When Bailey lowered her shield to fire another arrow, the bloodsuns on the docks entered three rowboats. The vessels detached from the docks like leeches off flesh, bloated with red steel. The warrior-monks began rowing, lanterns held high. Ferius stood behind them upon the docks, and his roars rolled across the river.
“Bring them to me alive! They will confess their sins before they burn.”
Cam and Hem were rowing madly at each side of the Water Spider. The vessel tilted toward Hem’s side; the baker-turned-soldier was thrice his friend’s size. Three more oars lined each side, and Elorians manned them. They chanted for their stars as they rowed, pushing the boat on.
Standing at the stern, Bailey kept firing arrows, but her quiver was running low. Upon the docks, more monks came racing from the city, leaped into more boats, and joined the pursuit; two hundred warriors or more now rowed toward them.
Do we die in the water? Torin wondered. He drew his sword.
“If we go down, we go down fighting,” he said.
Koyee came to stand beside him. She too drew her sword; the curved katana seemed slim beside Torin’s wide longsword, but he knew the blade could cut through armor. Koyee nodded, tossed down her beaked mask, and snarled at the approaching enemy.
“We fight side by side, Torin.” She raised her chin, teeth bared. “We die side by side.”
Beside them, Bailey fired her last arrow. The projectile whistled across the water, dived toward a boat full of bloodsuns, and sent a man falling into the water. Her quiver empty, Bailey drew her double-edged longsword.
“You two can die,” she said and spat at the enemy. “I’m going to kill all of these beasts myself then stomp upon their corpses.”
Behind them, Cam raised his voice. “Nobody is dying or killing anyone! We row faster than a deer fleeing a wolf. Hem, damn it, row faster—keep up!”
Sweat dampening their faces, they rowed. The refugees pushed themselves low as more bolts flew above. Torin stood at the stern between Bailey and Koyee, staring as the enemy approached. Even Linee came to stand by them, shivering, and raised a dagger Bailey had given her. A dozen boats now followed, armed monks in each. Ferius, however, remained upon the pier, watching the pursuit.
The coward dares not fight, Torin thought, staring at the distant figure in disgust. He spews bravado but still fears our blades.
“We’ll row to the southern riverbank.” Torin adjusted the rudder. “We’re floating targets in the water.”
Bailey looked at him, eyes wide, her chest rising and falling as she panted. “And we won’t be targets on the land?”
“Easier to hide there.” Torin glanced behind him; the southern bank was still too far to see in the shadows. “The moonlight glows on the water. Hills and valleys roll in the south. We’ll move in shadow. It’s the only chance we have.”
They rowed. The boat moved south, tilting, low in the water. The enemy pursued, a foot or two closer every stroke of the oars. The monks’ lamps burned like demons, painting their faces red, and they shouted.
“We will slay the savages!”
“We will break the traitors!”
“Children of sunlight breed with demons; they will scream in our fire!”
Muttering curses, Torin unstrapped his breastplate and tossed it into the water. “We’re too heavy! Toss off your armor.” He threw his helmet overboard. “What we need now is speed; steel can no longer help us.”
Bailey stared at him, eyebrows raised, lips curling in dismay. Finally she groaned, reached behind her back, and unstrapped her own breastplate. She sent pieces of armor flying overboard, remaining in a woolen tunic. She raised her shield just in time to block two more crossbow quarrels. Behind her, Koyee shrugged off the Sisterhood’s clunky suit of leather and iron, remaining in a silk tunic; she tossed the heavy outfit overboard.
It seemed ages that they rowed across the river. The Sailith boats oared closer and closer; soon they were close enough that Torin could see the white in his enemies’ eyes. One Sailith boat—the first to have left the docks—cut through the water, closing the gap. They oared only ten feet away, then nine, then eight …
“Row faster!” Torin shouted.
Cam and Hem shouted back. “We are!”
The enemy boat moved closer; eight bloodsuns lined its sides, rowing like machines. Ten more stood upon the decks, maces raised. With another swipe of their oars, the Sailith boat rammed into the Water Spider.
The two vessels jerked and Torin swayed, nearly falling. Bloodsuns leaped onto the Water Spider, their lamplight reflecting against their red armor, their maces swinging.
Shouting, Torin raised his shield. A mace slammed into it, showering splinters. Torin thrust his sword, hitting the monk’s breastplate. Sparks flew. The mace swung again, and Torin ducked, barely dodging the blow. He leaped forward, shield held before him, and slammed into the enemy. The bloodsun teetered, crashed into the water, and sank.
More monks fought around him, shouting and waving maces, clambering to climb aboard. The Elorian refugees, unarmed and clad in only silk, screamed; most cowered, but three began to slam their oars against the enemy.
“Don’t fight—keep rowing!” Torin shouted; more Sailith boats were still driving toward them.
At his sides, Bailey and Koyee fought too, swinging their swords. Even Linee lashed her dagger, squealing in fright. Two more bloodsuns fell into the water. A third leaped at Torin, who sidestepped; the man crashed into the Water Spider, and Elorians leaped upon him, kicking and punching, tearing the man’s helmet off and pounding his head against the bulwark.
Torin stared through sweat that dripped down his face. A dozen monks still stood upon the boat ramming them; they could not defeat them all. Holding his shield before him and cursing with every foul word he knew, he knelt, grabbed the rudder, and tugged. The Water Spider turned. Several of the refugees swayed and fell. Torin tugged the rudder again, pressing the Water Spider’s starboard bow against the enemy’s port side. Several bloodsuns rowers sat there, staring down at him. Catching a crossbow dart on his shield, Torin lashed his sword.
His blade sang and crashed into the enemy’s oars. Wood shattered. An oar splintered and fell into the water. Koyee leaped up beside him, grinning savagely, and swung her katana, shattering more enemy oars.
“Keep rowing, boys!” Torin shouted, grabbed the rudder, and directed them south again. The Water Spider kept moving toward the dark riverbank, leaving the crippled enemy boat behind. Only one bloodsun remained upon their deck; Bailey drove her sword into his neck, sending him into the water with a spray of blood.
They kept rowing. The Water Spider drove through the river. The remaining enemy boats—each one laden with monks—kept pursuing.
When the Water Spider finally slammed against the southern riverbank, Torin exhaled shakily with relief, only for new fear to flood him. They had survived the water; how long would they last upon the plains?
“Out of the boat!” he cried, leaped onto the riverbank, and began helping refugees descend. “Follow—into the darkness.”
Linee stood at his side, shivering but helping children and elders out of the boat. One young child leaped onto her back and clung. Torin helped a few others descend onto the bank, lifted an elderly woman, and held her in his arms. When everyone was off the boat, the strong holding the weak, Torin began to run.
“Follow!” he shouted. “Into shadow.”
He ran, heart thrashing, teeth grinding, the old woman in his arms. His companions ran at his sides, leaving the water and racing up a rocky hill. The stars shone above. When Torin looked over his shoulder, he saw the enemy boats reach the riverbank. The monks began to emerge; two hundred or more pursued, each armed and howling for blood.
Torin returned his eyes forward, cursed, and ran as fear flowed through him like poison.
CHAPTER TEN
THE FISHERMAN’S CHILDREN
He lay with Suntai under the stars, kissed her lips, and stroked her naked body. Lying on
her back, she gazed up at him, eyes half-lidded, and smiled lazily.
“My stars in the night,” she whispered, caressing his strands of white hair. “My alpha. My mate. My lantern in the dark.”
Her hair flowed around her head, covering the black fur rug like strands of starlight, silvery and gleaming. Her eyes, large and indigo, reflected the true stars above. Okado touched the tattoos of lightning upon her high, pale cheeks, the marks of a warrior.
“And you are my fish,” he said.
She gasped at him, eyebrows rising and eyes widening. She slapped his chest.
“How dare you call Suntai of Chanku, an alpha warrior, a fish.” She wrinkled her nose.
He laughed softly, which was rare for him; as ruler of his pack, he could not show weakness around his followers, and joy, humor, and love were weaknesses to most warriors. Yet Okado found that with Suntai, they gave him strength.
“A fish is a noble animal,” he said. “I rule a mighty pack of wolves, but once I dwelled in a village, and fish were life to us. Fish were light in the dark, the glow of their stalks filling our jars. Fish were oil to warm our fires. Fish were meat to fill our bellies. Fish were—”
Suntai grabbed his cheeks and snarled at him. “I am a she-wolf. I will prove this to you.”
Smiling crookedly, she released his cheeks and kissed his lips. She tasted of wine and of her passion for him. He wrapped his arms around her, sharing her fur blanket, and caressed her body, raising goose bumps across her. She gasped, closed her eyes, and they kissed, a deep kiss like wells and endless sky. The rest of the camp lay around them, but Okado cared not, for there was no shame, nothing hidden among the wolfriders of Chanku. And so he loved her here, moving atop her, kissing her lips and neck, his hands in her hair. She scratched her fingers down his back as he loved her, and she bit his shoulder, and she cried to the night, and she did as she had vowed. She proved that she was as a wolf, wild and strong and his to ride, a being of flame and strength and ferocity. She was Suntai, his mate, and she was the spirit of the hunt, the glory of battle, the light and shadow of the night sky.
When their love was spent, he lay with her in his arms and stroked her hair.
“My mate,” she whispered, and suddenly tears gleamed in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I pray that this time your child fills my belly.”
“Suntai!” Okado shook his head and touched her hair. “Never apologize for that.”
She lowered her eyes and clung to him. Her voice was soft. “Three years ago you chose me as a mate, and still I’ve given you no children. My womb is barren. I’ve failed you, my light in the dark, and I’m ashamed. You are our leader and I give you no heir.” She placed a hand on her belly, then looked back at him and touched his cheek. “Perhaps you should seek another mate.”
He gripped her arm. “You fought with me against the sunlit demons. You shed blood by my side, and you loved me under the light of our ancestors in the stars. Never feel ashamed, Suntai, and never feel sorry. Every turn I’m proud that you are mine. I want no other mate. We will forever ride together.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. “Always I will fight at your side.”
Even upon the fur rug, his warm mate in his arms, Okado felt a chill. The sunlit demons. It had been six moons since they had fought the enemy upon the plains. Still the battle haunted him. He had fought bravely, leading his pack to slay many of the creatures. Yet he had not won the war. He had returned into shadow, five thousand of his brothers and sisters slain. And still the fiery threat lurked north of the river, a demon army bloating and festering like a tumor, ruling his ancestral home of Pahmey.
They say the demons burned Oshy, he thought and grimaced. The home of my father. Of my sister.
His throat burned. So many times he had wanted to raise the remains of his army, five thousand wolfriders, hardened and true. He wanted to charge at the horde of Timandrians, a hundred thousand devils or more, to die in their flame, to reclaim his honor and slay many, to avenge his home even as he perished in the fire. Yet always he remained here in this crater, their home in the shadows. He remained to defend his people, to keep them safe—mothers, elders, children, a mate. And still that distant war called to him. Still that sunfire burned in his belly.
“Okado?” Suntai nestled against him and ran her long, pale fingers across his cheek. “You are troubled.”
Okado tilted his head and looked across the crater. Thousands slept around him, wrapped in furs. Some lay within tents of leather, fur, and bone; others lay under the stars. Their nightwolves slept around them, beasts as large and fast as those sunlit creatures the Timandrians called horses. The nightwolves too were part of the clan; they were his siblings as much as their riders. Chests rose and fell in sleep. No eyes peered. Okado closed his own eyes.
“I can still smell the fire, Suntai,” he said. “I can still smell the torches of the Timandrians, of the Naya clan that slew so many. I can still smell the blood. I can still see the red smoke that hid the stars.”
He opened his eyes and stared upward, and there he saw it again. A crimson glow in the sky, painting the moon red, swirling around the stars like blood around stones.
“I see it too,” Suntai whispered. “I see the smoke and I smell the fire.” She frowned, propped herself up on her elbows, and sniffed. “Okado! Okado, my mate. I smell fire not in memory; flames burn.” She sniffed again, eyes narrowed, and cocked her head. “Great fire and pain in the north.”
Okado stiffened and sniffed too. Suntai spoke truth; this was no memory. He rose to his feet, stared toward the north, and a growl rose in his throat. Blood. Fire. A distant chant that rolled across the plains.
“The sunlit demons,” he muttered, reached down, and gripped his katana. He slung the sword across his bare back. “Timandra boils over. Suntai, ride with me.”
He tugged on a pair of breeches, walked across bare stone, and knelt by his wolf. Refir slept, curled up into a hillock of black fur, his breath frosting. Okado placed a hand upon the beast’s head. Two yellow eyes opened, crescent and glowing, and the nightwolf’s nose twitched. Refir rose so quickly he nearly knocked Okado down. His tongue lolled and his lip peeled back, revealing fangs like daggers. The nightwolf sensed the danger too. Okado climbed onto him.
At his side, Suntai mounted her own nightwolf, a white female named Misama. Her wolf was mated to his—one alpha couple to lead beasts, another to lead riders. Together they rode through the camp, leaping over the sleeping pack members. When Okado looked at Suntai, he no longer saw a lover but a fierce warrior, her lips locked in a snarl, her body clad in fur, her white hair streaming and her katana raised. Riding beside him, she seemed as feral as her wolf.
They reached the edge of their camp, rode out of the crater, and raced across the plains to crest a northern hill. Several of their camp guards stood here, sitting astride their wolves, gazing into the north. When Okado reached them, he halted his mount and stared with narrowed eyes.
“Sorcery,” muttered one of the guards.
Okado spat. “Sunfire burns in Pahmey.”
He could not see the city from here, but orange and red now glowed beyond that horizon, a bloodied scar. When Okado sniffed, he could smell it. The stench of death.
“The city burns,” he said, turning toward Suntai. “We summon the Red Fang clan. We ride.”
She met his gaze, eyes burning, then tossed back her head and howled to the sky. “We ride!” She turned her wolf around, looking back toward the camp. “Red Fang Riders! Arise! Grab armor and blade. We ride north!”
They mustered in the darkness, the Red Fang Riders, five hundred of the pack’s finest warriors, their wolves bearing the blood of alphas. Refir and Misama themselves had sired many among them. Here were the fastest, strongest nightwolves in the pack, and their riders were strong and brave. Scale armor they wore, and their helms were shaped as wolf heads, the teeth painted red. Each rider bore a katana, its hilt wrapped in fur, and a round shield fringed with fangs. They ho
wled to the sky, men and women of Chanku, the finest warriors in the empire of Qaelin, perhaps in all of Eloria.
Omegas rushed forth, lowly men and women with only weak wolves to ride, and handed Okado his armor. He donned his shirt of scales and hefted his shield. At his side, Suntai slammed her sword against her armored chest, shouting for glory and blood and triumph.
Okado spurred his wolf, and the animal reared and clawed the air.
“Chanku Pack!” Okado cried. “Fire burns in the north. The sunlit demons brew their curses. Raise your swords. We are the night!”
Five hundred blades rose, silver shards like a forest of lightning. Their voices rolled across the land. “We are the night!”
Okado leaned forward and rode across the rocky plains. Behind him, with clattering steel, his warriors followed.
They rode across the shadows of their banishment, the lifeless lands south of the Inaro. They chanted for their gods as they rode beneath Wolfjaw Mountain, its halved peak silently howling at the sky. They rode until the towers of Pahmey rose ahead, needles of crystal glass. When Okado had gazed upon Pahmey before, this city where the Chanku nobles had once ruled, he had seen a nexus of light and life in the dark.
Before him now he saw an inferno.
Crimson smoke unfurled from the city. Distant chants rolled across the distance. The smoke filled his nostrils, scented of seared flesh. Screams echoed. Before his eyes, one of the towers—a distant blade from here—shattered and crashed down, a broken bone.
“They’re destroying the city,” Suntai said, riding at his side. She raised her katana high. “The sunlit demons slay our brothers and sisters.”
Okado growled. Brothers and sisters? The elders of Pahmey had banished the Chanku riders. The decadent masters, sitting idly in their towers, had doomed the Chanku to cold and darkness and exile.
The smell of blood and smoke swirled through him, and Okado closed his eyes, remembering his battle against the sunlit Naya tribe. His body still bore the scars. His mind still harbored the memories. His heart still grieved for his fallen riders. Those creatures of sunlit lands, of the fiery half of this world men called Moth, now slew more dwellers of the night. The people of Pahmey were strangers to him, but they were still children of this Qaelish Empire, speaking his tongue, sharing his blood. They were still children of darkness. Suntai was right. All Elorians were now his brothers and sisters.
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