Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (25 page)

She shuddered but
nodded. Hem stepped closer until they stood only a foot apart. She
looked up at him, barely a third his size, her head no taller than
his shoulders. Slowly a smile trembled across her lips, and she
reached up to touch his cheek.

"I think
you're handsome," she said.

Joy burst through
Hem like figs inside his mouth. Handsome! No woman had ever called
him handsome before. Back in Timandra, most women mocked him whenever
he approached; even his mother would always call him a clumsy ox. He
felt his cheeks flush, and his tongue felt too heavy for words.
Unable to speak, he reached into his pack and began pulling out more
food.

"Here, let's
eat," he said.

She smiled and
nodded. "Okay. Can we sit down first?"

He nodded. "Okay."

They sat down
cross-legged, and Hem set out a spread. He'd been hoarding these
treats from home, knowing they wouldn't last long, but couldn't bear
to see Kira and her wolf go hungry—both looked far too thin.

"These are
figs," Hem said, pointing at the fruit. "And these are pork
sausages. I don't think you have pork here in the night. And oh! This
is a jar of strawberry jam; it's good on the crackers, see?"

As he kept pointing
at item after item, talking faster and faster, Kira simply looked at
him and smiled silently. It felt good to have somebody just listen.
Back home, whenever he started discussing food, Bailey would groan,
Cam would mock his girth, and even Torin wouldn't pay attention. When
Bailey spoke of her adventures in the countryside or Torin talked
about his gardens, that was all fine, but they never paid attention
to the things Hem loved. Having Kira sit here beside him, leaning
gently in his direction, listening raptly and smiling at him . . .
well, that felt even better than being back in the tavern at
Fairwool-by-Night. Maybe this journey wasn't so bad after all.

He was about to
explain about honey, and he was working at unscrewing the jar, when
the snorts sounded behind him.

Kira saw them
first, gasped, and scuttled several feet back on her bottom. Hem
turned, saw the girl's tormentors, and the food turned to ash in his
mouth.

"We didn't say
you could leave," said one of the group, a broad man with large
blue eyes. "Come back here, omega, and clean our bowls." He
raised a leather strap. "Now! Or I'll beat you and your wolf,
you dirty little cockroach."

Kira only cowered,
raising her arms over her face. The man stepped forward and brought
the lash down. Leather cracked against flesh.

Hem placed his jar
of honey down.

He rose to his
feet.

Very calmly, he
walked toward the man and tapped him on the shoulder.

"What do you
want, whale?" the man said with a sneer.

Hem's fist drove
into the rider's face.

The man collapsed,
squealing and clutching his face. Blood spurted between his fingers.
Several of his friends rushed forth, cursing and shouting. Hem spun
toward them, fists raised.

"Stand back!"
he shouted, hating that his voice sounded so high-pitched, that his
knees shook. "Stand back or I'll punch you too. I'm bigger than
you and can beat you all." He punched the air a few times.
"Leave Kira alone."

Kira leaped to her
feet at his side. She rushed toward the man who'd whipped her and
kicked him, driving her foot into his belly. The man doubled over and
Kira kicked him again, then froze, covered her mouth, and fled behind
her wolf.

Hem stood with
fists raised. His knees shook but he wouldn't back down. For an
instant, he was sure the group would attack him, and he was prepared
to die defending the woman he loved—and at that moment, Hemstad
Baker did love her, and he felt rather like a hero from the old
stories Bailey would tell in the tavern, a noble knight defending a
damsel.

He punched the air
again, and the fallen man—blood leaking from his nose—ran away,
calling for his friends to follow. Spitting Hem's way, the villains
turned to leave. They vanished into the crowd of riders and wolves.

Hem collapsed onto
the ground.

His heart beat
madly, threatening to burst from his chest, and his hands wouldn't
stop shaking.

"Moldy bread
rolls, that was a close one." He turned toward Kira. "Are
you all right? Did he hurt you badly?"

Kira shook her
head, her hair falling over her face again. She twisted her toes, bit
her lip, then stepped toward him. Blushing, she leaned down, kissed
his cheek, then squeaked in fright. With a few leaps, she fled into
the shadows.

That kiss sent more
trembles, excitement, and terror into Hem's heart than the fight. He
fell onto his back, stretched out his arms, and stared up at the
stars. A grin spread across his face. At that moment, Hemstad Baker
loved the night more than all the jars of honey and mugs of ale in
the world.

She stood in the
camp, sweat dampening her hair, and swiped her sword again and again.
With every swing, she grunted and imagined the blade tearing into
Ferius.

"I already
slew several of your monks with this blade, Ferius," she said
and swung again; the blade whistled through the air. "You're
next on its list."

Her arms were tired
and sweat soaked her brow, but she kept swinging. She vowed to train
with her blade every time the Chanku Pack set camp. When she met
Ferius again—and she knew the monk was following them—she would be
ready.

"Torin only
wounded you." Bailey growled as she sliced the air. "I'm
not as friendly."

She wore Chanku
armor—scales over a silk tunic, vambraces and greaves, and a wolf's
head helm. She had tossed her old armor into the Inaro River when
fleeing on the boat, hoping to lighten the load, and only now she
realized how important that move had been. She had left the old
Bailey to drown in those waters. The girl she had been—a naive child
of sunlight—was as gone as that steel. Here she was a warrior of the
night.

"You swing
well." The voice rose behind her. "You will be a warrior
yet."

Braids swinging,
Bailey spun around to see Okado watching her. She sneered at him,
blade raised, and blinked sweat out of her eyes.

"I am a
warrior already. I slew many enemies with this blade."

Okado only smiled,
the smile of a carpenter seeing the whittling of a child. Bailey
fumed. She had spent her life among the boys of Fairwool-by-Night, a
group of bakers and shepherds and gardeners. She had led them easily
enough, always the tallest, strongest, and bravest among them. Yet
Okado would not be as easy to impress. He stood taller than her, his
shoulders wide, his face exuding relaxed confidence. He wore armor
similar to hers, and two katanas hung from his belt. Something about
his large eyes, thin lips, and good looks—damn it, Bailey had to
admit that was part of it—unnerved her.

"Your sword is
crude." He sounded more amused than scolding. "A hunk of
metal with no elegance or speed. You swing it as if you're hacking
meat, not battling a warrior."

She sliced the air.
Her blade swung only inches away from him, but he didn't flinch.

"This blade
has shed the blood of Sailith," she said. "Its thirst is
not yet quenched. I'm as much a warrior as you, rider."

Okado's smile
widened. He unhooked one katana from his belt. He tossed her the
sheathed blade. She caught it in one hand and glared at him.

"A katana is
the blade of a warrior." He drew his second sword, and the
moonlight gleamed upon the curved blade. "This is the weapon of
an artist, a weapon of water, wind, and spirits."

Bailey spat,
holding both swords. "Your katanas are puny; weapons for girls.
My doubled-edged longsword is longer, wider, and heavier. It has
twice the steel for shedding twice the blood."

"A bluefeather
is larger than a nighthawk, yet none would dispute that the smaller
bird is mightier. Place down your sunlit blade. Draw the weapon of
the night. I will teach you to become a swordswoman."

Rage exploded
through Bailey, shooting fire through her limbs. She roared. How dare
he insult her sword? How dare he imply she was a child? She tossed
his katana aside; it flew toward a group of riders, scattering them.
She raised her old longsword, a blade larger than his.

"Fight me."
She spat. "My blade against yours. We both wear armor. Fight
me!"

Not waiting for a
reply, she charged toward him, longsword swinging.

Okado sidestepped
and raised his katana. The blades clashed together.

Shouting, Bailey
stepped back and lashed her sword again. The katana once more blocked
the blow and then swung toward her. The blade drove across her armor,
showering scales. The bits of steel flew through the air.

"I could have
cut your flesh," Okado said. "I—"

She howled and
lunged toward him, blade swinging down. He parried one blow, but
Bailey attacked with fury, slamming her sword again and again.
Finally one blow crashed against his armor. It did nothing but dent a
scale.

Okado reached out,
grabbed her wrist, and twisted.

She screamed; it
felt like he'd snap her bone. Her longsword clanged to the ground.

"You could
have killed me," he said, twisting her wrist, staring at her
sternly.

She yowled,
struggling to free herself but only bending her wrist further. "You
. . . taunted me. That would qualify as suicide."

He stared at her a
moment longer, eyes wide, then burst into laughter. He kicked her
fallen longsword aside and released her wrist.

"Clumsy with
the sword," he said, "yet brave like a wolf."

She shook her
wrist, wincing at the pain. She feigned a smile. "And I bite
like one too."

Before her words
could sink in, she leaped onto him—just as she'd leap onto Torin
back at home before wrestling him to the ground. Okado grunted in
surprise. He did not fall down like Torin always had, but he reacted
too slowly. Bailey grabbed his arm and bit down hard, driving her
teeth into his wrist. He cursed and his fingers uncurled. His sword
too clanged to the ground. Bailey gave another shove, tangling her
leg between his—one of the moves she'd learned back with the boys at
home.

This time Okado
fell.

His breath left his
lungs. He groaned and tried to shove her off, but Bailey grew up
wrestling boys in the fields of Fairwool-by-Night. She drove her knee
into his belly and pinned him down.

Lying on his back,
Bailey atop him, he stared up with wide eyes.

"Is this how
you Timandrians fight?" he asked.

Her face an inch
from his, she gave him a crooked smile. "This is how farm girls
fight."

"I tried to
show you how to fight with elegance, with grace, with intelligence,"
he said.

She nodded. "Aye.
And you lost."

As he stared up at
her, their bodies pressed together, Bailey realized that she'd only
need to lean down another two inches—she could almost do it
accidentally!—for their lips to touch. She wondered what it would be
like to kiss him . . . the way she had kissed Torin. Kissing Torin
had been a thing of jealousy, and it had sent no warmth through her
body; it had felt more like patting a beloved dog. But Okado . . .
with him, she thought that it would feel different. Strange.
Intoxicating. Somehow wrong and right at the same time.

"Get off me,"
he said.

She shook her head.
"I defeated you in battle. By the laws of your people, I rule
your pack now." She winked. "Maybe I will banish you into
the wilderness. Maybe I will make you an omega. Or maybe . . . maybe
I will forget your lessons, and you will forget that you thought me
weak."

She patted his
cheek, leaped off him, and lifted her fallen sword. As she walked
away, she felt his eyes on her back, and a thin smile stretched
across her lips.

Around her, the
riders were gathering their supplies and mounting their wolves.
Bailey joined them, her old sword hanging from her belt. The journey
east to Yintao continued.

 
 
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
THE HALL OF THE DARK EMPRESS

She stood at the
prow, biting her lip and trying to ignore the stinging on her arm.

The sea surrounded
them, a blackness spreading into the horizons, rising and falling,
whispering. Clouds hid the stars. For many turns, they had sailed
through this void, cold and alone, their lantern a single light in
the night. Koyee felt like a fly trapped in the stomach of some
great, dark creature, forever floating and swimming in circles,
forever imprisoned in the beast.

The boat creaked
and swayed. She had patched its cracks with clay, but some water
always found its way in. Torin came to stand beside her, holding a
half-eaten fish.

"How do you
feel?" he said softly. "Does it still hurt? Do you want to
eat some—"

She spun toward
him, lips peeling back. "I told you I'm fine!" She shoved
the fish away. "And I told you: I'm not hungry."

He recoiled, pain
in his eyes. That only infuriated Koyee further. "I'm sorry—"
he began.

"Stop
apologizing!" She glared. "Why do you always apologize?
What kind of man are you? Be a little stronger, damn it."

His eyes narrowed
and his mouth closed, forming a small line. He turned away and
trudged to the stern, yet it was only a few feet away. He was always
only a few feet away.

"This damn
boat is too small," she muttered and tugged her hair. "It's
too damn small! You're always so near me. Damn!"

He did not reply,
only sat there, and Koyee wanted to pummel him. Why wouldn't he fight
back, stand up to her like a man? Why wouldn't he just leap overboard
and drown? She hated him. She hated his small, mismatched eyes, and
his breath always on her shoulder, and—