stared at him, blue and
lavender, gleaming like lanterns.

"We'll take them to Arden,"
Tam said. "To the city of Kingswall, where they'll find rest and
supplies. From there they can continue their journey to Eloria."
He lowered his head. "My days at Teel University are over. I
will not return there. In this time of bloodshed, I return to my
homeland, to my city, to my family."