Empress
Hikari?"
It was a new voice that had
spoken—a crackling, cruel voice that spoke not in Ilari but in the
tongue of Mageria. Catching his breath, Jitomi stared to the back of
the hall. A figure stood there, cloaked in shadow; Jitomi had not
seen the man until now.
The man stepped closer, clad in
black robes. The firelight fell upon him, revealing a balding head
ringed with oily black hair, a hooked nose, and beady eyes.
"Professor Atratus,"
Jitomi whispered.
The Radian held out his arm, and
Jitomi nearly gagged. In his talon-like fingers, Atratus held a
severed head. The hair was long and white, the eyes large and blue,
and mouth still open in anguish. Jitomi had been to the capital city
enough times to recognize it.
"You killed Empress
Hikari." A tremble seized his knees.
Lord Hashido stepped off his
dais and came to stand beside Atratus. The two men—a lord of Ilar
and a Radian mage—stared together at Jitomi.
"Hikari was indeed a weak
worm," Hashido said. "Much like you, my son. We travel to
the capital! The Ilari and Radian empires will stand united. Together
we will defeat the Qaelish rats and rule both day and night."
CHAPTER EIGHT:
A BATTLE ON THE ROAD
The cart trundled on and Torin
lay in the darkness, feeling his life slip away.
They had hurt him, but he could
barely feel the pain anymore. He knew what awaited him at the end of
this road—a public execution at Markfir, capital of Mageria. He
looked forward to it. Death would be an end to pain. In death he
would see them again.
"Mother and father,"
he whispered, lips bleeding. "Grandpapa Kerof. Hem." His
eyes watered. "Bailey."
They had been waiting for him,
he knew. They had waited for so long as he lingered here in the
sunlight, in the darkness, growing older. Now he would join them. He
did not know what the afterlife was like—even among Idarith priests,
none could agree—but he knew they would be there. His only regret
would be leaving the two women of his life behind.
Koyee.
Madori. I'm sorry. I wanted to make this a better world for you. I
failed.
The cart rolled on. He slid
across the floor, chained, bruised, famished. He did not know how
long they'd been traveling. He did not know how close they were to
Markfir. He only knew that this was the last journey he would take.
After so many travels—to the bright city of Pahmey, to the wonders
of Yintao, to the terrifying beauty of Asharo, to the rainforests of
Naya, to the gleaming towers of Kingswall—this was his last road. A
road in darkness.
Shouts rose outside the cart and
Torin winced. His captors often shouted, railing against Elorians,
Ardishmen, and all other "undesirables." Whenever a man
fell ill, a meal burned, or an item of clothing tore, they would take
out their rage on him.
"Damn Ardishmen!" rose
a cry outside.
Torin grimaced, anticipating
their wrath.
A whistle sounded. A shard of
metal and wood crashed through the cart wall. The arrow tilted and
fell down by Torin's head.
"The bloody Ardish!"
shouted another man outside. "The Ardish attack!"
Torin inhaled sharply. The
Ardish.
Cam.
With strength he hadn't known
remained in him, Torin shoved himself to his feet and stumbled toward
the wall. He peered through the hole the arrow had left. Rye fields
spread outside, and archers in black and gold—Arden's colors—were
rising from among the stalks. Horses galloped and raven banners
streamed. The Magerians—a couple hundred soldiers and mages—were
already firing back, drawing swords, and casting magic.
Not
all have died. Hope welled in Torin. Arden
still fights.
His manacles clattering, he spun
away from the cart wall. His head swayed and he nearly fainted. Stars
floated before his eyes. Ignoring the pain—by Idar, every last inch
of him was cut and bruised—he knelt and grabbed the fallen arrow.
Its head was long, sharp iron made for punching through armor. As the
ringing of swords and the whistles of arrows sounded outside, Torin
twisted his wrists,
Hikari?"
It was a new voice that had
spoken—a crackling, cruel voice that spoke not in Ilari but in the
tongue of Mageria. Catching his breath, Jitomi stared to the back of
the hall. A figure stood there, cloaked in shadow; Jitomi had not
seen the man until now.
The man stepped closer, clad in
black robes. The firelight fell upon him, revealing a balding head
ringed with oily black hair, a hooked nose, and beady eyes.
"Professor Atratus,"
Jitomi whispered.
The Radian held out his arm, and
Jitomi nearly gagged. In his talon-like fingers, Atratus held a
severed head. The hair was long and white, the eyes large and blue,
and mouth still open in anguish. Jitomi had been to the capital city
enough times to recognize it.
"You killed Empress
Hikari." A tremble seized his knees.
Lord Hashido stepped off his
dais and came to stand beside Atratus. The two men—a lord of Ilar
and a Radian mage—stared together at Jitomi.
"Hikari was indeed a weak
worm," Hashido said. "Much like you, my son. We travel to
the capital! The Ilari and Radian empires will stand united. Together
we will defeat the Qaelish rats and rule both day and night."
CHAPTER EIGHT:
A BATTLE ON THE ROAD
The cart trundled on and Torin
lay in the darkness, feeling his life slip away.
They had hurt him, but he could
barely feel the pain anymore. He knew what awaited him at the end of
this road—a public execution at Markfir, capital of Mageria. He
looked forward to it. Death would be an end to pain. In death he
would see them again.
"Mother and father,"
he whispered, lips bleeding. "Grandpapa Kerof. Hem." His
eyes watered. "Bailey."
They had been waiting for him,
he knew. They had waited for so long as he lingered here in the
sunlight, in the darkness, growing older. Now he would join them. He
did not know what the afterlife was like—even among Idarith priests,
none could agree—but he knew they would be there. His only regret
would be leaving the two women of his life behind.
Koyee.
Madori. I'm sorry. I wanted to make this a better world for you. I
failed.
The cart rolled on. He slid
across the floor, chained, bruised, famished. He did not know how
long they'd been traveling. He did not know how close they were to
Markfir. He only knew that this was the last journey he would take.
After so many travels—to the bright city of Pahmey, to the wonders
of Yintao, to the terrifying beauty of Asharo, to the rainforests of
Naya, to the gleaming towers of Kingswall—this was his last road. A
road in darkness.
Shouts rose outside the cart and
Torin winced. His captors often shouted, railing against Elorians,
Ardishmen, and all other "undesirables." Whenever a man
fell ill, a meal burned, or an item of clothing tore, they would take
out their rage on him.
"Damn Ardishmen!" rose
a cry outside.
Torin grimaced, anticipating
their wrath.
A whistle sounded. A shard of
metal and wood crashed through the cart wall. The arrow tilted and
fell down by Torin's head.
"The bloody Ardish!"
shouted another man outside. "The Ardish attack!"
Torin inhaled sharply. The
Ardish.
Cam.
With strength he hadn't known
remained in him, Torin shoved himself to his feet and stumbled toward
the wall. He peered through the hole the arrow had left. Rye fields
spread outside, and archers in black and gold—Arden's colors—were
rising from among the stalks. Horses galloped and raven banners
streamed. The Magerians—a couple hundred soldiers and mages—were
already firing back, drawing swords, and casting magic.
Not
all have died. Hope welled in Torin. Arden
still fights.
His manacles clattering, he spun
away from the cart wall. His head swayed and he nearly fainted. Stars
floated before his eyes. Ignoring the pain—by Idar, every last inch
of him was cut and bruised—he knelt and grabbed the fallen arrow.
Its head was long, sharp iron made for punching through armor. As the
ringing of swords and the whistles of arrows sounded outside, Torin
twisted his wrists,
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