The Last of the Etela, Chapter 10

The end of the beginning.

Previously on THE SHIELDBREAKER SAGA…So much stuff happened. Like, a lot. Read back?

—

“What’s keeping them, do you think?”

“Don’t know. Are you in such a hurry for them to get it over with?” Antaz ul-Inaz took a swig and passed the water skin to Lukaz ul-Zalan without looking at him. “They’re probably as tired as we are.”

“There are thousands more of them, though,” Lukaz said. “All I’m saying, if it were me in charge of an army that size, I wouldn’t have waited this long.”

“Maybe they’re trying to get in our heads.” Those were the first words Uskol ul-Aravan had spoken in quite some time—at least since before the group got their food and sat down. There were six of them here besides Antaz: four men from Turan’s company and two of Aravan ul-Ganruz’s ‘pretty boys’ (the Limavar were originally named, as the story went, as a mostly good-natured dig at the captain of a different company who’d been spurned by a woman besotted over their significantly better-looking Ohta), men who’d saved their lives earlier, sitting with their legs over the edge of the cliffside looking down onto the path, eating salted meat (from what animal, only the gods knew at this point) and sharing a skin of water. Uskol’s gaze was fixed on the place where they’d made their stand—where his friends had died holding off the enemy while he and the rest of the company reformed the line. Where his friend Uskol the Bastard still lay, somewhere, amongst the piles of friendly and enemy dead.

Lukaz looked sideways at him. “You think it’s working?”

Uskol didn’t respond.

“Leave off him, brother,” said Antaz, putting a hand on Uskol’s shoulder. Uskol didn’t register the gesture, and kept staring. Antaz turned back to Lukaz. “Most of my old company are lying down there, too. Hardly any Pehtur left after this morning.”

“Your mates died well.”

“As did all our men.” Antaz shrugged. “So did theirs, for that matter.”

Lukaz nodded. “Tough bastards, they are.” He lifted the water skin away from him, toasting towards the enemy camp sprawling below them.

“Is it true a few dozen of them climbed up that cliff wall last night?” one of the Limavar chimed in.

“That’s what I heard. My cousin in T'kar-K’veh said they found a long rope dangling off the east end. Wasn’t there when we got here. One of them must’ve climbed up freehand.”

“Gods.”

“I know. Anyways, Alakuz-Ra’an cleaned them up, but not before they killed every last one of the archers.”

“The Ohta’s brother, too?” The thought snapped Uskol out of his reverie for a second.

“Yeah. That’s where Turan-Ohta is now, sitting with him.” Lukaz paused for a moment. “Broke all their bows, too, to make sure none of us could take their place.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. They thought of everything.”

—

Kareva was not worried about spare bows, or archers to wield them, or what might be keeping the enemy, or planning his next strategy, or food and water.

He had been drifting for the past few hours amongst the scattered groups of the men on the summit, thanking them for their courage, patting shoulders, laughing agreeably any time one of them tried to put on a brave face and make a joke, politely accepting a piece of meat when offered, even re-telling his account of breaking the tortoise-shell when asked. Whatever he could do to give them a bit of respite or a bit more resolve, to make their last hours a bit easier.

He could see in everyone’s eyes that they knew it was over. The next time the Pohyor came up, they would retreat to the cave, hold them off for as long as they had the strength, and then join their comrades in whatever came next after death.

Maybe it was the fact that they were stuck here on top of the mountain, surrounded by all these bodies, that was crushing morale. That they were camped on the actual battlefield, unable to escape the sights and smells of death for even a moment.

Kareva found himself staring at the bodies of his archers on the summit—men who had done their duty brilliantly, men whom he and Alakuz had decidedly failed. They could have kept five men on the far side as a lookout. It was, after the fact, inexcusably stupid that they hadn’t.

Oh, well, at least it’s a lesson learned, he thought to himself angrily. I’ll be sure not to make that mistake again in our next fight to the death—just like I won’t gut the next foreign ambassador who says something I don’t like.

Then he noticed one other living man among the dead, sitting with his head down and his legs crossed, and he let his self-judgment subside and went to make the most of whatever time he had left with his people.

—

“Can I sit with you, Turan-Ohta?”

Turan looked up. Kareva-Oproz was standing over him with what looked like genuine concern written on his features. It was odd.

“Of course, Oproz. You honor me.”

He looked back down as Kareva sat next to him. They both sat quietly for a minute. Just as Turan decided he would be perfectly content with silent company, the Oproz finally spoke.

“I’m sorry I never got to know your brother.” He paused. “I’m sorry I never really got to know any of you.”

Turan looked back at him. “I am sure you had your reasons, Mightiness.”

“Perhaps. None good enough. I asked you all to come here to die with me, and I did not know you.”

“Respectfully, Oproz, I think it would have been harder to ask that of us if you did know us.” Turan looked down. “When they broke through earlier and cut my company off, a bunch of my men willingly jumped into that gap, with no one covering them, so that the rest of us could link back up with the rest of the shield wall.”

“And a good number of your company survived because of what they did.”

“I know, but…they went on their own, Oproz. I knew it had to be done, and I froze. I couldn’t bring myself to give the order.” He sniffed.

Kareva nodded his understanding. “It’s a terrible responsibility. But they knew, and they did it without being asked. That isn’t your failure. It’s a credit to them. It shows the depth of their loyalty to you.”

“And to you.”

“They didn’t know me, really. They were your men. They did what they did for their friends, and for you. That speaks well of you, Turan.”

“Thank you, Oproz.”

“The only failure here is mine.” Kareva looked down. “I acted rashly, killing the fat man. It’s not right that you all have to die for it.”

“The gods wouldn’t let you kneel to them. I don’t see how you had a choice—and because we’re here, hopefully our people will get to Makan Alabar safely. The tribe will survive. Even if…” he trailed off.

“Even if what?”

“Even if those children don’t grow up like us.”

Kareva nodded. They would live entirely different lives. They would not be Hodrir, or even Etela, really. But they’d live. “Are any of them yours?”

Turan chuckled. “Not that I know of. None of the girls I was with ever came to claim me, at least. But Harila has four…had four. Toruk for our father, Edren, Lili, and Ani.” He smiled at the thought of them. “Good kids. Look like their mother, thank the gods.” He turned to the chieftain. “Did you have any? Guess not, right? We probably would have heard something about that.”

Kareva chuckled and shook his head.

“Well, why not? I imagine all the girls would have been chasing the son of the High King around since before you even came of age!” Turan grinned. “Maybe that’s why none of the boys ever saw you outside of training, eh?”

“In truth, I was hiding from the girls, too.”

“Well, what the hell were you doing that for?”

Kareva let out a proper laugh and punched Turan in the arm, and Turan lifted his fist to punch Kareva back and saw him grin, daring him to do it, and then they were both grinning, and suddenly, for just a second, Turan could imagine being Kareva’s friend. Not necessarily the Oproz’s, or the Prince’s, but possibly the man’s.

Then they remembered where they were. Kareva looked at Turan again, deadly serious.

“I’m sorry I led us here.”

Turan looked at him steadily, wondering if he was saying what Turan thought he was saying. “You would have knelt?”

Kareva nodded, unable to bring himself to say it.

Turan nodded slowly, understanding. “I was thinking about it before…wondering whether the gods would really curse us simply because we wanted to live.”

Kareva’s brow furrowed and he rested his chin on his hand for a moment, deep in thought. “I’m not entirely sure the gods even exist.” His eyes darted up to Turan. “Tell no one.”

Turan was stunned at the admission—and grateful for the Oproz’s confidence. “Who would I tell?” He hesitated for a moment, and decided he had nothing to lose. “I’m not sure they do, either.”

—

Miruz stood at attention in the warlord’s tent as Ersev paced back and forth in front of him. Behind him stood the leader of his guards. Oreik was nowhere to be found. That brought Miruz a bit of satisfaction: if the warlord was about to kill him, at least that smug little shit wouldn’t be here to enjoy it.

“Help me understand. You say you got your men up that cliff and killed every archer on that ledge, but you didn’t hold it?”

“They had more men in reserve than we thought. And even their archers fought like hell. A good fifteen of my men were down before their reinforcements even got to us.”

“You were overrun.”

“Yes, Mightiness.”

“And yet, you live.”

“Their leader—it must have been their leader—he and I went at it man to man while his men saw off the rest of mine. He beat me. Knocked my sword out of my hand,” he said, holding up his hand to show his missing fingers, as if they were proof of his version of events.

“And then…he simply let you go?”

“I was as surprised as you are, Mightiness. He said something about how I deserved to die holding a sword? Maybe it’s part of their custom or something. I don’t know. And he let me climb back down the rope.”

“You didn’t bargain for your life?”

Miruz shook his head. “I was ready to die.” He held the warlord’s gaze. “I am ready to die. I failed you up there, and I’m the only one left alive to tell you about it. I wouldn’t trust me either. Do what you have to do, Mightiness.”

He willed himself not to flinch as Ersev took a slow, deliberate step forward, his hand straying towards the knife at his belt, clearly considering his options, considering the consequences. The warlord turned back to look at Ulav and tilted his head slightly, as if to ask, Would you trust him? Ulav shrugged, as Miruz knew he would. He had no need to commit himself; this situation was good for him whichever way it played out.

Ersev was looking up at him again now. “What’s your impression of the enemy?”

“Mightiness?”

“I haven’t yet decided whether I’m going to kill you—mainly because, however the hell you got down the mountain with your life, you seem to be one of a shrinking number of men around me who are talking sense. What is your impression of the enemy? Speak freely.”

Miruz took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. “Mightiness, if there’s any way you can see your way clear to letting them live and join us, you should.”

Ersev cocked an eyebrow. “You know how that sounds, don’t you? Coming from you?”

Miruz nodded. “I do. My own fate aside, you should offer them terms. They’ve killed, what, about two thousand of us by now, haven’t they? More?” He looked at Ulav for confirmation and got a reluctant nod. “The bulk of four different tribes’ fighting men and a nice chunk of your personal guard, not to mention the only forty-six other men brave or crazy enough to volunteer to climb up that damned cliff with me in the dead of night. It could cost you another thousand soldiers to finish them off. And even if it didn’t, killing them would be a tragic waste of gifted fighting men. They’re incredibly skilled, fearless in the face of death, ruthless when they have an advantage—again, ignoring the fact that I stand in front of you for the moment.”

A grim smile played across the warlord’s face. “Yes, for the moment.”

Miruz scoffed audibly. If he was a dead man anyway, he might as well use the full range of his expression while he could. “Oh, come on, Mightiness, you know what I meant.” Then he saw the amusement in the warlord’s eyes. Ersev was testing him. He allowed himself to relax ever so slightly. “I don’t know how many of them are left, but they can absolutely be useful to you, if they can be made to see reason.”

Ersev took a step closer and lowered his voice, as if not to risk anyone on the mountain above them hearing what he would say next. “And when they find out their women and children have been killed?”

Miruz lowered his own voice to match the warlord’s. “A terrible tragedy. One you can find someone else to blame for. Either way, perhaps something to deal with when we’re not hundreds of miles from our home base and our horses?”

Ersev stayed quiet for a moment, then nodded.

“Alright, then. Go see if they’ll talk to me.”

“Mightiness?”

“You’ll take the white cloth up the hill, offer a parley, and wait at the summit with them until their representative comes back from our camp.”

Miruz nodded. “Yes, Mightiness.”

“Oh, and best not take a sword.” Ersev chuckled darkly. “Don’t want to give their man a reason to kill you, do we?”

“No, Mightiness.”

—

Alakuz stood quietly on watch with the last eleven men of Uskol ul-Sakara’s Dazvar-Muz, looking out over the end of the path, though the view was mostly obstructed by bodies. Of the eleven hundred-odd warriors who’d marched out of Kalaa Ukruv'r, three hundred eighty-eight still lived.

And only five Ohtar. They’d pulled the bodies of Sivridi, Edren ul-Edren and Katuz ul-Uzan out of the pile some time ago, all three almost unrecognizable from being trampled upon in the back-and-forth battle on that flank. It was heartbreaking to see them that way, and no amount of talk about them feasting in Vei’s hall would erase the sight.

It also left them short on experienced commanders: the only Ohtar left alive to serve Kareva were Harila’s little brother, Georz ul-Zimion, Mikal ul-Zalan, Aravan Limava and Attala ul-Marak.

And himself, of course. Unless Kareva didn’t like the answers to the many, many questions he was probably about to ask.

Below him on the narrowest part of the path, waving an enormous white linen, stood the big man from the ledge.

He looked around for Kareva and finally found him sitting next to Turan ul-Toruk a few dozen paces away on the archer’s ledge. They looked to be deep in conversation. He took a deep breath, exhaled hard, and walked towards them.

“Oproz, a word?”

Kareva and Turan looked up, both almost startled by Alakuz’s sudden presence. Alakuz wondered for a second what they were talking about, and decided he didn’t want to know. He had his own thing to deal with right now.

“What can I do for you, Alakuz?”

“The big man whose sword I gave to Metan.”

Kareva looked around for a minute, clearly searching for a body. “What about him?”

“He’s standing on the path right now, holding a parley flag.”

Turan didn’t react for a moment, then leaned back as if bowled over. Kareva cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “Would you care to explain how he got there?”

“I let him live.”

Kareva stood, slowly, warily. He sidled up to Alakuz’s right side, to shield Turan from the next part of their conversation. “You told me he killed Harila,” he whispered.

“And several others, I imagine.”

Kareva tilted his head closer to Alakuz’s ear. “Why?”

Alakuz let his chin drop slightly so he could whisper back. “I disarmed him in single combat. He deserved to die with a sword in his hand, and I couldn’t let him pick it up after he dropped it.”

“So you let him live.”

“I sent him back down the cliff on his rope.”

“You’re out of your damned mind.”

“Yes, Oproz.”

“And now he’s down there asking to talk.”

“Yes, Oproz.”

Kareva thought for a second. “Alright. I’m going to go see what he wants. We’re not done with this conversation, though.”

Alakuz nodded. “Yes, Oproz.”

—

Kareva walked by himself down the path and came face to face with the enormous brute that his mentor had beaten and then inexplicably spared. Alakuz, what the hell were you thinking? he thought to himself, shaking his head in wonderment.

For his part, the big man looked slightly confused. “You’re not the man I fought.”

“Alakuz is my Ra’an Ohtar—the first among my captains. He taught me how to fight.”

“Are you as good as he is?”

Kareva looked down at Miruz’s wrapped hand, took note of the two missing fingers, and smirked. “No one is as good as he is.”

The big man chuckled mirthlessly. “My master would like a word with you. He wants to see if we can end this without any more ugliness.”

“Alright.”

“Take the flag and walk down to the big one in the middle.” He gestured with one huge arm towards a group of tents visible by the light of countless campfires. “I’d come with you, but he ordered me to offer myself as a hostage to ensure your safe return.”

Kareva shrugged. “No need. My men know what to do if I’m killed.”

“Orders are orders.”

“Alright. Consider yourself my guest, then. You’ll find a familiar face with the sentries at the top of the path.” He took a few steps past the big man and then turned back. “I wouldn’t expect to get your sword back, though.”

He heard the giant’s reply as he made his way down the path. “I’ll find another one.”

—

Miruz smirked to himself as the young chieftain of the Hodrir walked away from him down the hill. The little bastard was confident, that was for sure. The warlord would like him.

But as he trudged up the narrow part of the path, stepping over body after body, his good humor vanished, and all he could think of was throttling Oreik—or perhaps dragging him up here to look at what he’d done before tossing him over the cliff.

Not that he particularly cared about the dead men on this mountain, but anything that destabilized Ersev’s hold on the horde was dangerous for everyone in his inner circle. Ersev wouldn’t hesitate to make drastic changes if he stopped trusting the judgment of the people giving him advice.

In a just world, Oreik’s actions would cost him everything. The warlord would (quietly, of course) beg Regez’s forgiveness for Oreik’s wrongful culling of the tribe of Led—the needless deaths of such honorable, valued warriors being tantamount to murder—and offer him his son’s life to clear the blood debt. And Regez, for his part, would never ask his dearest friend to kill his own son: he would graciously accept Oreik’s banishment or disownment as recompense, and he and Miruz would continue to advise the warlord while Ersev strengthened his grip on his new territories and figured out what to do about the succession.

But what if—perish the thought—the world wasn’t just?

What if the warlord couldn’t bring himself to completely cut his only trueborn son out of his plans for the future?

That would put Regez in jeopardy, along with anyone close to him.

—

Kareva also had a political problem.

In the two weeks since he’d become Oproz, he’d made it abundantly clear, in public, that he expected his people to follow the Way—to live the life commanded of them by the gods.

Every new chieftain, down the years, must have inevitably come to a point where he had to make a decision on how his relationship with the gods would shape his rule. Kareva had not gotten to make that decision for himself. The specter had made it for him.

If he had let the fat man live, maybe he’d have had some more room to maneuver. But as he stood alone that night over his dying father, he realized that his options had shrunk considerably: he could present himself as either a holy warrior, or he could brand himself a fool who was totally unprepared to wield power.

(Or, he supposed, he could try to blame it on his brother’s ghost. That would probably go well.)

So from his first public statement at his father’s funeral, all the way through the mad counter-attack at the end of this morning’s proceedings, everything had been in alignment. No surrender. The only other man who knew his true mind since the beginning was Alakuz. And possibly Turan, from their audience in Varyta’s hall—and if he knew, he’d held the secret just as closely, to his infinite credit.

And his warriors had bought in completely, fought valiantly, died bloody. Followed the Way to the letter. If it turned out the gods were real, they would be impressed, and Sivridi and Metan and Uskol and all those others would surely have earned their place in Vei’s hall.

All the same, if he had the choice, he would rather find a way to keep the rest of them alive, just in case he was right.

And all he had to do to make that happen was find a way to give the warlord what he demanded without forcing his people to shame themselves—or make it look like he was reversing himself.

He was getting close to the foot of the path now. He looked down and to his left, looking for the warlord’s tent, and his eye was drawn to one of the bodies at the bottom of the mountain, smaller than the others, with longer hair.

Taravi was still holding onto a broken sword. Of course she was. He’d have to carry her back up with him when he was done. She deserved the honor of a hero’s funeral.

All of them did.

That settled it for him. He’d make the best deal he could, and if it were necessary, he would accept some measure of his people’s scorn if it meant they could keep some measure of their pride in the bargain.

—

Ersev had cleared everyone out of his tent.

He’d handle the negotiation alone. No one else would hear what was spoken between the two leaders. That was the way Ersev liked it: it gave him the freedom to make whatever deal he pleased, without worrying about any other officer or vassal comparing their privileges to the newcomer’s. And it gave him the freedom to renege on anything he had to, when the time came—it would be his word against the supplicant’s, and he would have an entire horde to back him up.

He found himself looking forward to meeting his enemy. Miruz was a hard man to impress, and his description of the tall, dark sword-warrior he’d come face-to-face with on the mountaintop had smacked of something deeper. Not fear—Ersev was confident that Miruz feared no man but Ersev himself—but certainly respect.

Presently, the tent-flap opened, and the leader of the Hodrir stepped lightly through the curtain and into the room. This isn’t the man Miruz described. He’s barely grown! Ersev kept his confusion to himself. The boy made a show of slowly pulling a long knife with a gold handle out of his belt and placing it on the table. Then he looked up.

“Greetings, Mightiness…” the boy trailed off for a second, then smiled disarmingly. “That is the proper way to address you, right? I want to make a good first impression.”

Ersev smiled back at him. “It will do. It is the one my men use.”

“Oh, good. I am Kareva, son of Varyta. I rule the Hodrir.”

Ersev nodded. “I am Ersev, son of Erkan of the tribe of Vrang. You are most welcome here. Please, sit and drink with me, and let’s try to resolve our quarrel without any more violence.” He gestured to the second chair, across from him. Kareva nodded and sat down, and Ersev filled the two goblets from the jug of deep red wine on the table.

Kareva lifted his goblet. “I salute you. Your men fight bravely.” He tipped the goblet away from his lips and let the first few drops fall onto the table in front of him. “To the dead and the dying.”

Ersev nodded his appreciation. He wondered if he’d ever heard that toast before. It was a good one; he’d have to remember it. He lifted and tipped his goblet in turn. “The dead and the dying.”

They drank the rest of their cups. Ersev motioned with his head toward the jug. “Another?”

Kareva lifted his hands to ward off the second cup. “Thank you. Maybe in a little while. Let’s talk first.”

“Fine with me. We do have some things to discuss.”

Kareva nodded. “We do.”

“To begin with, you must account for your decision to order the death of my ambassador.” Ersev’s words were more aggressive than his tone. There was no need to make this an uncomfortable conversation. Kareva was pleasant enough company, so far. He would accept the forthcoming apology magnanimously, and they could proceed from there.

Kareva’s answer surprised him. “Actually, I killed him myself.”

“Did you, now?”

“Mine is a small tribe. I don’t usually have the luxury of ordering killings. Your man insulted me beyond endurance, and for that I killed his guards and then stabbed him. Many, many times.”

Ersev chuckled. “Stasin did have a way with people. You killed both guards too?”

Kareva smiled. “In fairness, two of my archers finished the job. But I’m reasonably sure they were already dying before they were shot.”

“Reasonably sure?”

Kareva gestured to the knife lying on the table. “I think I got them both. Stabbed one through the armpit up to the hilt, and cut all the way through the other one’s thigh. They certainly wouldn’t have made it back to you alive, hurt like that.”

Ersev was impressed. Those two brutes who followed Stasin around had had fearsome reputations. “And neither of them so much as touched you?”

“Come now, Mightiness, is it so unreasonable to think that I could have taken two big, slow horsemen by myself? Especially when they were weighted down by those heavy spears…” Kareva leaned back, almost smug.

Ersev broke into a broad grin in spite of himself. “From what Miruz told me, it does not seem so unreasonable. You and your men are talented killers, truly.”

Kareva smiled and nodded his gratitude. “High praise. I thank you.”

—

Alakuz was standing next to the big man, who’d introduced himself as Miruz, at the top of the ledge. Neither of them had spoken for a few minutes. Alakuz’s mind wandered back to the fortress, to the first time Kareva was called down to meet a foreign dignitary, and idly wondered how likely it was that he would snap again, kill the warlord, get killed in return, and force the fight to its bloody conclusion.

Probably not that likely. After the last two days, there was no way the warlord would be as ham-fistedly arrogant as the fat man had been. And hopefully Kareva had learned his lesson.

A voice came from next to him. “So, how’d you become their first sword, anyway?”

He looked to his left, slightly startled. The big man wasn’t looking at him directly, clearly trying to keep his questions from attracting too much attention from any other curious ears.

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean, you’re clearly skilled.”

“As are you.”

“But you’re an outsider among your people, aren’t you? It’s pretty clear, from looking at the rest of your men…”

Alakuz nodded. “My mother was Hodrir, but my father was almost certainly a foreigner, yes.” He paused for a second, debating how deep he wanted to get into this discussion. “She never said his name.”

“I’m an outsider as well.”

Alakuz tilted his head. He hadn’t looked hard enough at any of the men he’d killed to notice any obvious difference. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Not a drop of Pohyor blood. I was born in Toskalne. You know it?”

“To speak of. Never been.”

“Yeah. I joined up with the horde when they came over the Brul.”

“Hmm.”

Neither of them spoke again for a few seconds.

“So, then, how’d you do it?” Miruz leaned in now, almost conspiratorially. “You know, in case I get bored of rock-climbing and want a new challenge.”

Alakuz chuckled. The big man was clearly not to be trusted, even slightly. But there would be no harm in humoring him here. “Well, let’s see…I chose my mentor wisely.”

“Brilliant. I’ve already done that. What else?”

“I learned everything I could from him.”

“And then?”

“And then, when the time was right, I replaced him.”

Miruz didn’t answer right away. He lifted his left hand and stroked his chin. “When the time was right.”

Alakuz suddenly realized what the big man thought he meant. He opened his mouth to say something more, and then decided against it.

—

Ersev had decided not to wait to drink his second cup. He grabbed the carafe and poured himself a third. “So, did your people fight on the side of Rune or Imandris during their wars?”

“That was a bit before my time. By the time I came of age, my father had decided to keep the Hodrir out of it. But before then, from what I’ve been told, we fought campaigns on both sides. They were at war for a long time, obviously. Plenty of demand for good fighting men.”

“Mercenaries, then, your people.” Ersev nodded more to himself than Kareva. “That makes sense. And all that time, neither of those massive empires attempted to conquer you or the other southern tribes?”

“I suppose they were too distracted by each other to pay much attention to the Etela.”

“And unfortunately for you, I have no similar distraction.”

Kareva shrugged philosophically. “And you were fortunate enough to meet us one tribe at a time, rather than all together.”

“My priests tell me it was ordained by God.”

Kareva pondered that for a moment. “I see.”

Ersev smirked. “You don’t care very much what my priests say, I imagine.”

“You’ll have to forgive me. You are the first Pohyor I’ve ever spoken to for this long. I’ve got no familiarity with your god or your priests—or the gods that the Runir and Imandrir spent all their time fighting over, for that matter. The only gods I know well are mine, and they’ve never told me the future.”

“Perhaps they do not see it?”

“Perhaps…” Kareva fiddled idly with the handle of his knife for a moment. “Mightiness, are we approaching the part of the conversation where we debate whether your god is greater than my gods?”

Ersev laughed heartily. “Is that a conversation you’ve had before?”

“I was warned it would happen. Years ago. Rather, my father was warning my brother about it, and I was in the room. He said every luminary he ever met, Runir or Imandrir, tried to convert him at least once in an attempt to win us fully to their cause.”

“I will not. It is not for me to make you a believer.”

“I appreciate that.”

Ersev lifted up one finger. “I would be remiss, though, if I didn’t at least suggest…”

Kareva raised an eyebrow. “Suggest what?”

“Well, would you agree that a war between two peoples is, to some extent, also a war between their gods?”

“Naturally.”

Ersev nodded. “Of course it is. How could it not be? But…does it not then also stand to reason that the people who win that war have the more powerful deity?”

Kareva stroked his chin for a second. “That is an easy argument to make when you outnumber your enemy by ten to one.”

“But wouldn’t that, in and of itself, be a sign of my God’s power? Wouldn’t the very fact that the Etela tribes have fallen one by one, that you’re alone and surrounded and down to your last few hundred men…”

“And yet, you haven’t been able to finish us off.”

“We both know that is coming, though.”

Kareva, for the first time since their initial toast, lifted his own goblet to his lips. “My gods make only one demand of us. We must never surrender to a foreigner.”

“Even at the point of death?”

“In any of your battles with the Etela, have you taken a single prisoner?”

Ersev leaned in closer. “Think carefully. We both know what will happen tomorrow unless this conversation goes the way I want it to. My fool of a son made an absolute mess of our first two forays up that mountain, and your warriors are astounding in their skill and their resolve, but you are still utterly outnumbered, and there’s no way for you to escape. Whether we call it a surrender or not, unless you declare your loyalty to me and swear to serve me, you and everyone you command will be dead before the sun goes down tomorrow night. And I want you to know, I would prefer that not to happen.”

Kareva smiled. “Especially since we’re enjoying our time together so much.”

“Exactly.”

Kareva shifted slightly in his chair. “And because it will cost you more men than you want it to,” he added casually.

Ersev frowned but stayed quiet, giving nothing away, waiting to be told a fairytale.

Kareva shrugged, almost apologetically, as he went on. “It will. We are tired, certainly, but we’re well supplied. There’s no risk of us starving or dying of thirst. Everything we brought along is in a cave at the summit that we can easily retreat into for a last stand. Our gods may not have given us strength in numbers, but they gave us a truly formidable defensive position.” Kareva paused and took another sip of wine. “It will take you longer than you want, and it will cost you more men than you want. And I have to imagine that’s a little bit dangerous for you, especially if it was your son who failed so miserably at the beginning of the battle. After all, you don’t want to lose face.”

Ersev cocked his head, utterly impressed. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Your father taught you well.”

“My father—” Kareva seemed to stop himself abruptly. “Yes, he taught me well.”

Ersev wondered what the boy had been about to say. He chose not to respond for a moment. He leaned back slightly and looked across the table at Kareva, admiring him, almost proud of him. He was eerily calm in the face of certain death, and still paying attention to everything around him, in a way that showed all of Oreik’s flaws in ever starker relief.

He would be an asset, as long as Ersev handled this last part the right way. He leaned forward again.

“So. You are forbidden from surrendering, and I am sworn to kill you unless you do—and you are well-enough defended to make it expensive for me. It is not the position of strength I am used to negotiating from, certainly. But in the end, it makes no difference. Rest assured, if I have to, I will kill every last one of you. Cost be damned.”

“I have no doubt that you will.”

“And I really would rather not.”

“I believe you.”

“And I don’t want to kill you, in particular. You’re too smart to die so pointlessly; anyone could see that!” He slapped his palms down on the table. “I would prefer you to live.”

“So what are we to do, then? How can I swear you my loyalty without surrendering?”

“What if, instead of simply submitting, you and your boys joined us?” Ersev spread his arms expansively and smiled. “It’s always better to fight on the winning side, after all. The pay’s certainly better.”

Kareva paused for a moment, his wheels clearly turning as he decided on what to demand first. "My people stay my own."

"Fine." That was always the first thing they asked for.

"I mean to say—they don’t have to kneel to you and offend our gods. That burden will be mine. I won’t have them share it."

Ersev raised an eyebrow. "And how will they know whom they serve?"

Kareva shrugged. "I will be your man, and my people will follow any order I give them. But they only answer to me—and I only answer to you."

The warlord paused, pretending to think it over. "Fine." That was how he wanted the relationship to proceed, anyway, at least early on. The boy would need to be kept close until his loyalty was certain.

"And you forgo any vengeance for the killing of your envoy."

Ersev had to think fast. "You mean besides what's already been done, of course," he retorted, tilting his head ever so slightly back toward the battlefield, toward the sounds of the wounded and dying.

"Of course."

The boy's response was nonchalant. Clearly he had no idea that a separate detachment was hunting down the rest of his people as they spoke. This could be a problem. Ersev wanted the negotiation finished before the question of the civilians came up.

"Alright, then." He changed course suddenly, feigning impatience. "Unless there's anything else? A seat at my table at mealtimes? Use of my harem whenever you see fit?" He leaned in a bit closer, raising himself up a few inches from his seat to add a physical element to his condescension. "Any other incentive I can offer to convince you to let me spare your life?"

The boy smiled subtly as he stood and held out his arm to take the warlord’s hand. "Of course not, Mightiness. I'll push my luck no further."

Ersev stood as well, hiding his sigh of relief by stretching his back. “Too long in a chair... Don’t get old.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good boy. And well negotiated.” He placed his hand in Kareva’s, and the younger man knelt, holding eye-contact with his new liege lord the whole way down.

“I am yours to command…kogon,” he intoned in his foreign accent. “I look forward to fighting by your side.” And then something seemed to startle him. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but Ersev would have sworn that he saw the boy flinch ever so slightly.

No matter.

—

Kulava ul-Katuz knew what was happening before it began.

The sky was clear, but he could suddenly see a massive dust cloud rising over the hilltop—and hear something rumbling in the sand above him.

Hooves on sand. Too many for it to be a coincidence. The enemy had found them.

He looked behind him, guessing which side they would be coming from even before he saw the first of them, and wondered for a moment how long they’d been following them, if perhaps they’d been waiting for an opportune moment to strike—like when their quarry was in crowded together in a valley between two giant sand dunes.

Maybe. They had probably just gotten lucky. It wouldn’t make any difference.

He drew his sword. Behind him, he heard warnings being shouted, and the high-pitched wails and screams that he knew had to follow, but he also heard his cousin draw his own sword, and more swords being drawn behind Boruz, and that was something, anyhow.

—

TO BE CONTINUED.

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