Moth (39 page)

"Halfsmile!" Longarm said, fighting at her side; she was the only Ghost still alive. "Halfsmile, we die here in the night, but I am proud. I am proud to die with a friend."

Koyee shook her head as she swung her blade, parrying a mace blow. "We do not die. Not here. Not now. Not in this street."

The tall, one-armed woman gave her a thin smile. "You have taught me much, Koyee. That is your true name, is it not?" She parried a mace's blow and met Koyee's gaze again. "May the moonlight bless you, daughter of Eloria."

Still smiling thinly, Longarm thrust her spear. She impaled one Timandrian before Ferius, still smirking, slammed his mace into her back.

"Longarm!" Koyee shouted; she was dueling another monk and could only glance at her friend, unable to help.

Longarm fell to her knees. She looked up at Koyee. She gave her one nod . . . just one nod and a smile. No fear filled her eyes. Only pride.

Pride in me,
Koyee realized.

Ferius swung his mace again.

Koyee looked away, tears on her cheeks.

With a scream, she swiped her blade, knocked a mace's blow aside, and slew the Timandrian she fought.

She spun around, bloodied sword raised.

Corpses littered the alley. All the Dust Face Ghosts lay dead: the strong twins, the quick Earwig, the noble Longarm, and little Whisper. Around them lay the corpses of Timandrians, blood soaking their robes.

The old soothsayer, at least, had fled.

I saved him,
Koyee thought, shaking.
At least I saved a life.

Only one monk remained standing. He came walking toward her, mace dripping the blood of her friends. He gave her a cruel, tight grin—a wolf's grin.

"Ferius," she said.

He took a step closer to her.

"Koyee," he said and nodded.

She screamed and ran toward him.

His grin widened and he swung his mace.

The weapons clashed and pain shot up Koyee's arm. Ferius snarled—perhaps he'd thought his heavy weapon would shatter her thin steel. His eyes narrowed and he drove his mace downward.

Koyee jumped aside, and the mace hit the ground, shattering a cobblestone. She thrust her sword again, but he leaped back and her blade only sliced his cloak, leaving his skin unscathed.

"You should run!" Koyee screamed and thrust her sword. "I will show you no mercy."

He scuttled backward, and her blade pierced the air, but then he charged again. His mace drove her sword aside and swung into her right arm.

She heard the bone
crack
.

Koyee screamed.

Pain blazed through her. She could barely see. Blindly she thrust her sword again, cutting only air. Agony flooded her. Through the haze, she saw Ferius take a step backward. He was laughing.

Struggling to remain conscious, Koyee ran at him, sword thrusting.

He stepped aside, dodging the blow, and swung his weapon. The flanged head slammed into her back.

Koyee fell.

Her knees hit the ground.

She turned her head, wincing. The world blurred. Ferius stood above her, smiling his mocking smile, and said words in his language. She knew that he was cursing her.

Koyee gave one last thrust of the blade, barely able to hold it up. With another swing of his mace, he crushed her fingers and sent Sheytusung flying.

"Be safe, Eelani," she whispered. "Be safe without me. Find a new friend." She looked up and through the smoke of battle, she could see the stars and moon. "I rise now to my parents, to my friends, and to peace."

Ferius raised his mace above her head.

Koyee closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and thought of the tranquil waters of her home.

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:
STEEL AND FEATHERS

Torin raced through the streets, heart thrashing.

"I saw him!" he shouted. "I saw Ferius ahead with a group of his thugs."

His friends ran at his sides. Bailey snarled and pumped her arms. Cam and Hem teetered behind, armor ill-fitting and breath puffing. All across the city, Timandrian troops marched, flowing down every boulevard, road, and alleyway, seeking fighters, killing any Elorian they found bearing a weapon.

Torin clenched his fists as he ran, remembering the monk's words.

I will slay every man, woman, and child in this city . . . and you will watch, Torin. You will watch them burn.

"Torin!" Hem shouted behind, breathing heavily. His cheeks were red and soaked with sweat. "Torin, I can't . . . I can't run!"

Cam too sweated. He spat and tugged his friend along. "Come on, Hem. We have to stop that bastard monk before he burns this whole damn city."

Torin growled and kept running. The monks had disappeared around a street corner ahead, but when Torin emerged around the bend, he saw only shadows. A dozen alleyways stretched off the road like doors along a corridor. Somewhere in the distance, the sounds of battle rose. Torin heard Ferius cackling and an Elorian shouting in her tongue, her voice pained.

"By Idar's beard, he's murdering people already," Torin muttered. "We end this now. Whatever alley he ran into will be his grave."

His rage surprised him. He had never thought himself a killer, but blood already stained his hands and soul.

So let me be a killer,
he thought.
Let this blood consume me. I should have ended this a year ago. I could have ended this. I will stick this sword into Ferius's gut and we can go home.

They ran along the street. Buildings of opaque glass bricks rose alongside, their awnings stretching above like a roof. Stalls, wagons, and barrels lay abandoned across the street. Tin plates still held the wares of merchants. This had been a market, but the Elorians had abandoned the place. Torin only glimpsed eyes peering from windows.

"Ferius!" he shouted. "Ferius, where do you cower?"

The sound of Ferius cackling faded.
Damn it!
Torin was running the wrong way. He turned back, panting, and raced into an alleyway, trying to follow the sound. Scattered scarves, live crabs who'd fled from a toppled basket, and lost coins spread around his feet. Lanterns swung above upon wires, their faces mocking him.

"Ferius!"

Torin looked over his shoulder. Cam and Hem had fallen behind, wheezing. Bailey still ran with him, whipping her head from side to side.

"Torin, I don't like this," she said. "We're alone in a dark alley in a foreign city. Elorians hide inside these homes; some might be armed." She hefted her shield. "Where is that damn Ferius?"

They kept running. They raced down a cobbled alleyway, the buildings so grimy Torin could barely see the bricks' original color. A mile or two away, upon the city hilltop, Pahmey's crystal towers glittered, things of beauty and wealth. Here, still near the city walls, spread a labyrinth of dirt and twisting corridors of glass, stone, and leather. The sounds of battle still rose somewhere in this hive; Torin heard Ferius chanting his prayers, blessing the sunlight for slaying the demons of the night.

"Bailey, we have to split up." Torin pointed down a street lined with bronze statues of leaping fish. "Head that way. Take the boys. Find Ferius and stop him." He turned toward another street, this one dark and twisting, awnings forming a roof above it. "I'll seek him there."

Bailey seemed ready to object but then clasped his arm. She nodded, blinked her eyes, and kissed his cheek.

"Boys!" she shouted, spinning toward Cam and Hem who were tottering up the road, breathing raggedly. "Come, follow. Let's find that bastard."

Torin watched them run down the street between the bronze fish, then turned and ran the other way. He clenched his jaw as he raced, one hand holding his shield, the other his sword.

"Stay safe, friends," he whispered.

The sound of Ferius's chanting rose ahead. Torin knew he was heading the right way. He knew he had sent his friends to safety.

I cannot endanger you, my friends. This is a battle I must fight alone. This is between Ferius and me.

He raced around a building of indigo bricks, emerged into a small cobbled square, and saw his foe.

Torin froze.

Bodies littered the square. Several were Elorian children, their heads crushed, their small limbs splayed out. Among them lay dead monks of Sailith, their robes soaking their blood. Fallen torches lay strewn, guttering and casting dancing shadows. A corral of wingless blue birds—each as tall as a horse—stood across the square, clattering and snapping their silvery beaks.

One Elorian still lived—the young woman with the scarred face. She lay on the ground, propped up on one elbow, bleeding from multiple wounds. Her eyes were closed and she mumbled silent prayers.

His mace raised, Ferius stood above her.

"You look like her," the monk said and spat. "Like the whore."

Torin, who was about to burst into the square, froze in the alleyway. He stared, silent, listening. Looked like who?

"Yes," Ferius continued, his back to Torin, disgust twisting his voice. "You can't even understand my words, can you? But I know who you are. I have seen you lurking in your village. You have her eyes. The eyes of my harlot mother."

Torin lost his breath. His heart skipped a beat. His brow furrowed in disbelief.

Ferius snorted. "It is a sad thing, is it not? I will not speak of this to my people. But here I speak to a dying wretch; I will feed this secret into your ears, then crush your skull, drowning the truth in your blood. Yes, we share a mother, savage. But not a father. My father was a traitor. A child of sunlight who slunk into the shadows, courting our mother, paying with gold and jewels to enter her bed." Ferius shook and his voice twisted with rage. "I killed my father for that sin. And I will kill you, my half-sister. My blood is dirty, but I will purify the world of your filth. I will kill every one of you savages for what you've done."

Torin could not help himself. The words fled his lips. "You're half-Elorian."

The monk froze. He spun around, tears on his cheeks.

Their eyes met across the street.

Ferius sucked in his breath, and slowly a grin spread across his face, revealing his small teeth.

"Torin the Gardener," he said. "And so . . . you've heard my little secret. And so . . . you've chosen to die." Ferius took a step away from the wounded girl toward him. "I've been waiting for this moment for long years."

Torin looked down at the wounded girl, Ferius's half-sister. Her eyes had opened, and she stared at him. Her lavender eyes were twice the size of his. Recognition filled them—she remembered him!—then rage . . . and finally shock.

"I'm here to help you," he said to her, not knowing if she understood. He looked back up at Ferius and pointed his sword at the monk. "Your poison has caused enough death, Ferius. Your words have sunken fleets, smashed a city, and slaughtered children here upon this very street. And why? Because your blood is mixed? Because you're ashamed of your dark half? It ends here. I will end it."

Ferius laughed. "And so the gardener who fashioned himself a soldier is revealed as a traitor. Your punishment shall be death. I will deal it myself. Come to die."

He stepped away from the girl, moving toward Torin. Lips tight, Torin stepped over corpses toward the monk.

With a banshee cry, Ferius leaped forward. His robes fluttered. His mace came swinging down.

Torin stepped aside. The mace missed him by an inch. Torin thrust his sword, but Ferius was too fast. The monk swung his mace again, parrying the blade. Torin jumped back and attacked again. The two weapons clashed.

They fought between corpses and scattered fires. They fought with fury, weapons lashing in the darkness, steel clanging, eyes narrowed and jaws clenched. They fought the duel they should have fought a year ago—a fight for the wounded woman, a fight for Eloria, and a fight for home . . . for a village burned and twisted into hatred. It was the battle of Torin's life.

I fight for you, Father,
he thought as he thrust his sword, keeping the mace at bay.
I fight with the courage you gave me.

The tall, blue birds screeched in their pen, wingless and unable to flee. The mace swung, and Torin scampered backward. His heels nearly hit the wounded woman. She lay on the ground, bleeding and moaning, too hurt to rise. Torin did not even know her name, but he sensed the goodness in her; he was linked to this woman, and he could not fail here, he could not let her die.

Ferius kept moving forward, step by step. His mace kept swinging, faster and faster. Torin checked what blows he could, but had to keep walking backward. Finally his back hit a wall. Ferius grinned and swung his weapon. Torin had nowhere to retreat. With a shout, he raised his sword to meet the mace.

The flanged head drove through his blade like an axe through a branch.

Torin's sword shattered.

Shards flew across the square. One drove into Torin's leg and he screamed.

Ferius hissed through a grin, spraying saliva. Torin thrust his hilt—it ended with a stub of steel. The monk pulled back, but not fast enough; the shattered stub lashed across his cheek. Blood spurted.

The grin left the monk's face. Ferius swung his mace again.

Torin screamed.

The monk was aiming for his head. When Torin leaped sideways, the mace's flanges drove into his shoulder. They punched through his armor and into his flesh.

Blinded by pain, Torin lashed the remains of his sword, hoping to scratch Ferius again. He saw only the driving mace. Pain exploded across his forearm. His armor bent. The flanges tore into his flesh, and Torin screamed again. He raised his arms above his head, protecting his face, and felt the mace drive into his side. His armor creaked and pain bloomed, a bolt of fire spreading through him.

He fell to his knees.

He looked up to see Ferius grinning down at him, holding his bloodied weapon.

"And now, Torin . . ." the monk said. "Now you die."

He raised the mace high.

A shadow rose behind him.

Dragging herself forward, panting and bloodied, the Elorian woman lashed her katana.

Ferius screamed and fell to his knees. The Elorian blade emerged from his thigh, slick with blood. Still crawling, the young woman pulled the sword free. Trembling, her one arm hanging at an odd angle, the woman rose to her feet. As Ferius wailed on his knees, clutching his wound, the Elorian stood on trembling legs and raised her sword.