“Fire!” Okado nocked another arrow and kept riding. “Take them down.”
Already tasting the bloody meat, he shot again. A hundred more arrows flew through the night. More stonebeasts mewled and fell, raising clouds of dust. The wolfriders flanked the herd from three sides; the beasts ran in a panic, stumbling over one another, arrows slamming into them.
Okado kept racing alongside them through the dust, firing arrow after arrow, picking out all the animals he could. The carcasses covered the plains, blood dampening their fur. With every beast he slew, Okado’s blood burned hotter.
The herd only traveled here twice a year, migrating from the Inaro River south across the plains, heading toward the sea, where they would breed. Only twice a year could Okado hunt them, and they would keep his pack alive. The flesh of each beast would feed many families. Their bones would form the skeletons of huts. Their furs would become clothes, their tendons would become ropes, and their fat would burn in their campfires. Not a part would be discarded; they were beings of life.
Okado shot another arrow, hitting a young animal—this one was barely larger than his wolf—and sent it tumbling down.
Finally, once a hundred carcasses covered the plains, the stonebeasts realized escape was impossible. They turned together like a school of fish and came charging toward the wolfriders. Thousands of them, their horns long as swords, raced toward Okado. Their hooves raised storms of dust, and their eyes blazed.
Okado fired another arrow, hitting one in the eye. His wolfriders scattered, raced upon the hills, then descended upon the herd from its flanks. More stonebeasts fell. More hope for food, fur, and a future spilled across the plains in crimson puddles.
“That’s a hunt!” Okado shouted when two hundred stonebeasts lay dead.
Breathing heavily, he lowered his bow and slowed his wolf down to a walk. Upon the hills and plains, his fellow riders lowered their own weapons. The herd’s survivors kept running, heading south, until the thousands passed them by, and the thunder of hooves faded into the distance.
Upon a hilltop, Okado tugged the reins and Refir halted. The nightwolf—a shaggy beast thrice a man’s size—panted, tongue lolling. Foam dripped between his fangs, each one long as a dagger. Okado dismounted, placed a hand in Refir’s thick black fur, and stroked him.
“You ran well, my brother,” he said. “You ran with the spirit of a true warrior.”
The wolf gave Okado a deep look, his eyes—the size of human fists—gleaming like liquid gold. Refir was the beta of their pack. Only one wolf stood taller: an old brown alpha that reigned back in their camp, a scarred canine who’d run on many hunts.
“But soon, Refir, we will be the alphas,” Okado said. “You were only the runt of the litter when I found you, shivering and cold in the dark; even your mother would not nurse you. I was only the son of a fisherman, born in a soft village. Yet we became strong. We will both rise. Our time nears.”
A high voice rose behind him.
“Still dreaming of dominion, my mate?”
Okado turned to see her there. Smiling crookedly, Suntai rode uphill upon a white nightwolf. A tall and slender woman, she wore silvery furs and bore two katanas across her back. Bone pins held up her hair, and tattoos of lightning raced across her cheeks. Her eyes shone indigo flecked with gold.
“And what of you?” he said. “You are my mate. I chose you because I thought you were strong; the women say you are the finest warrior among them. Don’t you dream of ruling this pack too?” He snorted. “Are you weak?”
Suntai brought her nightwolf up toward him, dismounted, and touched his cheek. The moonlight shone on her white hair. “I dream of the day we return to our birthright, to the city that banished us, to our ancestral home. I dream of the crystal towers of Pahmey. I will gladly serve as an omega, scouring pots and skinning fur, to live in those fair towers again.”
Okado grunted. He had no memory of Pahmey; he had never seen the city of crystal and glass and light. Few in the Chanku Pack had, but their blood flowed from its founders. Their ancestors had ruled the towers and walls, and now their descendants roamed the plains, a herd of hunters in the darkness.
And I am from a village, Okado thought. My blood smells of crayfish. He clutched his katana’s hilt. But my heart is the heart of a wolf. All will see my worth.
“You will see the crystal city again,” he said. “I will conquer it for you, Suntai. I will slay their guardians, bless the towers with their blood, and serve you their hearts. Our alpha is weak. He will lead us deeper into darkness. But I am strong. I vow to you by the howl of wolves: I will rise, and I will take you home.”
They loaded the hunted stonebeasts onto great, flat wagons of many wheels. Men dismounted and tugged the wagons with ropes, for nightwolves were creatures of battle and hunting, never beasts of burden. Okado and Suntai rode before the procession, his wolf black and burly and male, hers white and lithe and female—a beta couple whose pups Okado hoped would someday rule. They rode across the darkness of Eloria, the moon and stars bright above, the horizons black. No mushrooms grew in this wasteland. No truffles could be found in this rocky earth, and no rivers of fish flowed in the night. It was the harsh land of their banishment, the wastelands of the endless darkness.
As he rode ahead of the hunters, Okado looked to the northwest. He saw only a black horizon, the fish constellation above it. But he knew that it lay there beyond the plains. Oshy. His humble home. His lowborn shame.
“You would be proud of me now, Father,” he whispered—too softly for Suntai to hear, for she would scorn him for this weakness. “I still remember you, Koyee, my sister.”
He wondered if he’d even recognize Koyee now. She had been only a child when he’d left Oshy, but she would be sixteen now, ten years his junior but already a woman. Did she still fish in the river with Father? Was she a huntress too? Had she taken a husband?
Many times Okado had wished to ride across the plains, to find his old village, to scoop his sister up onto his wolf and save her from poverty. He had left long ago, when he’d been only an angry youth. Now he was a warrior, a tall and strong man, a commander in a great clan of thousands. He could ride a nightwolf, lead hunts, and mate with the fair Suntai, but one thing he could not do: return home. His vows of pride and strength kept him here; the wolfriders of Chanku had no homes, no outside blood, and no life but the pack.
When I joined this clan, I left my past behind.
And yet whenever he rode here, he stared at the horizon, at that leaping fish constellation … and he remembered.
They moved across the plains, dragging their hunted, until the moon sank. Finally they crested a hill and beheld the camp of the Chanku Pack.
The crater sprawled across the land, as large as a city, a sunken bowl in the earth. Elders whispered that thousands of years ago, a great boulder had fallen from the sky, slamming this hole into the plains. Before then, said the elders, the world would turn. Dawn would race across the land, and the sun would follow, brighter than a thousand moons. Trees would cover Eloria, flourishing in the light, and every hourglass turn the sun would sink, and night would chill the land until the sun reemerged. When the boulder had struck, the world fell still, they said. Now the sun stayed in Timandra and forever darkness covered Eloria, and forever life here would be a struggle in the dark, a hunt for hope.
Stories, Okado thought, riding downhill. Stories for children, not warriors.
Their tents filled the crater below, made of fur and leather. Thousands of people moved between them—children scampering on bare feet, elders leaning on canes, and mothers nursing babes. Thousands of warriors filled the camp too, dour men and women astride nightwolves—the fabled riders of Chanku. Their scaled armor glimmered in the moonlight, and moonstars adorned their shields; though banished from their city, they were still proud warriors of the Qaelin nation. Katanas and spears hung across their backs, and helmets shaped as wolves topped their heads.
As they entered the crater, dra
gging the stonebeasts, the hunters raised their voices in triumph. The rest of the pack greeted them with cheers. Warriors nodded in satisfaction. Children ran alongside the procession, jabbing the hunted animals with toy spears. Women began to build fires from blocks of hardened fat. Men dragged the animals off the wagons; the stonebeasts thumped to the ground, and at once knives thrust, peeling fur from flesh, cutting bones from joints. The people sang as they prepared the animals; this was a great gift for the whole pack.
As Okado rode through the camp, the people smiled, but he frowned. He looked at Suntai who rode beside him on her white wolf.
“This meat will feed us for a while,” he said. “Yet the pack has grown large. This crater is too crowded. We cannot thrive in the wilderness forever, not as our women keep birthing healthy, hungry babes who grow into healthy, hungry warriors.” He looked down at Suntai’s flat belly, and he imagined his own child growing there someday. “We need the Inaro River and its treasures. We need the caves of mushrooms. We need to return to our birthright—to rule Pahmey again.”
Suntai gazed toward the tallest tent in the crater, its fur walls painted with wolves, its silver posts topped with golden claws. In a crater full of humble leather tents, this was the closest thing the pack had to a mansion.
“Our alpha must decide,” Suntai said, “if the time of our return has come.”
Bitterness twisted her words. Deep fires kindled in her eyes, and her fingers coiled around the hilts of her swords. Okado understood. Suntai’s parents had once dwelled in this tent, ruling this pack. The cruel hunter Yorashi had slain them in battle, claiming their title of alpha. Suntai—a mere child then—had tried to fight Yorashi, only for the brute to slap her face, laugh at her pain, and send her fleeing.
I will avenge your parents, Suntai. Okado stared at the fine abode. For many years he had feared the tent of his master. But now he was strong—strong enough to claim this tent for himself.
“Yorashi has weakened,” he said and spat. “He is an old fool. He no longer hunts with us. He can no longer aim an arrow or swing a sword.” Okado snorted. “Even now, he cowers in his tent like an old woman. But you and I, Suntai … we are strong. We are hunters. Come, we will enjoy the meat of our victory and drink the fresh, hot blood.”
He turned away from the tent to see men, their bare chests glistening, cleaving the hunted beasts. Skewers drove into slabs. When they hoisted the meat atop fires of burning tallow, the rich scents filled the air. Juices spilled to sizzle in the flames. Some of the meat would be eaten this turn; most would be dried, smoked, salted, and stored for the moons ahead. Okado had not eaten since leaving on the hunt, and his belly grumbled and his mouth watered. He walked toward a fire. The meat was barely cooked—the insides would still be bloody—but Okado had always enjoyed the taste of blood, a primal taste of power. He drove his dagger into a slab of roasting meat, carving a portion.
Before he could eat, a deep voice rose from behind him.
“Meat time! Make way. I will have my first cut.”
Bile filled Okado’s mouth. Even the scent of cooking meat turned sour in his nostrils. A growl rose deep in his throat. Eyes narrowed, he turned around to see Yorashi, the leader of the pack.
Alpha Yorashi was tall and broad, among the largest riders in their camp. Muscles rippled across his pale, scarred body. He wore the furs of fallen alpha wolves: a loincloth, leather boots, a rich black cloak, and a hood shaped from a wolf’s head, teeth still attached. A string of wolf claws hung around his neck, and he bore two katanas, their hilts wrapped in black fur. His hair hung long, thick, and white across his shoulders, and a bushy white mustache covered his lip. His nightwolf walked at his side, six feet at the withers, scars running through his brown fur. The beast drooled, ready for the feast; Felsan was his name, the alpha of the nightwolves and father to many, including Okado’s own mount.
As alpha rider and wolf walked through the camp, the others bowed their heads and backed off, creating a path. The pair walked slowly, heads raised, snapping their teeth at anyone who ventured too near. Once near the meat, their nostrils flared; rider and wolf seemed as one, a two-headed god of the night. All bowed before them.
All but Okado.
He stood before the meat he’d hunted. He would not kneel in the dust. He would not bow his head. Wolf at his side, Okado stared at his master, chin raised. His growl rose, a sound like rumbling thunder before a storm. He met his alpha’s stare and refused to look away.
“We missed you at the hunt,” Okado said, and his hands formed fists at his sides. “The blood flowed red, the arrows flew like lightning, and the pack tore into the herd with glory. I led them. This is my prize.”
Okado tore off a steaming slab of meat. The rich smell filled his nostrils and made his mouth water. He brought the meat close to his teeth and paused, waiting to see how the alpha would react.
He is weak, Okado thought. He is old. He is afraid. We will see how he takes this challenge.
Yorashi came to stand before him. His eyes blazed, digging into Okado. His wolf snarled. Fangs like blades shone in the firelight, and drool dripped from the beast’s maw to steam against the ground.
“Step aside, beta,” Yorashi said, his voice a deep rasp. “You will eat once I’m done.”
Okado would not back down. He stared back steadily, meat in hand. He remembered the first time he had seen Yorashi; it had been ten years ago, when Okado had been only a youth running from his village. Back then, Yorashi had seemed a living mountain, a monster who could crush cities, his arms like battering rams.
But that was a long time ago, Okado thought. I’m no longer a skinny youth.
And Yorashi was older. Wrinkles spread out from his eyes. Hints of sagging showed upon his belly. The alpha was nearing sixty years of age, an old man, and Okado was at the height of his strength.
And so I will test you, old man, he thought. Every meal, I will test you for weakness.
“I will eat first,” Okado said. “It is my meat. It was my hunt. Stand back, Yorashi, and smell this food while I feast. You may eat when I am full.”
Around the camp, the other riders sucked in their breath. Eyes glittered. Nightwolves howled. As a beta, it was Okado’s task to challenge his leader; if an alpha could not dominate, he did not deserve his title. Yet never had Okado challenged their alpha like this, refusing him the right of First Meat. He narrowed his eyes and growled again, staring at his leader, and raised the meat closer to his lips.
Back down, old man, he thought. Back down and watch me feast, or prove your worth.
The meat touched his teeth. Okado paused, not chewing, staring, waiting. The challenge had been made; Yorashi would face it … or cower and forever lose his title.
For an instant, the alpha only stared back, his face reddening. His eyes blazed. His face twisted into a mask of bloodlust. At his side, his wolf snapped his teeth at Okado. Then both man and beast, alpha rider and his mount, tossed back their heads and howled to the moon.
Okado sank his teeth into the meat. The juices filled his mouth, fatty and rich and intoxicating.
With a roar, Yorashi swiped his hand, knocking the slab out of Okado’s grip. The meat sailed through the air and thumped onto the ground, spraying juices.
Okado barked a laugh. “You still have some fight in you, old man.”
The alpha grunted, grabbed Okado, and shoved him aside. Okado snapped his teeth but stepped back willingly, allowing his alpha access to the roasting meat.
But I will not forever stand aside, he thought, staring as his alpha settled down at the carcass to feast. Next hunt, perhaps I will leave you only bones and skin.
This hunt, his alpha had stared him down, had shoved him aside, had risked a fight to regain his title. But every year, the alpha grew weaker and Okado grew stronger.
My time to rule draws near. Okado grinned, licked his lips, and watched the old man feast. The poor fisherman’s son would rise. The scrawny youth who had fled his village would lead the
pack.
Finally Yorashi had eaten his share and returned, lips bloodied, to his tent. With his wolf, Okado settled down to eat. Their teeth sank into the meat. The meal tasted of blood and dominion.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE GREEN GEODE
Koyee stood, barefoot and gray with grime, playing her flute. Her hair hung around her face, caked with dirt. Her fur tunic lay in tatters across her. She felt too thin, too weak to play—she had not eaten or slept in an hourglass turn—and yet she played on.
I will not give up, she thought, playing “Sailing Alone” over and over, the only music she knew. I will keep making music for Eloria. For my home.
A good crowd walked here this session. A young couple, their faces glowing with new love, tossed her a coin each. Koyee gazed at them, envying their clean skin, fine silk clothes, and companionship, but only smiled in gratitude. A young girl ran from her mother, gave Koyee two copper coins, then blushed and ran off. Many other people walked by. The night was warm, the moon was full, and coins gathered around Koyee’s feet.
Yet will I only lose them again next time I sleep? she wondered. Will more urchins steal them, or will Snaggletooth return?
She did not know how long she’d been lingering here, a filthy busker. Sometimes she worried this would be her life.
As her fingers moved across her flute, she noticed that one man had been watching her for a long time. Most folk paused for a moment, tossed a coin, and walked on. This man had been standing still, arms folded, simply staring.
Flute in mouth, she stared back, narrowing her eyes. The man seemed about fifty years old. He wore flowing green silks lined with fur, the fabric embroidered with silver snakes. A string of sapphires hung around his neck, and his fingernails were painted blue. His mustache was long and drooping, and he wore a small golden cap upon a bald head. He seemed wealthy to Koyee, but in a garish way like some foppish sorcerer.
She kept playing, and people kept walking by, and the man still stared—not humming along, not paying a coin, and never removing his eyes from her. Finally, after what seemed an hourglass turn, Koyee lowered her flute. Trying to ignore the strange man, she began walking down the street, heading toward the Fat Philosopher for a bowl of mushroom stew.
Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels Page 18
