Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (24 page)

His stallion
reared, kicking the air. Ferius wheeled the horse around, grabbed the
lantern that hung from his saddle, and raised the light. Ahead in the
east, the road stretched through the darkness. Ferius spurred his
mount, and the courser burst into a gallop. The wind shrieked. Ferius
leaned forward in the saddle, racing into the shadows.

"You wait
there too, Koyee." He licked his chops, imagining the taste of
her blood. "My half-sister. You will be the only one left alive,
my little savage. You will be the one to suffer most."

Behind him, his
army chanted and shouted for victory. Hooves thudded. Elephants
trumpeted and tigers roared. Horns blew and drums beat and endless
voices rose in song.

"Death to
Elorians!" they sang. "Sunlight rises!"

Like the fabled
dawn of old, the hosts of sunlight spread across the darkness.

 
 
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
SAGE'S ROAD

"Hem! Damn it,
Hem, keep up." Riding ahead upon a silver nightwolf, Bailey
gestured to him. "You're lagging behind."

Hem whimpered and
dug his heels into his own wolf, but the poor beast only lumbered on
slowly. He was now among the last stragglers of the pack. Twenty
thousand men, women, and children rode ahead upon their nightwolves,
heading east along the road toward the distant capital. Here at the
back lingered the omegas—the elderly, the lame, and him. With a
grumble, he goaded his poor mount again.

"Come on, boy.
A little faster."

The wolf—a shaggy
old thing called Zan—mewled.

"It's not my
fault!" Hem cried out to Bailey. "They gave me the slowest
wolf."

Riding
several yards ahead, Bailey looked over her shoulder at him and
rolled her eyes. "Your wolf is just as good as mine. I could
have ridden at the vanguard if I wasn't always hanging behind here to
wait for you. Come
on
!"

Hem gulped. It
wasn't fair! Bailey's wolf was slim, silvery, and young, a noble
female named Ayka, her fur bright and her eyes like molten gold. Poor
Zan, meanwhile, was grizzled, scarred, and missing a fang. Not only
did Bailey have a proper wolf, she looked a proper rider too. The
pack had dressed her like one of their own. She now wore armor of
scales over a white silken tunic. A wolf's helm topped her head, its
visor lined with steel teeth. She still bore her old sword, the
doubled-edged blade of a Timandrian, but otherwise she looked to Hem
like any of the Elorian riders ahead.

Hem himself wore
his old woolen tunic, the same one he'd left Fairwool-by-Night with.
The pack had no other riders his size; no armor would fit him. It was
bad enough being larger than everyone else and riding the worst wolf;
without proper attire, he stood out like a frog in a bowl of bread
rolls.

"Bailey,
please," he said. "Can we switch wolves?"

She groaned. "Hem!
I swear. If you don't hurry up, I will clobber you to bits. The
Timandrian army chases us, and if you can't keep up with everyone
else, maybe you should just go join the Sailith monks. You won't have
to ride any wolves then."

Hem lowered his
gaze, blinking furiously. "It's not fair," he whispered,
but his voice was too soft for anyone to hear.

Being here with
Bailey was awful. Just awful. They had been traveling along Sage's
Road for an entire month now—perhaps the worst month of his
life—and they were barely halfway to the capital. The Elorian riders
only gaped at or ignored him. Only Bailey talked to him, and when she
did, her words were scornful.

I
miss home,
Hem thought, eyes stinging and nose sniffling.
I
miss Cam and Torin. When Bailey would yell at all of us together, it
wasn't so bad. But now it's only me here to soak up her anger.

"That's
it
,
Hem!" Bailey said, face twisted in disgust. "You're just
sniffling like a pup. Man up! I'm riding ahead to be near Okado.
Catch up when you learn how to ride."

Shaking her head
sadly, she spurred her wolf. The silver beast burst into a run,
racing between thousands of other nightwolves and disappearing into
the crowd.

"Fine, go to
your Okado!" Hem shouted after her. "Forget your friend,
why don't you? I've only known you all my life."

At least, he had
meant to shout those words. In actuality, they came out barely a
whisper; he doubted even his wolf heard him.

Hem sighed, reached
down from the saddle, and patted the animal's fluffy flank. "At
least you're still my friend."

The wolf twisted
his head around and licked Hem's fingers. It warmed Hem's heart until
he noticed that the movement caused the wolf to walk in circles.

"No, boy, no!
Forward." Hem pointed ahead at the pack, which was moving
farther away. "Go!"

As the poor beast
resumed trudging forward, Hem gazed around him at Sage's Road. The
highway stretched eastward across the Qaelish Empire; the riders
called it the longest road in all Eloria. Most of the way was
unpaved—here the road was nothing but milestones spread across dark,
lifeless plains. Some hourglass turns, the road was smooth and flat,
coiling around hills and through rocky fields. They had passed
several villages along those stretches, humble communities built
around wells and caves. Most of the time they simply traveled through
hilly darkness, and there was nothing for Hem to see but the stars.

Snorts rose behind
him.

Hem turned and
sucked in his breath.

Another scout was
returning from the west. This Elorian wore no armor; he rode
bare-chested and barebacked for speed. His wolf panted, eyes narrowed
as his paws raced across the plains. With a gust that fluttered Hem's
hair, the wolf raced by him and toward the vanguard of the pack.

Hem gulped. He
hated when scouts returned from the west. Every time they did, they
spoke dire news. The last rider had reported a huge host—hundreds of
thousands strong—heading east along the road behind them. They bore
the raven flags of Arden, but many other sigils too. Burly men
astride bears rode there, dark wizards who could snap bones from
afar, and armies bearing the sigils of strange animals the Elorians
did not recognize.

"All the
kingdoms of Timandra are marching behind us," Hem said and
shuddered. "How can we stop them?"

He wished they were
in Yintao already. The riders said that Yintao, capital of Qaelin,
had high walls and many soldiers. Perhaps Hem would feel safer there.
He wouldn't have to ride his wolf any longer. And maybe even Bailey,
secure behind the walls, would calm down and treat him kindly. The
road to Yintao still stretched for many miles—it would take another
month to reach that city—and Hem wondered if he'd die of fright and
loneliness by then.

His joints were
aching and his belly rumbling when horns blared, calling to set camp.
Hem breathed out a shaky breath of relief. Riding was painful, and it
was often a whole hourglass turn between their times of rest. The
riders ahead halted, dismounted, and began to unpack their supplies.
Tents rose and men lit braziers. Soon the smells of roasting meats
and mushrooms filled the camp. Riders sat down with their families to
eat, pray, and sleep.

Hem found a flat
boulder for himself. He dismounted his wolf and sat down with a
groan. He wanted to find Bailey and share a meal with her but decided
against it. These past few turns, it seemed Bailey only wanted to
spend time with Okado; the two could talk for hours about wars and
battles and other things that scared Hem. Right now he preferred
being alone. Being lonely wasn't much fun, but it was better than
sitting next to Bailey and Okado and feeling ignored.

He looked around
him. Thousands of Elorians spread across the field, talking with
their families and friends, eating from the cooking meat. Some were
warriors of the pack, clad in steel, weapons across their backs.
Others were children, nursing mothers, and elders; they wore only
furs and leathers. Hem felt too shy to approach any of the campfires;
whenever he had tried to join a group, he ended up stammering and
forgetting most of the Qaelish he'd learned. Instead, he reached into
his pack and rummaged around for his own food.

He produced salted
sausages, a wheel of cheese, a few limes, a pack of crackers, and a
jar of figs—Timandrian goods that ships would regularly bring into
Pahmey before the monks had destroyed the city. Hem didn't have much
of the stuff left, and once it was gone, it would be Elorian food or
starving. He was determined to enjoy his last few meals of home. He
was biting into his first fig when he saw her, lost his breath, and
nearly choked.

"It's her,"
he whispered, juice dripping down his chin.

He had seen the
omega girl—the reason he had joined this exodus in the first
place—only twice since leaving the crater, always at a distance. He
had almost approached both times, but had felt too shy. Now she was
bustling about only a few yards away, carrying a pile of bowls and
mugs. As always, her snowy hair lay in tangles across her face, and
holes filled her fur tunic.

And as before, her
fellow riders—the same old group—were tormenting her.

"Here, omega!"
called one, the tall woman from before. "Come here, dog. Serve
me my meal."

As the girl rushed
toward the woman, a man from behind cried out, "How dare you
serve her first? You know I outrank her. Come, omega! Come here
before I lash you."

The poor girl
rushed from rider to rider, not knowing who to serve first. Drops of
stew flew from the bowls she carried, only enraging her tormentors
further. One woman rose to her feet, drew her sword, and lashed the
poor girl across the legs with the back of her blade.

Hem had seen
enough. An enraged cry left his throat with bits of half-chewed fig,
sounding like something between a growl and a yelp. He rose to his
feet, leaving his meal upon the boulder, and rushed toward the omega.

"Leave her
alone!" he said, turning from one rider to another. "She's
not your slave. Come get your food if you like, but don't force her
to race around like . . . like . . ."

He gulped. In his
initial burst of rage, courage had come easily enough. Now, with all
eyes upon him, Hem felt his fear rise. The words would no longer
come. A hundred riders or more stared at him—the five or six
tormentors and many riders behind them. They were all silent, staring
incredulously.

At his side, the
omega—hair still hiding her face—gave a squeak. She rushed from
rider to rider, quickly setting down her bowls of stew. The riders
were too busy gaping at Hem to torment her. With another squeak, the
young woman raced away into the shadows.

Hem bit his lip,
wiped sweat off his brow, and hurried back toward his boulder. He
quickly snatched his food, stuffed it back into his pack, and
lolloped after the omega. Soon she disappeared into the crowd. Hem
wanted to call her name but didn't know it. Many riders crowded
around him, and most Elorians—with their pale skin, large eyes, and
white hair—looked the same to him.

"Omega!"
he called out, wishing he knew her true name, feeling rather silly as
soon as the word left his mouth.

Finally he caught a
glimpse of her ahead. With a flutter of hair and fur, she disappeared
behind a few tall boulders.

Sweat on his brow,
his heart pounding, Hem lumbered after her. He was panting when he
made it around the boulders, and as his pack bounced upon his back,
he was sure he'd smashed every cracker inside.

He saw the omega
there. She stood beside a short, frail nightwolf that looked in even
worse condition than Hem's; it seemed to badly need a good meal. The
young woman was hugging the animal and whispering into its ear.

"I . . ."
Hem panted and wiped his brow. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to
scare you off."

The young woman
looked at him, her hair falling back from her face. For the first
time, Hem got a good look at her.

He lost his breath.

She was beautiful.

Maybe not beautiful
like Bailey, who had full lips and golden hair, and not beautiful
like Suntai, who had those wise indigo eyes and high cheekbones. This
young woman looked mousy; her nose was thin and upturned, her mouth
was very small, and her eyes were close-set and blinked too much. But
Hem thought her beautiful nonetheless, a special kind of beauty he
suspected others wouldn't appreciate, but a beauty that pierced his
heart and sent it galloping.

"You're not
scary," the young woman said, her voice barely more than a
whisper. "The others are. But you're not. At least, not that I
can tell. My eyesight isn't very good, but you seem friendly."

Hem couldn't help
but smile—a smile he suspected looked too big and goofy. He took
another step toward her.

"I'm Hemstad
Baker. Most people just call me Hem. What's your name?"

She blinked several
times as if trying to bring him into focus. "My name is Kira.
And this is my wolf, Yuan. She is very old and her eyesight is bad
too." Kira kissed the wolf. "We're both omegas—me among
the riders, she among the nightwolves. She's my only friend."

Hem thought he knew
something about having few friends. "Well, maybe I can be your
friend." He reached into his pack and pulled out the crackers;
they had indeed crumbled. "Would you like something to eat? Yuan
can have some too. I also have figs and other food from Timandra."

Kira gasped and
took a step back. "You . . . you are from Timandra?" She
began to shiver.

Hem reached out to
her. "Don't be scared! Don't run again. Please. I thought . . .
I thought you saw. I mean, my hair is dark and my skin isn't pale. I
look nothing like an Elorian. I— oh, your eyesight. I'm sorry. I
didn't realize you couldn't see me that well. Can I step a little
closer and maybe you'll get a better look?"