Secrets of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 3) (27 page)

"Our fight continues!"
Ishel licked her lips. "Let our armies battle it out. We fight
here alone."

Around them, the two Nayan
tribes clashed and died, spears and arrows driving into flesh. Bailey
kicked, slamming her boot against Durga's head, finally freeing
herself. The steel of her vambrace was dented but her arm seemed
unharmed. She and Torin circled the tiger, swords raised.

"What did Ferius promise
you?" Bailey said. She spat at Ishel and checked the woman's
lashing scimitar. "A castle in the night? A dream of power? A
chest of coins?"

Atop her tiger, Ishel snickered
and thrust her scimitar at Torin. He diverted the attack away from
his chest, but the blade scraped along his arm, slicing through armor
to nick his skin.

"He promised me blood."
Ishel raised her sword to her lips and licked Torin's blood off the
blade. "When I slew that friend of yours, the fat fool of a
baker, I got a taste for the blood of traitors."

Torin felt as if an invisible
fist punched his chest. "Be silent! You—"

Ishel laughed and drove her
blade toward him again; their swords clanged. "Does the truth
hurt, child? What was the fat one's name? Hemstad Baker? Yes, they
were my arrows that drove into his flesh." She pouted. "Was
he a dear friend of yours? Don't worry. Soon you'll be joining him in
the afterlife."

Torin's eyes burned. "You
will not speak of Hem that way. You lie." He sprang toward her,
swinging his katana, but she knocked the blade aside.

Bailey too was screaming. Her
eyes were red. "I will have revenge!" Tears streamed down
her cheeks. "I am a child of Fairwool-by-Night. He was my
friend. Now you die."

With a wordless battle cry,
Bailey leaped into the air and landed on the tiger.

As the two women battled atop
the beast, Torin stood, frozen for a moment, a strange clarity coming
over him. Through the battle raged all around and blood splashed the
ferns, all fear, pain, and sadness left him. He felt as if he floated
above the fray, as if this bloodshed were but a tick of an ancient
clock, another battle among thousands.

He
died for us,
Torin thought.
Hem
gave his life for us to win this war—not to kill for him, not to die
for him, but to stop this madness. To stop bloodshed.

He nodded, stepped forward, and
grabbed Bailey's shoulder.

He pulled her off the tiger.

"Bailey, run!" he
shouted. He grabbed her hand and began pulling her away.

She gasped and tried to shove
him off. Durga snapped his teeth, narrowing missing them.

"Winky, what are you—"

"Run with me!" he
shouted, switching to Qaelish, the language of the night, which the
Nayans would not understand. "To the number. While everyone is
fighting—to the Nine!"

"Nine, Nine!" the
tribesmen shouted around them, racing toward Ishel. The tiger reared
and Ishel screamed, for a moment separated from Bailey and Torin.

"Winky, let go!"
Bailey tried to free herself from his grip, and her eyes blazed. "She
killed Hem. Oh Idar, she killed him. Let go!"

He shook his head and kept
tugging her through the battle. They moved between racing Children of
Nine. "The best way to fight her is to grab the number. That is
our task. That is our prize. That's what can win this war."

Bailey snarled. "My blade
will win this war."

He wouldn't release her. He
pulled her several steps back. Bailey was perhaps faster, braver, and
stronger than him, but now Torin blazed with determination. For the
first time in his life, he led the way, and he dragged her along.

"Your blade, Bailey? And if
it cuts Ishel, what then? Hundreds fight around her. Grab the number
with me." He looked into her eyes. "Please. Trust me.
Follow me once like I always follow you. Just once trust me and
follow."

She trembled, wiped her eyes,
and nodded silently.

Ishel shouted behind them.
"Cowards! Come face me!"

A dozen Children of Nine were
attacking the woman, thrusting spears. An arrow slammed into her
tiger, and Ishel screamed and fell from the saddle. The tribesmen
mobbed her, driving down spears. A dozen Northern Nayans, Ishel's
warriors, leaped into the fray. Torin did not stay to watch. He ran,
holding Bailey's hand, racing over fallen logs, around trees, and
across boulders. The towers, walls, and shattered statutes of the
temple rose around them, archers upon their roofs. Vines dangled and
the roots of trees rose around them, taller than men.

The ringing steel, screams, and
roars of the battle rose behind them. They raced under a crumbling,
orphaned archway, weeds growing between its stones, its keystone
still bearing a relief of a woman's serene face. They ran over
another stone face—this one as large as a boat, fallen and overgrown
with moss and grass—and across a dilapidated bridge that spanned a
rivulet. Fallen statues of lions lay chipped, vines and ivy clutching
them like green snakes. The teardrop-shaped temples rose around them,
statues of ancient priests guarding their doorways. Holes filled the
walls, and banyan trees grew from them, their roots creeping along
the bricks.

Ahead, past a grove of kapok
trees, Torin saw it. The largest temple rose from mist, tall as a
palace, a great bell of stone. Upon its top beamed the Cabera Number.

"Climb with me, Bailey!"
he shouted, racing toward the temple. "I dare you to climb.
Let's see if you can beat me now."

"Oh, you cocky boy!"
she shouted back. Her arms pumped as she ran, moving ahead of him.

They hurdled over a fallen wall
and reached the temple. Several young Children of Nine, mere boys,
saw them and scattered. As they ran across a cobbled courtyard, Torin
and Bailey shrugged off their armor, weapons, and packs. Bailey
reached the dome first, leaped onto the wall, and began to scuttle
up, placing her hands and feet into the cracks between the old
bricks. Torin reached the wall a few breaths later, pulled his
grapple from his pack, and began to climb too.

"No grapple!" Bailey
shouted, climbing several feet above him. "That's cheating."

"Bailey, enough!"

They had climbed fifty feet or
more—Torin slamming his grapple between the bricks—when he looked
over his shoulder. He saw the battle across the ruins below. He
winced. Most of the Children of Nine lay dead; Ishel and her
warriors, with their tigers and superior weapons, were tearing
through the humbler tribe. Torin felt a pang of guilt. Those
tribesmen were giving their lives to protect the Nine, and here he
was, climbing up to steal it. He froze for a moment, unable to
continue.

"Winky, hurry!" Bailey
said, climbing above. "I'm beating you."

Torin nodded, swallowed, and
kept climbing. He could return here someday with a new nine for the
tribe, but if he could not grab this number, Ferius's armies would
tear across all of Moth. Torin tightened his lips and climbed with
more vigor, shoving his grapple into nooks and crannies. When he
looked up, he saw the Cabera Number bolted into the stone, bright as
a beacon. He climbed faster, almost catching up with Bailey.

A dozen feet below the number,
it became harder to climb; countless years of wind had smoothed the
bricks down like sandpaper on wood. Torin tried to slam the grapple
into the stone, but even the iron claws could not find purchase. He
grunted and slipped two feet. His heart nearly stopped, but he
managed to grab hold of a crevice and halt his fall.

"I can almost reach it,"
Bailey said, a few feet above him. She reached out, straining, and
her fingertips grazed the number. "I'm . . . almost . . ."

Whistles filled the air.

Arrows slammed into the walls
around them.

Torin cried out as one arrow
scratched his shoulder, drew blood, then snapped against the wall.

He looked over his shoulder to
see several Children of Nine, the shaman Xeekotep among them,
standing below. They nocked new arrows into their bows.

"It's
the only way to defeat the enemy!" Torin shouted down.
"Xeekotep, listen to me! I need this number to stop Ishel's
army, to—"

More arrows flew.

One slammed into the wall only
inches away from his head. Another sliced along Bailey's calf,
tearing her leggings and ripping off skin. She yowled and stared down
to the courtyard where lay her armor, pack, and weapons.

Torin gritted his teeth and kept
climbing. More arrows clattered around him. He grabbed a bulging
brick, pulled himself up, and reached the top of the temple. The
number nine was bolted to the stone bricks, the size of a sword.
Bailey reached the number an instant later and clung onto it.

"If you shoot me, you'll
hurt the number!" Torin cried down to them. "Lay down your
bows."

The Children of Nine stared for
a moment, silent, hesitating.

Then more arrows flew.

Torin winced and swung aside,
clinging to the number with one hand. Several arrows slammed into the
wall around him. Two hit the number, snapping against the brass. One
arrow drove into Torin's shoulder, and he screamed in pain.

"Torin, unbolt the number!"
Bailey said . . . and let go.

"Bailey!"

She slid down the sloping wall,
thumping against each bulging brick. Arrows clattered around her. She
screamed as she slid. When her feet hit the ground, she ran. Not
pausing, she scooped up her shirt of scales, slung it over her head,
and drew her sword. She raced toward the Children of Nine, howling in
rage.

Torin wanted to slide after her,
but he forced himself to turn back toward the number. He slammed his
grapple against the wall, chipping the stone, struggling to tear the
bolts out. He glanced over his shoulder only once, saw Bailey
battling the Children of Nine, then looked back at his work.

With a grunt, he pulled one bolt
free.

Howls rose below. He glanced
down to see Ishel and her warriors race into the courtyard under the
temple.

He turned back to the number. He
tugged, freeing another bolt.

More arrows flew, and one
scraped along his side. With a scream, Torin grabbed the number with
both hands. He tugged wildly, feet pressed against the wall.

With a crack, the last bolt tore
from the old stones.

The number came free in his
hands.

Torin fell.

For a moment he tumbled through
open air, the number clasped to his chest, an arrow in his shoulder.

His knees slammed against the
sloping wall.

He slid, thudding against every
brick. The arrow came free from his shoulder and snapped. His blood
spurted.

With a grunt and blinding light,
he slammed against the ground.

For a few heartbeats, he could
see nothing, hear nothing, feel only pain.

Then he felt hands grabbing his
shoulders and tugging him up.

"Run, you winky-eyed
babyface!" somebody shouted in his ear. "Clutch that number
and run!"

He ran, the world hazy around
him, his ears ringing. He was vaguely aware of somebody running at
his side, an old friend perhaps, a tall young woman with two yellow
braids.

"Bailey?" he asked,
confused as he ran with her between ferns.

"No, it's Ferius's
grandmother. Of course it's Bailey!" She grabbed his wrist and
tugged him. "Faster!"

They ran, ferns slapping against
them, grasshoppers and frogs fleeing before them. Arrows whistled,
sinking into the earth around them. They hurdled over the fallen
statue of an ancient monk, raced down a slope, and crashed between
rushes and mangroves. A stream flowed ahead, and reed boats swayed
nearby, tethered to pegs.

Clutching his wound, Torin
stumbled down the riverbank and into a boat. Bailey leaped in with
him and slashed the tether. The stream caught the boat, pulling them
eastward. They bounced over rocks, swung over a sunken log, and
splashed down. Arrows hit the water around them, and one drove into
their hull.

Bailey snarled, drew an arrow of
her own, and fired. A Nayan along the riverbanks fell. She shot
again, hit another man, and sent him splashing into the water.

Their boat picked up speed.
Rocks filled the stream, tossing them up and down. Water splashed and
Torin grunted with every bounce, his wound aching. Through the rushes
on the banks, he saw many Nayans pursuing. Some were Children of
Nine, calling out for their stolen idol, and others were Ishel's
warriors. Torin clutched the brass number to his chest.

Laughter rose behind them in the
stream, and Torin turned to see a boat pursuing them. Ishel sat
within. She met Torin's gaze, smiled, and raised her spear. The
weapon came flying toward Bailey and him.

Torin winced. Their boat hit a
half-submerged log and flew into the air. The spear slammed into the
hull, piercing the reeds and emerging between him and Bailey. They
crashed down into the water with a blinding splash and kept flowing
downriver, moving as fast as galloping horses.

"I see your blood, Torin of
Arden!" Ishel shouted from her boat. "I will drink it!"

Bailey grunted and fired her
bow, but Ishel swung her scimitar, diverting the arrow. With a curse,
Bailey reached into her quiver and found it empty. Grumbling, she
leaned across the boat, tugging at Nayan arrows which pierced its
hull.

"Uhm . . . Bailey?"
Torin said.

She grumbled, struggling to
wrench arrows free. "Not now, Torin!" She ducked with a
curse as more arrows flew from the riverbanks, narrowly missing her
head.

Torin gulped. "Bailey, I
think you better sit down."

She growled, tugged an arrow
free from the boat, and laughed. "Not now, Winky!" She
nocked her arrow and closed one eye.

"I really think you
should—"

"Torin, what?" She
spun toward him, face red . . . and paled. She sat down and clung on.