Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) (18 page)

"You fought a great war,"
she whispered to them. "Perhaps I don't face fleets of warships,
armies of knights, or great battles like you did. But I'm fighting my
own war here, a personal war, and one I'll need all your strength and
wisdom for." She knuckled her eyes. "I promise you, my
parents, I will fight. I will win."

She rose to her feet. Her knees
shook but she took another deep breath, steeling herself.

"I'm like a duskmoth,"
she said. "I'm torn between day and night, and I'm far from
home. But I will fly."

She walked back to the
university, wet, muddy, afraid, and more determined than ever.

 
 
CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
BLOOD AT HORNSFORD BRIDGE

They rode across the wilderness,
two men in a horse-drawn cart, and beheld the might and terror of the
Radian menace.

"By Idar's flea-bitten
bottom," Torin cursed and tugged the reins, halting Hayseed. The
nag snorted and pawed the earth.

Sitting beside him, Cam smiled
bitterly. "I told you it was big."

Torin grimaced. "The Palace
of Kingswall is big. The fortress my wife is building is big. This?"
He gestured ahead. "This isn't a big fortress, my friend. This
is more like a city."

Hayseed sidestepped and
nickered, and the cart swayed. The slender king clutched his seat and
nodded. "Aye, a city of nothing but soldiers bred for hatred."

Sunmotte Citadel rose upon a
hill, surrounded by a circular moat, farmlands, and valleys. Behind
the water soared the castle wall, topped with battlements, archers,
and Radian banners. Towers rose at regular intervals along the wall,
each a palace unto itself. Behind the battlements peered the tops of
more towers and keeps—a complex so large Torin thought it could
rival all of Kingswall. As if the soaring battlements didn't
sufficiently unnerve him, he saw many troops mustering in the fields
outside the citadel—ten thousand or more soldiers stood there, armed
with spears and swords.

Hayseed whinnied. Torin stepped
out of the cart and stroked the old nag, seeking to comfort himself
as much as her.

"Serin isn't playing games
here, my friend," he said to Cam. "This isn't just the
fortress of a lord. This isn't just an army to guard his home. He's
preparing for war."

The king nodded grimly. He too
stepped out of the cart, shook his legs, and pointed northeast. "And
our homeland lies just a couple miles away."

Torin followed his friend's
gaze. Across grassy fields flowed the Red River, the rushing border
between this kingdom of Mageria and their homeland of Arden. The
ancient Hornsford Bridge spanned the water, half-a-mile long, built
of ancient bricks. A fortified gatehouse rose at each side. The
Magerian gatehouse was large as a castle, its two towers displaying
the banners of Radianism—a sun eclipsing the moon—alongside the
banners of Mageria—a buffalo upon a red field. Across the bridge,
the Ardish gatehouse was smaller—a single, humble tower—its
battlements displaying Arden's sigil, a black raven upon a golden
field. Beyond the gatehouse rolled Arden's countryside, bereft of its
own citadel or army. An empty land. A vulnerable land.

"Camlin, old boy,"
Torin said, "we're facing an armored knight with a bread knife."

Cam sighed. "A bread knife?
I'd settle for a bread knife." He gestured toward the lonely
guard tower on the Ardish side of the bridge. "That's more like
a wooden spoon. Maybe even a napkin."

Torin grunted. "We move
forces here. As soon as we reach Kingswall, we muster men. We send
them west."

"What
men?" Cam rubbed his temples. "Torin, my dear, it seems
half the lords in my kingdom are loyal to Serin; they're raising his
banners and receiving quite a bit of his gold. And those lords who
are
loyal to my throne? They wax poetic of an end to war, of peace on
earth, of never more lifting arms and watching Moth bleed."

Torin grumbled. "Moth will
bleed whether they want it or not. And they won't be there to staunch
the wound." He narrowed his eyes. "Let's go home, Cam, but
I'm not crossing that bridge. Not if you pay me with my own fortress.
We ride south. We'll cross the river at Reedford; that's where Madori
and I crossed over."

Cam raised an eyebrow.
"Reedford? But my dear lad, Reedford is boring." He
gestured ahead and grinned. "Here we get to inspect Serin's
forces up close." He tugged at his rough, woolen cloak and
scratched his stubbly cheeks. "We're no King Camlin and Sir
Greenmoat here. We're simply two weary travelers seeking a way home."
He climbed back into the cart. "Come on, Tor old boy, it'll be
an adventure. Like in the old days."

Torin grumbled. "The old
days weren't an adventure; they were a bloody nightmare." He
rubbed his stiff neck. "And we were younger."

Yet he too climbed into the
cart, and they began to move again.

The bridge still lay a couple
miles away, and Hayseed was a slow old horse. Cam had wanted to buy
two quick, sure-footed coursers at Teelshire; he had sold his own old
horse at the town, as the beast had been too weary for a quick ride
back. But Torin had refused. How could he sell Hayseed, his
daughter's old friend? Madori was gone for years; the least Torin
could do was keep her favorite horse—even if it meant the journey
home would take twice as long.

He sighed. The journey home? No.
He was perhaps returning to Arden, his kingdom, but not to his home.
Not to Fairwool-by-Night, and not to his wife.

"The first time I traveled
to Kingswall," he said softly, "I went there with Bailey to
stop a war. Now we travel there to raise an army."

Cam nodded as the cart bumped
down the pebbly road. "The two actions are not contradictory. We
raise an army to stop a war. An army along your borders can bring
peace more readily than the hearts of men. Hearts cannot be trusted;
steel can be."

Torin raised an eyebrow. "Look
at you, King Camlin. You almost sound like a military leader. Where
is the young boy who fought for peace?"

"He grew up." Cam
grunted and scratched his chin. "Idealism was fine when we were
youths, just kids in a war the adults led. But we're the adults now.
Idar's Warts, Torin. I actually have gray hairs now, do you believe
it? I pluck them out, but they just grow back, and perhaps they bring
me some wisdom. Let Tam and Madori be the new preachers for peace.
Let us adults prepare for war."

Torin scratched his temple; he
had been finding a few white hairs there himself. "I envy Koyee.
She's always had white hair. Doesn't have to worry about plucking a
thing."

Cam barked out a laugh. "The
woman never ages anyway. You and I . . . we're halfway through our
thirties already, and we're starting to show it." He reached
over to pat Torin's hint of a paunch. "But that wife of yours;
she still looks like a youth. People might think she's your
daughter."

"I already have one
daughter, and she causes enough trouble herself." He lowered his
head, sudden pain overtaking him. "Damn it, Cam. Don't talk
about our age. Not because I'm scared of growing old. But
because—Idar damn it—I wish they could have grown old with us."
He let out a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. "That
old loaf of bread and that braided madwoman. They should have been
here with us now."

Cam nodded sadly, but suddenly a
smile spread across his face. "Hem would probably be even larger
at our age; he wouldn't fit on this cart, that's for sure."

Torin
smiled to remember the old baker's boy. "He could
pull
the cart, that one. And Bailey, well . . . I bet you she'd insist
that she's a true warrior and could run the whole way. Scratch that;
she'd charge toward Sunmotte Citadel and take on Serin's army
single-handed."

"You don't think she'd have
mellowed with age?" Cam raised his eyebrows. "We've
mellowed."

Torin shook his head. "She'd
be as crazy as always. I miss her. I miss them both. It's funny,
isn't it? They say time heals all wounds. What a contemptible lie."

As they drew closer to the
bridge in the northeast, they were also drawing closer to the massive
fort in the northwest. Serin's army stood only a mile away now, the
sun glinting on thousands of spears. Every soldier, it seemed, wore a
full suit of plate armor; back in Arden, only knights wore the
expensive armor, while common soldiers wore the less efficient—but
cheaper—chain mail or leather armor. The Radians not only had many
horses but chariots too, their wheels scythed. Smaller than Torin's
cart and much swifter, several of the vehicles raced around the
field, their riders shooting at targets with bows. Behind these
drilling forces, the walls of the fortress loomed taller than
palaces, brimming with many troops.

Torin and Cam fell silent. The
air felt too hot, too thick; Torin could barely breathe it. He cursed
Cam for convincing him to take this route.

"They'll stop us," he
whispered. The soldiers were still distant, but Torin couldn't speak
any louder. "They'll send riders to the road. They'll think us
spies."

"We
are
spies," Cam said. "Sort of. But no, they won't stop us.
That bridge there—costs an entire silver coin to cross. How do you
think Serin pays for all that fine armor, those chariots, those high
walls?" He patted his purse. "Bridge tolls."

"Bridge trolls?"

Cam groaned. "You're either
losing your hearing or developing a penchant for bad jokes. Both are
worse signs of aging than white hairs or paunches."

Perhaps the Shepherd King was
right; no soldiers appeared to stop their passage down the pebbly
road toward the bridge, and if the armies saw them, they gave no sign
of it. Before long the cart turned eastward, leaving Sunmotte Citadel
behind. They trundled toward the river. An arched gateway led onto
the bridge, framed by two guard towers, each large enough that,
removed and placed upon a hill, it could have proudly housed a lord.
Several soldiers stood upon the towers, holding crossbows, while
several more stood beneath the archway.

Torin tugged his hood low over
his head. Cam did the same. Hunched forward, clad in old wool, they
hopefully looked like nothing more than two weary, common travelers.
The guards at the gate stood sternly, clad in black plate armor,
their faces hidden behind their visors. Their breastplates bore two
sigils—the buffalo of Mageria on one side, Radian's eclipse on the
other.

"Halt!" said one,
voice echoing and metallic inside his helm, and held out his hand.
"Stop for inspection."

Torin tugged the reins, and old
Hayseed slowed to a halt, snorting. Several soldiers marched forward,
their plate armor so well-fitting and well-oiled it barely made a
sound. Moving with the urgency of starving men seeking food, they
began to inspect the cart—lifting blankets, rummaging through packs,
and sniffing at jugs of water.

"We're
only two simple travelers returning home," Torin said, affecting
a lowborn accent. "A friend of ours—we took him to a see a
healer in Teelshire. Aye, they got real healers there, not like back
home—
magical
healers, they got at Teelshire." He shook his head and tsked.
"Still, all in vain. Our friend died on the road before we could
even reach Teelshire; all we could do when we got there is bury him.
He was a dear friend, but I told him, I did, if he kept drinking
spirits every morning and night, he'd soon come down with—"

"Silence," spat out a
soldier. "We have no patience for peasant tales. Why didn't we
see you cross from Arden? I never forget a face."

Torin sighed inwardly. A couple
decades ago, in the war, he'd have charged at these soldiers with
sword and shield, his friends at his side. He wasn't sure if that
meant he was wiser or less brave; perhaps a bit of both.

"We crossed down south at
Reedford," Torin said. "They got a nice inn there, they do.
The smoothest ale you could taste. Do you like ale, friend? We got
three casks in the back; feel free to take the small one for your
troubles."

One of the soldiers stepped
toward Torin and lifted his visor, revealing a hard, frowning face.
The man's eyes narrowed. "Look at me," he demanded.

Torin gave the soldier a quick
glance from under his hood. He held out a silver coin. "Here we
are, our bridge toll, and that's real Arish silver, it is. Bite it if
you like." Torin reached for his riding crop. "Now we hate
to take up your time, so we'll just—"

Before Torin could tap his
horse, the soldier grabbed Torin's wrist, stopping the crop.

"Wait a moment." The
soldier leaned in, and his eyes widened. "I know you. One green
eye, one black! We met in battle in the war. Torin Greenmoat, you
are! Lord Serin said you might be passing here. He commanded us to
bring you to him. You'll have to come with us."

The other soldiers—there were
four of them—heard and stepped closer. Cam winced but Torin forced
himself to laugh.

"Aye, I get that all the
time. I always curse my eyes. Everywhere I go it's Terin Greenboat,
Terin Greenboat—whoever that is. It makes a man weary. I—" He
jerked his hand free and swung his crop. "Hayseed, go!"

As the horse burst into a
gallop, tugging the cart onto the bridge, Torin grabbed the katana he
kept hidden behind his feet—the same sword he would wield in the
war. He drew the blade with a single, fluid movement and swung it
across the cart's side. It clanged into a soldier's helmet, knocking
the man back. Cam drew and swung his own hidden blade, knocking back
another man, while a third soldier leaped away from Hayseed's hooves.

For two or three heartbeats,
they raced unopposed upon the bridge.

Then that old sound Torin
remembered and hated filled the air.

Whistling arrows.

He ducked and pulled Cam down
too. Arrows whistled above them, and one slammed into the cart inches
away from Torin. Hayseed whinnied and kept running, her fear driving
her.