Telo sat near the edge of the surf, hidden among the rocks. He examined the stone Dem had given him. "Maybe it's broken? Why would you even be bothered?"
"Thin—"
Telo raised a hand sharply. "Don't say, 'Think it through, Chief.'"
"Fine," Dem laughed. "Just this once. But ask yourself — why would they suspect beastkin involvement? There's no reason to guess something like that unless we gave them something."
Telo frowned. "I didn't think of that. Mercs coming here shouldn't jump straight to beastkin. Ghosts would be a higher guess."
"Well, not ghosts," Dem said. "But still — it's too on the nose, too early. Everything we've done so far could be chalked up to a stealth group or night fighters. And somehow, on day three, they're already on to us."
"Shit," Telo agreed.
"Let's go. I want to sink this ship and get back for the show." Dem stretched his arms overhead.
"Show? What show?"
"You forget whose odun is next?"
Telo blinked — then grinned. "Reyka's Odun."
His eyes lit up. "Yeah. Let's get this done so we can watch."
They were thinking the same thing.
The Archer Odun was next. Most tribals were good with a bow — but Reyka's odun had turned accuracy into something terrifying. The Black Crows were penned sheep, waiting for wolves with arrows.
The moon slid behind clouds. Telo was first into the water.
Dem's eyes turned crimson as he stepped into the surf.
"Escadomai."
The fox followed the rat toward the ships, circling to their starboard side. Rat Dem extended his senses — six crew on the nearer ship, five on the far one.
They shed their beastkin forms. Dem held up a finger, signaling Telo to wait.
Two sailors were on deck — one pacing back and forth, the other leaning against the stern rail smoking pipe tobacco.
Dem crouched near the rigging, waited for the pacing sailor to pass, and struck. Dagger to the base of the skull, one arm catching the body and easing it silently onto the deck.
Telo crept up the side of the ship and slipped over the rail as Dem approached the pipe-smoking guard.
The man took a long, satisfied draw — then his eyes went wide as warmth spread across his chest.
Dem lowered him gently and then pulled on his clothes.
Telo was already dressed, crouched low near the stern. "We could start the deck on fire — maybe the stairs to the hold. Trap the crew below."
"Two below deck, and the captain," Dem whispered. "We'll deal with them first. Then we light it properly — burn her to the waterline."
"Anything else?" Telo murmured.
"The two below deck are forward, asleep. The captain is in his cabin, fully awake."
Dem's shadow armor rippled into existence, darkness swirling around him as daggers formed in his hands.
"Take the two below deck," he said quietly. "I'll handle the captain."
Dem waited outside the captain's door, spear in hand.
He didn't trust a stealth entry — too many variables: squeaky hinges, loose boards, the captain possibly waiting with a drawn blade. The moment he touched the door, the man inside might be alerted.
With that in mind, Dem let his eyes brighten. The air thickened around him as scent ribbons rose — from the deck, from the ocean, even from the door itself, faintly carrying rum.
He moved.
Dem's kick blasted the door inward as he leapt through, spear extended. The captain was mid-drink, half-rising and reaching for the sword at his side when the spear punched clean through his throat, pinning him to the high-backed chair.
Dem's eyes still glowed impossibly bright as he turned toward the hold. He sensed nothing living below. Two dead sailors. Telo coming back up the stairs.
He exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain away, and began a quick sweep of the cabin.
He found two full purses of gold, the ship's ledger, and the captain's personal log. All went into his storage ring just as Telo filled the doorway.
"You search them?" Dem asked.
Telo nodded. "Poor bastards. And I mean their lack of coin, not the dying part."
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Oh, and three barrels of rum."
"That'll work perfectly for a fire," Dem said, already moving.
Telo ducked low and followed. "You're going to waste all that rum?"
Dem laughed. "Just one barrel. No need to get carried away."
Telo winked. "Yeah — when I show you around the Red Fox clan, we'll open some up."
Dem stored two barrels in his ring, then split the third wide open. Rum streamed across the floorboards, pooling under crates and sloshing toward the walls.
"Also found some coin — maybe a few hundred gold," Dem added, stepping onto the stairs with his flint. "We'll divvy it up among the oduns. Little bonus."
Telo made his way up the steps, already undressing for the swim back to shore.
Dem shed his clothes as well, then struck the flint.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Sparks dropped onto the rum-soaked floor. Flames spidered outward instantly, racing across the boards like living things.
The rat and fox paused halfway to shore. Behind them, the ship blossomed into fire — bright as a hundred torches flaring at once.
The second ship was instantly alert, men shouting and pointing weapons in every direction.
Dem could smell their fear radiating across the water.
**
Reyka remained still — the kind of stillness that made you forget she was even there. Bow in hand, seven arrows pushed into the soft dirt at her feet, one of them a black-shafted special. Her people knelt close, not spread out; she wanted them to hear every word.
She told them the other oduns had managed two volleys with barely any kills.
With the nine of them, she said, if they didn't drop at least two dozen mercenaries, they'd all shave their heads — herself included.
Her sky-blue eyes studied the well-lit camp. Two hours before dawn. Most mercenaries were asleep, though likely fitfully. There was, however, one problem:
A dozen riders waited near the gate — helms ready, shields slung over their backs, chainmail glinting.
Tonight, they were prepared for arrows arcing into the compound. They'd pursue immediately.
"Everyone take one rider," Reyka whispered, "starting from the front. I have the leader — the fool with the open helm."
Soft murmurs passed through the group as they confirmed targets.
Reyka's voice — soft but edged with steel — cut through the whispering. "Second volley into any horse that still has a rider. I'll finish the survivors on the ground. Third volley lights up the tents and kicks the hornet nest.
After that, I expect you to impress me. Or tomorrow, we're all bald."
"On three," Reyka breathed. "One… two… three…"
Nine bodies dropped from their saddles.
Reyka notched again, pausing as three horses stumbled, bucking off their riders.
"One."
Her arrow sliced through the darkness, catching a fallen rider mid-bounce — ear slot, clean and instant.
"Two."
A scrambling rider reached for his fallen helm — Reyka's arrow sank into his left eye.
"And three."
Her last target ducked behind a wagon wheel. Reyka's third shot threaded between the spokes, striking at the base of the neck just behind the jaw.
Behind her, eight tents burst into flames. Reyka notched again and began firing.
Screams rose — mercenaries refusing to leave their burning tents. They either burned alive or stepped out for a quicker death.
Reyka's gaze shifted to the far tents — the ones outside most archers' range. A bald man in a mage's robe stumbled out.
Her arrow reached him instantly.
Right eye.
Dead before he hit the ground.
"Okay, everyone withdraw."
Reyka gave the order, and they melted into the darkness.
Farther off, Dem and Telo crouched behind a rock formation, watching the night raid unfold. Both remained silent as the Sentry archers delivered an unparalleled display of precision and lethality.
Telo let out a low whistle, lost beneath the screams and chaos. "Was that twenty-nine kills?"
"Thirty," Dem corrected. "Don't forget that bastard mage at the end."
A massive figure emerged in the turmoil — plated armor, a kite shield large enough to serve as a table, barking orders through the firelight.
"Saints," Telo muttered. "That shield looks like a prepping table."
But Dem was focused on the man himself — how he moved, how he scanned, the predatory awareness in each step. Despite his size, there was nothing sluggish about him. Every shift of weight was deliberate, efficient.
Then the man turned sharply.
His eyes locked directly onto Dem and Telo's position.
Dem's gaze narrowed — and for a heartbeat, predator met predator.
"Shit." Dem faded backward instantly, grabbing Telo's vest and dragging him with him. "Time to go."
Telo followed at a trot, spear in hand. "Why are we going this way?"
"He spotted us. I'm not risking exposing the camp." Dem kept moving without looking back.
"Really?" Telo hissed. "In the dark? From that distance?"
They didn't stop until they found a dense brush thicket. They slept sitting up, leaning back-to-back, waking with the pink light of dawn spilling across the sky. They stretched stiff limbs, ate cold fare, and drank highberry before preparing to move out again.
"We'll shift," Dem said. "Beastkin forms lessen the chance we get spotted."
"We heading back?" Telo asked.
Dem shook his head. "No. I've decided to set off the charges. We're blowing the pass."
Day Three Score:
Sentry Force: thirty-six mercenaries killed, one ship sunk.
Black Crows: Poured out the sage tea.