Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (38 page)

"Shatter the
ram!" Okado shouted. "Cannons, break those chains!" He
gestured toward three men along the northern wall; they were firing a
bronze cannon into a horde of enemy knights. "Cannons—to the
gatehouse!"

As archers fired
down, Okado cleared way for the cannon. He lit the fuse himself. The
cannon ball blasted out with a trail of fire. It slammed into the
battering ram's chains, shattering the links. The pole slammed
against the earth and rolled, crushing men. More arrows rained and
more oil spilled.

"We are the
night!" he shouted, his bloody sword raised, his shield bristly
with arrows. "Elorians, slay the enemy—we will stand!"

A hush fell upon
the battle.

A chill crawled
down Okado's back like a reptile.

He spun back toward
the plains.

The enemy
formations were parting, beasts and men pulling back to form a path.
Catapults, ballistae, and even the towering siege engines rolled
aside. The drums renewed their beat. Men slammed weapons against
shields, a constant rhythm, and a chant rose among the ranks. In the
distance, black smoke rose, a miasma like disease creeping forth.

"What devilry
is this?" Okado said, voice hoarse and throat tight.

Bailey stood at his
side, red sword lowered. Between splotches of her enemy's blood, her
face paled.

"Idar save
us," she whispered.

Above the smoke
rose a great banner, ten feet wide, displaying a horned crimson beast
upon a black field. Men moved within the cloud, clad in dark robes.

Bailey clasped
Okado's hand. Her voice shook. "Mages. Okado, this is an evil we
cannot fight."

He was already
drawing an arrow. "Yet I will fight nonetheless."

He released his
bowstring. His arrow sailed downward, pierced the black smoke, and
shriveled in midair. It fell to the ground as ash. The dark mages
stared up toward him, faces hidden in their hoods, and raised their
hands.

Smoke coalesced,
forming a demonic fist the size of a house . . . then drove forward.

At his side, Bailey
screamed.

The Magerian curse
blasted the gates like the fist of a god.

Bailey screamed.

The smoky hand
shattered the doors below her. The battlements shook. One tower
cracked and crashed down, burying soldiers beneath it. Smoke
enveloped the wall and Bailey yowled in agony. The black fog clung to
her armor like leeches, tugging at the steel, bending it, tearing the
scales off like a man scaling a fish. At her side, she saw the curse
wrap around Okado.

"Enter the
city!" shrieked a distant voice, tearing through Bailey's
ears—the voice of Ferius, of her nightmares. "Slay everyone
inside."

Her eyes watering,
she tore off her armor. The curse raced across her shield; she tossed
it aside too. When she gazed down, the smoke was clearing, and she
saw Timandrian knights charge through the smashed gates. Their horses
galloped, trampling bodies. Their lances thrust, impaling Elorian
soldiers. A hundred horsemen or more charged; outside the city,
hundreds more mustered to enter.

Clinging to the
ruined battlements, Bailey grabbed Okado's arm. He had torn off his
armor; it lay upon the wall, the smoke compacting it into a ball.

"To the
wolves!" she said.

They raced down
what remained of the gatehouse stairs, leaping over bodies and nearly
slipping in blood. They burst into the courtyard inside the city and
beheld knights smash into wolfriders. Blood sprayed and both beasts
and men fell.

"Ayka!"
Bailey shouted. "Ayka, to me!"

Through veils of
blood and smoke, her silver nightwolf leaped. The animal's fangs
shone, and her eyes were bright. Clad in only her leggings and tunic
but still wielding a sword, Bailey leaped into the saddle.

"Fight them,
Ayka!"

Her nightwolf
leaped into the fray.

They crashed onto a
stallion, and Bailey swung her sword down, screaming as she punched
through the knight's armor. Ayka placed her paws upon the falling
horse and leaped, clearing the animal, and crashed into a second
knight. The man thudded onto the ground, and Ayka tore off his visor.
Bailey finished the job, plunging her sword into the knight's face.

Around them,
hundreds of wolves and horses crowded the courtyard. The collapsed
gates lay beneath them. More Timandrians kept marching in.

The fight moved out
of the courtyard and into the streets; they fought between homes and
temples, atop roofs and inside halls. Bailey fought in a blind rage.
Her wolf leaped, she swung her sword, and blood splashed her face.
She jumped off her wolf only once, grabbed a new shield and scaled
shirt off a corpse, and fought again. Everywhere she looked she saw
the enemies: Ardish knights on horseback, fighters from her homeland;
bloodsuns, warrior-monks of Sailith in crimson armor; Verilish
barbarians, wrapped in furs and fighting upon bears; Nayan jungle
warriors, chanting as they thrust their spears; even Sanian archers
atop elephants, clad in beads, firing red arrows down into the
battle.

My
people,
Bailey thought as she fought, her eyes damp as she killed.
These
are my banners. These are my brothers and sisters. And yet I must
kill them. I must stop their cruelty.
Astride her wolf, she let out a howl.

"I am Bailey!"
she cried. "I was born in sunlight. I am a daughter of the day.
Yet now I fight for the night." She stood in her stirrups,
shouting for all to hear. "Hear me, my people—stop this
madness! Fight against the poison of Sailith, against the lies of
your leaders. Fight with me, with Bailey of Arden—fight for the
nigh—"

Arrows whistled her
way.

Two slammed into
her shield.

Three more drove
into her wolf.

Ayka howled in
agony, and Bailey cried atop her, and more arrows flew. They slammed
into Bailey's armor, and her nightwolf bolted. The wounded beast,
arrows thrusting out of her flank, charged into the ranks of archers.

Ayka leaped,
clawing and biting, tearing men apart. Archers fell dead beneath her.
Bailey swung her sword, cutting into the troops.

Timandrian
swordsmen rushed toward her.

Elorian soldiers
raced to stand at her sides.

A thousand swords
swung and more arrows flew. More of the projectiles drove into her
wolf.

"Ayka!"
Bailey cried as the wolf mewled. "Ayka, run! Flee!"

Blood matted silver
fur. Ayka panted and her eyes grew hazy, but she still fought,
tearing into the enemy.

"Ayka, please!
Turn around. To safety!"

A knight charged
forward, trampling over bodies, thrusting his lance.

Ayka leaped toward
him.

"No!"
Bailey cried, tears on her cheeks. "Ayka, back!"

But it was too
late. Ayka sailed through the air. The lance thrust into the
nightwolf, skewering her, emerging bloody from the other side.

The wolf bit,
tearing open the knight's neck . . . then crashed down.

Bailey thudded onto
the ground, weeping. "Ayka . . ."

She knelt by the
dead wolf, stroking her fur, begging her to wake up. Her tears
streamed.

Shouts rose ahead.

Bailey raised her
head to see more troops march toward her.

She leaped up,
screaming hoarsely, and stood before her wolf. She sliced the air.

"Come face me!
I am a daughter of sunlight, and I fight for darkness. Come, soldiers
of Sailith. Come taste my blade." She raised her sword and
shield. She shouted a cry that rose from her toes and tore through
her throat, the cry of an orphaned girl, of a woman in the dungeons
of Sailith, of a soul who had killed and bled and would die under the
stars. "We are the night!"

They charged toward
her.

She swung her
sword.

She killed and
blood washed her.

All around, she saw
them storm into the city—the multitudes of the day, an enemy they
could not stop, a force too great for an empire. The torches blazed
and it seemed to Bailey that the world spun again, that the sun rose
upon Eloria. Houses fell and streets turned red with death. Pagodas
collapsed, raining tiles. Behind her, she saw the enemy reach the
second layer of walls, and another battering ram swung, and more
gates smashed. The warriors of sunlight flowed inward, beating their
drums, killing all in their path.

The screams of
women and children rose behind her, and Bailey wept, for she knew
that the people of Yintao lived beyond these second gates. And she
knew that they were dying. The cries of babes rose upon the wind.

She swung down her
sword, cleaving a man, and knew that it was lost . . . knew that this
city would fall, that the night would burn, that she would burn with
it.

Then
I will die in a pillar of fire. Then I will die shouting and killing.
I will not live to see this city fall.
Even
as she shouted for war, her eyes stung with tears.
Goodbye,
Torin. Goodbye, Grandpapa. I love you all.

An arrow flew and
slammed into her shoulder.

A sword shattered
her shield.

She fought with
closed eyes, ready to die.

From the north,
distant horns blared.

They
are beautiful,
Bailey thought, blood in her mouth.
They
are the horns of afterlife, a keen of magic and starlight and an end
to pain.

"The gods
answer!" rose a voice.

"Hope—hope in
the north!"

"The stars
shine!"

Bailey opened her
eyes. Corpses and death sprawled around her, thousands of fallen, and
still the distant horns blew. Those were no horns of Timandra; they
were high, ethereal wails.

Bailey ran.

She ran among
bodies, cutting the living down.

She jumped onto the
stairs of a pagoda. She raced up, leaping over corpses, until she
reached the top floor. She slew a Timandrian archer, dashed to the
window, and leaned outside.

Her eyes watered.

"Hope,"
she whispered, tasting tears mixed with blood. "Hope rises in
the north."

Across crumbling
streets and shattered walls, she beheld the dark highlands of Qaelin.
A silver army was flowing downhill toward the city, white banners
billowing, bearing the diamond sigil. Myriads of soldiers ran as one,
clad in bright armor and curving helms. They held spears and shields,
and their snowy cloaks billowed. At their lead rode two nightwolves,
and a dragon of pearly scales flew above, chanting the name of her
empire.

"Leen! Leen!"

With light that
nearly blinded Bailey, brighter than a thousand moons, the force of
an empire swept toward the city.

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
A MEMORY OF DAY

Like a silver wave,
they swept toward the city.

Their lanterns
burned bright. Their trumpets sang. Thirty thousand soldiers of Leen,
clad in flowing robes and bright breastplates, fell upon the hordes
of sunlight. Their spears thrust. Their swords swung. Blood
splattered their shields.

Suntai fought at
their lead upon her nightwolf. She was a daughter of Qaelin fighting
among the hosts of Leen, yet under this darkness, all Elorians fought
as one. All were children of the night.

Hundreds of
thousands of Timandrians surrounded the walls of the city. Countless
more had smashed through the gates and now swarmed along the streets.
Everywhere she looked, Suntai saw fallen walls, crushed towers, and
the dead.

"Into the
city!" she cried, sword raised high. "Into Yintao."

Her wolf raced.
They swept down the hill. The steel arrows of Leen flew through the
night. The wooden arrows of the enemy flew back, tearing into Leen's
soldiers, sending men tumbling down. Suntai kept riding, arrows in
his shield, her sword raised high.

Darkness and light
crashed.

Timandrian soldiers
in armor lashed spears and swords. Bears clawed and tigers bit. Steel
clanged and blood filled the air. Suntai kept riding, trampling men
down, carving a path. Above in the sky, Pirilin the dragon dipped and
rose, crushing men between her jaws. The dragon's tail lashed,
slamming into siege towers, scattering men.

"Into Yintao!"
Suntai shouted.

The forces of Leen
drove forward, a great spear upon the plains, shoving a wedge into
the enemy's ranks. They burrowed forward, cutting men down, silver
cloaks stained red, spears tearing into armor. They were few against
many. They fought as one, a single beast that ever advanced, shields
lining its flanks, spears driving forward like teeth.

Leaving a path of
dead, they drove into the enemy like a blade into flesh, chanting as
they reached the gates and entered the city of the dying.

Cam was fighting
atop his nightwolf, swinging his sword at enemy soldiers, when he saw
his best friend ahead.

After what seemed
like hours of fighting, maybe entire turns, they had driven into the
city. He rode down cobbled streets strewn with bodies, fallen bricks
and tiles, and shattered weapons. Down every street, Elorians and
Timandrians clashed blades, beasts leaped, and more bodies fell. Atop
every roof, archers rained death. The lights of cannons and hwachas
lit the sky, and several roofs burned.

Cam wasn't sure how
many men he killed—three, maybe four. He swung his sword in a mad,
blind fury, not knowing if he killed or maimed. His wolf bit and
clawed. Linee sat ahead in the saddle, clad in armor, a helmet upon
her head. She had no skill with the blade, but she had spent the
journey south training with a bow, and now she fired arrow after
arrow as they rode. Men fell down before them, pierced with iron.

They rode at the
back; here was the wake of the battle, a place of blood and corpses.
Countless lay dead around them. The vanguards fought ahead; Cam could
see them down the streets, fighting at the fourth layer of walls. The
great heroes and villains of the war—Suntai and Okado, Ferius
himself, maybe even Bailey—would be fighting there, defending the
inner city. Yet despite his wolf, and despite Linee firing her
arrows, Cam was no hero, and whenever he tried to charge forth, he
ended up trailing behind, fighting the rear lines. Here in third
level, the stragglers battled it out in the blood and dirt, random
skirmishes on every street corner.