Moth (31 page)

Only it wasn't a boat, not truly. Instead of a hull, it had merely a large basket. Instead of sails, it was topped with a round patchwork of cloth; it looked like a great, upside down sack. A single Elorian stood in the basket, and a fire burned beside him, filling the round patchwork with light. The vessel glided to fly directly above them, a good thousand yards above.

Ceranor understood.

"A spy," he said, grabbed his bow, and nocked an arrow. "A spy in a flying demon ship. Men, shoot it down!"

He fired his arrow. His archers shot around him. Ceranor stared upward, scowling. The demon ship, however, flew too high. The arrows arched and came falling down; they vanished into the river.

As the men shot more arrows, the flying vessel turned and began drifting back toward the city.

"Whatever sorcery they use," Ceranor said, "it gave them a good look at us." He clutched his bow. "Dark magic cannot save them, not from our might. Their eyes in the sky will only foster their fear." He stared toward the city, jaw tight. "Look, Torin. Towers appear."

As the fleet sailed closer, details emerged. It seemed to Ceranor that a wall surrounded the city, a black ring. A hill rose within, its towers rising, tall and thin and lit. Upon the hilltop, a central tower rose silver and bright; a dome topped it like a moon. Smaller towers clustered all around, green and white and blue. The structures seemed made of crystal and glass; they glowed with inner light. The river ran south of the city, dotted with lanterns; a hundred or more ships sailed there. The village had given Ceranor little treasure; only a few sacks of crayfish, some coins, and a handful of jewels.

But this place . . . this place will make me an emperor.

Ceranor turned to face his men. Two hundred soldiers crowded the deck of the
River Raven
, clad in steel and bearing swords, shields, and bows. Hundreds more waited in its hull. Twenty thousand more troops sailed behind his flagship; the fleet stretched a mile along the river, its hundreds of masts rising like a forest, their lanterns bright.

"Men of sunlight!" Ceranor called out. "We bring light to the darkness. We sail toward a great city of gold, crystal, and jewels. We will liberate this city from the night. We will bring it light and justice, and its treasures will be ours." He drew his sword and raised the blade. "You will fight well! You will fight bravely. I, King Ceranor, fight with you. Torin Greenmoat, son of the great hero Teramin, fights with you. For the sun! For light! We will be victorious!"

They raised their swords and shouted together. "For light!"

All across the fleet they chanted and brandished their weapons, twenty thousand warriors, noble and strong. Their cries rolled across the landscapes of night.

"This city will be ours!" Ceranor cried, and they cheered.

He turned back toward the distant lights. With every breath, the city grew closer, and more details emerged; he could see smaller houses now, pagodas, and snaking streets. He could see the sails of their ships. The city was massive; it seemed thrice the size of Kingswall, the largest city in Arden.

"Hundreds of thousands must live here," he said. "They will be ours to govern."

Torin looked back at the fleet. "My king, only part of our army sails on these ships. Should we not anchor down and wait for our infantry and cavalry?"

Ceranor shook his head. "We have all we need to take this city. Our infantry marches across the plains; they won't be here for two hourglass turns. When they arrive, we will welcome them through this city's gates." He clutched Torin's arm. "We are the fabled Ardish armada. We are the vanguard. We are the spearhead, the conquerors of darkness. Fight by my side, and we will be heroes of daylight. All other kings will bow before us. Ready your sword, Torin Greenmoat. War is here."

Feet scuffled across the deck, and Bailey Berin came racing up toward them. Her eyes flashed and her braids flounced. She had joined their army wearing the crude armor of the outposts. Ceranor had outfitted her with true steel; she now wore a fine breastplate, and a cloak of black and gold draped across her shoulders. She clutched a shield, its surface sporting a raven upon a golden field, and drew her sword.

"I am with you, Torin," she said and raised her chin. She turned toward the king. "Without me, he'd fall into the water." She looked over her shoulder and shouted out. "Hem, Cam! I told you to stay with me. To me, boys!" She patted her thigh. "To me!"

The two young villagers stumbled forth, panting. Ceranor had outfitted them in new armor and cloaks, yet even shiny steel couldn't hide their countryside awkwardness. Ceranor smiled thinly—his second smile in long years.

They remind me of my own youth,
he thought.
Wasn't I clumsy when I was their age . . . but still eager for the fight?

"You are blessed to have such close friends, Torin," he said. "Now look! A boat sails our way. First blood will soon spill."

Ceranor's heart pumped and he inhaled deeply, savoring the cold air. This was what he lived for—not stuffy courts, not twisting politics, not silly young wives—but this . . . the open air, the anticipation of blood, and the thrill of looming battle.

The boat sailing their way was small, hardly more than a humble pontoon. Poles rose from its corners, supporting a silk canopy. A battened sail billowed upon its mast, sporting a circle within a star. Lanterns floated above the hull, tethered to the railing with strings, casting green and red lights that glimmered on the river; the lanterns seemed to use the same magic as the flying ship.

Ceranor nodded at the archers who stood to his left. They nodded back and drew arrows.

When Ceranor returned his eyes ahead, the pontoon was closer, and he could discern figures standing at its prow. This was no military ship. Three Elorians stood there, elders clad in blue silken robes, their beards flowing down to their slippers. They held out strings of gems, chains of gold and silver, and amulets.

"We might not even have to fight for this treasure," Ceranor said, raising his eyebrows. "The night folk bring us their jewels willingly, it would seem."

The ships sailed closer together—a fleet of mighty warships sailing east and a single pontoon, barely larger than a carriage, sailing to meet them. Upon their boat, the Elorian elders smiled. Silver stars and moons gleamed upon their robes, and beads shone around their necks. The sight of Elorians still unnerved Ceranor; their eyes were as large and green as limes—freakish things. Ceranor's own eyes could only see where lanterns glowed; he had a feeling these Elorians could see across the plains as clearly as in daylight.

It makes them dangerous foes,
he thought, then let his eyes linger upon the jewels they bore.
Wealthy foes.

One of the elders called out to them, voice pleasant. He spoke in a language Ceranor could not understand; its syllables flowed from sound to sound, full of vowels and almost no consonants he could recognize, a language like wind on water. The elders held out their jewels and smiled.

"They're welcoming us," Torin said, his voice barely a whisper. "We burned their village, yet they welcome us peacefully. They offer us gifts."

"They seek not to welcome us," Ceranor said, "but to appease us. They see our mighty fleet, and they know they cannot defeat us. They seek to send us away with a few trinkets." He looked up at the crystal city that rose several miles away. "But we will have more than the few jewels three elders can bear. Arden will have the wealth of this mighty city."

The Elorian boat reached them, swaying in the water, its silken canopy strewn with golden stars, moons, and fish. The elders smiled up at them.

"Let them on board!" Ceranor cried out. "They bear gifts. Lower the plank!"

Sailors bustled about, and soon a wooden plank ran down from the
River Raven
to the smaller ship. The elders stood upon their deck, smiling up, but did not climb onto the larger vessel.

"They're afraid," Torin said. "They smile but fear fills their eyes."

"They
should
be afraid," said Ceranor. "They face the might of the sun. Come with me, Torin. We'll climb aboard their vessel and accept their treasure. It would be a pity to sink a boat laden with jewels."

Hand clutching his sword's hilt, Ceranor crossed the deck of his flagship, stepped onto the plank, and walked down toward the Elorian pontoon. Behind him, he heard Torin's footsteps as the boy followed.

When he reached the pontoon, the elders smiled and bowed their heads, jewels and chains still in their hands. Ceranor stepped on board. The deck seemed made of clay molded around a metal frame; it thumped hollowly with every step. Lanterns glowed along the railings, shaped as faces with bright eyes and mocking mouths. Torin came to stand beside him, face somber.

"
Sen sen
," said one of the Elorians, hand raised in welcome. He was an ancient creature, his pale face wrinkled like a raisin, his beard white and flowing. He held the gifts out toward Ceranor. "
Tinshay
Eloria
."

Ceranor took the jewels, strings of gems, and golden chains. He bowed his head.

"
Sen sen
," he said, guessing—hoping—that meant 'hello.' "I am King Ceranor of Arden, a kingdom of Timandra. My companion is Torin Greenmoat."

The elders brought forth more gifts. One held out a chest full of golden coins. They spoke more in their lilting language, bowing their heads and smiling. They seemed like servile pups groveling before a larger dog, Ceranor thought. It pleased him.

"Imagine the treasures in this city, Torin!" he said, pointing at the cluster of lights, which still lay on the horizon. "This land is wealthier than we imagined."

Finally the elders' smiles faded. Their eyes darkened. They shook their heads and pointed west, away from the city. Their voices grew more vigorous.

"
Loy
Pahmey
,
" one said firmly, blocking the view of the city with his body. "
Loy. Loy!
Timandra
loy
Pahmey
.
"

"My king," Torin said, stepping closer to Ceranor. "They are telling us that their city is forbidden.
Loy
probably means no. The city is probably named Pahmey." The boy turned back toward the Elorians, pointed at the city, and asked, "Pahmey?"

The elders nodded, then pointed westward, back toward distant Timandra. They spoke some more; Ceranor could understand none of it, but he knew what they were saying.

"They want us to sail back," he said. "Do you see, son? They hoped to appease us with gifts, then send us on our way." Ceranor sighed. "It is sad. We have a hundred ships; they cannot hope to oppose us. We'll take these elders back to the
River Raven
and chain them in the brig; they will become our servants. We will keep their ship; it's a useful vessel."

Torin swallowed, looked at the Elorians, and pointed at Pahmey again.

"You must let us sail in peacefully," he said to the elders. "Do you understand?" Torin gestured with his hands, mimicking a ship sailing through a gate. "Let us into Pahmey and we won't harm you. You must let us in peacefully or we will fight."

The Elorians only shook their heads more vigorously, looking distraught. They spoke louder; Ceranor only understood "no" and "Pahmey" over and over.

He placed his hand on Torin's shoulder.

"Come now, it's no use, son. They don't understand. They are simpletons; I doubt Elorians have more sense than children. We'll take them back to our ship." Ceranor reached out toward the Elorians and gestured for them to follow. "Come, my friends! Return with me to my flagship."

The Elorians recoiled and reached into their robes. They produced more jewels and held them forth.

Whistles sounded.

Shards tore through the night.

An arrow slammed into one Elorian's chest.

Ceranor inhaled sharply and drew his sword. Before he could react, two more arrows whistled. Two more Elorians fell, clutching their chests.

Blood splashed the deck. One of the elders managed to crawl to the railing, and two more arrows slammed into his back. With his dying breath, the bearded Elorian untied a red lantern. The light floated away from the ship, rising like a phoenix, the color of blood.

Growling, Ceranor spun around toward the
River Raven
. Sailith monks stood above, clad in yellow robes, bows in hand. Ferius stood among them, teeth bared, and lowered his bow.

"Are you safe, my king?" the monk called down from the larger ship, though no concern filled his voice, only restrained glee.

Damn the man!

"I needed them alive!" Ceranor shouted up at him.

Ferius only smirked. "They were reaching into their robes for weapons, my king. I had to keep you safe."

"They were reaching for gifts, you fool."

Teeth bared, Ceranor turned back toward the Elorians. All three lay dead. Torin knelt above them, fists clenched.

"Now do you see, my king?" the boy said, voice strained. "Now do you see the evil we bring with us? These monks will spark a flame to burn us all. We could have entered the city peacefully. We could have
negotiated
."

Ceranor forced himself to swallow down his anger. Evil or not, the Sailith Order was almost as strong as the crown; they were a beast that needed constant feeding. Here, bleeding upon the Elorian deck, were three more logs for their fire.

"Come with me, Torin. Back to our ship. We sail on." Ceranor looked toward the cluster of towers, bridges, and glass domes. "We sail to Pahmey."

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:
FIRE ON THE WATER

Once back aboard the
River Raven
, Torin couldn't help himself. He lunged toward Ferius, grabbed the man's robes, and shook him wildly.

"Next time shoot yourself and rid the world of your idiocy!" he said.

Torin had never been quick to anger, yet now his rage pulsed through him, shaking his arms. Ferius only smiled thinly, eyes full of amusement.

"Are all gardeners so violent?" he asked, clutched in Torin's grip. "My my, aren't you a feisty one. Save your fury for the enemy, boy, not for a humble monk."