Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (39 page)

He was moving
across a toppled wall and scattered tiles, finally entering the
fourth level, when he saw Hem's wide form.

The baker's boy,
his best friend since childhood, sat upon a fallen chunk of
battlements. Hem's back was facing them, but Cam recognized the broad
shoulders, shaggy hair, and heavy arms that now lay drooping.

"Hem!" he
cried out. "Hemstad Baker!"

The memories
pounded through him. Songs and ale in The Shadowed Firkin tavern.
Arguments about which knight slew which monster in ancient tales.
Jokes about Bailey told in hushed whispers, then yelps when she found
out and twisted their ears. Here he was—that stupid, lumbering
baker—and he wouldn't even turn around.

"Hem, damn
you! Can't you hear me?"

Sitting in the
saddle ahead of Cam, Linee twisted around to face him. Under her
helmet, her face was pale, her eyes huge and haunted. For once no
tears filled them.

"Camlin . . .
he's not answering."

Cam dug his heels
into his nightwolf. The animal raced forward, leaped over a cloven
shield and a legless corpse, and landed upon the shattered
battlements where Hem sat. With a tug on the reins, Cam halted the
nightwolf and dismounted. He knelt before his friend.

Darkness like smoke
spread before his eyes.

Two arrows jutted
out of Hem's chest, and one pierced his neck. His eyes were still
open, staring at the sky, and it seemed to Cam that his friend was
smiling . . . a soft smile like a man seeing a single star between
storm clouds, like a soul torn by fear and pain finally hearing a
soothing song of harps. A young Elorian woman lay in his arms, her
tangled hair hiding her face, a dagger buried in her chest. The two
sat leaning against a fallen merlon like lovers watching the night
skies . . . together, at peace.

"Oh, Camlin .
. . I'm sorry." Linee approached him, the wind beating her
cloak. "I'm so sorry."

Throat tight,
unable to speak, Cam closed his friend's eyes. As the war raged
across the city, he knelt here in this shadowy huddle, staring.

"This is a
good place," Cam finally said, voice soft, barely a whisper. "He
didn't look upon war when he died. He's facing the stars, and he's
holding a friend." Something swollen and painful clogged his
throat. "I only wish I could have been here with you, you lumpy
loaf. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was too late."

He felt Linee's
hand on his shoulder. Cam lowered his head, and his shoulders shook,
and he thought about those old songs, frothy ale, and days in the
silly sunlight of their youth, and he wept.

"Goodbye,
Hem." He held his friend's hand. "Goodbye."

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:
THE BLOOD OF YINTAO

Down to half its
size, charred and bloodied but raising the red flame banners high,
Ilar's navy sailed upriver toward Qaelin's capital.

Torin stood upon
the flagship, sword drawn and shield ready, and beheld a city of hope
and ruin.

Ahead, the Yin
River flowed into the city between two towers and crenelated walls. A
battle had been fought here. One of the towers—the one guarding the
western riverbank—had lost its crown of merlons, and holes peppered
its eastern twin. Cracks filled the city walls, and corpses lay upon
the riverbanks and floated in the water. Timandrian archers manned
these crumbling battlements, shouting as they saw the Ilari fleet
sail toward them. Through gaps in the fortifications, Torin could see
the city within; it bustled with enemy soldiers, and the banners of
Sailith rose from roofs. But Timandra had not yet claimed the entire
city, it seemed. Deeper within Yintao the battle still raged; Torin
heard cannons blazing and swords clanging.

"We arrive at
Yintao's greatest hour of need," Koyee said, standing beside him
at the prow. "The city still fights."

They sailed closer,
approaching the mouth of the city. Across the riverside walls and
towers, the Timandrian archers shouted and fired. Arrows fell upon
the Ilari fleet. Across a hundred decks, Ilari cannons blasted. The
rounds tore into the guard towers, shattering bricks and felling men.
The fleet sailed on, leaving a wake of dust and blood.

The river led them
into the first level of the city. Torin had seen maps of Yintao, one
square within another. In those maps, houses stood in neat rows and
statues rose in squares. When he looked around him, however, he saw
nothing but devastation. The houses burned or lay crumbled; the
statues had fallen. Shattered blades, cloven helms, and broken arrows
lay among the corpses of men, women, and animals. Timandrian troops
marched upon rubble, waving torches and firing arrows. Ilar's cannons
blasted, tearing into the enemy upon the riverbanks. The fleet sailed
deeper, arrows in their hulls.

Torin snapped an
arrow that pierced his shield. "The river should lead us to the
city's fourth level. We'll have to move on foot from there."

Koyee nodded. "The
Eternal Palace lies behind the seventh walls. I still hear battle
ahead; Ferius has not yet taken Qaelin's throne."

At the sound of the
monk's name, Torin grimaced.

Yes,
you wait here, Ferius,
he thought.
I
was a gardener and you were a humble monk, two men from a village . .
. now we meet in a great capital, armies at our backs.
He remembered his duel with Ferius back in the distant, fallen city
of Pahmey.
Now
we complete that old fight.

They sailed through
a storm of arrows and another layer of smashed walls. Now the full
battle raged around them. Elorian troops bearing the moonstar and
diamond banners clashed against the enemy. Thousands fought along the
riverbanks, racing down streets, climbing roofs, and charging upon
horses and nightwolves. The city rang with singing steel. Upon the
Ilari decks, archers fired and warriors sang for victory.

"The red flame
burns!" the warriors cried upon the decks. "We are the
night!"

The ironclad ships
sailed on, their oars moving like centipede legs, their sails wide,
the pagodas upon their decks bristling with archers. Their cannons
blasted, their drums beat, and their horns blared. Thousands of Ilari
warriors bellowed, horrible to behold, demons clad in black and
crimson steel, their helms twisted masks of bloodlust, their torches
and swords bright.

Past several more
smashed walls, they reached a bend in the river. Upon the curving
bank, a boardwalk sent piers into the dark water. Beyond this port,
the river crossed the eastern city, heading back into the plains.
Ilar's ships had reached the end of their journey. Torin stood, sword
raised and teeth bared, as the fleet sailed toward the docks.

Anchors dropped.

Warriors leaped
into landing craft.

Upon the boardwalk,
thousands of enemies awaited, firing arrows and brandishing swords.

"Stay near me,
Koyee," Torin said, hand shaking around his hilt.

"Always."

They looked at each
other and shared a tight, mirthless smile, then leaped into a
rowboat. Hundreds of other landing craft sailed with them toward the
city streets.

Screams, clanging
steel, and blood covered the world.

As he emerged from
the boat, rushing onto the boardwalk, the Battle of Pahmey returned
to him. In his mind, he ran with his friends again—with Bailey, Cam,
and Hem—racing into an unknown land. He had fought against Eloria
then—against Koyee herself. Now he swung his sword with the people
of the night, the people he'd been raised to fear, to hate, to slay.
Now he fought with a woman he loved.

A
year and a half ago, I watched Koyee's father burn.
He raced along cobbled streets, Koyee and a thousand other soldiers
at his side.
Now
I fight with her to save the darkness.

Soldiers
of Arden—his old homeland—came racing toward him, bearing the raven
banner, swordsmen and horsemen and archers in steel. Robed monks
shouted orders from towers above. His people charged to kill, and
Torin ran to meet them.

I
am no longer Torin, a boy of sunlight. I am a man of Eloria.

Koyee shouted at
his side. "We are the night!"

The dragon Tianlong
swooped above, red beard fluttering, roar thundering. Ilari riders
chanted atop panthers, raising banners and aiming lances.

With a song of
blades, the armies slammed together.

She fought along the
streets of Yintao, armor splashed with blood—a seasoned killer, a
demon in red.

Two
years ago, I was fishing upon the river in a forgotten village,
Koyee thought, swung her sword, and severed an enemy's arm.
I've
been fighting you since you killed my father, Ferius. And in this
city, I will kill you.

This
was the battle of her life. She had sailed alone through darkness.
She had lived among thieves in a graveyard. She had busked in city
dregs. She had played her flute as a yezyana to lecherous,
intoxicated men. She had slain soldiers upon the streets of Pahmey,
sailed through death in the gauntlet of Sinyong, and thrashed through
fever and nightmares in the bowels of a ship. She had fought
starvation, armies, and disease . . . all to come here, to race
toward the Eternal Palace, the center of her empire, perhaps the
center of the night.

Here
my battle ends.
She
thrust her sword, impaled a man, and raced forward.
I
survived for this. Here will I meet him again . . . and here will the
sun set or burn us all.

Torin
fought at her side. Thousands of shouting Ilari swung swords around
them, some fighting on foot, others charging atop their panthers.
They raced forward, past hall and pagoda, down street after street,
and everywhere the enemy waited. The hosts of Timandra swarmed
through the city. Tigers pounced toward them—some succumbed to
swords or arrows, and others tore men apart. Burly men in iron swung
hammers from atop bears. Knights charged into the ranks of Ilar,
leaving paths of dead. Clouds of dark magic blasted, tossing warriors
aside like a broom scattering insects.

And still they
fought on.

Trumpeting cries
rose ahead. A barrage of arrows flew.

Ilari warriors
shouted and fell. Panthers crumbled upon the cobblestones.

Ahead Koyee saw
them—the elephants of Sania trampling through the city. Howdahs rose
upon their backs—towers of wood and leather—and archers stood
within them, warriors clad in beads, wood, and silver. Hundreds of
the beasts moved through the city, armored and painted, stomping men.
Their trunks rose in fury.

Koyee raised her
shield. Arrows slammed into the steel. Around her, warriors fell from
their panthers, clutching their chests. One man thumped down at her
feet, an arrow thrusting through his visor. His panther bristled and
made to flee.

Koyee grabbed the
feline's bridle.

It burst into a
run.

Koyee tugged,
leaped, and landed in the saddle.

Wind whipped her
face. The panther ran beneath her, leaping from corpse to corpse. A
hundred other panther riders raced around her, calling battle cries
and firing arrows. The elephants trumpeted and charged toward them,
footfalls cracking flagstones and shaking the city.

"Fire at the
howdahs!" Koyee shouted, grabbing the bow from across her back.
"The towers on the elephants!"

She tugged back her
bowstring. She fired.

Steel arrows
fletched with red silk flew from the Ilari riders. From the
elephants' backs, wooden arrows fletched with green feathers rained
down.

Men and beasts
fell.

Koyee rode on,
shouting.

Her panther leaped
toward one of the charging pachyderms. Arrows drove down, clattering
against Koyee's shield and her panther's black helm. The feline drove
its claws into the elephant's hide, scurrying onto its back. Through
a storm of arrows, Koyee swung her sword.

Her blade severed
the howdah's straps, and her panther bit, and the structure of wood
and leather crumbled. Men shouted and fell. Her panther leaped off
the elephant, sailed through the air, and landed on the back of
another beast.

Koyee tumbled from
the saddle, landing in another howdah. The elephant trumpeted and
bucked beneath her. Sanian warriors—clad in wooden armor and strings
of beads—drew curved blades. Koyee snarled as she cut them down. She
leaped from the bloodied howdah, landed in her panther's saddle, and
they hit the ground running.

Where was Torin?
She looked around, seeking him, calling his name. She could not see
him through the crowd.

"Torin! Torin,
where are you?"

She did not know if
he heard. Her panther kept running, choosing its own path; she could
not control it. They crossed a courtyard, and her panther ran up a
building wall as easily as a cat climbing a tree. Upon the roof, the
feline paused. Koyee stared ahead.

"Stars of my
forebears," she whispered, feeling the blood leave her face.

Below her in the
streets, the battle raged. Ahead, she could see the seventh layer of
walls. The enemy was crashing against them—climbing ladders,
battering gates, and pummeling towers with dark magic. Behind those
last walls lay the Eternal Palace—a city unto itself, a complex
containing a hundred halls. The largest building Koyee had ever seen
rose in its center, a pagoda she thought could house a nation. Its
roofs spread out, tiled red, and an idol of Xen Qae stood upon its
crest.

The
Hall of Harmony,
she thought, recognizing it from paintings and tales.
The
home of Qaelin's emperor
.

Thousands of
Yintao's soldiers stood behind the seventh walls, awaiting the enemy.

"Too few,"
Koyee whispered. "Too few." She raised her voice to a roar
and pointed her sword. "To the palace! Warriors of Ilar! To the
Eternal Palace—we must not let it fall."