Moth by Daniel Arenson Read Free Book Online Page A

blood."
    Koyee had vowed not to cry, yet she felt her eyes dampen. The pain still pulsed through her, fresh and chilling like ice cut from a frozen river. She looked down from the Nighttower to the border of dusk, the place where stone gave way to twisted brambles. She had gone seeking her father, only to find his blade upon the plains, stained with the foul blood of demons. When she had lifted the sword, she had seen the demon emerge from the light, wheeling his cart of bones.
    "My father's bones," she whispered, still smelling the smoky scent. "Eelani, I miss him."
    She could see his grave below. For many years, her father had stood here upon this very tower, gazing into the dusk, guarding their village that lay below. Some had not believed there was any threat to guard against. Some had called her father a fool, a fisherman who could not forget his old life as a soldier. Now those people mourned him. He had fallen defending this tower, and Koyee had buried him at its base.
    "May your spirit continue to watch over me, Father," she whispered, tasting a salty tear. "Goodbye."
    She gazed upon Sheytusung, his katana, now her blade to bear. Smiths had forged this sword in the distant city of Pahmey, a mythical realm of crystal towers. They had folded the curved blade a dozen times, hammering it into an edge that remained sharp through the years. Mottles and lines coiled along the steel like the Inaro River that flowed below. Blue silk wrapped around the hilt, soft and warm in her hand. Twenty winters ago, her father had carried this sword to the great southern war against the Ilari nation; since returning home, he had worn it every day until his last.
    "I promise you, Father, I will bear your blade proudly. I will protect our people and I will avenge your death." She whispered the old words of her people. "We are the night."
    The wind in her hair, she looked south of the Nighttower toward the village that nestled below, hugging the river.
    Oshy. My home.
    Twenty round clay huts rose around a cobbled square. Docks spread into the river like fingers, holding a dozen boats. Lanterns swung above the water, casting dapples of light. Only a hundred souls dwelled here, for few in Eloria dared live in the light of dusk, that glow forever in their west. Yet where twilight fell the crayfish bred and thrived, and so the village of Oshy thrived too. Boats sailed down the river, bearing the delicacy to distant lands, returning with pottery, silk, and fur.
    "But we need no more pottery, silk, and fur," Koyee said to her invisible friend. "We need more swords. We need soldiers. I bear the only blade in our village, and if Timandra attacks again, I cannot defend this village alone. Eelani, we must travel down the river. We must find the distant city of Pahmey, the place where this sword was forged, where brave souls train for war." Her throat tightened. "We must tell them Timandrians are real, and we must return with aid."
    Her friend was silent as always, but Koyee felt a warm embrace against her cheek, a breath against her ear, a stroke along her hair. Eelani was agreeing, but the spirit was afraid.
    "I'm afraid too," Koyee said. "I fear the light of day. I fear the heat of sunfire. I fear the creatures that dwell there. And I fear being alone."
    She lowered her head, letting the wind whip her hair across her eyes, smooth pale strands like silk. Yes, she was alone now. Her brother, her only other family, had left Oshy ten years ago. He had sailed south along the river, dreaming of becoming a shaikin —a warrior for hire. He had been only sixteen, and Koyee had not seen him since.
    The years had gone by, and Koyee herself was sixteen now but still unwed. A few young villagers still courted her, but others shunned her, perhaps fearing her scars. Two years ago, she had gone hunting and a feral nightwolf had attacked her, clawing her face. Three lines now marred her countenance. One scar tugged the corner of her mouth, raising her lips into a