He turned toward her and his eyes widened. “Bailey? What … what are you doing here?” He looked over her head, and his eyes widened even further. “Cam and Hem? You too? Go back to the village!”
Bailey shook her head fiercely, braids swinging. “We’re coming with you, Babyface. I’m not letting you get into any trouble. With your bad eye, you’ll probably stumble in the dark and drown in the river, if I’m not there to save you. I already had to save you from drowning twice, and that was here in daylight.”
His face reddened, and he leaned down in his saddle. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Bailey, I told you. Don’t embarrass me in front of the other soldiers.”
She rolled her eyes, walking alongside his horse. “And I told you: You’re not a soldier, you’re a very silly boy.” She looked over her shoulder. “Camlin! Hemstad! Catch up, will you? Stop get tangled up in the bushes.”
The two boys emerged from brambles, cursing and slapping off burrs, and ran up beside her. Hem nearly tripped over his dangling sword, and Cam’s helmet wobbled up and down, repeatedly blinding him.
Bailey noticed that the king had turned in his saddle and was watching them, his beaked visor raised. His eyes darkened and a sigh clanked his armor. Bailey stared into his eyes and raised her chin, daring him to defy her. She was perhaps a humble villager, but her father was the mayor, and her blood was highborn. If she wanted to fight on the front line, she would.
“I see you have your own personal guard, Torin Greenmoat,” the king said, smiling wryly. “Keep them close. They’ll look after you on the field. I hear young Bailey can swing a sword.”
She gripped her hilt. “Your Highness, I hope I never have to use it.”
The army marched on: the forces of Arden on the northern bank, all in steel; the ships along the river, their sails wide; and the Nayan warriors on the southern bank, leading their leashed tigers and banging their drums. When Bailey closed her eyes, she imagined that she could see all across the border, from the northern snowy islands to the southern deserts and savanna. All across Timandra, the sunlit half of Moth, the hosts stormed.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw the dusk ahead.
The armies roared and increased speed, boots and hooves thudding. Horns trumpeted, drums beat, and banners flew. With a cry that shook the earth, they entered the shadows.
The invasion of Eloria began.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IN THE WOLF’S JAW
The moon shone full when Yorashi, alpha of the Chanku Pack, summoned the council of riders.
They had left their elders, mothers, and cubs in the crater. Ten thousand warriors made for the mountain, each astride a nightwolf—the horde of Chanku in all its might, clad in armor and bearing their blades and arrows. Every year, as the wolf’s constellation leaped overhead and the full moon shone, they rode to the mountain in all their gear of war. Every year they mustered to hear their alpha speak.
Only this year, Okado thought as he rode, everything changes.
His alpha rode ahead of him, clad in steel scales and a fur cloak, his weapons across his back. Okado rode behind the leader, and Suntai—his fellow beta—rode at his side, her chin raised and her lips locked in a snarl, mimicking the growls of the beast below her. Like him she wore steel scales and a wolf’s head helmet. Like him she bore a katana, a dagger, a bow and arrows, and a shield emblazoned with a moonstar.
You are my mate, he thought. He looked at her, admiring the lightning tattoos on her cheeks, the golden flecks in her indigo eyes, and the curves of her strong, lithe body, the body of a warrior. But soon you will be my queen rider.
When Okado stared over his shoulder, he saw the Chanku Pack cover the mountainside, riding behind their leaders. For the first year since the Chanku warriors had been banished from Pahmey, forced to live feral in the wilderness, the pack numbered ten thousand riders. During three hundred years of exile, they had grown from outcasts into an army. Their wolves growled, the moonlight lighting their fangs and red eyes. Upon their backs, riders held blades and bows, a horde grown too large for a humble crater, a horde that could sweep across Eloria. The omegas of the pack trailed behind, the older and weaker riders, but even an omega of Chanku was worth ten Pahmey soldiers.
“This will be my army,” Okado whispered under his breath. “This horde will bring us glory. This horde will win back our birthright, the great city that should be ours.”
He returned his eyes forward. The mountain loomed above them, glimmering black against the starry sky. Shaped as a wolf’s head, the halved peak silently howled at the moon. Upon Wolfjaw Mountain the future of the pack would be sealed.
They climbed for a long time, warriors hungry for meat and blood and glory. They rode along old stone paths they had been treading for generations—since the first exiled warriors had come here for prayer. When finally they reached the mountaintop and stood between the great stone jaws, Okado looked north.
He saw it there upon the horizon, a distant patch of light like a fallen star.
“Pahmey,” he whispered.
He had never been to that city. He had never seen it from any closer. In their exile, only here upon the mountain, standing between the stone jaws of the great wolf, could they see their distant homeland.
Suntai wheeled her wolf around and stood at his side. She stared at the horizon with him, eyes solemn, and the wind ruffled her long white hair.
“Our home,” she whispered. “The home that was stolen from us.”
Okado stared at the northern light. Suntai’s ancestors had ruled Pahmey; she was descended from the Chanku nobles, great warriors who had built and governed the city. Their blood ran through her veins, pure and strong.
My blood is lowborn, Okado thought. I am from Oshy, a humble village. But that blood burns with fire. It made me strong. It made me stronger than all in this pack.
The other riders climbed the mountainside, coming to gather around him. Soon all ten thousand gazed at their distant home. The wolf constellation shone above, the only time of the year it crested the zenith of the night. The full moon blessed them. And their council began.
Alpha Yorashi rode his wolf onto a towering boulder, a stone tongue that rose between the jaws of the mountaintop. He drew his katana and raised the blade. The moonlight shone against his scarred, leathery face.
“Chanku Pack!” he shouted. “I am Yorashi, son of Juntey. I am alpha! Hear my howl.”
He tossed back his head and howled to the moon. His wolf answered the call, a deafening sound that pealed down the mountain. The entire clan shouted at the sky. Wolf fangs gleamed. Swords rose like a city of steel. The cries of the pack rolled across the landscape. It was a cry of honor, of courage, and of pain hammered into strength. Okado hoped that even in Pahmey, far upon the horizon, they heard the call … and feared it.
This is the cry of our banishment, he thought, but also of our rebirth. This is the cry that will spell your doom, city of decadence.
“This year our council is blessed,” said Yorashi, sword still raised, his wolf upon the boulder. “We climbed the mountain with ten thousand warriors, the greatest our force has been.”
The army roared again, brandishing their weapons. Ten thousand helmets, shaped as wolf heads, gleamed in the night. Ten thousand true wolves howled beneath them.
“We can let no crater contain us,” said Yorashi. “We’ve grown too numerous, too strong. For too many years have we lived in exile, huddled in our den of stone. Too long have we fed upon dwindling meat, depending on hunts that can no longer sustain us.”
The warriors jeered. Okado snapped his teeth. Yorashi was speaking truth. The crater and the hunts had sustained the original exiles of Pahmey, but the pack had grown too large to live like this. They had grown too strong to cower in the darkness. He looked back toward the distant patch of light.
“It is time,” Okado said, “to claim what is ours.”
Yorashi’s voice rose louder. “I, Alpha Yorashi, will lead you to glory!
I will lead you to greater food—not only to meat, but to fish, to crab, to mushroom. The time to leave our crater has come!”
Okado leaned forward upon his wolf, gripping his sword and dagger. He could already imagine the heat of battle, his blades slicing into the elders of Pahmey, those decadent usurpers. He could already imagine living in their palaces, surrounded by the spoils of war.
“We will travel south!” cried Yorashi. “We will head toward the southern waters of Inaro, far from where the ships of Pahmey sail. We will grow mushrooms in the soft, wet soil. We will grow algae where moonlight hits water. We will fish in the river and we will grow plentiful. We will not have a mere crater in the rock, but a great civilization in the south. Chanku will rise!”
Okado frowned. Warriors mumbled around him. A few cursed.
Travel south? Okado gritted his teeth, scarcely believing his ears. Travel away from Pahmey? Become fishermen and farmers, the life he had fled?
He glanced over at Suntai and saw the same shock on her face. She was gaping at Yorashi, clutching her weapons in shaking fists.
With a grunt, Okado spurred his wolf. He rode toward the boulder and snapped his teeth up at Yorashi. Beneath him, his wolf bared his fangs.
“You will have us become fishermen?” he cried up at his alpha. “You will have us grow mushrooms like farmers? We are the Chanku Pack! We are warriors. We do not fish. We do not farm. We hunt for our meat. We take our food with sword and fang, not net and basket.” He snorted, breath steaming.
Atop the boulder, Yorashi leaned down and glowered. His wolf, the scarred and shaggy beast Felsan, snarled down at Okado and snapped his teeth.
“Hunting is a sport for small packs,” he spat, disgust filling his voice. “You cannot support an army by hunting on the plains, playing games of glory suited for lesser tribes. The stonebeasts you hunt migrate here too rarely.” Yorashi raised his voice to a shout. “I will not lead a mere pack of hunters. I will lead a nation!”
Okado gave his wolf a quick jab of the heels. The beast reared and placed his paws against the boulder, growling up at the alpha.
“You sound like an old, tired elder of Pahmey, not a warrior.” Okado spat. “When is the last time you fought a battle, Yorashi, or joined us on a hunt? When did you last prove your strength? Only the strong may rule the Chanku. I deem you weak.”
Yorashi pointed his sword down at Okado; the blade nearly reached his eye. Okado stared up, daring not look away, flinch, or even blink.
“I speak,” the alpha said, “as a leader of a great nation. Not as a brute leading a simple hunt. Children of Chanku can hunt; men lead. I speak wisdom, not blind fury. I am no angry, rash youth, beta.”
Okado drew his own katana, swung it, and knocked his alpha’s blade aside. Beneath their riders, the two wolves snapped at each other, the alpha wolf upon the boulder, the beta below and ready to climb.
“Wisdom?” said Okado. “You speak as a tired old fool. We are warriors. You want mushrooms and fish instead of fresh red meat? Then we will fight for these prizes.” He turned his head to address the crowd. “We will take them from Pahmey!”
The pack’s eyes gleamed with approval. Okado knew that he had them. These were hard warriors, thirsty for battle and glory. Even the slimmest, youngest woman among them was stronger than any soldier of Pahmey. They wanted war, and Okado knew they would follow him.
Yorashi’s wolf reared and clawed the air. Upon his back, Yorashi swung his blade, slicing the sky. His wolf dropped back to the boulder, his claws striking sparks against the rock.
“Pahmey has high walls!” said Yorashi. “We have no siege engines. Pahmey has thick gates, and we have no battering ram. Pahmey has three warships patrolling the river; we have none.”
Okado barked a laugh. “So you are a coward. You fear the soft elders of Pahmey with their silks and powdered skin. But I am a true warrior. A true warrior does not fear a city fallen into decay. Our wolves can cross the river; they are strong and can swim fast against the current. The city gates?” He snorted. “We will tear through them like steel through leather. I am not afraid, Yorashi. Are you?”
Behind him, Okado heard the others mumble their agreement. Voices rose, calling Okado’s name. But Okado would not turn to face them, not even his mate. He kept his eyes locked on Yorashi, refusing to blink first.
This old man ruled long enough, he thought. His time has ended.
The alpha’s mustache bristled, his eyes blazed, and saliva flew between his teeth. Finally the old fire of youth rekindled in him, and his muscles bulged as he gripped his sword.
“You will not make this decision, boy. You joined this pack as a pup, and I groomed you, and I made you my beta, but you are still only a boy. You will obey me.” He shouted at the warriors who covered the mountaintop. “We will travel sou—”
“We will not!” Okado said. “I will not obey you. Neither will the warriors behind me. South? Fishing? Farming? No. That is not Chanku. That is not the way of the wolf. Pahmey is our birthright! You are right, Yorashi. We are many now. We are too many to live in a crater. We will storm the city walls!” His shouts rolled across the mountain. “We will reclaim our homeland! The elders will die upon our blades. Their hearts will feed our wolves. We will rule the crystal city again, as our forebears did.”
“Our forebears?” Yorashi spat down upon him; the glob hit Okado’s wolf. “You are not one of us, pup. You are the son of a lowborn, filthy fisherman from a distant village. The pure blood of Chanku does not run through your veins. You are nothing. You are dust. Your blood stinks of crayfish.”
The crowd hushed.
Okado stared, silent.
Yorashi smirked.
For years, nobody had dared speak of Okado’s lowborn blood, not since he’d risen to the rank of beta. In the Chanku pack, strength and valor made a man, not blood; the pack welcomed all those who could prove their honor. To spit upon Okado’s blood was the basest insult. It was an insult that meant Yorashi was grasping for his last weapon. It was an insult Okado could not overlook.
He stared at his master and spoke in a low voice, though he knew that all could hear him.
“Yorashi. When I was a boy, running from my village, you took me in. You taught me strength, honor, and valor. You taught me that the world is hard, cold, and dark, that the night is endless and full of danger. You taught me that in the eternal shadow of Eloria, only strength can rule. You’ve treated me well, and for that I have served you, and for that I honor you.” He raised his sword. “So I will live by your lessons—the truth that only strength can rule.” He raised his voice. “Alpha Yorashi, by the ancient rites of our people, I challenge you to prove your strength. I challenge you to a battle of wolves.”
Yorashi stared down at him, and for a moment—just a few heartbeats—all hatred, anger, and bravado left his face. Sadness filled his eyes.
He always knew this time would come, Okado thought. The alpha who lingers too long will always face this fight.
Yorashi himself had made this challenge to the previous alpha, Suntai’s father; he had won that battle and gained his title. Thus for hundreds of years had the alphas of Chanku risen, each ruler slaying the one before him.
Yorashi looked down at Okado and spoke softly. “I’ve taught you well, Okado. But I will show you no mercy.”
Okado raised his blade. “I neither will accept nor give any.”
He tugged the reins and his wolf stepped back. Atop the boulder, Yorashi bellowed, spurred his mount, and leaped down with a swing of his sword.
Okado’s wolf reared, and he swung his own katana. The two wolves slammed together, and the blades clashed with a shower of sparks.
The wolves broke apart, snapping their teeth, then crashed together again. Fangs bit and claws tore at flesh. Atop the beasts, the riders swung their blades again. Steel clashed and rang. All across the mountaintop, the other riders surrounded them, banging swords against shields. Their eyes swam around Okado as he fought, thousands of lights
.
The two wolves, alpha and beta, broke apart again. A groove ran down Refir’s cheek, and blood matted his black fur. Yorashi’s wolf too bled; blood dripped down his brown flanks. The two beasts circled each other, jaws wide and blood dripping.
“Slay the enemy, Refir!” Okado shouted and dug his heels into the wolf.
Refir leaped forward, claws lashing. His teeth sank into his enemy’s shoulder. The brown wolf yowled, and atop his back, Yorashi swung his blade. Okado raised his shield, blocking the blow.
“Your time has ended, old man,” Okado said. The two riders moved closer together, leaning in their saddles, their faces but a foot apart. “Chanku will not cower. We will rise.”
They drew apart and the wolves lunged again.
Beast slammed against beast.
Blood splashed.
“Slay him, Refir!”
Beneath him, his mount—the great, powerful Refir, the second mightiest wolf in the pack—drove his fangs into his alpha’s neck.
The brown wolf mewled.
The aging, scarred beast bucked and howled to the moon, then stumbled back upon his hind legs, almost a comical sight, as if the animal were imitating a drunken man.
Then, with a thud that made the pack gasp, Yorashi fell from his wolf. The old ruler, burly and scarred and huffing, hit the ground.
The crowd of riders whispered. To fall off one’s wolf was the greatest shame for a warrior. Yorashi lay on the ground, eyes wide, hand still clutching his weapon. Bleeding, his wolf fled with his tail between his legs.
Okado brought his wolf to stand above the fallen rider. Refir placed a claw upon Yorashi’s chest, pinning the man down. Yorashi stared up, tightened his lips, and closed his eyes.
“Do it,” he said. “Make it quick. Tear out my throat and feed my heart to your wolf.” Lying on the ground, he nodded. “I will have my blood flow within the veins of the pack.”
Refir growled down at the fallen man, his jaws dripping saliva, his eyes narrowed and red. With a grunt, Okado dismounted the beast. He grabbed Yorashi and tugged him to his feet.
Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels Page 21
