Moth (11 page)

Koyee swallowed and sighed. She decided to stay for only a while longer, only until the city elders agreed to see her. She ate among the graves, her sword across her back, and thought of home.

Had more Timandrians emerged from the dusk? Were her fellow villagers safe? Oshy seemed so far away, a different world, and the old Koyee—the fisherman's daughter—seemed a different person.

I miss you, Oshy,
she thought.
I miss you, Father.

She reached for another crab, huddled closer to the others for warmth, and let nothing but thoughts of food and fire fill her mind.

 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT:
CLOAKS AND ARROWS

Torin was standing on the Watchtower when trees creaked below, howls rose, and robed figures burst out from the dusk.

His heart leaped into a gallop, and he fumbled for his bow and arrows. He cursed as the bow slipped from his fingers to clatter against the battlements. The yelps rose below, wordless battle cries, the sound of rabid dogs. Fingers shaking, Torin lifted his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it. He leaned across the battlements, aiming his arrow below.

The four figures raced from the shadowy trees, heading toward Fairwool-by-Night. They wore black robes, and hoods hid their faces. Each man held a bow with a flaming arrow, and swords swung upon their hips. They shouted as they ran, clearing the trees and racing across a rye field toward the village.

"Elorian soldiers," Torin whispered. It was as he'd feared. They wanted revenge for their burnt brother.

Torin closed one eye, aimed at a man, and fired.

His arrow whistled down, flew by an Elorian, and slammed into the earth.

Torin cursed. As he drew a second arrow, he shouted down the tower.

"Bailey! Bailey, where are you? Elorians attack!"

He fired another arrow, missed again, and growled. The Elorians were only heartbeats away from the village now. Torin spun toward the western merlons. Fairwool-by-Night lay in the valley below. A few villagers had heard the shouts; they emerged from their cottages and looked around, confused.

"Elorians attack!" Torin shouted. "Village Guard—to the rye field!"

He spun back toward the field; it lay south of him between the tower and the river. The four Elorians, clad in their black robes, stood among the rye stalks. They tugged back their bowstrings, aiming their flaming arrows.

They fired.

Torin cursed and shot his own arrow.

His missile flew true. It slammed into the chest of an Elorian below, but then clattered to the ground. The man hissed and remained standing; he must have been wearing armor under his robes.

Panting, Torin followed the path of the flaming arrows. The projectiles flew toward the village. Two clattered down into the empty square. The others hit a cottage roof, and the thatch caught fire.

"Village Guard!" Torin shouted, nocking another arrow.

He saw Bailey racing through the village below, drawing her sword and heading toward the field. She shouted battle cries and her braids swung madly. Slim Cam and beefy Hem emerged from The Shadowed Firkin, the village tavern. They held mugs of ale, and Hem was still chewing a turkey leg.

"Boys, to the rye field!" Torin shouted from above, waving madly. "Elorians!"

He turned to fire another arrow. The Elorians were racing forward again, heading toward the village. Bailey was still running toward them, screaming and brandishing her sword.

Torin froze. With his aim, he was as likely to hit Bailey as the Elorians. He yowled in frustration, tossed down his bow and arrows, and began racing down the tower stairwell.

At once he regretted it. He should have stayed upon the battlements, waiting for a better shot. That would've been the wiser action, the one his father would've taken. But clanking down the stairwell, his sword thumping against his thigh, he dared not turn back. Bailey was running alone to attack four armed demons; he had to fight at her side, wise or not.

He reached the ground level, burst out of the tower, and raced down Watcher's Hill. His boots tore up grass and his heart thudded. Smoke rose from the village below; two more cottages were burning. Ahead in the field, Bailey was already clashing swords with the Elorians. She was fighting two at once; Torin no longer saw the other two.

Running as fast as he could, Torin drew his sword. His boot slammed into a rock. He nearly slipped and impaled himself, but managed to keep running, moving downhill and into the field. The sprouting rye, still green and short, bobbed up and down around him.

He raced toward the melee. Blood was dripping down Bailey's thigh. She spun in circles, swinging her sword, holding the two Elorians back. The robed creatures had dropped their bows and were lunging with swords.

Heart in his mouth, Torin reached the battle and swung his sword.

A hooded figure spun toward him. A blade thrust. Torin clenched his teeth and parried. The two swords clanged together.

Torin was no swordsman. He was only a gardener; he didn't know how to swing this blade. He fought with pure instinct, driving his blade down. The Elorian parried. Light pierced its hood, revealing a pewter mask, perhaps built to protect its pale skin from the Timandrian sunlight. Their blades clashed again. Bailey fought ahead, grunting as she swung her sword, her blood trailing down her thigh.

High-pitched yowls rose from the village.

With a hiss, the creature Torin dueled stepped back. He glared at Torin through his mask's eye-holes, then raced around him, heading toward the cottages.

Torin stood panting, torn between chasing the Elorian and helping Bailey. He chose Bailey. He stepped toward her, ready to fight with her, only to see her standing over a corpse. She tugged her sword from the fallen Elorian; it came free slick with blood. More blood dripped down her leg.

Merciful Idar,
he thought, for a moment frozen, only able to stare.
She killed a man.
He wasn't sure when the Elorian had ceased being a
creature
and became a
man—
perhaps only when it lay dead in blood.

Torin met Bailey's eyes and saw the same horror in them. She stared back for only an instant, but that instant seemed to last for years, and it spoke of countless nightmares.

"Bailey, you're hurt," he said, wincing at the sight of her blood.

She spat into the rye. "I'm fine. After him!"

She began to run in pursuit of the Elorian whom Torin had dueled. Torin joined her, arms pumping. His side ached, and his breath blazed in his lungs. The Elorian was racing across the field, heading toward the cottages. Five roofs now blazed, maybe more, and black smoke curled skyward. Screams rose from the village. Torin ran as fast as he could, but the Elorian and Bailey were faster, and soon he was trailing behind.

When he finally crossed the fields and burst into the village, he entered a world of smoke, blood, and fire.

Villagers ran screaming. Old Wela, the brewer's doughy and dark-haired wife, clutched a gash on her belly, blood leaking between her fingers. Finian the tinsmith, a kindly man who had often played dice with Torin, ran in flames, a living torch. Torin's head spun. He could barely see a dozen feet in any direction; the smoke was too thick, swirling everywhere. He stumbled between the cottages. He could no longer see Bailey.

"Bailey!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

Two red-haired women emerged from the smoke ahead, wearing aprons—Mae and Yara Hearthstone, twin cooks at the village tavern. Mae held a rolling pin, while her sister still held a half-plucked chicken. Welts rose across their arms, and they coughed in the smoke. Torin headed toward them when a black figure leaped. A robed Elorian swept across the street, and a blade lashed. Yara Hearthstone fell, green eyes wide, her chest gushing blood. The Elorian swung his blade again, tearing into Mae, driving his sword into her belly. She too fell and her rolling pin rolled down a bloodied street.

Torin felt like gagging, trembling, fainting, or all three together, but he forced himself to run. He swung his sword, racing toward the Elorian. The cloaked figure retreated into the smoke.

"Come face me, coward!" he shouted. He ran into the smoke and coughed madly. He waved his hand, trying to clear it. His eyes and throat burned.

Cursing, he dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled along the ground—the smoke was thinner here—and emerged from the inferno by the village temple.

He straightened and looked around, still coughing. Sparks covered his clothes. Cam and Hem stood ahead, looking around, bewildered. Blood dripped down Cam's arm, while Hem trembled wildly.

"Boys!" Torin said. "We have to find the Elorians. Three are still alive. Have you seen Bailey?"

They shook their heads, faces sooty and eyes wide.

A shadow moved at the corner of Torin's eye.

He spun to see black robes flutter behind a house.

He ran in pursuit.

"Boys, with me!" he shouted.

He raced around the house, only to see the Elorian disappear behind bales of hay. An instant later, the bales burst into flame.

Cursing and wheezing, belly twisting with worry for his friends, Torin ran around the blaze. He skirted the fire to see the Elorian aiming a flaming arrow at him.

Torin leaped aside.

The arrow flew.

Pain slammed into Torin's chest. A bolt drove into his breastplate, denting the steel.

He fell to his knees.

A second arrow whistled. It felt like a giant punching his chest. Torin gasped and fell to his side. Burning hay rained onto him, and smoke blinded his eyes. He couldn't breathe.

A shadow fell. Torin looked up, seeing only smudges. Two figures leaped above him, one slim and small, the other large as an ox. The shadows roared and swung blades.

"Cam and Hem," Torin whispered, voice hoarse. Smoke invaded his mouth and burned down his lungs.

His eyes rolled back.

Torin found himself floating through smoke, darkness, and memory.

Night glided around him.

The moon and stars shone.

Again he saw her, the Elorian girl with silvery hair, her eyes as large as chicken eggs, her skin white as milk.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't want your father to die. I'm sorry."

Somehow in his dream, he
knew
the fallen Elorian was her father; he could see a mourning daughter's pain in her eyes.

But she only fled from him, disappearing into the shadows of the night, leaving him alone with the bones, alone with his shame, alone with the agony driving through his chest.

He coughed.

Hands touched his forehead and he jerked.

"Torin?"

The voice was soft and warm. He blinked, reaching out into the shadows, seeking the Elorian girl.

"Torin! Merciful Idar, stop grabbing at me."

He opened his eyes to see Bailey glaring down at him, and he realized he was pawing at her clothes. He blinked, looked around him, and found himself lying in his bed. He recognized the clay walls, wide hearth, and wooden floor of Lord Kerof's manor, the place where Torin had lived since losing his parents.

He leaped up in bed, but his head spun and he fell back.

"Bails," he said, voice hoarse. "The Elorians. The battle—"

"—is over," Bailey said. "The Elorians fled. You got knocked around too much and took a nap under a burning bale of hay. Cam and Hem dragged you here before you burned into a piece of toast."

Wincing, he pushed himself onto his elbows and examined his foster sister. A bandage wrapped around her thigh, and a welt marred her arm. Her braids ended with singed hair. She seemed otherwise unharmed, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

He looked down at his own body next. Somebody had removed his armor and tunic, and two bandages clung to his chest. Welts covered his arms and hands.

"I took two arrows to the chest and survived," he said, not without wonder.

Bailey snorted. "Oh, Winky. You were wearing a breastplate. The arrows only dented the steel and scratched you a bit. Don't be acting like a hero." She smiled crookedly, kissed his cheek, and mussed his hair. "You're still just a baby face."

Grumbling, he sat upright, twisted around, and placed both feet on the floor.

"The village," he said. "How bad is it?"

Bailey's face darkened. She lowered her eyes.

"Bad. Fifteen people are dead. Five houses burned to the ground." She twisted her fingers. "The only Elorian who died is the one I slew. The three others fled, taking the body of their comrade with them. At least . . ." Her voice dropped. "At least, Elorians on the
surface
. Torin, I think this was all fake."

He rose to his feet, wobbled, and sat back down on the bed.

"Fake? Bailey, we're both banged up and bandaged. Five houses burned." His eyes stung. "Fifteen people died. What do you mean 'fake'?"

She bared her teeth and gripped his shoulders. "I mean those weren't real Elorians! You saw the Elorian that burned on the pyre. He didn't wear a black cloak or a mask. He didn't wield a doubled-edged sword, but a curved blade."

Torin managed to push himself upright. He tried to walk forward, but Bailey stood in his way. Taller than him, her feet planted firmly on the ground, she wasn't moving anywhere.

"The last Elorian was dragged here," he said. "Of course he wouldn't be wearing robes and a mask. These ones didn't want the sun to burn them. Bails! They spend their life in darkness; the last one's skin was turning all red before Ferius burned him."

"And where was Ferius during the battle?" she said. "Where were his three monks? Nobody saw them. Four monks were missing . . . and four robed figures attacked us." She dug her fingernails into her shoulders. "I say
they
did this—the Sailith monks."

Torin sighed. He placed his hands on Bailey's waist, trying to move her aside, but she wouldn't budge.

"Bailey, I hate Ferius too. But damn it, even he wouldn't stoop that low. To don a disguise and massacre fifteen people? For what?"

She shoved him so hard he fell back onto the bed.

"You know for what!" She placed her hands on her hips. "He hates Elorians more than anything. So he framed them. He probably murdered Yana too. The man wants to start a war. Don't you get it? He wants the king to invade Eloria with armies. He wants to see all of Eloria burn. That's all he cares about."