Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (18 page)

She looked up from her blade,
peered between the wolves and riders, and saw him there. Torin. A
growl rose in her throat.

"I gave up everything for
you," she whispered. "I left my village. I left my people.
I travel the darkness of night. And you only stand there with her."

She stood beside him, the little
Elorian woman with the scarred face. Koyee. Bailey remembered seeing
her kiss him upon the hospice stairs, not a kiss of friendship like
the ones Bailey used to plant on Torin's cheek, but a deep kiss of
passion and love.

Why
do I care?
Bailey forced herself to snort derisively, though she felt like
crying. Torin was only . . . only a babyface! He was the frightened
little orphan she had welcomed into her home. He was the slow, meek
child she could always beat at climbing, swimming, and wrestling. She
had come here to protect him, not . . . not love him.

And yet, looking at him now, she
no longer saw that boy. She saw a young man in armor—no longer the
steel plates of Timandra, but the scaled armor of Eloria, red in the
light of fires. He had changed. He had grown from boy to man to
warrior of the night, and Bailey no longer knew her friend.

"But I still love you,"
she whispered. "I love you always with all my heart. And yet
you've chosen Koyee. It was her you kissed upon the stairs. It's her
you stand with now. I fought for you, but you fight for Koyee."

He finally noticed Bailey
staring, turned toward her, and smiled. He came walking her way
across the camp, leaving Koyee behind to stuff her pack full of
supplies. Bailey forced herself to smile back, even to wave. She
would not show him the anger in her heart. She would not confess to
that winky-eyed boy that he could pain her so.

When he reached her, Bailey rose
and sheathed her sword. She looked across the camp. Most of the tents
had been folded up and packed upon the wolves. The first riders were
already climbing out of the crater, their belongings stuffed into
saddlebags and sacks. She spotted Suntai a hundred yards away; the
alpha female stood upon the northern rim of the crater, the starlight
behind her, speaking animatedly to Cam and Linee.

"We're almost ready to
leave," Bailey said, adjusting the helmet the riders had given
her, it steel shaped as a silver wolf. "How will you get your
boat to the river?"

Torin stared from within his own
helm; his visor was raised, letting the steel wolf's teeth rest upon
his forehead like bangs. "The pack has large, flat wagons; they
use them for hauling back stonebeasts, animals they hunt. A few
riders will help us wheel the boat to the river—it lies not
far—then return to the pack." He touched her arm. "Bailey,
come with us. With Koyee and me. We could use your sword."

His words cut her. She couldn't
help but wince.

He needed her sword. That was
all he cared for, it seemed. Her protection. All her life, she had
been protecting him, sheltering him, watching over him as he grew
into a man. And now he only wanted more.

He
does not want my friendship, my kisses, my love for him. He has Koyee
now, a petite, pretty thing to kiss under the stars, and he thinks
I'm only a gangly warrior. Would he have me guard them with my sword,
standing upon the prow of the boat as they make love behind me?

A small part of Bailey—a little
voice deep inside—cried out that she was being petty, jealous, a
foolish girl. All her life, Bailey had derided the other girls in
Fairwool-by-Night, thinking them silly, cow-eyed things who fawned
over farm boys. This small voice cried out that she was behaving just
like them, but Bailey could barely hear these cries. Too much rage
pounded in her ears, drowning the warning.

She raised her chin and fixed
him with her best stare. "Okado already asked me to accompany
him eastward," she lied. "I'll be joining him on our
journey to Yintao." She looked across the camp, saw the alpha
male by a group of other riders, and sighed theatrically. "Damn,
the man is handsome. That is what a warrior looks like, Torin. It's a
shame you can't join us—he probably could have taught you a few
things—but I suppose Koyee needs to parade somebody before the
Ilari."

She looked back at Torin, chin
firmly raised, and enjoyed seeing the pain in his eyes. She had hurt
him. Good. She wished she could hurt him a thousand times more.

Like
you hurt me when you kissed her upon the stairs,
she thought.

His eyes narrowed and he shifted
uncomfortably. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I am. I'm always
sure of what I do. You'll be fine without me. And you have Koyee's
sword to protect you."

He lowered his eyes, then looked
back up at her. He embraced her awkwardly. "I'll miss you,
Bails. I've never been apart from you for more than an hourglass turn
or two. Now I won't see you for moons." He looked into her eyes.
"I've never told you this, but . . . damn it, I love you, you
lumbering beast. Be careful out there."

Damn
you, Torin. Damn you, you winky-eyed, babyfaced, weakling little boy!
He could always do this to her. Tears filled her eyes, and she
crushed him in her arms.

"Hug me properly, you silly
boy!" she said. "Go on, squeeze a little, damn you."
She laughed through her tears, touched his cheek, and kissed his
nose. "I love you too, you pink-cheeked gardener."

Before she could stop
herself—by Idar, she never even meant to do it!—she kissed him full
on the lips. She could tell he was shocked; his body stiffened, but
she kept him wrapped in her arms, pressing herself against him. She
kissed him deeply, her tongue seeking his, all her body going into
the kiss. It was a kiss to knock his boots right off.

When she was done, she pinched
his cheek and smiled crookedly. "Something for you to remember
me by."

She looked over his shoulder and
saw Koyee watching them. Bailey smiled at the Elorian woman and gave
her a quick, cruel wink.

And
something for you to remember, Koyee.

The Elorian woman stared back,
and Bailey's smile grew, a mirthless grin like that of a nightwolf.

She turned, leaving Torin, and
walked among wolves and riders until she reached Okado. Bailey had
always been the tallest among her group of friends, even the boys,
and yet Okado stood taller, his shoulders wide and his arms strong.
She smiled at him, placed a hand on his chest, and nodded.

"Let's travel east. Find me
a nightwolf, Okado, and I'll ride at your side."

Hemstad Baker was walking through
the wolfriders' camp, carrying a sack of furs, when he saw the
bullied girl.

They had not been in this crater
long, and Hem was eager to leave. Wherever he walked here, he drew
stares, laughter, and scornful words. Elorian riders paused as he
walked by, gazing at him in wonder, eyebrows rising. Hem ignored
them, muttering to himself and feeling his cheeks flush. It wasn't
like this was any different than back with his own people. There too
soldiers stared and mocked him, reaching out to pat his ample belly
for luck, pinch his pink cheeks, or simply laugh at his girth.
Standing as close to seven feet as to six, weighing more than any
scale could measure, Hem stood out wherever he went, and the Chanku
Pack was no exception.

"A stonebeast walks among
us!" shouted one wolfrider, perhaps not knowing that Hem had
spent the past six months studying their tongue and could understand
every word.

"If he falls, he'll create
another crater!" cried another rider, a tall and beautiful woman
with braided white hair and twin katanas in her hands.

Cheeks hot, Hem walked on,
moving past the gawkers, seeking Cam, Linee, and Suntai whom he'd be
joining. He could not wait to leave. The journey along the Iron Road,
heading toward the northern coast and the empire of Leen, would be
long and quiet and dark. For most of the way, Suntai had warned, it
would be only them. That suited Hem fine. Cam bullied him sometimes,
but Hem was used to those taunts, and as for Suntai and Linee, well .
. . they were only two people and neither seemed hostile. Hem thought
that he could survive the trip. It would be a respite after the past
year, a year spent among soldiers—first Timandrians, then
Elorians—who saw him as nothing but a beast.

But
I'm not a beast,
he thought, eyes stinging.
I'm
a good baker. And I'm a good singer. And I know a lot about animals,
especially dogs.
He rubbed his eyes, cursing them for burning.
But
I hate people sometimes, especially bullies.

Perhaps that was why he noticed
the young woman while others walked by, ignoring her.

"Please," the little
thing said, her large Elorian eyes entreating her tormentors.
"Please, tell me what to do."

She seemed a year or two younger
than Hem's own eighteen winters. As much as Hem was tall and
corpulent, she was short and slim, a wisp of a thing. She wore only a
tattered fur tunic, not armor like the other riders. No helm topped
her head, and her hair—brilliant white like snow—cascaded in a mess
of tangles. Her damp, blue-gray eyes peered between the pale strands.

The other riders, however,
seemed not to share his sentiment. One—a tall, muscular woman in
armor—kicked a pot across the ground.

"Fetch it, omega!" the
woman shouted, then laughed as the girl scuttled toward the pot.

Before the girl could reach it,
an Elorian man—a tall rider with a wolf's head helm—kicked the pot
again, sending it clattering away.

"We told you to pack our
things, omega," the man said. "Fetch that pot before we
lash you."

The young woman kept scurrying
to and fro, moving on bare feet, trying to grab the pot. Twenty other
pots and pans clattered across her back like armor. Whenever she
approached the last pot, another rider kicked it, sending her
scurrying again.

"Fetch, girl!" said
one rider, this one a smirking woman with claws tattooed onto the
shaved sides of her head. She kicked, catching the omega girl in the
stomach. The young woman whelped and doubled over. All the pots and
pans she carried on her back came loose, scattering across the ground
in a clanking chorus. The riders surrounding her roared with
laughter.

"Fetch them, omega, pack
our things!" one man said, stepped forth, and prepared to
deliver another kick.

Hem had seen enough.

Though fear almost froze his
head, he leaped forward, placed himself before the girl, and took the
kick into his own belly. He gasped, unable to breathe, but managed to
growl and stare at the Elorian rider.

"Leave . . . her . . .
alone!" he said through a stiff throat.

The girl's tormenters—there
were five or six of them—stared with wide eyes.

"By the stars, a whale!"
said the tall, tattooed woman. She burst out laughing. Her friends
joined her, poking Hem and muttering in wonder.

Grumbling, Hem ignored them. He
turned around and knelt by the young omega. She was on her knees,
clutching her belly with one hand, reaching for the scattered pots
with the other.

"Are you all right?"
he asked, speaking Qaelish, a tongue he'd mastered faster and easier
than his friends.

She blinked and nodded, not
meeting his gaze. "I cannot speak," she whispered. "I
am omega. I cannot speak to you. I must pack their things. Leave me."

He reached for a pan, ignoring
the laughter around him, and handed it to her. "Let me help
you."

She shivered and shook her head.
"Please. They'll hurt me. I'm their omega and must serve them
alone." She looked up at him, eyes welling with tears. "Please.
You cannot help or they'll hurt me when you leave."

Hem gasped. When the young
woman's hair fell back, it revealed a bruise across her cheek.

Hem was a gentle man, but now
rage flooded him. He balled his fists. "I cannot let them hurt
you!"

She sniffed, lowered her head to
let her hair cover her face, and reached for another pan. "Then
go now. Please. An omega cannot have friends or they will strike me
again."

Reluctantly, Hem rose to his
feet and kept walking. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw the
riders laughing again, pointing at both him and the omega. He tried
to meet her eyes again, but her hair covered her face, and she
wouldn't look his way.

As he walked away, confusion
tugged at Hem. Bailey was always talking about how the Elorians were
noble folk, that Timandrians were cruel occupiers, that night was
good and daylight evil. Suddenly Hem wasn't so sure. If that were
true, why would these Elorians bully a woman? And why would Hem—a
child of Dayside, the cruel half of Moth—try to protect her? Maybe
the world was more complex than what Bailey believed. Hem didn't
know. He had always simply followed Bailey around—sometimes out of
loyalty, usually because she was tugging his ear. Yet now she was
heading east without him, and Hem felt lost and afraid.

"Hem!" rose a voice
from across the camp. "Damn it, Hem, there you are. Come on, you
lumpy loaf of bread!"

Blinking his stinging eyes, Hem
turned and saw Cam standing on the edge of the crater. The slim
shepherd was gesturing for him to come closer. Hem nodded, hitched at
his belt, and hurried forward. His armor clanked and his helmet
wobbled, but he managed to avoid any other hostile encounters until
he reached the crater's edge. He climbed and stood upon the brim
beside his friend.

"What were you doing down
there, you great pillock?" Cam said, staring up from his meager
height. "Don't you know we're heading north?" His voice
dropped. "Suntai is getting angry and antsy to leave. Damn . . .
that woman is scary when she's angry."

Wincing, the shepherd looked
over his shoulder and shuddered. Hem followed his friend's gaze and
felt his own spine tingle.