by S. C. Emmett
Tsiory took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You know I will.”
CHAMPION TSIORY
Tsiory stared at the incomplete maps laid out on the command tent’s only table. He tried to stand tall, wanting to project an image of strength for the military leaders with him, but he swayed slightly, a blade of grass in an imperceptible breeze. He needed rest and was unlikely to get it.
It’d been three days since he’d last gone to the ships to see Taifa. He didn’t want to think he was punishing her. He told himself he had to be here, where the fighting was thickest. She wanted him to hold the beach and push into the territory beyond it, and that was what he was doing.
The last of the twenty-five hundred ships had arrived, and every woman, man, and child who was left of the Chosen was now on this hostile land. Most of the ships had been scavenged for resources, broken to pieces, so the Omehi could survive. There would be no retreat. Losing against the savages would mean the end of his people, and that Tsiory could not permit.
The last few days had been filled with fighting, but his soldiers had beaten back the natives. More than that, Tsiory had taken the beach, pushed into the tree line, and marched the bulk of his army deeper into the peninsula. He couldn’t hold the ground he’d taken, but he’d given her time. He’d done as his queen had asked.
Still, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t angry with her. He loved Taifa, the Goddess knew he did, but she was playing a suicidal game. Capturing the peninsula with dragons wouldn’t mean much if they brought the Cull down on themselves.
“Champion!” An Indlovu soldier entered the command tent, taking Tsiory from his thoughts. “Major Ojore is being overrun. He’s asking for reinforcements.”
“Tell him to hold.” Tsiory knew the young soldier wanted to say more. He didn’t give him the chance. “Tell Major Ojore to hold.”
“Yes, Champion!”
Harun spat some of the calla leaf he was always chewing. “He can’t hold,” the colonel told Tsiory and the rest of the assembled Guardian Council. The men were huddled in their makeshift tent beyond the beach. They were off the hot sands and sheltered by the desiccated trees that bordered them. “He’s out of arrows. It’s all that kept the savages off him, and Goddess knows, the wood in this forsaken land is too brittle to make more.”
Tsiory looked over his shoulder at the barrel-chested colonel. Harun was standing close enough for him to smell the man’s sour breath. Returning his attention to the hand-drawn maps their scouts had made of the peninsula, Tsiory shook his head. “There are no reinforcements.”
“You’re condemning Ojore and his fighters to death.”
Tsiory waited, and, as expected, Colonel Dayo Okello chimed in. “Harun is right. Ojore will fall and our flank will collapse. You need to speak with the queen. Make her see sense. We’re outnumbered and the savages have gifts we’ve never encountered before. We can’t win.”
“We don’t need to,” Tsiory said. “We just need to give her time.”
“How long? How long until we have the dragons?” Tahir asked, pacing. He didn’t look like the man Tsiory remembered from home. Tahir Oni came from one of the Chosen’s wealthiest families and was renowned for his intelligence and precision. He was a man who took intense pride in his appearance.
Back on Osonte, every time Tsiory had seen Tahir, the man’s head was freshly shaved, his dark skin oiled to a sheen, and his colonel’s uniform sculpted to his muscular frame. The man before him now was a stranger to that memory.
Tahir’s head was stubbly, his skin dry, and his uniform hung off a wasted body. Worse, it was difficult for Tsiory to keep his eyes from the stump of Tahir’s right arm, which was bleeding through its bandages.
Tsiory needed to calm these men. He was their leader, their inkokeli, and they needed to believe in their mission and queen. He caught Tahir’s attention, tried to hold it and speak confidently, but the soldier’s eyes twitched like a prey animal’s.
“The savages won’t last against dragons,” Tsiory said. “We’ll break them. Once we have firm footing, we can defend the whole of the valley and peninsula indefinitely.”
“Your lips to the Goddess’s ears, Tsiory,” Tahir muttered, without using either of his honorifics.
“Escaping the Cull,” Dayo said, echoing Tsiory’s unvoiced thoughts, “won’t mean anything if we all die here. I say we go back to the ships and find somewhere a little less… occupied.”
“What ships, Dayo? There aren’t enough for all of us, and we don’t have the resources to travel farther. We’re lucky the dragons led us here,” Tsiory said. “It was a gamble, hoping they’d find land before we starved. Even if we could take to the water again, without them leading us, we’d have no hope.”
Harun waved his arms at their surroundings. “Does this look like hope to you, Tsiory?”
“You’d rather die on the water?”
“I’d rather not die at all.”
Tsiory knew where the conversation would head next, and it would be close to treason. These were hard men, good men, but the voyage had made them as brittle as this strange land’s wood. He tried to find the words to calm them, when the shouting outside their tent began.
“What in the Goddess’s name—” said Harun, opening the tent’s flap and looking out. He couldn’t have seen the hatchet that took his life. It happened too fast.
Tahir cursed, scrambling back as Harun’s severed head fell to the ground at his feet.
“Swords out!” Tsiory said, drawing his weapon and slicing a cut through the rear of the tent to avoid the brunt of whatever was out front.
Tsiory was first through the new exit, blinking under the sun’s blinding light, and all around him was chaos. Somehow, impossibly, a massive force of savages had made their way past the distant front lines, and his lightly defended command camp was under assault.
He had just enough time to absorb this when a savage, spear in hand, leapt for him. Tsiory, inkokeli of the Omehi military and champion to Queen Taifa, slipped to the side of the man’s downward thrust and swung hard for his neck. His blade bit deep and the man fell, his life’s blood spilling onto the white sands.
He turned to his colonels. “Back to the ships!”
It was the only choice. The majority of their soldiers were on the front lines, far beyond the trees, but the enemy was between Tsiory and his army. Back on the beach, camped in the shadows of their scavenged ships, there were fighters and Gifted, held in reserve to protect the Omehi people. Tsiory, the colonels, the men assigned to the command camp, they had to get back there if they hoped to survive and repel the ambush.
Tsiory cursed himself for a fool. His colonels had wanted the command tent pitched inside the tree line, to shelter the leadership from the punishing sun, and though it didn’t feel right, he’d been unable to make any arguments against the decision. The tree line ended well back from the front lines, and he’d believed they had enough soldiers to ensure they were protected. He was wrong.
“Run!” Tsiory shouted, pulling Tahir along.
They made it three steps before their escape was blocked by another savage. Tahir fumbled for his sword, forgetting for a moment that he’d lost his fighting hand. He called out for help and reached for his blade with his left. His fingers hadn’t even touched the sword’s hilt when the savage cut him down.
Tsiory lunged at the half-naked aggressor, blade out in front, skewering the tattooed man who’d killed Tahir. He stepped back from the impaled savage, seeking to shake him off the sword, but the heathen, blood bubbling in his mouth, tried to stab him with a dagger made of bone.
Tsiory’s bronze-plated leathers turned the blow and he grabbed the man’s wrist, breaking it across his knee. The dagger fell to the sand and Tsiory crashed his forehead into his opponent’s nose, snapping the man’s head back. With his enemy stunned, Tsiory shoved all his weight forward, forcing the rest of his sword into the man’s guts, drawing an open-mouthed howl from him that spattered Tsiory with blood and phlegm
.
He yanked his weapon away, pulling it clear of the dying native, and swung round to rally his men. He saw Dayo fighting off five savages with the help of a soldier and ran toward them as more of the enemy emerged from the trees.
They were outnumbered, badly, and they’d all die if they didn’t disengage. He kept running but couldn’t get to his colonel before Dayo took the point of a long-hafted spear to the side and went down. The closest soldier killed the native who had dealt the blow, and Tsiory, running full tilt, slammed into two others, sending them to the ground.
On top of them, he pulled his dagger from his belt and rammed it into the closest man’s eye. The other one, struggling beneath him, reached for a trapped weapon, but Tsiory shoved his sword hilt against the man’s throat, using his weight to press it down. He heard the bones in the man’s neck crack, and the savage went still.
Tsiory got to his feet and grabbed Dayo, “Go!”
Dayo, bleeding everywhere, went.
“Back to the beach!” Tsiory ordered the soldiers near him. “Back to the ships!”
Tsiory ran with his men, looking back to see how they’d been undone. The savages were using gifts to mask themselves in broad daylight. As he ran, he saw more and more of them stepping out of what his eyes told him were empty spaces among the trees. The trick had allowed them to move an attacking force past the front lines and right up to Tsiory’s command tent.
Tsiory forced himself to move faster. He had to get to the reserves and order a defensive posture. His heart hammered in his chest and it wasn’t from running. If the savages had a large enough force, this surprise attack could kill everyone. They’d still have the front-line army, but the women, men, and children they were meant to protect would be dead.
Tsiory heard galloping. It was an Ingonyama, riding double with his Gifted, on one of the few horses put on the ships when they fled Osonte. The Ingonyama spotted Tsiory and rode for him.
“Champion,” the man said, dismounting with his Gifted. “Take the horse. I will allow the others to escape.”
Tsiory mounted, saluted before galloping away, and looked back. The Gifted, a young woman, little more than a girl, closed her eyes and focused, and the Ingonyama began to change, slowly at first, but with increasing speed.
The warrior grew taller. His skin, deep black, darkened further, and, moving like a million worms writhing beneath his flesh, the man’s muscles re-formed thicker and stronger. The soldier, a Greater Noble of the Omehi, was already powerful and deadly, but now that his Gifted’s powers flowed through him, he was a colossus.
The Ingonyama let out a spine-chilling howl and launched himself at his enemies. The savages tried to hold, but there was little any man, no matter how skilled, could do against an Enraged Ingonyama.
The Ingonyama shattered a man’s skull with his sword pommel, and in the same swing, he split another from collarbone to waist. Grabbing a third heathen by the arm, he threw him ten strides.
Strain evident on her face, the Gifted did all she could to maintain her Ingonyama’s transformation. “The champion has called a retreat,” she shouted to the Omehi soldiers within earshot. “Get back to the ships!”
The girl—she was too young for Tsiory to think of her as much else—gritted her teeth, pouring energy into the enraged warrior, struggling as six more savages descended on him.
The first of the savages staggered back, his chest collapsed inward by the Ingonyama’s fist. The second, third, and fourth leapt on him together, stabbing at him in concert. Tsiory could see the Gifted staggering with each blow her Ingonyama took. She held on, though, brave thing, as the target of her powers fought and killed.
It’s enough, thought Tsiory, leave. It’s enough.
The Ingonyama didn’t. They almost never did. The colossus was surrounded, swarmed, mobbed, and the savages did so much damage to him that he had to end his connection to the Gifted or kill her too.
The severing was visible as two flashes of light emanating from the bodies of both the Ingonyama and the Gifted. It was difficult to watch what happened next. Unpowered, the Ingonyama’s body shrank and his strength faded. The next blow cut into his flesh and, given time, would have killed him.
The savages gave it no time. They tore him to pieces and ran for the Gifted. She pulled a knife from her tunic and slit her own throat before they could get to her. That didn’t dissuade them. They fell on her and stabbed her repeatedly, hooting as they did.
Tsiory, having seen enough, looked away from the butchery, urging the horse to run faster. He’d make it to the ships and the reserves of the Chosen army. The Ingonyama and Gifted had given him that with their lives. It was hard to think it mattered.
Too many savages had poured out from the tree line. They’d come in force and the Chosen could not hold. The upcoming battle would be his last.
1. A single family’s tombs.
2. A tree similar to a cherry.
3. Carrion-eating birds with bright plumage, often kept as garbage-eating pets.
4. A handheld firework.
5. Khir. Affectionate. Elder brother.
6. A small, slightly acrid fruit.
7. A native, very hardy Khir plant with seven petals on its small highly fragrant flowers; the root is used for blue dye.
8. A fragrant, highly prized wood.
9. A royal signet-seal.
10. A six-stringed instrument with a triangular soundbox.
11. The rich farmlands of westron Zhaon, many small fiefs under the now-extinct Wurai house.
12. A fragrant yellow flower of a thin-leaved plant; the leaves are often used to scent wine while the flowers are brewed into tea.
13. An insect with broad, bright wings.
14. A blackened, curved assassin’s blade.
15. A pungent aromatic root.
16. A root with mild analgesic properties, tending to blacken the teeth of those who chew it.
17. A game of bicolored stones upon a board painted with intersecting circles.
18. A drink made of crushed, fermented rai.
19. A heavy-barked, resin-rich tree.
20. A mixture of spices, herbs, and resins to keep moths and time from stored cloth.
21. A mixture of honey and thickened, very strong tea.
22. A traditional drink of fermented milk laced with sohju.
23. Pounded, stiffened, very bland rai.
24. A thin, flexible housekeeper’s cane.
25. A small measure of liquid, an ounce.
26. A small bird, brightly colored, whose wings blur as they fly.
27. A large insect with paired wings, closely resembling a dragonfly.
28. A segmented, fast-growing, almost-wood.
29. Glassy black volcanic stone.
30. Named for the sound made while the wearer walks.
31. Half an ingot of precious metal.
32. A pattern of rushing babu leaves.
33. Literally, “death eater.”
34. A quick, excruciating poison made and used by peasants when they wish to commit suicide during famines.
35. A very strong, clear liquor that, in its unwatered form, can render one blind after drinking.
36. Watered and sugared sohju given medicinally to cranky children.
37. A thin-skinned root vegetable held to be very healthful, since its flesh is red.
38. A scentwood perfume base.
39. A decorative belt-pin.
40. A narcotic that grants much physical endurance and flexibility but robs its user of speech. Withdrawal is particularly painful and often fatal.
41. Brown birds often nesting in small bushes, said to never drink water.
42. A powerful narcotic, capable of sedating or pleasantly relaxing a subject, but lethal in higher doses as the heart, lungs, and liver shut down under its weight.
43. A water-loving tree with long, flowing, flexible branches and thin leaves.
44. A wool-coated animal, grazed upon high stony ground.
&nbs
p; 45. A ceremonial group hunt allowed only to the Second Families of Khir.
46. A milder addictive herb than djonba, with slight analgesic properties.
47. A tea from the south of Zhaon, light and fragrant.
48. A round but very quick-flying bird, sometimes trained to carry messages.
49. A melon, sweet when young, musky when it develops its late-summer rind.
50. A smoke-cured tea from Daebo.
51. A bland, cheap peasant dish of organ meat and unpolished rai.
52. Tender dark meat from a male eggfowl.
53. Heavily sweetened laborer’s tea with crushed rai stirred in, often taken with raw eggs.
54. A bird which places its eggs in other nests, to be raised by unsuspecting avians of higher class or worth.
55. “Nagging.”
56. Somewhat of a cross between a steward and an umpire.
57. The tree silkworms prefer to spin their cocoons upon.
58. A costly resin incense used for the burials of royalty, sweet and bitter-pungent at once.
59. A sweet grass. When dried, it is said to promote fair dreams.
