Shadows of Moth (19 page)

Cam bit his lip,
staring up from his own horse. "This marks the border between
Arden and Verilon. The city of Orewood is near."

Behind Torin and
Cam rode their retinue—five knights and thirty men-at-arms, all clad
in steel plates, the ravens of Arden upon their shields. Their
banners fluttered in the cold wind, and snow coated their woolen
cloaks. Torin himself wore a woolen tunic under his armor, and a
thick black cloak hung around his shoulders, yet he couldn't stop
shivering, and his teeth chattered. Verilon seemed even colder than
the darkness of Eloria, or perhaps he was simply older, thinner,
still wounded and weary. Whatever the case, a cough kept rising in
his throat, and he couldn't wait to finally sit by a roaring fire, a
mug of mulled wine in his hands.

Torin
sighed.
Last
war, when I was half as old, I didn't care about the cold, and I
didn't long for a hearth or wine.
He was turning forty this winter, and with every year, he cared less
for swords and more for mugs, less for saddles and more for
armchairs.

They
kept riding north, leaving the bear statue behind. The forest had
changed over the past few leagues. Few of the maples, birches, and
oaks of Arden grew here. Here was a forest of towering pines like
steeples. Wolves ran between the evergreens and hawks glided above,
and several times the riders saw true bears; the beasts fed from icy
streams, catching salmon in their jaws. The snow kept falling, and
with every gust of wind, clumps of snow fell from the trees with
thumps
.

Torin kept looking
around for Verilish soldiers, guardians of the border, but saw none.
Here was a vast land, as large as Arden and Mageria combined, covered
with ice and boulders and thick woods. Perhaps Verilon depended more
on its harsh hinterlands for defense than any wall or guard along its
borders.

They were weary,
but they did not wish to set camp here in the wilderness of a foreign
land. They rode on, breath frosting, lips blue, and the snow would
not stop falling. They ate as they rode, and Torin found himself
nodding off in the saddle, despite the pain in his limbs and the
blisters growing on his thighs.

Dreams of
half-wakefulness filled his mind. He was young again in these
visions, traveling into the night for the first time, Bailey at his
side. When wolves stared between the pines, eyes glowing, he saw
Koyee's eyes—large and lavender, peering from behind a boulder near
the village of Oshy, a turn almost two decades ago . . . the first
time he had seen her. And he saw Madori's eyes, just as large and
purple. Those eyes stared at him, blinking, confused, after she had
first emerged from the womb. They stared at him with love, a girl
still innocent about the horrors in the world. They stared at him
with anger, a rebellious youth, as he took her to Teel University in
the vipers' nest.

Will
I see their eyes again?
he wondered. A lump filled his throat. He missed his family so badly
his chest ached and his belly felt full of snow.

And as always, he
thought of those he had lost: of his dear friend Hem, that lumbering
giant of a boy; of his parents, fallen to the plague; of Bailey, the
dearest friend he'd ever had, the twin light of his heart. No matter
how far he traveled from home, those he left behind still filled him
with memories and pain.

They had ridden for
several more hours when they saw the walls rise ahead.

"The city of
Orewood," Torin said, and a chill ran through him. "Looks
more like a mausoleum for giants."

The great wall
stretched across the snowy forest, rising a hundred feet tall. Built
of rugged, dark gray bricks, the wall reminded Torin of many
tombstones cobbled together. Icicles hung from the battlements, and
snow topped the merlons. As the Ardish convoy rode closer, Torin saw
the banners of Verilon rising from guard towers; they displayed a
brown bear upon a green field. Soldiers stood upon the walls. Their
beards were brown and bushy, and they wore crude, iron breastplates
over fur, and more pelts hung around their shoulders and peeked from
under their helmets. Their bows were long and their spears longer,
and their eyes were dark.

Torin and Cam rode
closer, leading their convoy toward a gatehouse. Two round towers
rose here, each large enough to be a fortress in its own right.
Across a ravine rose a stone archway, its doors hidden behind a
raised drawbridge. A dozen Verilish soldiers stood upon the gatehouse
battlements, staring down with nocked arrows in their bows.

The Ardish company
halted across the chasm. The snow rose a foot deep, hiding their
horse's hooves. Their banners unfurled once in the wind, revealing
the ravens of Arden, then wilted. Torin glanced at his companions,
then rode several feet forward, bringing himself to the edge of the
ravine. He hefted his raven shield, coned a gloved hand around his
mouth, and cried up to the guards.

"Men of
Verilon! I am Sir Torin Greenmoat of Arden. With me rides King
Camlin, lord of our realm. Three knights and thirty men-at-arms are
with us. We've ridden for many turns and seek your hospitality."

The guards upon the
gatehouse battlements seemed to stare at one another; it was hard to
see from so far below, especially with the snow in the wind.

"We've come as
allies of Verilon!" Torin cried. "As war rages across
Mythimna, and as the Radian Empire clashes against Verilon along the
Icenflow, we offer our friendship. Will you let us enter and speak
with your king?"

For long moments
nothing happened. No voice from above answered. But no arrows fell
either; Torin took that as a good sign.

Finally, after what
seemed like an eternity, metal chains creaked, and the drawbridge
began to descend. When it clanked down across the gorge, it revealed
a rising portcullis and swinging, iron-banded doors.

Torin turned his
head and looked at his companions. They stared back. Cam nodded and
the companions rode onto the drawbridge, leaving the forest and
entering the city of Orewood.

Torin entered
first. He found himself in a cobbled courtyard surrounded by a
hundred archers and swordsmen. More archers stood in towers ahead,
pointing their arrows down at him. Beyond the courtyard he glimpsed
many log houses, the stone domes of temples, and several distant
fortresses.

A Verilish man
wobbled forth, his cast iron breastplate barely able to contain his
massive gut. His beard was almost as large, hanging down to his belt,
and his cheeks were ruddy. He must have stood seven feet tall, and a
war hammer—its head was large as a boot—hung across his back.
Beneath his armor, he wore fur pelts, and he carried a pewter tankard
overflowing with frothy ale.

"Men of
Arden!" he boomed. "I am Hogash, Captain of the Southern
Gates. We will welcome you into our halls, where you will feast upon
bloody meat and drink frothy ale, but first you will disarm
yourselves. No swords, no arrows, no blades. Leave all your weapons
at the gates, and leave your horses; they will be tended to. And if
you try to slip any weapons past us, we'll flay you alive and feed
your living, writhing remains to the bears." He slapped his
belly and burst out with laughter, as if he had just told the world's
funniest joke.

Cam glanced at
Torin, then back at his men and nodded. The Ardishmen dismounted and
began to unhook their weapons and hand them over to the Verilish
guards: longswords, daggers, bows, quivers of arrows, and lances. Cam
watched the weapons and horses being escorted away, looking like a
starving man who had just seen a dog snatch away his meal.

"When I was a
shepherd, I never thought I'd miss having a sword," the king
muttered to Torin. "Now I feel naked without one."

The corpulent
captain turned and waddled toward a street, and the Ardish company
followed. As they walked, Torin looked around, soaking in the sights
of Orewood, capital of Verilon.

Log houses lined
the streets, their sloping roofs coated with snow, and icicles hung
from their eaves. Chimneys pumped out smoke, and through open window
shutters, Torin glimpsed bear rugs and crackling hearths. The city
folk wore fur and leather, and their cheeks were red. Men sported
proud beards and women hid their hair under shawls. They were a
heavyset people, wide of bodies and wide of faces, but their eyes
seemed kind to Torin, their ways simple and old. The sounds of the
city rose in a symphony: chickens clucking in backyards and pecking
for seeds in the snow, cats mewling upon roofs, hammers ringing in
smithies, men singing drunkenly in taverns over mugs of ale, and
stocky housewives beating the dust out of rugs. Like its music, the
city's aroma was intoxicating; Torin smelled rich stews cooking in
homes, tangy sausages hanging in butcher shop windows, oiled iron and
soft fur pelts, and finally the stench of gutters flowing with the
contents of emptied chamber pots.

As they kept
walking, heading deeper into the city, stone buildings began to rise
among the log homes. Several buildings seemed to be temples, their
roofs topped with bronzed domes, and statues of bears stood outside
their gates. Others buildings were manors for the city's wealthy;
several sported silver domes, and one's dome was even gilded.
Finally, Torin saw several fortresses, and many soldiers stood
outside them, massive men with barrel chests, bushy beards, and war
hammers. Each warrior of Verilon seemed twice the size of an Ardish
or Magerian soldier.

After walking for
an hour or two, Torin saw the fabled Geroshahall—palace of Verilon.

"By Idar's
swollen feet," he muttered.

Geroshahall was
massive, easily five times the size of Arden's royal palace back at
Kingswall. It was carved of the same rough, gray bricks as the rest
of the city, and icicles hung from its turrets and battlements.
Soldiers stood upon its encircling wall, and between them rose the
bear banners. Beyond the wall rose a dozen wide, circular towers
topped with gold, bronze, silver, and iron domes. While Arden's
palace was elegant, pale, and delicate, here was a powerful, looming
structure, more a fortress than a palace. While guards in Arden wore
polished steel and golden cloaks, here the guards looked as scruffy
as woodsmen, their cast iron breastplates as crude as peasants'
frying pans, their furs coated with snow and mud, their beards
untamed.

Arden's
palace is a fine maiden, perfumed and fair,
Torin reflected.
Verilon's
palace is the gruff, burly enforcer who tosses drunkards out of the
tavern.

Hogash, Captain of
the Southern Gates, spoke to the guards of Geroshahall. The surly men
gave the Ardish companions stern looks, muttered under their breath,
and hefted their hammers. Finally, cursing and spitting, they shoved
open Geroshahall's iron-banded doors.

Hogash drank deeply
from his stein, wiped suds off his mustache, and lumbered into the
hall. Torin, Cam, and their retinue followed, entering the heart of
Verilon.

They found
themselves in a massive hall—the largest indoor structure Torin had
ever seen. Six rows of columns, each as wide as a guard tower,
supported a ceiling so distant it all but vanished into shadows. The
floor was rough and pitted, and a dozen great fireplaces roared in
the walls, filling the chamber with heat, light, and smoke.

Men and women
feasted at pine trestle tables. Upon iron platters lay steaming
venison, smoked sausages, and roasted geese. Ale flowed from
tankards. Clad in fur and metal, the diners ate with only large
knives for cutlery, carving up meat and stuffing it greedily into
their mouths. Ale beaded upon beards, and grease dripped down iron
breastplates. Belches, laughter, and crude songs wafted through the
air like the meaty scents. Dogs scurried underfoot, feasting upon
bones and scraps the diners tossed their way.

"By Idar,"
Cam whispered to Torin, his eyes wide with awe. "This is what we
need back in Arden. Not fancy lords nibbling on crumpets with forks
thinner than my pinky finger."

Torin grimaced.
"Right now, Serin's troops are feasting in Arden's palace. I'd
take all the dessert forks in the world over a hall full of Radians."

As they walked
closer to the trestle tables, the diners noticed them and raised
their tankards in welcome, spilling droplets of the amber ale. At the
head of the table rose a chair larger than the others; Torin assumed
that it served as Verilon's throne. The massive, wooden seat was
carved into the shape of an upright bear complete with iron claws
that sprouted from the armrests. A man sat here, looking much like a
bear himself. His chest was wide as a wagon, and his belly seemed
large enough to digest a entire roast pig. Ale and grease filled his
beard, and his cheeks were flushed red. He stared at the Ardishmen
from under bushy eyebrows. Above his furs, he wore a dark breastplate
engraved with the emblem of a rearing bear. Upon his head perched a
crown—not a crown of gold as southern kings wore but a heavy, iron
construction shaped as bear claws thrusting upwards.

Hogash shouted out
the introduction, "Here sits Ashmog, son of Fargosh, King of
Verilon!"

The king belched,
wiped suds off his mouth, and rose to his feet with the sound of
clanking armor and creaking wood.

"Look at that
one!" the king boomed, pointing a turkey leg at Cam. "I've
eaten meals larger than him. And that one!" He thrust the turkey
leg toward Torin. "His beard is shorter than the hairs on my
backside."

The king roared
with laughter, spraying out bits of half-chewed meat. The hall roared
with him, and men banged tankards against the tabletop in approval.

Hogash gestured at
the Ardish companions. "My king! Here before you stands Camlin,
King of Arden. And with him thirty ravens of his flock."

King Ashmog
snorted. "Former king perhaps. I hear the Radians' backsides are
warming his throne now." The king lumbered around the table and
across the hall, his feet pounding against the stone floor. Two war
hammers hung across his back, their heads as large as loaves of
bread. He came to stand before the Ardish company, towering above
them; Torin's head barely reached the man's chin, while Cam stood
shorter than his shoulders.