Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (14 page)

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 howled 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.

As he rode closer, lights caught
his eye. Boats were oaring across the river, heading away from the
city toward the southern bank. One boat reached the riverbank before
the others; figures emerged and began to race southward, and their
lanterns extinguished; they disappeared into the shadows. Behind
them, several other boats reached the bank and more figures emerged,
these ones bearing many bright lamps, and their cries rolled across
the land. They spoke the harsh tongue of sunlight. Okado did not need
to understand the words; those were the cries of hunters.

"A few escaped the city,"
he said, riding forth. "A group of Elorians flee the fire. The
Timandrians pursue. You speak truth, Suntai; these are my brothers
and sisters now." He raised shield and sword and roared for his
warriors to hear. "Chanku Pack! Slay the demons!"

Their wolves increased speed,
saliva flying from between their fangs. The warriors brandished their
katanas and their cries rolled across the land, the roars of hardened
men and the yipping battle cries of wild women. They thundered down
the hillside, and Okado stood in the saddle, sword raised high.

The enemy stared up at them, two
hundred soldiers or more. Okado had learned of these sunlit demons,
capturing their scouts and studying their lore. These ones served the
cruel god called Sailith, a deity of flame and light. They wore steel
plates the color of blood, and yellow sunbursts shone upon their
shields. The monks of Sailith were forbidden to bear blades, and so
they wielded flanged maces; if they could not cut flesh, they could
crush it. There were fewer than the Chanku riders, and they rode no
beasts of their own, but they stood their ground. They raised their
lamps and chanted in their tongue.

"Death to Elorians!"
they cried. "For the light!"

Okado spoke no Ardish, but he
had heard those words from the Timandrian scouts he'd captured and
slain.

"You will find," he
said softly, "that the riders of Chanku do not die so easily."
He roared his battle cry as he rode toward him. "We are the
night!"

The wolves raced toward the
enemy; three hundred yards separated the forces, then two, then only
a hundred. Below, the Sailith monks would not retreat; jeering, they
raised contraptions of metal and wood. Okado recognized them.
Crossbows. Machines of the sunlit world. With hundreds of twangs, the
bolts flew toward his forces.

Wolves yelped and fell. Riders
spilled from the saddle and rolled across the plains. Okado waved his
sword.

"For Eloria!"

His riders howled around him.
"For Eloria!"

At his side, Suntai raised her
bow and shot an arrow. A hundred other Chanku arrows sailed through
the night, only to clatter against the Sailith armor. More bolts flew
from below, tearing into riders and wolves.

"For Eloria!" his
warriors cried.

Okado narrowed his eyes, the
world rising and falling around him. "For Oshy. For my father.
For Koyee."

With screams and clashing steel,
he slammed into the enemy.

His wolf leaped, driving his
claws and fangs against the enemy, denting their armor. The
warrior-monks charged into them, their steel thick, their maces
swinging. Okado took one blow to the shield; the pain drove up his
arm and into his shoulder. He slammed his katana down, driving his
enemy's helmet into the skull. A second mace slammed into Refir,
denting the wolf's armor, but the beast's thick fur cushioned the
blow. Rearing, Refir bit and tore off the enemy's visor. Okado
finished the job, driving his sword into flesh.