Moth by Daniel Arenson Page A

Elorian below, but then clattered to the ground. The man hissed and remained standing; he must have been wearing armor under his robes.
    Panting, Torin followed the path of the flaming arrows. The projectiles flew toward the village. Two clattered down into the empty square. The others hit a cottage roof, and the thatch caught fire.
    "Village Guard!" Torin shouted, nocking another arrow.
    He saw Bailey racing through the village below, drawing her sword and heading toward the field. She shouted battle cries and her braids swung madly. Slim Cam and beefy Hem emerged from The Shadowed Firkin, the village tavern. They held mugs of ale, and Hem was still chewing a turkey leg.
    "Boys, to the rye field!" Torin shouted from above, waving madly. "Elorians!"
    He turned to fire another arrow. The Elorians were racing forward again, heading toward the village. Bailey was still running toward them, screaming and brandishing her sword.
    Torin froze. With his aim, he was as likely to hit Bailey as the Elorians. He yowled in frustration, tossed down his bow and arrows, and began racing down the tower stairwell.
    At once he regretted it. He should have stayed upon the battlements, waiting for a better shot. That would've been the wiser action, the one his father would've taken. But clanking down the stairwell, his sword thumping against his thigh, he dared not turn back. Bailey was running alone to attack four armed demons; he had to fight at her side, wise or not.
    He reached the ground level, burst out of the tower, and raced down Watcher's Hill. His boots tore up grass and his heart thudded. Smoke rose from the village below; two more cottages were burning. Ahead in the field, Bailey was already clashing swords with the Elorians. She was fighting two at once; Torin no longer saw the other two.
    Running as fast as he could, Torin drew his sword. His boot slammed into a rock. He nearly slipped and impaled himself, but managed to keep running, moving downhill and into the field. The sprouting rye, still green and short, bobbed up and down around him.
    He raced toward the melee. Blood was dripping down Bailey's thigh. She spun in circles, swinging her sword, holding the two Elorians back. The robed creatures had dropped their bows and were lunging with swords.
    Heart in his mouth, Torin reached the battle and swung his sword.
    A hooded figure spun toward him. A blade thrust. Torin clenched his teeth and parried. The two swords clanged together.
    Torin was no swordsman. He was only a gardener; he didn't know how to swing this blade. He fought with pure instinct, driving his blade down. The Elorian parried. Light pierced its hood, revealing a pewter mask, perhaps built to protect its pale skin from the Timandrian sunlight. Their blades clashed again. Bailey fought ahead, grunting as she swung her sword, her blood trailing down her thigh.
    High-pitched yowls rose from the village.
    With a hiss, the creature Torin dueled stepped back. He glared at Torin through his mask's eye-holes, then raced around him, heading toward the cottages.
    Torin stood panting, torn between chasing the Elorian and helping Bailey. He chose Bailey. He stepped toward her, ready to fight with her, only to see her standing over a corpse. She tugged her sword from the fallen Elorian; it came free slick with blood. More blood dripped down her leg.
    Merciful Idar, he thought, for a moment frozen, only able to stare. She killed a man. He wasn't sure when the Elorian had ceased being a creature and became a man— perhaps only when it lay dead in blood.
    Torin met Bailey's eyes and saw the same horror in them. She stared back for only an instant, but that instant seemed to last for years, and it spoke of countless nightmares.
    "Bailey, you're hurt," he said, wincing at the sight of her blood.
    She spat into the rye. "I'm fine. After him!"
    She began to run in pursuit of the Elorian whom Torin had dueled. Torin joined her, arms pumping. His side ached, and his breath blazed in his