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Because most deities live on the coast, they often know how to sail, as mortals know how to drive. So yep, their adversaries had definitely cruised here.

Well, unless those archers are hip to the other secret trails, they’ll have to improvise and find another way back home. Either that, or swim.

Envy dives into the vessel and spreads his arms. “What the Fates are you beautiful people waiting for?”

Everyone leaps in after him. When Envy touches the pole it shudders and emits a white flame. Then they’re off, the river drawing them in. The archers and youths catch up, pausing along the walkways. The little ones gawk, having long deduced this isn’t a game while their companions draw and fire, the arrows spitting into the horizon and plunging into the water.

“Might want to hold on,” Envy warns, then wrenches on the pole.

The boat spins as if on a turntable, the revolutions averting strikes and throwing everybody off balance. Righting themselves, each rebel claims a position along the vessel’s circumference, nocking their bows and letting loose as they spin, each round blocking the attack.

Maybe it’s the remnants of their previous existence as humans, but Malice and Andrew blanch as though their latest meal churns in their guts. The water jostles, creating small waves that rock the vehicle. One of the adult archers dives into the river and swims, gaining at an impressive rate.

Despite his equilibrium, Malice throws his legs over the side and hurls himself into the abyss. “Malice!” Anger grates. “Get back here!”

“Pointless,” Wonder advises, ejecting a quartz arrow to defend her lover.

The devil’s golden head emerges, his arrow braced not three feet from the swimmer’s nose. Without pause, Malice shoots. The weapon surges into his adversary’s face, throwing the deity backward, knocking the wind out of him so that he floats in a stupor.

By the time Malice flops back into the boat, the swimmer has been rescued by one of his female companions. The vessel rounds the hip of a cliff and skims out of sight, with the righteous cries of archers and subsequent splashes receding behind them.

It feels like a rotten omen instead of a relief. Deities don’t tire quickly, so they may attempt to haul ass after the boat. With enough ambition, they’ll keep swimming until convinced there’s no chance of recouping the losses.

Or nature will randomly get in the way, as nature tends to do in any world.

After a dozen gasping breaths, their band slumps into a heap. Longbows and a single crossbow clatter to the floor. In the hemisphere’s dappled light, Wonder and Malice paw at each other in exhaustion. Merry falls into Anger’s arms, and they sit there, holding each other and staring at nothing. Love plants kisses all over Andrew’s awestricken face.

That is, until he keels over the edge and retches, the contents of his stomach splattering into the water.

“Andrew!” Love bleats, bending over him and rubbing his back.

Coughing, he bats his hand weakly and promises, “I’m fine. Just in need of therapy when this is over.”

Poor guy. As someone who’s transitioned from mortality to immortality, he’s been coping well, up to this point. He’s snarky, tenacious, and hardly the squeamish type, which Sorrow likes about him. But finding himself in this situation, fighting the same types of immortals that he grew up reading about from the safety of his bedroom, has got to be traumatizing.

Glancing around, it occurs to Sorrow that they’re all soaked, the sea having sloshed across the boat. They’re also worse for wear, riddled with abrasions and bruises.

Anger groans, his shoulder slouching at an odd angle. One of the projectiles must have hit hard enough to dislocate bone.

Merry waxes poetic about the injury, while Envy squats next to Anger and mock flirts, “Oh, my little archer. You know, I’m an expert at playing nurse.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that information, other than gag on it,” Sorrow remarks.

Without sparing her a glance, Envy replies, “I’m sorry. Was I speaking to you? Did I ask for your opinion?”

“I don’t wait to be asked, in order to give my opinion.”

Merry pets Anger’s hair. “It’s all right, my love. I’m here in your hour of need.”

“Same,” Envy quips. “Say the word, and Uncle Envy shall kiss it better. With Merry’s consent, of course.”

“Ugh. Get away from him.” Sorrow crawls over to the huddle and pushes Envy out of the way. “If I may.”

Unlike Anger, who’s too busy grunting, Merry takes that as a signal, because she burrows closer to her soul mate, in a gesture of support. Without cautioning the rage god, Sorrow positions his body and pops the shoulder back into its slot. Anger grits his teeth, a bellow grinding from his throat.

Sorrow wipes her hands. “You’ll live.”

“You call that proper first-aid?” Envy laments. “What about TLC? Anger, don’t you need TLC?”