CHAPTER TWENTY
FIRE IN THE DARK
As Torin rode his horse into the dusk, his belly twisted and his throat tightened.
"I never wanted this," he whispered. "I never wanted to fight, only to save Bailey . . . and now she too is here."
Nobody could hear him over the roars of the army. Men shouted for blood. Drums beat and trumpets blared. Thousands of hooves beat against the dust, and thousands of boots thumped. They marched through the shadows, trampling the last blades of grass, and emerged into a barren land.
No plants lived here in the eternal darkness. The moon shone overhead and the stars dotted the black sky. The rocky plains flowed into the horizon, rising into distant mountains. Only the river broke the blackness, a strand of silver in the moonlight. A few miles away, beneath the Nighttower, nestled the village. It looked no larger than Fairwool-by-Night, only a few huts and lanterns rising along the riverbank.
For a few heartbeats, the soldiers of Timandra froze. Mumbles of awe rose among the troops. Men pointed at the stars. Some cursed, others laughed, while a few prayed. Horses whinnied. The soldiers stood still, daring not advance farther. Torin had entered this land thrice already, and still it chilled him. He shivered and had to look down, for the endless sky of lights seemed so large, so distant, that it spun his head.
Ahead of the troops, King Ceranor raised his sword.
"Men, light your torches!" he shouted. "Fear no darkness. We will light the night!"
All across the army, a hundred thousand torches crackled to life, a second sky of lights. Smoke plumed and sparks filled the air. The smell of fire rose in Torin's nostrils, and strangely, it reminded him of his childhood roasting sausages around campfires.
A white horse galloped by, and Torin's spirits sank even deeper. A grimace tugged his face. Atop the stallion sat Ferius, his yellow robes flapping. The monk raised a torch and shrieked, spraying saliva.
"For the light of Timandra! Take their village. Slay the demons of the dark!"
With roars that rang across the land, the army raced forward.
They had crossed the dusk at a quick march, but now they ran and roared for victory.
They raced down the hillside, a swarm of torches, swords, and arrows. Horses galloped ahead. The ground troops raced behind. Chariots trundled and banners flapped and everywhere men shouted. Torin gripped his reins and galloped with the rest of the cavalry. He bounced in the saddle, nearly fell, and clung on. The world rose and fell around him and the roars nearly deafened him.
"Torin!" Bailey shouted. "Don't get ahead, damn you!"
She ran alongside him, jumped up, and tried to grab his saddle.
"Bailey, let go!" he said, appalled. "You're going to get trampled here."
Running between the horses, she growled up at him. Her arms pumped. Torin was forced to slow his gallop to match her stride. The rest of the cavalry thundered all around, raising dust, nearly trampling the young woman.
"Idar's beard!" he cursed, reached down, and grabbed Bailey's arm. He tugged, she leaped, and soon she sat behind him in the saddle.
"I told you!" she shouted as they kept riding, clouds of dust rising around them. "I have to look after you."
"Bailey, you nearly got trampled to death! I'm the one looking after you so far."
She gripped him from behind.
YOU ARE READING
Moth
FantasyThey say the world used to turn. They say that night would follow day in an endless dance. They say that dawn rose, dusk fell, and we worshiped both sun and stars. That was a long time ago. The dance has died. The world has fallen still. We float...
