Sand and Blood

Chapter 18: Quiet-Voiced Threat

The Moon Clans, also known as the clans of night, gain power from the icy darkness.

—Kakasaba Mioshigàma

Rutejìmo sat on the ridge of the rock. He stared out into the darkness, seeing nothing but not daring to close his eyes. The last time he did, he woke up minutes later with a surge of guilt and fear. He didn't dare do it again, not with the two sleeping below counting on his vigilance.

The only illumination came from the few flickering stars above him. He spent the first hour amusing himself by counting them and trying to remember their names; there were only a hundred or so visible, but his exhaustion made it difficult for him to remember more than thirty.

He wanted to light up the glow egg, but it would only highlight his location and do nothing to push back the void. Rutejìmo was stuck listening to the wind around them and his own thoughts.

Something had changed that day. Chimípu had smiled at him, an honest smile that wasn't mocking or insulting. And then she taught him how to fire the rocks at high speed. He was horrible at it and nearly took out her foot with one shot, but the rush of using clan magic burned bright in his veins. He had somehow earned Shimusògo's respect, even though he didn't deserve it.

In the distance and to his right, something moved, and he heard the crunch of a weight on rocks.

Rutejìmo gripped his knife, wary of accidentally stabbing Chimípu or Pidòhu. He had heard enough horror stories of accidents while guarding to be careful. His breath came faster, and he strained to listen.

When no other sounds rose up, he relaxed but didn't release the knife. He hated the darkness that smothered him. On the moonless nights, it was worse. There was nothing to see or focus on.

It wasn't something he had ever experienced before. The valley was always lit. And when the clan traveled, they had a fire or glow lamps pushing back the night, not to mention someone standing on guard.

A warm breeze tickled the back of his neck. He spun around, fighting a scream. He flailed his hands out, but he only felt empty air. Realizing his blade was out, he set it carefully down in his lap with a flash of embarrassment. He didn't know how or when Chimípu would take her turn.

Rutejìmo also didn't know if he would detect danger before it attacked them. But the clan always had guards at night, and it felt right to sit there, even blind.

A shiver ran down his spine.

He inhaled a shuddering breath. Straining, he tried to listen but all he could hear was his own pounding heart.

There was sharp prick at his neck. He waved at it, to chase away the insect biting him.

But his hand struck something hard and smooth. With a gasp, he gingerly touched it until he identified it: a tazágu, a fighting spike. A whimper rising in his throat, he reached back to trace his fingers along the weapon. It was about three feet in length with a leather-and-hemp braided handle.

A strong hand covered his mouth, pressing down against his jaw. The gloved fingers dug into the side of his cheek as he was pulled into someone's chest and against small breasts underneath thin, layered fabric. The ridge of the woman's hand pressed against his nostrils, cutting off his breath.

To his embarrassment, Rutejìmo lost control of his bladder. He felt the hot urine pouring down his leg, and the stench of it added to his humiliation.

"Damn the darkness," the woman whispered in his ear, "you're nothing but a kid." She had a light accent from the southern reaches.

He couldn't breathe, not because of her hand—his lungs refused to move. He tried to shift, but a sharp stab stopped him. She didn't break skin, but his entire world was focused on the point poised to drive into his throat.