Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (35 page)

"Go away,"
she begged him. "Go back into the dusk. Leave Oshy. I don't want
to leave. I don't want to go to Pahmey. Please . . . Torin, go away."

Yet he would still
not release her. He still kept his hand on her forehead, only it
wasn't Torin after all; why had she thought it was Torin? She tried
to toss off the warty hand, but he only laughed—Old Snaggletooth,
his gums stained with the spice, his strands of hair swaying. He
reached into her pockets, seeking, rifling, stealing her money, her
life, her memories of home.

Home . . .

Oshy . . .

She had to keep
that memory alive. She kicked wildly, shoving him off. She had to
remember Oshy. Her home had burned. They had killed her people . . .
Yinlan, the elderly bead-maker who had once sewn her fur mittens . .
. little Linshani who played the flute so well . . . all gone . . .

"I miss you,"
she whispered, tears in her eyes. "I miss you, Father. I miss
you, Mother."

The hand caressed
her forehead. "I'm here, Koyee. I'm always with you."

She blinked weakly.
She seemed to lie in a hammock, the room swaying around her. A ship.
She was in the belly of a ship or perhaps a whale. A figure knelt
above her, whispering, and she thought that it was Torin again, but
gentle light fell, and she knew her. She remembered.

"Mother,"
she whispered. "Mother, how can you be here? You died. You died
when I was a baby."

And yet the gentle
woman stared down at her, smoothing her hair. She looked like Koyee.
She too had lavender eyes, smooth white hair, and a triangular face,
only her mother was beautiful, for no scars marred her.

"I'm here,
Koyee," she said, speaking in Torin's voice. "I'm always
with you."

Koyee reached out
to hold her mother's hand, to feel her warmth, to be a child again .
. . but her mother withdrew. The woman's face twisted in agony and
her belly bulged, and Koyee realized that her mother was pregnant,
that the baby was coming.

"Mother!"

Her mother fell
back, belly bulging and contracting, and the babe emerged, a twisted
creature, biting and clawing, a child with beady eyes and yellow
robes and sharp teeth.

"Ferius . . ."

The monk emerged
from the womb, a parasite with bloody gums, and leaped onto her
mother, not feeding at the breast but ripping into flesh, eating,
killing, and Koyee screamed and reached out, trying to grab Ferius,
to pull him off her mother, but she couldn't . . . she couldn't! He
was her brother. He was linked to her. He was . . .

The whale swayed.

She rocked in her
hammock.

Her eyes fluttered
back.

"She's not
getting better," said her mother.

A demonic hiss
answered. "We've rubbed her arm with our herbs. We've used the
ancient magic of Ilar. If she screams, that is good. That means the
curse is leaving her. Stay with her, Torin, even as she shouts and
weeps. She will be cured."

Her eyes fluttered.
She saw a monk leave the chamber, not a monk of Sailith in yellow
robes, but an Elorian all in black, a flame sigil upon his breast,
and Torin stood in the room again, and she clutched his hand.

"Stay with me,
Torin. Stay with me."

He squeezed her
hand and wiped the sweat off her brow. "Always."

She spent a long
time in the hull of this ship. An hourglass turned upon her table,
but she was only vaguely aware of the time passing. Torin fed her,
talked to her, and changed the damp cloth upon her forehead, and it
seemed that every turn that strange, robed monk returned to chant
spells, to rub herbs onto her arm, to nod even as she screamed, even
as the feverish dreams tore through her, making her thrash and weep.

The hourglass
turned.

She closed her
eyes.

She slept.

After half a moon of
fever, Koyee emerged onto the deck of the ship, her limbs thin and
her fingers trembling. Wrapped in a silk cloak, she beheld a starry
sky, a smooth sea, and hundreds of lamp-lit ships.

Koyee gasped and
her eyes dampened. "The navy of Ilar." She turned to Torin,
and a smile trembled on her lips. "Ilar sails to war."

Torin nodded. He
wore the armor the Chanku Pack had given him, and his sword hung at
his side. "We've been sailing for turns as you slept. We'll see
the coast of Qaelin before another turn passes."

She looked around
her, eyes wide. Koyee had seen fleets before. She had stood upon the
walls of Pahmey, firing arrows as the Ardish navy crashed into her
city's flotilla. The fleet around her, sailing north through the
night, dwarfed that memory. Hundreds of Ilari ships covered the sea,
their banners sporting the red flame upon a black field.

Many
were
panokseon
vessels, tall ships with three tiers of decks: one for rowers, one
for dragon-shaped bronze cannons, and finally a roofed deck for
warriors in black armor. Other
ships were
geobukseons
—turtle
ships—a hundred feet long, their sails tall, their decks crowded
with soldiers. Their dragon figureheads puffed sulfur smoke, all but
hiding the decks; when wind blew, clearing the smoke, Koyee saw
cannons lurking inside the dragons' mouths like tongues. Above them
all loomed great
atakebune
ships, floating fortresses. Clad in iron, their hulls bristled with
many oars. Cannons lined their railings, manned by armored soldiers.
Pagodas rose upon their decks, full of archers, and figureheads of
iron panthers loomed off their prows, ready to ram into enemy ships.

When Koyee examined
her own ship, she found a vast deck of polished metal. A hundred
soldiers or more moved across it. They wore armor of black, lacquered
plates, and their helms—shaped as demonic faces with bristly fur
mustaches—frowned at her. Three masts towered, their sails wide.

"This is a
fleet greater than any in Qaelin," Koyee whispered, tears of awe
in her eyes. "This fleet can save the night."

Torin looked at
her, eyes soft. "How is your arm?"

She pulled up her
sleeve, exposing a pale twig of a limb. Faded scars coiled around her
arm like a snake around a pole, rising from wrist to shoulder. But
the poison was out; the curse was gone. Where black, swollen welts
had risen only pale scars remained. Koyee opened and closed her fist.

"It tingles,"
she said. "But the black magic of Mageria is gone. This arm can
fight. The scars are ugly, but . . . I already have ugly scars on my
face. What are a few more?"

"I don't think
they're ugly." Torin touched her cheek. "Not the scars on
your arm or your face. Scars are marks of survival. Scars are tattoos
of strength."

She laughed. "Then
you're weak, because your skin is as smooth as a baby's behind."
She kissed his cheek. "But you're kind. And you stayed with me,
even as I screamed and thrashed. You tended to me as I healed."
Her eyes watered again. "Even in my worst dreams, through
nightmares of blood and death, a white pillar always shone, piercing
the darkness . . . sometimes only a distant needle, other times a
warm, comforting light. I know now that you shone that light, Torin.
That you were always there." She embraced him. "Thank you."

He cleared his
throat, seeming uncomfortable. "Well, technically I'm still your
prisoner, even if they let me wear armor and fight. I couldn't let
you die; they'd toss me into the slave pits."

She tapped his
nose. "That . . . and because you love me. I know you do. I
heard you say so. So don't deny it!"

She walked across
the deck, her knees still wobbly, and reached the prow. A dragon
figurehead thrust out ahead, forged of iron. Ahead across the water,
she saw a true dragon fly above the ships, a warrior upon his back.
Tianlong was healed too, and when the dragon flew closer, roaring his
cry, Koyee saw that the empress rode him, a banner in her hand.

Ilar's
might is horrible to behold,
Koyee thought,
but
now it gives me hope. Now the enemy will taste the true wrath of the
night.

She leaned across
the prow, staring north. Qaelin lay there . . . her homeland. The
largest empire in Eloria. The land of her forebears, the land she had
killed for, nearly died in . . . the land where the fate of the night
would be sealed.

"The empress
says we will sail up the Yin River," said Torin, coming to stand
at her side. "It will lead us through dark plains to the
capital."

Koyee nodded. "I've
never sailed upon the Yin, for it lies far east of the Inaro. But
when I lived on the streets of Pahmey, I heard songs of it. The Inaro
is the left vein of Qaelin, buskers would sing—the Yin is its
right."

Lights gleamed
ahead. Koyee gasped. Were those the lights of Qaelin? But as she
stared, she narrowed her eyes.

"Torin . . .
does half the Ilari fleet sail ahead?"

He
stared at the lights with her, face ashen. "We stand upon the
Red
Flame
,
the flagship of Ilar—we are the vanguard."

Koyee turned away.
"A hundred ships sail ahead. Where is my armor and sword?"

Around them across
the deck, soldiers rushed back and forth, grabbing bows and drawing
flaming arrows. Horns blared across the Ilari fleet. One man, only
feet away from Koyee, began to bang on a war drum. Distant drums
answered. Koyee made to race back down into the hull, to find her
father's sword, to find her armor and helm.

"Koyee!"
Torin said, running after her, moving between the rushing soldiers.
"You're still weak. You can't fight this battle."

She nearly crashed
into a running soldier—a spirit of steel, his crimson pauldrons
flaring out—and reached the stairs plunging into the hull. "I'm
fine, Torin."

"You are not!"
He climbed downstairs behind her. "You look thinner than a
chicken bone. You must rest."

She glared over her
shoulder at him. "I'll rest when I'm dead."

"If you fight
in this shape, that might not be far off."

She ignored him,
reached her chamber, and found her tunic of scales. She pulled the
armor over her head, grabbed her helmet from a table, and found her
sword hanging upon the wall. All the while, Torin objected, insisting
that tens of thousands of Ilari soldiers could fight, that she should
get back to bed.

"Torin, if you
don't be quiet, I'm going to toss you overboard." She shoved
past him. "Now, you can either hope you know how to swim in your
armor, or you can come with me and fight some Timandrians."

He groaned but he
followed.

When they emerged
back onto the deck, the enemy fleet was close. Koyee inhaled sharply
and drew her sword. A hundred ships or more sailed toward them, their
masts high, their banners sporting green reptiles upon golden fields.
In the distance behind them, Koyee could make out the coast of
Qaelin, a dark line rising from the water into the starry sky.

"Do you know
their banners, Torin?"

He nodded grimly.
"The fleet of Daenor sails against us. This kingdom lies upon
the western coast of Timandra, a distant land where lizards grow as
large as horses." Torin drew his sword. "Bards sing that
Daenor's fleet is the greatest in the lands of sunlight."

Koyee grinned
savagely. "Luckily we're not in the lands of sunlight."

The drums beat. The
war horns blared. The two fleets sailed forward and lights lit the
darkness.

Cannons fired
across the Ilari fleet. Rockets blasted forward, leaving trails of
fire that reflected in the black waters. From the Timandrian fleet,
ten thousand flaming arrows flew like comets, crossed the sky, and
rained down.

With screams and
flame and blood, the dance began.

Koyee and Torin
stood with raised shields as arrows slammed against them. Smoke
blasted as cannons fired. Around them, men shouted, oars splashed,
and the ships drove forward. The dragon figureheads blazed, embers
bright within their maws, their smoke rising in clouds. The drums
beat steady as a heart, a thud for every stroke of the oars. Above
the battle, Empress Hikari chanted for the night, and her dragon
roared.

"Last time,
Torin, we fought against each other." Koyee flashed him a grin.
"Let's see how we fight side by side."

Through smoke and
raining fire, the two fleets smashed together.

Ironclad
atakebune
ships
smashed into Timandra's carracks, snapping their wooden hulls. Masts
tilted and men screamed. Galleons rowed forward, and their
figureheads—shaped as the crocodiles of Daenor—drove into Elorian
vessels. Masts fell and sails caught flame. Everywhere Koyee looked,
arrows flew, cannons blazed, and fire spread. She lifted her sword
and snarled as a Timandrian ship—a towering carrack with three
masts—slammed against them.

The
railing shattered before her. Smoke plumed, fire crackled, and water
sprayed. Through the inferno, a horde of Timandrian troops leaped
onto the
Red
Flame
's
deck. Their helmets, shaped as reptile heads, gleamed in the
firelight. Metal claws rose from their boots and gauntlets. The
soldiers shrieked, inhuman sounds, and raised sabers—curved blades
longer and wider than katanas, the steel gleaming with green poison.

Koyee and Torin
raised their swords together. With a hundred Ilari troops, they
rushed toward the enemy.

The
ship rocked. Men fell and died. The sabers of Daenor swung. Katanas
slammed into chain mail. Corpses littered the deck of the
Red
Flame
,
and all around across the sea, hundreds of ships crashed together,
burned, sank, and bristled with fighting soldiers. The ring of steel,
the screams of the dying, and the roars of cannons filled the night,
an eternal song.

Koyee fought in a
daze, weak after her long disease but shouting, never slowing,
slashing her sword into the enemies. It had been a year since the
Battle of Pahmey, since she had stood upon that city's walls, leaped
across its roofs, and slain men on its streets. Yet she had never
forgotten the smell of blood, the sight of the dying, the thirst of
her blade. She had been a mere girl then, frightened and alone but
fighting as thousands died around her. She was still frightened, she
was still too thin, but now . . . now she fought as a killer.