Moth

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE DRUMS OF WAR

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE DRUMS OF WAR

Bailey Berin stood upon the Watchtower, gripping the battlements.

"That stupid, stupid boy!" she said, eyes stinging. She gave her braids two vigorous tugs. "If he weren't already marching to his death, I'd kill him."

She stared east into the dusk, a land of barren trees, orange light, and shadows fading into the night. Jaw clenched, she spun around, marched across the tower top, and stared westward at the fields and pastures of Fairwool-by-Night. What she saw there scared her more than all the shadows of Eloria.

"Where has my village gone?" she whispered, her knuckles white as she clutched a merlon.

Five hundred people used to dwell here--tradesmen, shepherds, and farmers, working and living among fields, gardens, and swards. Looking down now, Bailey could no longer see grass or fields. She saw nothing but the might and wrath of Timandra. For two months the forces had been mustering here, and now they covered the land like a tapestry of hatred.

North of the river, the hosts of Arden spread, warriors of the raven. Tens of thousands marshaled here, standing in rows and rows, clad in breastplates and helmets. Archers, swordsmen, and pikemen all gathered around their lords. Their banners thudded in the wind, showing black ravens upon golden fields. The king stood at their lead upon a white courser, his armor pale and his sword bright in the sunlight. A thousand other horsemen stood behind him, each beast bedecked in steel and gold and black wool. Along the mile-wide river, the fleet of Arden swayed, a hundred ships bearing more soldiers, more weapons, and enough food to feed the hosts for a year.

When Bailey looked south of the Sern, she saw the troops of another kingdom. Naya mustered there, her neighbor to the south. Its warriors wore tiger skins and hoods. Each man clutched two spears and wore a necklace of teeth. Elephants trumpeted among them, their tusks ringed with gold, archers upon their backs. Hundreds of tigers stood leashed, clawing the air, their trainers clutching whips. Burly, bare-chested men beat war drums, each as large as a wagon wheel, and howled for victory against the devils of the dark. Naya's banners too fluttered, hiding and revealing a tiger upon a black field.

"All across Timandra, the other kingdoms rally too," Bailey whispered, hands trembling around the battlements. "I left my village as spring bloomed, trying to stop a war. Now autumn covers the land, and the armies of daylight muster."

She looked north toward the distant forests, and she could imagine the warriors of Verilon among the pines, their warriors clad in furs, sitting astride bears and wielding great hammers. Farther north, the seafarers of Orida, warriors of the orca, would be sailing their galleys toward the shadows, their helmets horned and their beards golden. Far in the south, the desert warriors of Eseer would be moving east, riding camels and brandishing their curved blades, chanting for the victory of the sun.

"The day rises," Bailey said and shuddered. "The night will burn."

She scanned the armies below, seeking him. Somewhere down there among the multitudes, Torin--that foolish, winky-eyed boy--stood in armor, ready to invade with his king. Bailey couldn't even see him in the crowd, and she ground her teeth. A sigh rolled through her.

For a decade now, she had looked after the boy. Ten years ago he had come into her home a frightened orphan, a year younger than her and barely taller than her shoulders. She had pitied him then, begged her grandfather to take him in, and since then he'd been as a younger brother to her. And now . . . now he wanted to leave her, to march to war?