Moth

CHAPTER THREE: A DUEL IN THE DARK

CHAPTER THREE

A DUEL IN THE DARK

They walked along the riverbanks, fifty villagers shouting for blood. For the first mile, alders and rushes grew along the water, swaying in the breeze. Caterpillars crawled on leaves, grasshoppers bustled, and chickadees and robins sang upon the branches. Farther along the river, the sun began to sink behind them, casting dapples across the water. After a mile or two, the light was dim. The trees grew stunted here, and the rushes hung wilted and pale. No more birds flew. Shadows stretched ahead.

"Raise your lanterns, brothers and sisters!" Ferius cried, leading the procession. He and his monks raised their lights, casting a golden glow. "Follow and fear no darkness."

Torin followed the mob, but he did fear this darkness. He had seen the evil that lurked ahead. He had seen the dead, had seen a lifeless land and a sky strewn with stars.

"The bloody fools," he muttered. "Why do they listen to Ferius?"

Hemstad Baker trundled at his side. He was the tallest man in Fairwool-by-Night, but also the widest, and he struggled to keep up. The pots and pans he always carried, even on short journeys, clanked across his back. With every step, his sword swung between his legs like a tail. His ample belly swung almost as wildly, sweat soaked his face, and his breath wheezed.

"Did you see one, Tor?" he asked. "An . . . an Elorian?"

Cam walked at their side, a smirk on his face. The rushes, tall enough to brush the others' shoulders, nearly rose above his head. The diminutive shepherd had sharp features, dark hair, and intelligent eyes. Rarely seen far from Hem, young Cam was also never slow to scold his friend.

"Of course he didn't see one, Hem," the shepherd said. "They don't really exist--sort of like leftovers on your plate. Ferius, that sheep's dropping, just made them up to frighten us."

Hem bit his wobbling lip and trudged on, pots clattering like a suit of armor. "Why would he want to do that?" He gulped. "I don't like being frightened."

"Hem, your mind is woolly as fleece," said Cam. "A frightened man is a follower. That's all Ferius and his monks want--people to follow them." He swept his arm across the twilit landscape. "And it's working. Look. Fifty villagers follow him the way my sheep follow me across the field."

Hem stepped on a rock, wobbled, and steadied himself with a ruckus of banging iron. "Well, I'm only following because Tor insisted we do." He stared at Torin. "Why are we following again?"

As he walked along the darkening riverbanks, the grass and rushes fading down to a rocky path, Torin asked himself the same question. If the people wanted to follow Ferius, perhaps he should let them. Why was it his concern? If they all wanted to march into darkness and die, why should he stop them?

He looked ahead at the group--four monks and fifty raging villagers. He sighed.

"Twenty years ago, my father came home from the war with Verilon. You've heard stories of that war, haven't you?" When his friends nodded, Torin continued. "He lived in the capital at first. He was a broken man then, scarred, haunted, one of his legs gone to a Verilish blade. Many doubted he would live much longer; he drank to drown his demons. When he moved to Fairwool-by-Night, he found new life. He met my mother in our village; they were happy here. My parents died in Fairwool, but they died together--peacefully." Torin looked behind him at the dwindling light of his home. "I owe this village a debt. I'll do my best to protect its people. Even if I have to follow them into the very darkness of Eloria."