“May I have a moment to speak with you, Queen Murid?” Egill asked.
Murid nodded. Egill led her away from the hut toward an isolated tree along the road heading toward the western gate of the ring fortress.
“I’m sorry if my feminine emotions embarrassed you,” Murid said.
“My queen, if I may be so bold, I believe your husband is far more feminine than you’ve ever been.”
Murid clenched her teeth to keep from smiling. Egill was a good man who understood competence. If he wasn’t so stubborn concerning gender norms, he would be exactly the type of person who should lead a country.
“What do you wish to discuss?” Murid asked.
“Strategy.”
“Concerning what?”
Egill rubbed his face. “King Hafoca isn’t long for this world. We all know this. By the time Faida is through with him, he’ll be lucky to still have all his limbs. If he survives the night, I’ll be impressed. If he survives the week, I’ll try to make Faida my wife.”
Murid chuckled. It felt good to let herself embrace the joke.
“What happens if Hafoca dies?” Murid asked.
“We’ll mourn him, but I suspect you’re asking what will happen to you.”
Murid nodded. “I won’t be burned, will I?”
Egill roared with laughter. A few Vikisotes passing by on the road stopped and stared. Upon seeing who was having the conversation, they quickened their pace to get out of listening range.
“Thank you, Queen Murid, I needed that,” Egill said. “If this had been two weeks ago, you’d be a nobody. A fiancée has no rights to the throne. Since you were wed, we’ll be in a state of limbo.”
“Until you determine if I’m pregnant or not?”
Egill nodded. “You’ve always been the smartest person I’ve met. If you have a child, you’ll remain queen until birth. If that child is a son, then you’ll remain queen until his twenty-second birthday. At which point your son will become the new king of Vikisoteland.”
“If I have a daughter?”
“You’ll still have power and luxury here, but you won’t be queen. Your chances of enacting the revenge both of us know is necessary requires you to have a son growing in your belly. I hate to be so forward, but how likely is it that you’re pregnant?”
“We were together each night since our wedding until this one. I don’t feel any different, but it’s so early that I don’t think I would.”
Egill nodded as he rubbed his chin. He briefly turned away from Murid as he thought.
“The gods will know if a pregnancy is not from the chosen king. Hopefully, your belly will swell over the next four months. We could find out earlier if you bleed, but Faida and I will protect you from having to confirm or deny your flow. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“It means I have four months to prove myself to my people. If more believe in me, like you and Faida, then I’ll stay queen.”
“That’s partially true. You’ll need a new husband, and quickly. I know your character. You can lead us but only temporarily. The gods demand we have a king. I suggest you start looking for candidates. A strong warrior we can rally behind. Six months from now you’ll either still be married to King Hafoca, or you’ll be married to another.”
“Unless I announce I’m with child.”
“There’s always that, but—”
Clanging bells and shouts of alarm interrupted Egill. Murid and Egill stared in the commotion’s direction. Many laborers, women, and children raced along the western gate road to find safety in the center of the ring fortress. Egill smiled at Murid as he raised his axe. Murid drew her sword and followed him; they sprinted toward the western gate.
Murid quickened her pace as she approached the gate. Several warriors had weapons drawn and were screaming at something that Murid couldn’t quite make out. All she could see were several bright orange lights filling the night sky. Murid felt like she’d seen lights like these before when she was in Samburg. That fight was so chaotic that she hadn’t focused on them too much. The orange circles moved erratically. Murid realized why as she arrived with Egill at the western gate.
The orange glow was from the igsidian stones that three Namerians wore. One was an old woman holding a spear who stood with a younger woman. The younger woman had a bow aimed at several Vikisotes, but the arrowhead burned with fire. Not the fire from rags soaked in oil and lit; this fire didn’t harm the arrow. Murid now understood why the Corlain riflemen suddenly stopped firing at them when the wind became strange in Samburg. The two women stood defiantly, but they weren’t engaging the Vikisotes. Their posture was defensive. The same couldn’t be said about the attractive man standing in front of them.
He had stones glowing orange sewn into his green shirt. He also had a necklace that alternated between stones and claws. He had a knife and a hand axe on his belt but seemed to refuse to use either. Perhaps it was because it didn’t seem necessary. The man moved at alarming speeds. Six warriors engaged him. They did use their swords and axes. It didn’t seem to matter. The man dodged all strikes meant for his body. He actually laughed as he did this. All the warriors were enraged by how he mocked them. Many rubbed in a fresh dose of crick oil. They clenched in rage as they prepared to attack.
One swung his sword at the Namerian. The man hopped over the blade. The jump was impressive. It must have been over a meter and a half he cleared, but what was truly stunning was the fact that the Namerian “playfully” slapped the warrior. The smack of palm to cheek was audible for many meters. Murid held a hand to her lip as she sucked in air. The Namerian landed gracefully and tripped the man to the ground. Soon after, another pair of Vikisote warriors were rubbing their own red faces. Despite how humorous it was, these three were still intruders. Murid advanced on them, but stopped when Egill shouted.
“Stop! Put away your arms. These Namerians were the ones who saved us in Samburg.”
Murid jerked her head toward Egill. She searched his face and her memory for something she’d missed. She didn’t recall seeing Namerians, but apparently Egill had. Murid couldn’t argue that the magic she just witnessed didn’t coincide with what she thought she remembered about the ambush that cost so many lives.
Egill had spoken to his people in the Vikisote’s language. The Namerian man continued to slap the distracted warriors. Murid repeated Egill’s command in the common tongue.
“Stop. These Namerians are our friends. I think?” Murid said.
This time the man ended his attack. The young woman lowered her bow. The older woman handed the spear to the man.
“We aren’t your friends . . . yet, but we aren’t your enemies either. We definitely aren’t Namerians,” the man said.
The man spoke that last word with utter contempt. It was odd to Murid. It was just a word for their people. How could it possibly be offensive?
“Who are you?” Egill asked. “Why are you here?”
“I’m Two Dogs, and this is Swift Shot. We’re from the Lacreechee tribe. The hag is Ancestors’ Hand; she comes from the Intakee people,” the man answered.
Their names were peculiar. Murid assumed they received names that appealed to their character, but then what did they call their children? It was a silly thought, but the first one to pop into Murid’s head.
“I’m Egill, the commander of the Vikisote army. This is Queen Murid. You will show her respect.”
Two Dogs and Swift Shot seemed to stare at Murid. She became embarrassed. She had to restrain herself from hiding the freckles that covered her face. She’d gotten used to the Vikisotes’ jokes and whispers, but something about these Namerians, or whatever term they preferred, brought fresh waves of discomfort.
“We came here to speak with you,” Two Dogs said. “We believe we can help each other with our Corlain problem.”
“If I command my men to stand down, you’ll behave yourselves, right?” Egill asked.
Two Dogs laughed. His outburst encouraged the Vikisotes to raise th
eir weapons again. Swift Shot joined her friend in laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Egill asked.
“If we wanted to cause problems, I wouldn’t have been slapping your guards,” Two Dogs answered.
Egill squeezed his fists by his side as he swallowed behind his clenched jaw.
“True. My men embarrassed themselves,” Egill said.
The Vikisote warriors looked thoroughly chastised. A few grumbled to their neighbors. Murid sensed that some would have gladly liked another chance to fight the visitors.
“Egill, they’re clearly friends. Worry about your egos later, for now we have matters to discuss,” Murid said.
“Thank you, Queen Murid. May we speak with you in private?” Two Dogs asked.
Murid tensed when she heard a few Vikisotes chuckle mildly. “Unfortunately, you need to speak with my husband, King Hafoca, but he’s . . . unavailable.”
Ancestors’ Hand stepped forward. “It’s vital we speak with him now. The Black Cloud will follow your trail just as easily as we did. Eventually, they’ll come for this place. We must speak with the king.”
“I wish you could, but my husband was wounded in the battle at Samburg. If not for your help, I fear we all would have perished, but he isn’t able to speak with anyone,” Murid said.
“The king is wounded, and you’ve wasted our time with prattle?” Ancestors’ Hand exclaimed. “You must take me to him immediately. I may be able to help.”
“Our healer is already seeing to our king,” Egill said.
Ancestors’ Hand scoffed. “Does your healer speak with the spirits? Does your healer have the gifts of Mother Turklyo?”
“What?” Egill asked.
“Your magic can help?” Murid asked.
“Possibly, but we won’t know unless you take me to him now.”
“Follow me,” Murid said.
Her thoughts raced through her head as she briskly guided the visitors to Hafoca. Soon Faida blocked the entrance to her chapel. Hafoca’s hoarse screams spilled from inside.
“You aren’t bringing heathens into this holy place,” Faida shouted in the Vikisote language.
Murid tried to keep her temper under control. Faida was a dear friend, but she was allowing emotion to keep her from possibly saving her king.
“Let them in, now!” Murid responded in the same language.
“No. The gods won’t forgive it. Not even the chosen one of the prophecy can defy them with this level of blasphemy,” Faida said.
“They have magic!” Murid shouted.
“They only have it because they deal with demons. Their souls are cursed. They want nothing to do with us but to corrupt us. Their magic will likely kill the king before saving him. The only people who can save King Hafoca now are the gods. It’s in their hands.”
“Egill, help me,” Murid said.
Egill held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not going to step into a theological debate. If Faida says it’s against the rules, I don’t want to go against her.”
Murid rubbed her face in aggravation. Next, she held her hands on her red hair as she screamed, “Can you at least let her stand in the doorway?”
“No. They’re heathens,” Faida said.
Murid transitioned to the common tongue. “Ancestors’ Hand, if you stood in the doorway, could you heal my husband? You don’t have to touch him or anything, do you?”
Ancestors’ Hand laughed despite the seriousness of the situation. “That heathen won’t let us use magic to save him, will she?”
“Heathen?” Faida shouted in the common tongue. “You’re the heathen. You and all the Namerians.”
Two Dogs and Swift Shot reached for their weapons. The speed, especially from Two Dogs, caught most of the Vikisotes unaware.
“We aren’t Namerians!” Two Dogs shouted. “Your kind invented that word. We’re Mother Turklyo’s children. We’re Lacreechee and Intakee. Call me Namerian one more time and see what happens.”
Murid was afraid. There was fire in all three sets of eyes. Perhaps the small number of Mother Turklyo Children couldn’t take out the entire Vikisote army, but Murid knew those closest to them would die long before they ever achieved victory.
“Faida, you will listen to your queen. You’ll step aside and allow Ancestors’ Hand to do what she must to save my husband.”
“Queen Murid, you’re the chosen one. We don’t need these people,” Faida protested.
“Egill,” Murid said.
Egill sighed, but he obeyed his queen. He grabbed Faida by the wrist and forced her out of her chapel. He released his firm hold after the three visitors entered the Vikisotes’ holiest building.
Hafoca must have passed out again from the pain. He did that several times while the Vikisotes were racing him back to the ring fortress. Murid wiped a tear. Her fate had been tied to this man for so long that she feared what would happen if Ancestors’ Hand couldn’t heal him. The elderly Intakee woman’s face showed distress.
“He’s hurt far beyond my power,” Ancestors’ Hand admitted.
“I told you so,” Faida screamed from outside. “The gods will punish us for this.”
“Get her out of here,” Egill commanded.
Faida struggled as Vikisotes pulled her far away from the doorway.
“Is there anything you can do?” Murid asked.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think so,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
“There must be something,” Swift Shot said.
Her confident voice took Murid by surprise. The woman hadn’t spoken until now. Murid had wondered if she was a mute. She assumed she had to at least be shy or unable to understand the common tongue. Clearly, she was just one of those rare people who made sure her words kept power by only using them when necessary.
“His wounds are too severe. He’s lost a lot of blood,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
Murid wiped away more tears. “I understand. He’s just in so much pain. It hurts to see him like this.”
“There may be something I can do,” Ancestors’ Hand said after a moment of thought. “His wounds are likely fatal, but I can keep him from feeling them.”
“How?” Murid asked.
“I’ll alter his reality. I pull spirits into our world; I can temporarily send his spirit to theirs. His body will still be here, but his mind can be spared the suffering.”
“That will kill him,” Egill said.
“No, he’ll be in a sleeplike state. I can bring him back, if his body survives. If his body recovers, you’ll still have your king,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
Murid shared a look with Egill. They had a silent conversation through their eyes. Murid wanted him to tell her it was okay.
“You have to make this decision yourself, my queen,” Egill eventually said.
Murid closed her eyes and sighed. She suspected he would defer to her. Her revenge required Hafoca to survive as long as possible.
Murid opened her eyes and stared at Ancestors’ Hand. “Do it.”
chapter 10
“Sir, we’ve reached the southern border to Vikisoteland,” Zoya said to Githinji. “It may have been out of the way, but the roads here will better accommodate our formations and equipment.”
Githinji sat upon his horse and nodded. Before him was a small village. The Northmen living there had shut themselves inside their homes as quickly as they recognized the Corlain banners flapping in the morning breeze. Most had left their livestock to graze rather than spare the time necessary to bring them back into proper enclosures. Githinji relished their apprehension. They should know to fear the Black Cloud. They should know that defying Corla will never work. They definitely should know that Githinji couldn’t allow any forgiveness after the cowardly attack on Samburg.
“Tell the soldiers that no village, hamlet, or single farm will be spared. They attacked civilians. Their king chose to openly attack Corlain citizens. Burn this village,” Githinji said.
“Sir?” Zoya asked. “Hafoca doesn’t live i
n this region. These people likely had no idea what he planned or even did.”
“That may be true, but Vikisoteland allows their leaders to behave this way. That means they condone his actions. None are innocent. We’ll slowly move through Hafoca’s territory so all the Vikisote citizens equally pay the price for what they allow their leaders to do. If they want a rebellion so bad, they should look inside their own community,” Githinji said.
“I understand, sir, but shouldn’t we heed the reports from our spies?” Zoya asked.
Githinji turned toward her and canted his head. “Which report specifically?”
“The one that claimed Namerians arrived at Hafoca’s ring fortress. Apparently, they followed them after distracting our forces last week.”
“What’s your point, Zoya?”
“The Vikisotes and Namerians have formed an alliance. That can’t be easily set aside. Namerians have dwindling numbers, but their magic makes them formidable.”
“So do our cannons.”
“Sir, if we waste our time with each village, we may miss our true targets. The Vikisotes aren’t fools. The Namerians require additional strategy. We should move on Hafoca’s ring fortress before he decides to hide his forces within their mountains. It’ll take at least a week to march straight to the Vikisote capital. If we stop along the way to punish civilians, you can triple that timeline.”
“Are you finished?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I understand what you’re trying to say, but it’s unnecessary. That same report you quoted indicated Hafoca was near death. They won’t move him. True warriors will allow themselves to die before they abandon their king. We may take our time, because Hafoca is going nowhere. These barbarians are indecisive. They’ll be there months from now trying to decide whose dick is longest. That man will be their leader. We’ll kill them long before he earns the title.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Zoya.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Take the village. Separate the children and adults. Then get me answers to the questions our report didn’t have.”
Augury Answered Page 12
