Secrets of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 3) (20 page)

She shook her leg madly,
screaming. The shrew clung on, shrieking as it chewed. The other
mechanical animals—the beetle, snake, and ibis—came clattering
toward Cam.

With a grunt, he swung his
sword, diverting the ibis's bladed beak. The snake wrapped around his
leg, tightening painfully, and the beetle leaped onto his chest,
scurried upward, and bit his shoulder. Cam screamed, ripped the metal
insect off, and tossed it across the room. The snake clutched his
knee like a vise. Cam fell. The ibis thrust its beak again, and Cam
swung his blade, parrying a second time.

"Camlin, help!" Linee
cried, trying to slap off the shrew. It was now racing around her
torso like a squirrel around a tree. "The rat is zigzagging all
over me!"

"I'm a bit busy, Linee!"
he shouted back, parrying the ibis with one hand, tugging at the
snake with the other. The beetle was already racing back toward him.

Finally he managed to tear the
snake off. He tossed it across the chamber, where it wrapped around a
statue, then slunk to the ground and came slithering back toward him.
Blocking another ibis thrust, Cam leaped to his feet, only for the
beetle to jump his way. He swung his sword, slicing the metallic
insect in two. Its halves fell, spilling bolts and sprockets.

One of the sarcophagi—the one
shaped like the beetle—shook. Dust flew through the cracks along its
lid. Cam could spare it only a single glance; the other automatons
were still attacking. When the snake rushed toward him again, Cam
leaped back, tugged a granite bust off a table, and sent it crashing
to the floor. The bust slammed onto the snake. The mechanical serpent
looked up, body trapped under the stone, and gave Cam a look that
seemed almost sad, almost shocked. Then its head collapsed, spilling
oil. The snake-shaped sarcophagus shuddered and scattered dust from
within.

Two automatons remained—the
shrew and ibis. The mechanical bird was squawking metallically,
thrusting its blade madly. Cam kept parrying, reached back with his
hand, and grabbed the jeweled ostrich egg. He tossed it forward,
shattering it against the ibis. The bird shook its head, confused,
and Cam swung his sword down, severing its thin neck. Its head
slammed against the floor. Its body—built of metal hoops, gears, and
springs—remained standing a moment longer, then fell over and
cracked. Once more, a sarcophagus shuddered and scattered dust.

"Camlin!" Linee cried.

She finally managed tearing the
shrew off—it had left her armor scratched and tattered—and tossed
it toward him. With a swing of his sword, he sliced the poor creature
in two. The shrew-shape sarcophagus shook so madly its lid swung
open. A mummified shrew—a true, dead animal of withered flesh—stood
inside, then fell out and thumped against the floor. With a shudder,
the remains collapsed into dust.

Linee dusted her hands against
each other. "Well, we showed them."

"
We
?"
Cam groaned and examined the scratches and welts on his leg.

Linee looked at her own leg and
winced; several cuts bled there. She rummaged through her pack for
bandages, and they spent a few moments tending to their wounds.

For the next couple hours, Cam
and Linee rummaged through the room—opening stone chests, looking
through wooden drawers, and shuffling items on tables, searching for
the clock hand. They found amulets and necklaces, paintboxes and
thimbles, statuettes and engravings, books and scrolls, but no clock
hand.

A distant screech sounded,
echoing far from below, the cry of a subterranean creature, almost
human, almost mourning, hateful, hungry. Cam froze.

"You remember the
painting," Linee said quietly, a ruby necklace in her hand. "The
mechanical man. The clock hand was his arm." She looked toward a
doorway opposite the one they had entered. It led into shadows. "It's
down there somewhere . . . waiting for us."

Cam placed down the jug he was
holding. He nodded. "Put down that necklace and we'll keep
searching." When she pouted, he glared. "These jewels
belong to the dead. We will not take them."

She gave the necklace a longing
look, nodded sadly, and slung it around the neck of a golden statue.
They left the chamber of treasures, stepped into the dark corridor,
and walked into shadow as the scream rose again below.

 
 
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
THE CHILDREN OF NINE

To the song of birds and howls of
hidden monkeys, Torin and Bailey climbed over ivy-covered boulders,
parted vines and strands of lichen, and beheld the ruins of an
ancient temple.

"Til Natay," Torin
said, breath heavy. "We found it."

Bailey stood at his side, wiped
sweat off her brow, and spat. "I told you I'd find the way."

During his time in Asharo, the
port city in the night, Torin had once visited the beach with Koyee,
sat under the stars, and dripped wet sand from his fingers into
towers, walls, and homes of bumps and swirls. The temple before him,
rising from mist and ferns, looked like a massive version of those
wet sand structures.

A dozen upside-down cones of
stone rose here, their bricks corroded, their mortar crumbling.
Rising a hundred feet tall or taller, the towers now sprouted leaf,
lichen, and moss like green fur, and birds and rodents gazed from
holes upon their facades. Reliefs of robed philosophers adorned the
walls; moss covered the stone bodies, and wind and rain had smoothed
the bearded faces. Below these bell-shaped structures, the remains of
walls snaked through the forest. Most were only several feet tall;
some rose higher but ended with shattered edges. A few buildings
still stood, their walls bearing engravings of pious women, their
stone roofs punched full of holes; most lay fallen. One statue stood
facing Torin—a sage in stone robes now green with moss, his hand
raised, his eyes closed. Other statues lay fallen, half-hidden in the
greenery, their eyes forever staring up at the sky, their hands
raised in forgotten prayers.

Once this had been a great
complex, a temple the size of a city, but the rainforest had taken
over the ruins. Banyan trees grew from inside old houses, their
trunks sprouting through holes in the roofs. Several banyans grew
atop the remains of walls, their roots enveloping the old bricks like
the tentacles of a wooden beast. One statue was all but hidden behind
wood and leaf; the roots of a tree wrapped around its face, an
ancient snake of stone constricting its victim. Everywhere Torin
looked, he saw ferns and moss, birds and scuttling monkeys, and
floating wisps of mist.

This was a place of haunting
memory, of beauty and loss, of sadness and silent songs, but more
than these old stones and old trees, it was the central tower—the
tallest among them—that drew Torin's attention. It rose above the
others, large as the grandest palace, cone-shaped and riddled with
holes and cracks. Upon its crest, embedded into the rock, shone a
brass number nine.

"There's our boy,"
Torin said.

"Bet I can climb up and
fetch it before you." Bailey gave him a grin—the first one
since their kiss under the waterfall—and began racing toward the
temple.

Torin was so glad to see her
smile he didn't even mind another challenge. As he ran behind her,
ferns and vines slapping against him, he thought back to that turn.
His wounds from the fight with Ishel were healing, but the pain in
Bailey's eyes—pain he had caused—still dug through him like a metal
shard. He had told Bailey that he loved her, and he had spoken truth.
Even now, running with her, just the sight of her flouncing braids,
bright eyes, and smile shot joy through him; he didn't think it was
possible to be unhappy around her. Yet how could he forget about
Koyee, a woman he also loved?

He
winced as he ran.
How
could I love two women at once? What if we fix the clock, if we
defeat Ferius, if we win this war . . . and I have to choose?
He didn't know, and the guilt coursed through him. In old stories,
the heroes always loved only one maiden; their hearts were true and
noble. Since he'd kissed Bailey by the waterfall, he had felt less
like a hero and more like a villain. He felt a little like Ferius,
torn between day and night, pain always inside him.

Right
now, focus on fetching that number nine, old boy,
spoke a voice inside him.
All
the world of Moth hinges upon it, and that world has no time for your
fancies.

"You're falling behind,
Torin!" Bailey said over her shoulder, grinning toothily. "I'm
going to beat you."

He
nodded. He would refuse to think about any woman now—about Bailey
or
Koyee. He would love nobody, at least until the clock was fixed, the
world turned again, and the flames of Sailith died. He tightened his
lips and ran faster toward the ruins.

They leaped over a fallen log,
jumped across a shallow stream, and ran through grass toward the
crumbling outer wall—a mere four feet of stone, chipped and full of
gaping holes.

With shrieks, a hundred figures
leaped from the grass, landed on the wall, and aimed bows and arrows.

Torin and Bailey skidded to a
halt.

"I knew we should have kept
chasing Ishel . . ." Bailey whispered, frozen, hand hovering
over the hilt of his sword.

Torin grimaced, staring at the
archers ahead. He whispered from the corner of his mouth, "I'm
not sure these are Ishel's friends."

The men upon the wall wore
nothing but leaf skirts. Maroon paint covered them, overlain with
coiling blue lines. Upon their bare chests, painted white, appeared
the number nine. Bones jewelry hung around their necks and pierced
their ears, brows, and lips. Their heads were bald, their feet bare,
their bows strung with vine. Flint shards tipped their arrows.

Torin slowly raised his hands in
a gesture of peace, but the warriors only hissed and drew their
bowstrings farther back. They shouted out in their language, a
chattering sound Torin couldn't understand. At his side, Bailey
growled and her hand inched closer to her sword's hilt.

"Easy, Bailey . . ."
he said. "Raise your hands slowly. We can still walk away from
this."

He began to take slow paces
backward. Grumbling, Bailey joined him.

They had taken three steps when
one of the warriors—perhaps with anger, perhaps by accident—loosed
an arrow. The projectile slammed down between Bailey and Torin's
feet.

With a shout, Bailey drew her
sword and began charging forward.

Torin grabbed her shoulders and
pulled her back. "Bailey, no!"

The warriors ahead shouted.

Torin winced, waiting for arrows
to slam into him.

A woman's voice cried out.

No more arrows flew.

Torin realized he had closed his
eyes and was holding his breath. Holding Bailey against him, he
peeked between narrowed eyelids. An elderly woman stepped onto the
wall between the warriors. Her hair was long and gray, her eyes large
and green. Her skin was painted crimson, and the number nine appeared
upon her chest in white paint. She wore only leaves, and bead
bracelets hung around her wrists. She held a staff crowned with a
grinning skull and strings of bones. Wizened and barely taller than a
child, she held no weapons, and her arms were thin as bones. And yet
the archers all knelt around her, lowering their arrows.

The elderly woman stared at
Torin and Bailey. Frowning, she spoke in a deep clear voice. "Who
are you, travelers of northern lands, and what do you seek at the
Temple of Nine?"

Torin blinked. "You speak
Ardish?"

The woman nodded, her soldiers
kneeling around her. "I am Xeekotep Who Speaks with Spirits,
daughter of Hataf Who Healed Many. I am a Child of Nine, and I speak
many tongues, for many have come seeking the Nine."

Around her, her soldiers chanted
together. "Nine. Nine."

The old woman held out her
hands, and Torin gasped to see that she was missing one finger. When
he looked around him, he realized that all the archers were missing
the little finger on their left hand. Only stubs remained. He looked
down at their bare feet. They were all missing a toe too, the stubs
scarred over.

"We are the Children of
Nine," said Xeekotep. "And I am our shaman. We are the
guardians of the holy number. You must leave this place, for none but
its worshipers may gaze upon the Nine."

The warriors chanted again.
"Nine. Nine."

Bailey spoke from the corner of
her mouth. "Idar's beard, they're loonies. They worship a
number."

He frowned at her. "And
we've traveled across night and day to find the same number, so who
are the crazy ones?" He raised both hands, curling down one
pinky. "Xeekotep Who Speaks with Spirits! We too worship the
Number, for it appears in many of our old tales. I am Torin Who Tends
to Gardens, son of Teramin Who Fought with Steel. With me is Bailey
Who . . . Who . . ." He glanced at her, hesitating. "Who Is
Often Covered in Mud."

"Torin!" She growled
at his side.

He ignored her and kept speaking
to the elderly shaman. "We have come to pray to the glory of
Nine." He turned his head slightly and whispered to Bailey.
"Bails, raise nine fingers."

Bailey dropped her sword and
raised her hands, curling down her pinky. She called out for all the
hear. "All hail the Holy Nine! Nine is wonderful. Eight stinks
and ten's far too many. Nine's the bee's knees. I eat nine meals a
day and got nine cats in my house. Praise the—"

"Okay, that's enough,"
Torin whispered.

Xeekotep gave the two hard
looks, her mouth down-turned. At her sides, the archers raised their
bows again. The shaman raised her staff, and its strings of bones
rattled.

"Do you mock us?" the
shaman said.

Torin gulped and winced. Bailey
shook her head vehemently.