Shadows of Moth (20 page)

"Your
Highness." Cam bowed his head. "I've come here to—"

Ashmog thrust out a
massive hand—it looked more like a paw—and grabbed Cam's chin,
forcing his head up. "Look me in the eyes! No man who bows can
call himself a king." Ashmog snorted and spat sideways. "Is
that why you lost your throne, runt? Did you bow as the Radians
invaded rather than fight?" He raised his arms and roared for
all the hall to hear. "But King Ashmog fights! Ashmog will lead
the Motherland to victory!" Across the hall, his men roared and
banged the tabletops. Ashmog spun in circles, arms raised, bellowing.
"The Radian scum think they can cross the Icenflow, that they
can invade our forests, that their magic makes them strong. But
Verilon is stronger! We crushed their ships on the Icenflow, and we
will drive them out of our forests." He spun back toward Cam,
leaned down, and narrowed his eyes. "Here you see true might,
little king, true warriors who will crush the enemy like a bear
crushes a deer."

Cam's cheeks
reddened. He stared up at the larger man. "We in Arden have been
fighting this war every turn. I've led many raids against the Radian
supply lines. I fought Serin's forces upon the open fields. I thrust
my sword into Lord Gehena. I—"

"You,"
said Ashmog, "are now here, seeking sanctuary." He jabbed
Cam's chest with his turkey leg. "If the Ardish were so mighty,
your kingdom would still stand." He stuffed the turkey leg into
his mouth and sucked up all the meat at once, leaving a clean bone.
He spoke as he chewed. "Why are you here, ravens? Have you come
to seek safety from the cold of winter and the Radian fire?"

"We've come to
forge an alliance," said Cam. "Ten thousand Ardish troops
camp along the border. South of them, at Kingswall,
a Radian army
of fifty thousand prepares to march north . . . and they will come
here. They will lay siege to Orewood, and their machines of war will
smash your walls and towers as they did at Kingswall. Let us aid you,
King Ashmog. Let my army join yours, and together we will defend
these walls."

Ashmog snorted and
swallowed his meat. He grabbed a tankard of ale and drank deeply. "So
I was right. You've come here for safety. You fear to face the
Radians in the field, and you seek to shelter your forces behind my
walls." He snorted. "You think that Serin, that lump of
bear dung, poses a threat to me? Verilon is stronger than he can
imagine. If Serin marches here, we don't need a few Ardish birds to
help us. Our gates can withstand any catapult or battering ram."

Torin spoke for the
first time. He stepped closer to the king and met the large man's
gaze. "But can your gates withstand magic? Have you ever faced
mages in battle? I have." Torin shuddered at the memories. "I
saw mages spew out dark smoke, crumbling the walls of Sinyong, a
great port city in the night. I saw mages smash down the walls of my
own city in Arden. I saw their magic crush steel armor as if it were
tin, tug bones out of flesh, and melt stone." He clenched his
fists at his sides. "You not only face a great horde of
soldiers. You face mages, King Ashmog, and to defeat them, you need
all the help you can get. In this hour, all free folk of Moth must
fight together against the rising Radian Empire."

The king's brown
eyes narrowed, becoming sly slits beneath his bushy eyebrows. He
leaned down, scrutinizing Torin. Slowly his cheeks reddened and his
teeth clenched. He spun around, staring at Captain Hogash.

"Hogash! Who
is this man? I've heard tales of men with mismatches eyes, one green
like Timandra, the other dark as the night."

The Captain of the
Gates raised his chin. "He identified himself as Sir Torin
Greenmoat. He—"

"Torin
Greenmoat!" roared Ashmog. The king tossed back his head and
raised his hands, spilling ale from his tankard. His howl seemed to
shake the hall. "Torin Greenmoat, son of Teramin! Here is the
son of Fargosh's Bane!" The king slammed his fist against a
table, shattering it. Iron plates and pewter mugs crashed onto the
floor. He spun back toward Torin, face red, saliva spraying. "Your
father was a murderer, a coward, a sneaky beast who stabbed my own
father in the back."

Torin felt the
blood drain from his cheeks. He cleared his throat. "My father
fought the previous king of Verilon. It's true. But he never killed
him. He took the war hammer onto his shield, and—"

Ashmog roared and
tossed his tankard across the hall. "Our last king lived to an
old age and died with only daughters. He was my uncle. He raised me
as a son—after your father slew mine in the forest. Or do your
people not tell that tale?"

Torin gulped,
remembering his old lessons of heraldry. Of course! Ashmog was not
the son of Verilon's previous king; his father, Fargosh, had been
only a prince, had fallen in the great war many years ago.

"Perhaps our
fathers met in battle," Torin said, "but Teramin Greenmoat
would never stab a man in the back. He—"

Ashmog swept his
hand across another table. Plates flew and slammed into Torin.

"How dare you
enter my hall!" Ashmog bellowed. "You, the son of the
cursed Demon Raven." He pointed a finger at Torin; it trembled
with rage. "You, the spawn of Verilon's greatest enemy. I would
sooner name Serin my heir than allow this worm into my hall. Hogash!
Men of Verilon! Seize him! Grab Torin Greenmoat, and we will feed him
to the great bear!"

Cam began to shout,
as did the Ardish knights behind him. Torin spun from side to side,
trying to hold back the soldiers rushing toward him.

"King Ashmog,
listen to me!" Torin shouted. "We cannot fight each other
anymore. We—"

Several Verilish
guards jumped onto him, fists raining down. Chains clasped around
Torin's wrists, a sack was thrust over his head, and for the second
time since this war began, all the world went dark around him.

 
 
CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
BLOOD ON THE MOUNTAIN

Neekeya crouched
behind the boulders, staring down the mountainside at the winding
path. She waited. She kept her hand on her bow. Her heart thrashed
and her jaw clenched, but she would not turn away.

The mountains of
Teekat spread around her. Above soared their peaks, capped with snow,
but all around Neekeya the limestone was gray, bare, and craggy.
Boulders rose like great, scattered crocodile teeth, and mist floated
between them. Far below in the west, when she turned her head, she
could see the distant haze of Daenor's marshlands. But this turn she
focused on the east, for Teekat Mountains—a great range that soared
thousands of feet high—separated the marshes from the plains of
Mageria. And this turn, from the east, the wrath of that cruel empire
would overflow.

Other soldiers of
Daenor spread across the mountain, hidden behind boulders and in
nooks. They wore mottled cloaks of gray and white, blending into the
mountains. Beneath those cloaks they wore scale armor, and under
their hoods hid toothed, reptilian helmets. Gloved hands clutched
bows and spears, and swords hung from belts. The mountain pass
stretched between them—a rough trail that crawled up the slope, many
miles long. The ancient men of the mountain had carved it ten
thousand years ago; along with smashed pottery in caves and a few
runes etched into the boulders, this path was all that remained of
that ancient civilization.

And
this turn blood will wash this path,
Neekeya thought.
This
turn it will become a red river.

She looked to her
left. A few feet lower on the slope, Tam crouched behind another
boulder. He too wore a mottled gray cloak, looking much like a
boulder himself, and he too held a bow. Only the raven drawn onto his
shield separated him from the three thousand Daenorians who waited
here.

"They will be
tired after their climb," Neekeya whispered to him. "They
will have climbed Teekat Mountains for miles before reaching this
place. We are strong, well-rested, quick, and we know these
mountains. The enemy will fall."

She wondered if she
was trying to comfort him or herself. She thought it was more of the
latter. Now she wished her father had come to this fight. The Lord of
Eetek had wanted to accompany her and the troops, yet Neekeya had
insisted he stay at their pyramid.

"Danger crawls
from every direction," she had told him in his hall, standing
under an archway in the pyramid, gazing down at the marshlands. "The
North Daenorians will not forgive the capture of their prince; they
will march against us. In the south, the kingdom of Eseer has raised
the Radian banners; they sail against us and land upon our coast."
She had hugged the tall Lord Kee'an. "Stay here, Father. Stay
here and lead. I will return. I promise."

She had kissed him
then—perhaps for the last time—and come here with Tam. Come to
kill, perhaps to die. To war. And now she missed her father, and she
wondered if she'd ever embrace the old warrior again.

Not
even two years ago,
she thought,
I
was but an innocent who believed in magical rings and enchanted fairy
tales.
She tightened her lips for fear of them trembling.
Now
I will spill the blood of my enemies.

She thought back to
Teel University. She remembered how Lari Serin had tormented her, and
Neekeya wondered if Lari was fighting in this war, and if their paths
would cross again—perhaps even here upon this mountain.

Crouching behind
his boulder, Tam looked up toward her. He opened his mouth to speak,
then shut it and tensed.

Neekeya sucked in
her breath. Across the mountains, the other Daenorian soldiers nocked
arrows.

She could not see
the enemy yet, but she heard their thunder. Thudding feet. Clanking
armor. A drumbeat. Above all other noises, trumpeting rose—not the
trumpets of brass instruments, she thought, but an organic sound,
enraged.

Neekeya sneered.
"The Radians."

She stared east
down the coiling path. She could trace it for about a mile; further
down, the trail vanished behind a stony crest. The sounds rose from
behind that peak of stone, echoing across the mountains. A chant
began, deep and rumbling, a song about Emperor Serin burning the
heathens. And still that trumpeting rose, shrill, sending chills down
Neekeya's spine.

Be
strong, Neekeya,
she thought to herself, holding her nocked arrow steady.
Be
strong and you will survive this turn.

Across the
Daenorian outposts, the hidden soldiers were silent. Not a scale of
armor chinked. They were only three thousand—it was all the men the
marshlands of Eetek could spare—and toward them marched the horde of
an empire.

A gust of wind
blew, scented of oil and metal, and billowed Neekeya's cloak. Stones
tumbled below, and then she saw them.

Neekeya lost her
breath.

Three massive
beasts walked at the Radian vanguard. They were several times the
size of horses, gray and wrinkled. Their ears were wide, and their
noses were as long as pythons.

"Elephants,"
Neekeya whispered.

Their tusks were
gilded, and when they tossed back their trunks and cried out, she
recognized the trumpeting she had heard. Howdahs rose upon the
elephants' backs—towers of wood and leather—and archers stood
within, clad in tiger pelts. The soldiers sported braided red beards
strewn with beads, and tattoos covered their bare chests.

Nayan
warriors,
Neekeya realized—dwellers of the rainforest south of Mageria. Now
they bore the Radian banners, joined to Serin's cause.

Across the
mountain, the Daenorians remained hidden, crouched behind boulders,
arrows ready. Neekeya raised her hand, urging the soldiers to wait.
She looked back toward the path.

The elephants came
climbing higher. At first Neekeya had seen only three, but now many
more emerged to climb up the path; she counted a full twenty. Behind
them marched lines of Nayan footmen, spears across their backs. Tiger
skins hung from them as cloaks, the heads still attached and serving
as hoods. Live tigers walked among them too, chained and growling.
Rather than fly the flags of Naya, these troops raised the Radian
eclipse banners.

Neeeya held her
hand raised, palm open. "Wait," she mouthed. "Wait."

The enemy kept
marching up the path. Soon the elephants at the vanguard were only
five hundred yards away. As more Nayan troops emerged from behind the
lower peak, they revealed other soldiers. Magerians marched here too,
wearing the black armor of their kingdom, but their breastplates no
longer sported the buffalo—sigil of their old dynasty—but the
eclipse of Lord Serin. While the Nayans walked in a mass, their red
beards and hair wild, the Magerian troops marched in perfect
precision, automatons of metal.

The
Nayans are wildfire,
Neekea thought,
and
the Magerians are cold steel. But both raise the Radian banners, and
both will die as one. Their blood will flow the same.

She kept her hand
raised.

Wait.
Wait . . .

The enemy kept
snaking up the path. Neekeya saw thousands of them. Soon the vanguard
was only three hundred yards away, then two, then close enough that
Neekeya could stare into the elephants' eyes.

She growled.

She formed her hand
into a fist.

"Now!"
she shouted.

She leaped to her
feet and shoved the boulder she hid behind. Around her, dozens of
other Daenorians did the same.

The boulders
creaked.

The elephants
trumpeted and men shouted below.

The boulders tilted
over and rolled down the mountain pass.

Neekeya crouched
and stared down, sneering as the boulders slammed into the enemy
host.

Elephants tumbled,
their legs shattered. Some boulders rolled between the great beasts
to slam into the lines of infantry. Men fell, bones snapping. Some
troops leaped aside, slamming into their brethren, sending men
cascading down the mountainside.