by Sam Sykes
It shouldn’t be that easy.
And she knew it wouldn’t be. She had convinced the Sainites and the Karnerians to fear her, but it would take more to convince them to work together. But that was a different problem.
“We need to get them together,” she said. “In the next day, while they still remember what we’ve done.”
“What you’ve done, you mean,” Dransun muttered. “You are the Prophet, aren’t you?”
“He’s trying to be facetious, but he’s right,” Aturach said. “If the two armies are going to follow your lead, we need to make sure they’re following you, not a council or anything like that. The Prophet will lead them to victory, not us. We’ll not say a word otherwise.”
“I trust those shit-eating scumbags you call associates won’t, either?” Dransun growled.
“They’ve helped us this far, haven’t they?” Asper asked. “If there were something better in it for Scarecrow, she could have betrayed me a hundred times by now.”
“And why is she helping you, anyway? Out of love for her city?” Dransun laughed bitterly. “Back when I was a guard—back when this place still had a guard—I put away scum like her daily. Even if they were all blind, deaf, and limbless, I wouldn’t trust them not to try to kill me, let alone—”
“I get it, all right?” Asper whirled on him with a scowl. “If I had a better idea, I’d have done that. And if you’ve had a better idea, I fucking well hope you had a great reason for keeping it from me.” She gestured out toward the walls of Cier’Djaal. “Do you not fucking get it? Did you not fucking see the number of tulwar? They can only have grown since then. And they’ll strike soon.”
“There are ways we could fight them,” Dransun replied, stiffening up. “Better ways. Ways that could—”
“I’m listening.” She stared at him in stony silence for a moment. When no answer was forthcoming, she sighed. “I don’t have many options here, Dransun. If thieves are the only help I can get, I’m going to take it.” She snorted. “Besides, it wasn’t that long ago that you were clamoring for us to go fight the Karnerians and Sainites single-handedly to drive them out.”
“That … that was still a good idea,” he said.
“We’d have been killed,” Aturach replied, shaking his head. “Every one of us.”
“I … I know, it’s just …” Dransun sighed and rubbed his face. “It shouldn’t be you that has to do this. It’s a lot to ask for a city that isn’t yours. You’re a foreigner, you’re a healer, and you’re … you’re a …”
She regarded him carefully for a moment before she noticed the skittish way he looked her over and then pointedly looked away.
“Ah,” she said. “That’s it. If I were a man, this would be noble and resourceful instead of treacherous, is that it?”
“Not entirely,” Dransun replied. “But if it were someone else who had to sully themselves—”
“If it bothers you that much, Dransun,” she said, “pretend I have a cock.”
She turned away and, head held high, began to walk.
“And if it still bothers you, pretend to suck it.”
FIFTEEN
CHIEFTAIN
Gariath found he could still recall the day he met them all, right down to their scents.
There had been the short one, smelling like worry and fear poured over a roaring bonfire. There had been the tall one, a rat that walked on two legs and smiled like he didn’t smell like treachery. There had been the pointy-eared one, twitching and snarling like her teeth were impressive. And then, of course, there had been Lenk, who simply smelled like Lenk.
And then, there was the tall female one.
She hadn’t looked too different from the other humans. They all looked the same to him, back then—most of them still did, today. He could remember parts of her: her tall, straight spine, the tremble of her lips as she tried to smile nervously, the shrillness of her voice as she lectured the others.
But mostly, it was her smell he remembered.
He had heard of gods—it was impossible to learn the human tongue, however simple it might be, and not learn of their imaginary sky-things. Those who spoke their names in prayer always smelled of the same ripe stink of fear and hypocrisy.
Except for her.
She had a hard scent to her, a scent of old stone and dust, a reek of earth that had gathered around feet planted firmly. He recalled this. He had never before smelled conviction before meeting her.
And if he closed his eyes, he could almost remember her name.
“The Prophet?”
He glared through a cloud of pipe smoke across the room.
“That’s what she’s calling herself?”
Mototaru puffed his pipe and shrugged. “This is what our scouts tell us, anyway.”
“And who told them?” He rose from his chair. His body protested. The wounds carved into his flesh still ached. And with every movement, he could still feel the steel of the assassin’s blade.
Almost as keenly as the humiliation of having almost been killed.
“Farmers,” Mototaru replied. “Traveling merchants, fleeing refugees … what humans call ‘common people.’”
“And they just offered this word in conversation?”
“I informed our scouts to start looking for certain pieces of information after your …” Mototaru gestured to the many wounds dotting Gariath’s body, the ones bandaged and unbandaged. “Incident. They ran a few humans down, interrogated them at length.”
“And let them live?” Gariath growled.
“I didn’t tell them to kill anyone, no.”
“They should have killed them.” The dragonman stalked toward the map table. “We should have sent them a message.”
“What message would that be?” Mototaru let out a low hum. “‘Don’t be poor and afraid’? Or perhaps you wanted to send a message to their leadership? ‘Don’t cross us or we’ll kill a couple of defenseless farmers and maybe their chickens, too’?”
“Why not?” Gariath snarled. “They killed yours, didn’t they?” He cast a glare toward the old tulwar. “They burned Shaab Sahaar.”
“And many innocent people died there.” Mototaru nodded. “If the guilty could be punished by hurting the innocent, justice would be a strange thing.”
“Then we send the message that no one is innocent.”
“An animal would think that.” Mototaru let out a long, smoky sigh. “Or a monster.”
Through the cloud of pipe smoke, the old tulwar’s eyes blazed, challenging Gariath to reply to that. The dragonman met his stare just long enough before looking back to the map.
“I agree with your sentiment, at least,” Mototaru said. “We can’t have it known that assassins can walk freely in your fortress.”
“Freely.” Gariath ran a claw across the map, from Jalaang to Cier’Djaal. “And whose fault was that?”
“You stormed out of the war room,” Mototaru said. “You will recall the last time I sent someone to check up on you after you did that, you sent him back to me with a broken arm.”
“Why were there no guards in the streets?” Gariath growled, tapping his finger on the map. “Why did we have no warriors out training? Why were there no archers on the roofs?” His hand curled into a fist and slammed down upon the table. Inkwells spilled, cups toppled. “How did they just get in here?”
He hadn’t meant to roar quite that loudly. It wouldn’t do for the warriors outside to know what had happened, to know that their commander had almost been killed by a coward’s blade.
And so damned easily, too, he thought, spitefully.
His mind drifted back to his fight with the Shadow—he had no better word for the creature he had faced—and all he could remember was his own weakness. The way his hands had reached out and grasped nothing, the way the blade bit at him from all sides at once, the way he had landed only one pathetic blow and the Shadow had simply … simply …
Let you live, he snarled to himself. That piece of shit
could have killed you, if he wanted to. She sent him to send a message, to prove she doesn’t need you, to prove she could kill you anytime.
“If you want to destroy the map,” Mototaru said softly, “please let me find a scribe who can make a copy first.”
Gariath looked down. His hands had uncurled without him noticing; his claws had sunk into the table, digging deep gouges into the map. His heart was thundering in his chest and his mouth tasted dry. He seized a cup—the only one he hadn’t knocked over—and quickly drained its contents.
And his mouth still tasted dry.
“You’re upset,” Mototaru said.
“I don’t get upset.”
“You’re worried, then.”
“I have killed monsters as tall as mountains. I have torn giant serpents apart from the inside. I have broken necks by breathing too hard.” Gariath turned and stalked toward Mototaru. “I tear armor like paper, I break shields with my fingers, I punch people so hard I force-feed them their own chins. I am Rhega! I DO NOT GET WORRIED!”
His roar shook the shutters in the windows and chased the smoke out of the room. But Mototaru did not blink. Mototaru didn’t even look at him. The old tulwar merely took a long inhale of his pipe and spoke softly.
“You should.”
He rose out of his chair with a groan, hefted his weight, and knuckled the small of his back. He trudged past Gariath without looking up, moving toward the map.
“You are brave. You are strong. You are ferocious. And you were almost killed.”
“Whatever assassin she sends against me is—”
“Is not your greatest concern.” Mototaru leaned on the table, humming. “Not anymore.” He drew a circle around Cier’Djaal with his finger. “We have been preparing for eventualities, unforeseen circumstances, but this … this, I didn’t even think of.”
“Think of what?” Gariath moved to join him.
“The war between the humans was something we always knew would work in our favor,” Mototaru hummed. “But there are limits. We knew it would buy us time, allow us to call our forces, but perhaps we have waited too long.”
“I was in that city.” Gariath folded his arms over his chest. “I saw them tearing each other apart. They are humans, stupid and weak. They won’t—”
“They will.”
Mototaru’s voice was the sound of a sword breaking. His glare was a fire dying. And when he turned toward Gariath, he did so with more weight than his frame could hold.
“Whatever posturing you did to convince yourself they didn’t mean anything, you cannot be so stupid as to not see what they’ve accomplished.” He gestured to their room. “This room, they built. This city, they made. This world, they conquered. We scurry under tents while their cities reach across the land like living things, forever hungry.
“They did not make these by being stupid. They did not drive us into the desert by being weak. They have grown so large that they have no other enemies to fight but themselves, but that will not last. Once they realize what we plan to do, once they realize the threat we pose, they will act against us. They will bring their weapons to bear. They will empty their armories. They will …”
Mototaru’s voice trailed off. Gariath took a step closer.
“They will what?”
“Unite,” Mototaru said. “Behind her.”
“Impossible. I broke her.”
“Prophets are not known for having small ambitions.” Mototaru sneered at him. “Or do you think she calls herself that just to get a discount on curry?” He shook his head. “If even farmers, so far from the city, are calling her by that name, we can be certain that everyone in Cier’Djaal knows it, as well.”
“That means nothing except that she talks a lot,” Gariath snarled. “It doesn’t mean that they’ve united behind her.”
“She sent an assassin,” Mototaru spit. “And, whatever you may have heard, assassins do not simply volunteer for things out of the goodness of their hearts. She had money to do so. Where did she get it? Who gave it to her?”
“That doesn’t mean the Karnerians or Sainites—”
“No? And if not, that means there are even more unforeseen circumstances. That means we understand even less about the enemy than we thought we did.” Mototaru shot him an iron look. “That means we are out of time.”
Gariath held his gaze for a moment longer before his eyes drifted down to the map across the table. A stupid piece of paper smeared with ink. He had almost destroyed it just by touching it.
Yet to stare upon it now made his heart turn to stone in his chest and his blood freeze in his veins.
Because in that tiny smear of ink marked Cier’Djaal, he could see her. She was in there, behind those walls, with all those humans. He had seen but a fraction of them, and he could still remember the way they teemed like a tide, so many more than the tulwar. Who knew how many more were in there? How many forges were churning out swords? How many soldiers were mustering to march?
How many people, right now, were looking upon her, raising their hands, and screaming her name?
Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands. However many humans were in the world could be ready to fight him and his tiny army of a few thousand warriors.
He stared at the map. This time, he did not see many little ink graves where his soldiers would be buried. This time, he saw a tide, moving out from Cier’Djaal and scourging the land of anyone they thought stood against them.
Against her.
“Prophet,” he muttered wordlessly.
Mototaru was right.
They were out of time.
Maybe they had been for a long time now.
His nostrils quivered suddenly. A familiar reek of anger and desperation reached his snout. But only for a moment. Hot behind it, and growing stronger, was an odor of confidence, stale meat, and an awful lot of shit.
The door flung open. Daaru appeared within, his expression severe and color in his face.
“We have a problem,” he said.
He had neither time nor need to expound on that. A black-furred hand appeared behind him and shoved him out of the way. Chakaa came swaggering into the room, heedless of either her reek or the jagged arrow shaft jutting from her chest.
Behind her white-painted face, red-rimmed eyes grew wide and her smile split her face with yellow teeth.
“Gentlemen!” she bellowed. She caught herself, blinked, and fired off an awkward salute. “Or are we generals now? I always think we are done playing war, since we are not fighting at the moment, but it’s very hard to tell these—”
“What happened to you?” Gariath interjected, eyes gone wide at her.
“I’m late, yes.” She waved a hand. “But I was delayed. It’s very hard to get anyone to look after my gaambol, and—”
“No, what happened with the …” Gariath gestured around his chest.
“What?” She blinked, running her hand around her breasts until it found the arrow. “Oh, this!”
She seized it and jerked it free with a sickening sound. Daaru and Mototaru cringed and looked away. Gariath couldn’t help but stare as it left nothing more than a scratch behind.
“Some very rude person shot me,” she complained.
“Do we …” Gariath glanced to Mototaru. “Do we get her a healer?”
“What?” Chakaa tossed the arrow aside. “For this? Don’t be insane, daanaja.”
“She was ambushed,” Daaru said. “Her and the other Mak Lak Kai we sent out.”
“Ambushed?” Gariath growled. “By who?”
“Shicts.”
“I think it was a shict, anyway.” Chakaa scratched her head. “Usually, the ones you see crawling around the desert are brown. This one was all …” She blanched. “Pale and pink. Hair like corn. Terrible smell.”
Gariath narrowed his eyes and let out a low growl.
The pointy-eared one.
Separated from them by miles and mere days away from killing them, his former companions continued to find
ways to annoy the piss out of him.
“We sent the Mak Lak Kai out to track the shicts,” Mototaru hummed. He looked to Chakaa. “Did you?”
“A little,” she replied.
Mototaru rubbed his eyes, looked to Daaru. “Tell me what she means.”
“We’ve had several scouts return,” the young tulwar said. “As we suspected, the shicts avoid both Cier’Djaal and Jalaang. They’re aware of what’s going on and there aren’t enough of them to challenge either us or the humans.” He sighed. “And, as we suspected, they’re taking advantage of the chaos to attack tulwar villages.”
Mototaru hummed, nodded. “How many?”
“Six? Seven?” Chakaa shrugged. “I lost interest after I saw a very fancy shict with a very fancy spear. I was hoping to see it up close, but she never stayed in one place for very long. So we started tracking her and—”
“I don’t fucking care,” Gariath growled. “If the shicts are staying out of our way, then they’re not as stupid as I thought.”
“They are raiding a number of villages,” Mototaru said. “Those villages could produce more warriors. And if the shicts are out in force, then—”
“No.”
Gariath spoke loud enough to silence that thought, and any further thoughts. They turned toward him, attentive.
“We are out of time,” he snarled. “Out of time for shicts, out of time for scouting, out of time for waiting.” He scowled at the map and thrust a clawed finger at it. “Is our plan in place?”
He looked to Mototaru, who nodded slowly.
“Are our warriors ready?”
He glanced to Daaru. The young warrior sighed.
“We can make them ready.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks.”
“One.” Gariath stalked to the window. “As many swords as can be forged, as many boats as can be sent, as many warriors as can be called back. We march for Cier’Djaal. We move through the Green Belt. We destroy everything. We burn their city to the ground.”
“Ha!” Chakaa clapped her hands. “I like this plan! Destroying! Fire! All the hallmarks of good leadership.” She scratched her chin. “Send us out again, daanaja. Let us do to the humans what the shicts have done to us. Let them know we are coming for them.”
