One of the monks leaned over the boat's side and plunged his hand into the water. He bellowed two words in a language Anhuset didn't understand, and two bolts of lightning forked across the water's surface to light the ripples of waves just below the surface. They illuminated a colossal shape whose length stretched far and away from the wake point. The fine hairs on Anhuset's arms rose, and her scalp tingled.
A lake monster, much like the one she'd seen earlier, only bigger, broke the surface in a towering flume of water. The creature writhed and convulsed, trapped in a net of lightning that turned its milky eyes blue, red, even lavender in its reflective arcs. The muscular body, its girth greater than a draft horse's, shivered as muscle contracted under sleek gray skin. The vicious jaws snapped together once, twice, like steel traps.
Another monk joined the first, adding his invocation, and more lightning scorched fern-like roads into the creatures hide before it plunged back into the water with a splash whose deluge threatened to swamp the boat and gave them all a thorough dousing.
Anhuset wiped her eyes and immediately checked the unconscious margrave in her arms. He sputtered once, mumbled something unintelligible, but didn't wake. She gently brushed water droplets from his cheeks and turned her attention to her companions.
Awe and admiration battled with bitterness for supremacy inside her. Warrior monks with formidable sorcerous powers. What the Kai had once possessed generations ago, what they possessed to a much lesser degree only a year earlier before the Shadow Queen of Haradis had tossed her people to ancient, voracious wolves in her bid to seize a power she could neither control nor understand.
A growl settled low in her throat. “Secmis, you vicious bitch,” she muttered in bast-Kai. “If there's any shred of you left, I hope it suffers for all of time and existence.”
The fading of the Kai and the ascendancy of humans—an inevitable future. Anhuset grieved inside even as she held a human male protectively in her arms and thanked every god whose name she knew for each breath he took.
The monks in her boat and the ones occupying the other three vessels ignored her, intent either on rowing as hard as they could for the safety of land or watching the water for any signs of more of the great eel monsters. In Anhuset's opinion, the boats couldn't reach the shore fast enough, especially after one priest pointed out the breach and plunge of serpentine humps and the wave crests and troughs not far from them.
Were she not acting as Serovek's pillow and support, she'd have been in the water with those monks pulling and pushing the boat on land. As it was, she blew out a grateful breath at the sound of the keel scraping along rock as they beached the boats and left the lake and its hungry denizens behind them.
A young acolyte remained to guard a small herd of saddled horses, bowed to their group, his gaze darting repeatedly to her as the monks eased Serovek from her embrace and out of the boat. She followed, once more taking his heavy weight into her arms so that he lay across her lap instead of the unforgiving rocks covering the beach.
She almost laughed aloud at the acolyte's wide-eyed shock when Cuama retrieved Chamtivos's head from one of the boats and shoved it into an empty satchel tied to one of the saddles. The monk tugged on the bag, testing the knot's hold. Satisfied, he patted horse's neck and approached Anhuset.
“The two of you riding pillion won't work. Hard on the horse and far too slow. And I don't think you want to risk draping him over a saddle and tying him down,” he said. Anhuset shook her head. Whatever internal injuries Serovek might have would be exacerbated by such a transport. Cuama continued. “We can construct another sled. All of our horses are trained to pull one if necessary. We'd only have to get as far as Chamtivos's camp before we can put him in the wagon with our brother Megiddo and take him to the monastery that way.” At her scowl he held up his hands in a reassuring gesture. “Those who remained at the camp have been subdued and taken prisoner. They're no longer a threat.”
Anhuset wondered if Karulin was one of those taken prisoner or if he'd fought and died in a fight with the monks. She didn't dwell on the question. “I want to ride the horse that pulls the sled.”
“As you wish.”
The return ride to Chamtivos's camp took twice as long as the ride to the island for which Anhuset was both frustrated and grateful. The monks were mindful of Serovek in the makeshift sled and kept their pace leisurely. Anhuset didn't bother counting the number of times she twisted in the saddle to check on her passenger. They were many and often.
The warlord's raider camp was a different place from the one she'd left: shelters broken and strewn about along with supplies, Chamtivos's tent a pale puddle of torn canvas in whose midst those raiders left behind now knelt, hands bound behind their backs. She spotted Karulin among them, his resigned expression changing to fleeting relief when he saw her and Serovek. He didn't call out to her
