The Last of the Etela, Chapter 2

The tribe prepares to abandon their home in the aftermath of Kareva's killing of the envoy. But first, they must send Varyta-Kogon to face the judgment of the gods.

Previously… Kareva seized control of the Hodrir with a little help from his mentor Alakuz. Then, the Pohyor envoy reached the gate of Kalaa Ukruv’r and demanded the tribe’s submission, and Kareva got very, very stabby in response—with a little help from…the ghost of his dead brother? Yikes. And then his father died. Not Kareva’s best day. You can read Chapter 1 here.

—

It took Alakuz a little while to get through the crowd of refugees. Slowly they were moving back towards the gate, towards their tents, buzzing with fear and excitement. All talking about the ‘blood-stained Prince,’ the madman who’d gone past them in a daze, having apparently just slaughtered half a horde of Pohyor all by himself armed only with a knife, or perhaps he’d killed some of the refugees who didn’t make it into the gate in time, or perhaps his own father. What manner of monster was their new ruler? 

Alakuz tried for a moment to calculate whether the display at the gate would enhance or tarnish Kareva’s reputation, then gave up. No one except the soldiers who saw it for themselves would know the truth—and even if they did speak up, they wouldn’t have a chance against the brushfire of rumor and gossip. Whatever folly and madness they’d made up about Kareva’s father would surely pale in comparison.

Not that it mattered. When time was this short, reputation was about as valuable as the southern sands. Nothing would grow on it, and nothing could hide in it. 

When he finally got to the hall, Kareva was already outside. He stood with his head down, lost in thought. He had not changed his robes; the black hid most of the dried blood, but they still stank of killing. In his left hand was the simple gold circlet that had last sat atop his father’s head. The long knife he’d done his butchering with was pushed into his belt, and hanging at his left hip was a long, subtly-curved saif of blackened steel, a specialty of the forges of Makan Alabar, with a single garnet fitted into the golden pommel that had been made special, who knows how long ago, melted and twisted by an expert smith into the shape of a scorpion’s stinger. It was Varyta’s sword. 

It was the chieftain’s sword. 

Alakuz got to within feet of the boy without being noticed. He spoke to him softly. “Kareva?”

Kareva looked up. 

“It’s done. He’s gone.”

Alakuz knelt, right fist to his chest. 

Kareva was immediately in front of him, lifting him up by the shoulders with ease. He was deceptively strong, Alakuz noted. He always had been. He’d need that now. 

 “No time for ceremony.” He matter-of-factly put the crown on his own head and turned to walk back into the hall with Alakuz close behind him. “I’ve made things very difficult for us.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he would have talked?”

Alakuz hesitated, but only for a moment. “For hours. Some of it might have even been true.”

“Damn it.” Kareva slumped a bit as he sat down for the first time in his father’s stone chair. It was of red sandstone, jutting out from the rock wall of the chamber adorned with carvings of the tribe’s legend—all centered around a panel of the Goddess Vei conjuring Kalaa Ukruv’r from desert sand mixed with the blood-sacrifice of the first Oproz. He seemed to catch himself as he sat, made to stand, stopped again, and finally straightened his back against the back of the throne. “How much time do we have?”

“Before they send someone after him? I don’t know. It depends on how good their information is, really.”

“They found the scorpion. It’s good enough.”

“I know.” Alakuz winced. “We need to draw them to Valtaa.”

“They may not chase us there.”

“We have to try.”

—

Turan ul-Toruk hesitated when he got to the curtain between the main hall and the chieftain’s quarters. 

The rest of the captains were where he’d left them, sitting in the morning sun on the benches outside the hall, waiting for orders from Alakuz and the new Oproz. When the runner Makava had pointed to him first and beckoned him inside, Turan had looked around to make sure there wasn’t a mistake. He was the youngest and most recently promoted Ohta the tribe had; surely there was some kind of pecking order, right? 

He’d seen one or two of the others smirk or stifle a chuckle when Makava had to come back out a second time and address him by name. 

“Turan-Ohta, your master calls for you.”

Sitting across from him with a few of the other Ohtar, his older brother Harila had rolled his eyes impatiently. “Go on, yereka, don’t make the new chief come out and get you himself.” Then, under his breath, he added, “Quick as he is with his knife…”

Turan had pretended not to hear him or the chuckling that followed as he stood and walked inside. But gods above, even the captains were talking? Kareva had certainly made an impression, hadn’t he? When the commotion had died down, after the couple hours it had taken to usher all of their guests out of the stronghold and back to their tents, the slaughter of the envoy was the only thing the boys in the barracks could talk about. I heard he took the man’s eyes out first...I heard the Prince ate his heart right in front of him, while he was still alive…One of my mates was up on the wall watching, and he said the guards were dead before the two archers could even fire...He must have stabbed the fat man a hundred times… What a circus. If nothing else, Turan supposed, the spectacle of the killing would at least stop the men from thinking too hard about what the hell they were supposed to do now, given that their new chieftain had just started a war with an enemy whose army was clearly many, many times their number. But all this talk about Kareva wasn’t going to do anything to boost morale.

Frankly, Turan had no idea what to expect from Kareva when he walked into the room, either, and he’d grown up with the man. Or at least, near him. Turan was only about a year older than Kareva. They were…acquainted. Kareva didn’t strike Turan as someone who had any interest in becoming friends with other people. 

There was no diplomatic way to put it, really. Something about their new chieftain gave Turan the creeps. 

Kareva couldn’t have spoken more than a few sentences to anyone these past few years since his brother died. The weight of becoming the heir must have done something to him—though Turan didn’t remember him ever being particularly outgoing when they were younger, either, on the training ground or wherever else they might have run into each other around Ukruv'r. But now he hardly talked at all, except to Alakuz. He was polite enough, certainly; he’d respond when you greeted him and give you a greeting back, but trying to get into a conversation with him was futile, not to mention unnerving. He’d stare at you with those strange, pale eyes, deathly silent, as if he was trying to decide whether a single word you just said was true. 

And then he would beat the hell out of whichever soldier was standing in front of him. No matter the man’s size, strength, speed, experience, Kareva would put him on his back time and again, in silence, with no expression on his face. 

Turan had wondered at first if it was simply because everyone was a little wary of hitting the new presumptive heir. So the first time the officers paired the two of them together, he had gone after the prince at full speed, gritting his teeth as he struck time and again with his wooden training saif. Kareva parried every blow, expressionless as ever, and then spun past Turan without warning, swinging his own wooden sword with blinding speed and knocking Turan face-first into the sand with a single blow between the shoulder blades.

Turan had tried for the next hour to knock Kareva down—and eventually, he settled for just trying to hit him. He never wondered if the rest of the boys they trained with were taking it easy on the prince ever again… 

“Elakon, Turan-Ohta.”

Turan snapped out of his reverie at the sound of the traditional greeting. Kareva was seated in his father’s chair. Turan knelt and put his right fist over his chest. “Elakon, Kareva-Oproz.” 

“Are you ready to serve me?”

“Yes, Oproz.”

Kareva nodded. “Rise and approach.” Turan stood and came forward. Kareva rose to stand in front of him. The pale eyes seemed to look through him, and the voice that came from behind them was as polite and distant as ever. “It’s good to see you, Turan. What I ask you to do tonight won’t be easy, nor will it be particularly honorable. And it has to be done perfectly.”

“Whatever you ask of me is law.”

“Good.” Kareva seemed to hesitate for a moment. “The three strangers that I left outside the gates.”

Understanding dawned quickly on Turan. Of course this was why they were calling their youngest captain in for an audience before any of the others. He stifled a smirk at his own presumption. “Yes, Oproz.”

“They have to be dealt with.”

“Yes, Oproz. How shall I deal with them?”

“You and your men will take the hands and feet from the two warriors, then burn the rest of their bodies with the proper respect.”

“Yes, Oproz.”

“Then you will wrap the other one…” (Turan noticed a spark of anger as the pale eyes narrowed) “as tightly as you can, carry him out through the caverns—at least a few hundred paces north of the scorpion—and leave him on a rock. Not one drop of his blood can spill until he is well beyond the scorpion. Understood?”

“Yes, Oproz. No blood will spill. What of the hands and feet?”

“When you make it to the Pass, you will take the envoy’s head, hands and feet as well. You must use them to taunt whomever comes looking for him, to make them follow the path we want them to follow.”

Turan nodded. “Valtaa.” The killing ground. A mountain a dozen miles into the desert that Turan had never seen before, but knew for certain he would recognize.

Kareva smiled and nodded back. “Yes. They must meet us there.”

Turan was pretty sure he had only seen the prince smile once before. The first was on that day they’d fought against each other, as Turan was struggling to get up after being knocked down for the sixth or seventh time. He had taken it for a touch of arrogance that day, and gotten angry, and redoubled his efforts. It had never occurred to him until now that Kareva might have been showing him respect. 

“Understood.”

“The envoy…I need you to make it a spectacle, Turan. It must provoke outrage. We want to make his master furious when they find him. Angry men…make mistakes.” Kareva broke eye contact for the first time, glancing quickly at Alakuz (Turan had nearly forgotten he was there), then down for the briefest moment before he caught himself and brought his gaze back up to meet Turan’s. Turan suddenly felt an inexplicable urge to reach out and pat the young chieftain on the shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, Oproz. It is done.”

Kareva exhaled. “Thank you, Ohta. Ask Alakuz’s man at the door for whatever you need to get the job done. We will meet you at the mountain.”

Turan placed his fist over his heart, then turned and left the room without another word. Kareva didn’t need to tell him that time was of the essence. Nor did anyone need to tell him what would happen if any trace of blood led the enemy back to Kalaa Ukruv’r.

“Makava, are you there?”

The runner stepped forward out of the darkness and saluted him. “Here, Turan-Ohta.”

“Does this hall have any carpets that nobody will miss?”

—

When Kareva heard the hall’s front door close, he started pacing again.

“Alright. Hopefully there’s enough blood left in that body for Turan to use to get their attention. What’s next?”

“My Prince—sorry, Oproz—that’s going to take a bit of getting used to…”

Kareva sighed impatiently. “Alakuz, you’re family. You taught me to fight.” The only bond stronger than blood. “Save the formalities for when we’re in public.”

“Alright. Well. It’s about your father.”

“My father was who he was, and he did what he did. And I did what I did, and now we have to live with it…” He looked down as he spoke, his right hand twitching, then curling into a fist.

“Forgive me. I mean to say, your father was the one who let the refugees into Kalaa Ukruv'r.”

Kareva snapped out of his train of thought. “Right.” 

“What do you want to do with them?”

Kareva closed his eyes for a second, thinking. He opened them again and nodded. “What he would have wanted. He considered them his people. We should do what we can to protect them.”

Alakuz counted silently on his fingers for a moment. “If we distribute everything Varyta had in the vault equally among them, it should be enough to let them each buy their way into the city and have some chance to survive there.”

Kareva nodded. “Good. We’re not likely to need any coin where we’re going. Make it happen.” He stood. 

Alakuz stood as well. “I think it’s the right decision.” He made to walk away but stopped when he felt the chieftain’s hand on his elbow. He turned back around: Kareva looked young again for a second, uncertain

“You’re still going to tell me when you don’t agree with me, right?”

Alakuz smiled and put his other hand on his protégé's other elbow. “Always. But your word is law, Oproz. When we disagree, I will try as hard as I can to convince you to see things my way, and then I’ll do as you command.”

“For however long we have left, at least.” Kareva’s smirk didn’t hide his gratitude.

“Exactly.”

“Good. Because there’s one more thing we have to do right away.”

Alakuz’s smile disappeared. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“We need everyone who can fight, Alakuz.”

“None of your brother’s people have so much as looked at a weapon in six years.”

“They’re Hodrir. They can fight.”

“And you’re so sure they’ll fight for you?”

—

Sivridi had seen the prince walk back through the gate covered in blood the night before. It was a welcome break from her routine.

She had been sitting in her usual place, on one of the rocks that sat outside her hut in the Kuja Pehtur, the Alley of the Unseen, the makeshift ghetto she had been living in since the day she woke up with a splitting headache and found out that all her sisters were dead, when the commotion first broke out. Against her better judgment she stood up, keeping her stony silence as she walked past the other huts that housed the broken men that the Daughters of Vei had cast their lot with. They knew better than to approach her. Even unarmed, she was twice the warrior any of them could have dreamt of being. 

And they were all unarmed now. 

These warbands—what was left of them, anyway—had surrendered quickly when it became clear that Varyta the Younger’s side could not win. The Daughters of Vei did not. Their captain, the berzerker priestess Kivli, had foreseen calamity if the Etela failed to unite under the son of Varyta. And none of her warriors would refuse her an order—even to fight against their own tribe. Everyone knew Kivli was closer to the goddess than anyone else in the tribe. Each of her soldiers wished they could be her, and each of them would rather die than be considered unworthy of her company. 

And so Sivridi fought on, gamely, alongside her sisters. She sent more ‘loyalists’ to the gods than she cared to count, until the blow from someone’s shield knocked her out. The last thing she remembered was seeing Metan-Ohta’s favorite apprentice kill Kivli, then the painted wood flying across her field of vision, then nothing. 

When she woke up, they’d already taken her here. Only two of the other Daughters had joined her; both had been too wounded to continue and had been brought back here with the other rebels. Taravi and Uzani had eventually recovered, to their grief, and now the three of them would die in their beds, sentenced to live out their days among these pathetic men who had accepted defeat. 

It was intolerable. 

They had chosen their side; they should have died fighting with their captains and their comrades. It was unnatural for them to live after shaming themselves before the gods like that. And Varyta the Elder must have known that too. He should have had every single one of them executed—including the last three Daughters of Vei. What good was it to anyone to keep them alive? They still ate. They still took up space inside the fortress. If they weren’t going to be part of the tribe, if they weren’t trusted to fight, then what was the point of their existence?

Sivridi asked herself this every day. It had long been clear to her that the punishment the High King had devised for his son’s followers was as cruel as he could have imagined.

A shadow fell over her weaving (the latest in a series of futile attempts to find something that would help pass the time a bit more quickly) and she looked up. A young warrior stood a few feet from her, keeping himself entirely rigid to avoid showing his discomfort.

“Pehtu, Kareva-Oproz requires your presence.” 

Sivridi’s face betrayed nothing as she stared at the pup in front of her. No one had called her any other name since she woke up. No one really ever spoke to the Unseen, for that matter. It wasn’t illegal—just unseemly.

“What does he want?”

“That was not included in my orders. I am simply instructed to bring you to him.”

Sivridi said nothing more, showed nothing still, but her wheels turned quickly. The puppy had called Kareva ‘Oproz.’ Varyta’s second son ruled here now. 

That was interesting. 

When he’d returned from his first encounter with the northerners, she’d gotten close enough to smell his victims’ blood on his robes, to see his face, to gaze into his eyes as he turned her way for an instant and see her divine patroness’s bloodlust in them. 

It was the smell, in particular, that brought her back to the shield wall again, and she heard the echoes of her sisters’ roars of defiance and heard her own vicious shriek among them, and it woke in her the old dream of a good death in battle. Kivli had foreseen calamity, after all; maybe Sivridi could be swept up in it, next to this boy who was clearly marked by Vei to be an agent of her delicious chaos… 

She forced herself to snap out of it. Her punishment was cruel enough; she didn’t need to make it any worse for herself with false hope.

It was only as she turned to go back inside her hut that she noticed that the old man had seen the entire exchange. She looked his way, challenging him to make something of it, and he simply chuckled and shook his head. 

—

Fifty-three.

It was as bad as Alakuz had feared. Before him stood the last surviving warriors among the Etela refugees, out of thousands who had once acclaimed Varyta Hodrir their High King. Most were limping from wounds they’d taken in their tribes’ recent catastrophic defeats. One was coughing. And all of them were thinner than they were when they arrived. 

Fifty-three undernourished, barely fit, scantily-armed men were all that were left to protect the thousands of women and children that Kareva was about to order to flee into the desert. 

But they were Etela. That was certainly worth something. There was not a single man among them who would falter if they came under attack. Alakuz raised a fist above his head, signaling for silence, and promptly received it. Even without an army to fight in, these men had discipline.

“You are aware by now that none of us are safe here anymore. The Pohyor have found Kalaa Ukruv'r. They sent an envoy and demanded our submission.” 

He paused. His guests looked around amongst themselves, uncertain of how to respond, wondering whether any of them could have been so foolish as to betray their benefactor. 

“I don’t think any of you led them to us. Neither does Kareva-Oproz. If we suspected anyone, that man would surely already be accompanying that northerner out to the red rocks.” There were one or two dark chuckles in response. “My master wishes to extend the protection his father offered you. We just have to decide where you will go next, and how you’ll defend yourselves if they find you.”

The oldest of the warriors, a man of about forty, raised his voice. “If they found us here, they are sure to find us again.”

Alakuz held his gaze. “You’re probably right. But our warriors are going to give you the best chance to escape that we can. Who here knows the sand-route to Makan Alabar?” The rock-route would involve retracing their steps north of the Vesret and would surely end with them crossing paths with the Pohyor.

After a moment, one hand went up. Alakuz pointed the man out. “You’re in charge, then. Congratulations. Consider yourself an Ohta of the Hodrir.” Both of the man’s neighbors clapped him on his broad back. A few of the others chuckled, and a few even applauded as their new leader stepped forward. Alakuz allowed himself a small smile as the big man grinned and saluted him clumsily. “There will be a couple dozen of our boys with you—they’re not of age yet, but they’ve been training. They can fight well enough in a pinch. We can’t spare much in terms of extra weapons, but you should take as much water with you as you can possibly carry—the desert is your best chance to get there unharmed. What’s your name?”

“I am Kulava ul-Katuz, Ohta.” 

“What tribe are you from, Kulava son of Katuz?”

“I’m Khivir...” Kulava paused. “Don’t suppose we really have tribes anymore, though, do we, Ohta?” A murmur of agreement rumbled through the other men gathered around.

“Alright. You’ll be taking the Hodrir women and children with you too. The Oproz asks that you protect them.”

Kulava nodded firmly. “With our very lives. We are in your debt. It is an honor to have this opportunity to pay your kindness back.”

It was truly a shame, Alakuz thought, that all the Etela had never fought together on the same side. They could have taken on anyone. He held out his hand, and Kulava took it. “I thank you, and wish you good fortune. When you get to Makan Alabar, stay there as long as you can. Varyta’s hoard should be more than enough to pay all of your fares through the gate, and if we do our part, maybe they’ll forget about you.”

—

In the back rooms of the chieftain’s hall, Alini and the rest of the Sisters were helping the Priestess Rakili prepare the body of Varyta-Kogon for its final journey.  

The body still lay in the bed where Kareva had left it. One of the other girls had gently wiped the dried blood from the king’s lips, while two others had removed his robes to clean the rest of him. Next they would apply the anointing oils, first on the body itself, then on the cloth they would use to wrap him. 

Alini had helped prepare dozens of bodies this year, both within the fortress and without. More refugees had died than anyone inside the fortress could possibly imagine, and Rakili and her women had overseen their funeral rites and burnings discreetly enough that no one asked too many questions.

Alini didn’t have to ask any questions. She knew what all of this meant, the onrush of defeated, terrified, broken women and confused children, the look she could see in each one of their faces as she and her sisters tended to them.

Their way of life was ending. The Etela were dying out. And if she hadn’t known already, the king’s death seemed an undeniable signal of that inevitability. What could any of them do now except keep everyone as calm as possible until it was all over? 

—

Sivridi walked through the chieftain’s hall with her hands tied. The guards had insisted, and it mattered too little to her to be worth arguing with them about. They were clearly tense; all three of her guards were holding their weapons in case she tried anything. 

The new chieftain was sitting in the stone chair his brother was supposed to have taken. He still wore the black robes he’d been wearing in the street last night. She could still smell death on him. So could his men. Sivridi could tell it was making them uncomfortable, and wondered briefly if that was the boy’s intent. 

“Unbind her and leave us.”

“Are you sure, Oproz?” asked the soldier to her left. Kareva said nothing further, but simply stared at the guard who’d asked the question. The guard stammered something that was probably supposed to be an apology and reached down to untie the prisoner.

Sivridi smiled to herself. The guards clearly thought their new chieftain was a madman.

When the room was cleared, he leaned down to the side of his chair to grab hold of some object obscured by the shadows, then tossed it in her direction. It was only after it clattered at her feet that she recognized it as a training saif. She looked down at it, somewhat surprised, then looked back up at him. Now that he had cleaned the blood from his face she could see clearly how young he was. His eyes were a very light gray, his features drawn, his body slim. He looked almost nothing like his brother. 

“Are you still Hodrir, Daughter of Vei?” His tone was light, taunting, but his eyes betrayed the deadly earnestness of the question. “You haven’t picked up a weapon in six years. The last time you did, you and your sisters killed hundreds of your own people. I’m told you survived that day by accident.” 

“Yes, Oproz.”

“Yes what?”

“What?”

“Which question are you answering?”

She narrowed her eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her beg.“I was hit in the head by a shield and lost consciousness, and no one finished me off.”

“And are you still Hodrir?”

“Your father declared that I am not.”

Kareva tilted his head towards the training sword on the floor. “Was he wrong?”

Sivridi crouched to pick up the weapon, never taking his eyes off the young chieftain, and she was ready when he lunged out of his chair towards her, brandishing a wooden sword of his own. She parried his first blow, then swiftly dodged out of the way of his first counter-stroke and aimed a vicious blow at the back of his head as he went past. He clearly knew it was coming and was already turning his weapon back to parry the blow, the wooden sword whirling in his hands as he reset himself and came on again.

He struck directly at her sword then tried to use his arm strength to swipe her sword away from her body and open up her defenses. She went with his momentum, using it to swing her blade down across his planted front leg before he could react. He winced at the blow, then used the last of his momentum to whack her on her shoulder. She caught the full brunt of the attack on her upper arm, grabbed the edge of the wooden blade with her other hand, and swiftly brought her sword level with her assailant’s eye.

Except Kareva was no longer there.

He’d let go of his sword as soon as he saw her move to grab it, dropped down to one knee, and now kicked her legs out from under her. I’m slow, she thought furiously, as she landed on her back. 

Kareva stepped backward and nodded. “You’re as good as Alakuz said you would be.”

“I’d have taken your leg clean off with a real blade.”

“I know.”

Sivridi gritted her teeth as she sat up. “Why did you summon me here, Oproz?”

Kareva hesitated for a moment, then looked down. “I wanted to ask why.”

“Why what?”

“Why did you fight? Only one man needed to die that day.”

Sivridi glared at him. “Your father.”

Kareva cocked his head slightly. “Not the man I meant.”

“Kivli foresaw calamity if the tribes of the Etela were not united.”

Kareva snorted. “We already knew about the Pohyor. Anyone could have foreseen calamity if the tribes weren’t united.”

“And your father wouldn’t exert his authority to do it.”

“And she thought my brother would do any better? He was twenty years old and had more courage than sense, and even if he had killed my father, that wouldn’t have made him the Kogon. What would he have been able to do?” The young chieftain crouched down next to where Sivridi sat. “But that’s besides the point. When the men in the other three warbands stopped fighting and turned Varyta and the other ringleaders over to my father, leaving you and your beloved priestess alone on the other side of the field, she chose to order you to continue to fight your own people. In a battle that no longer had any point, or any stakes. And every single one of you stood with her! I have to know why.”

“Kivli foresaw the Etela humbled by a foreign power.” Sivridi held Kareva’s gaze calmly. “Can you tell me that’s not about to happen?”

After a couple of seconds, Kareva sighed. “I just murdered the men who came to demand our allegience to the warlord.”

“I saw you on your way back.”

“I just started a war against an enemy with more warriors than we can count.”

“I know. And what does that have to do with me?”

“I want…” Kareva looked down, searching for the words and failing. “I want to know why you all stood and fought with her.”

“Because she was our leader. She made us believe what she believed, that the goddess loved us most of all, and would rather have us die in battle and come to her hall than live to see our people enslaved.” 

Sivridi felt a tear forming in her left eye. She tried to force it to retract, but it slipped away from her and ran down her cheek. 

Kareva looked down again for a second, and when he looked back up, all the anger in his face was gone. “If you and the other two surviving Daughters of Vei still desire a good death in battle, I would like you with us when the northerners arrive.” He straightened himself up and offered Sivridi a hand up. 

Sivridi’s face showed nothing even as flood of exultation, of hope, welled up within her. She reached for his hand, then paused as an unwelcome thought forced its way forward.

“And the others?”

“What others?”

“The men who gave your brother up.”

“They’ll be coming with us too.”

She pulled her hand back instinctively. “They don’t deserve to.”

Kareva’s face hardened again. “That isn’t your choice to make.” He withdrew his hand and crossed his arms. “I have a funeral to prepare for. You can find your own way out.” 

He turned and left the room. Sivridi choked back a sob as she watched him leave. You fool. You’ll never see any of them again, and this time it’s entirely your fault. 

—

“So we’re supposed to…do what, exactly?”

“We’re supposed to make them chase us to the mountain.”

“With the one dead body, and the feet and hands of the others?”

Daraz ul-Maroz rolled his eyes. Uskol ul-Nev was ‘thinking aloud’ again. Risky, since nobody here really knew what kind of commander Turan ul-Toruk wanted to be yet. Pity the joker under the command of an Ohta who felt the need to be taken seriously…

Uskol ul-Aravan piped up from behind them. “It would have been better to use all three bodies, wouldn’t it?”

Turan-Ohta looked back from the front of the column. The two Uskols shut up quickly.

There were twelve men on foot leading the three Pohyor horses—two carrying saddle-bags full of skins of clean water and salted meat from the stores, and the third pulling a makeshift cart that carried the envoy, wrapped up tightly in three large, ornate rugs from the chieftain’s hall. The corpse was already starting to stink. Next to the body were the hands and feet of the two bodyguards who had ridden with him.

After a minute Uskol ul-Aravan nudged Uskol ul-Nev. “Hey,” he whispered.

The other Uskol craned his neck around. “What?”

“If the bosses had wanted us to use all three bodies, we’d have had to carry all three bodies out here.”

Uskol ul-Nev hesitated for a second, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Oh, yeah! They thought of everything, didn't they?”

In front of them, Turan-Ohta raised an arm. “This is far enough.” In front of him was a large, flat slab of rock leaning at a sharp enough angle that they could lay out a body and make it visible from a distance. “Uskol the Bastard and Uskol son of Aravan, since you’ve clearly already figured out the Oproz’s entire plan, why don’t you do us the honor of unwrapping the fat man and bringing him over here?”

A few of the others chuckled. Uskol ul-Nev’s hand went up.

“Ohta?”

“Yes, Uskol.”

“Can we carry him over there in the carpets and then unwrap him?”

More chuckles. 

Turan smirked. “Yes, Uskol. As long as you two and he are over here as soon as humanly possible.”

The two Uskols grabbed the ends of the package and hoisted it onto their shoulders.

“Gods, that smells awful.”

“That’s what guts smell like. That’s why everyone says you’re supposed to keep them on the inside of yourself.”

“Yeah. That makes good sense.”

They placed the wrapped body in front of the young commander’s feet. Turan nodded. “Open it, please.”

The smell strengthened as they removed each layer of the carpet, but the thing that finally got to Uskol ul-Aravan was the horrible, yawning wound where the man’s enormous belly had been, complete with the shreds of organs still left clinging to their former place. He raised a hand to excuse himself, turned, and was violently sick on the rocks in front of him.

The rest of the detachment roared with laughter and cheered him on. Turan looked sideways at Uskol the Bastard and said, “I was pretty sure it would be you.”

Uskol laughed. “Me too, Ohta.”

Turan grabbed the corpse under his armpits and hoisted him up all by himself, ignoring the stench and the weight. He pushed him up against the rock slab and gestured towards Uskol the Bastard with his head. “The rope.”

Uskol grabbed a length of rope and deftly tied a knot around the corpse’s wrist. 

“No, at the elbow. We’re taking his hands, remember?”

“Shit. Sorry, Ohta.” Uskol loosened the bond and slid it up the corpse’s arm, and tightened it again.

“Good. Around the back of the rock and attach it to the other elbow.”

“Right.”

Thirty seconds later, the corpse of the Pohyor envoy seemed to stand, arms stretched out in greeting to whomever came to see him next. Turan used his saif to chop the man’s hands and feet off by himself, while his detachment looked on.

“He’s a hard ‘un, isn’t he?” muttered Daraz.

“He hoisted that dead body like it was a sack of flour!” remarked an impressed Uskol ul-Aravan, finally recovered and excited to talk about anything other than his weak stomach. 

“Not that you saw it yourself!” chuckled Uskol the Bastard, clapping his name-fellow on the back and then grabbing him around the shoulder to put him in an affectionate headlock. 

Turan looked on, satisfied that this first task was complete and that none of his charges seemed too distracted by their impending doom. But they had more work to do. “Alright, boys. We have a couple more hours of daylight. Let’s use them wisely.” 

—

Kareva was standing in his father’s bedchamber again, watching the priestesses finish wrapping the body for burning. He looked at his father one last time: with his eyes closed and the blood washed from his lips and beard, Varyta looked calm. 

And why not? The worst was over for him. He wouldn’t have to see the consequences of his inaction up close.

He stepped back, and watched as one of the Sisters gently lifted Varyta’s head, laid the next strip of the linen down, and lifted it up to wrap it around his face. The young lady looked up at Kareva, and he saw the tears in her eyes, and it occurred to him that Varyta was the only ruler she had ever known. That was true for almost all of his people. 

He would have to come up with something kind to say about his father tonight.

—

Kulava ul-Katuz had been standing in the sand a few hundred feet south of the fortress for half an hour, looking to his right, waiting for the exact moment when the sun would touch the horizon for the first time, beginning the sunset. 

Now, he and the six other surviving warriors of the Khivir put hollow horns to their lips and blasted forth one single, long, mournful call.

Normally the ruler’s sons or closest friends would be given the honor of assembling the funeral procession, but all of Varyta’s friends were probably long dead, and Alakuz, on behalf of Kareva, had graciously requested that the Khivir, as the sun god Arinka’s servants, begin the rites as a sign of respect to their patron, whose fire was needed tonight to carry the king to the halls of the gods. 

When Alakuz asked, Kulava could see the other six were flattered. He was, too, and proud to assist in such an important ceremony as the funeral of a chieftain, let alone a high king, but he knew just as well that it was also another political gesture to keep him loyal before they handed over every unarmed member of their tribe to him for safekeeping.

It was unnecessary. He had already pledged himself. 

Behind Kulava, the south gate of the fortress opened slowly. The young Oproz, in a long, black, hooded robe, was the first through the gate. Behind him, six young women in white robes and hoods walked in perfect rhythm with a wooden bier on their shoulders, upon which lay the carefully wrapped body of the last High King of the Etela. Kulava saw how light the burden was, how easily they carried Varyta-Kogon, and remembered his favorite uncle’s funeral, after a sickness had slowly worn him down to nothing. Even warriors of Varyta’s quality could not defeat time and its invisible weapons.

Behind the pallbearers walked Alakuz and the rest of the tribe’s captains, in black robes like those of their chieftain. Behind them, in whatever their best robes were, walked the rest of the warriors of Hodrir and their families, in no particular order, mingled with the refugees who had shared their home for the past year and from whom they would likely soon be parted forever. The crowd reached the seven heralds and then fanned out in a circle around the wooden altar that the soldiers on the funeral detail had built over the course of the day. It took some time; nearly everyone had come to pay their respects.

The seven heralds now turned around to face the pyre. The Oproz stood in the center, holding a single lit torch. The six women had laid the King down on the pyre, and five of them were now covering the body with another layer of oil to prepare it for burning while the crowd gathered. A sixth had been given the highest honor of the night: she had cut the palm of her left hand with a small knife and was offering a small portion of her blood to Vei on the King’s behalf, an extra token of respect to ensure their hero ended up where he belonged. The Priestess Rakili stood behind the pyre, silently directing the proceedings with nary more than nods of her head.

No one had spoken a word. After the horns blew, every step of the procession must be taken in total silence so the gods could deliberate over the King’s fate without distraction. That was Ta’a, their Way, and it must be followed to the letter. Children too young to stay quiet were left within the walls of the fortress with their mothers to avoid any possibility of insulting the gods. No word would be spoken, no song would be sung, no sound would be made, until the fire was burning and the deceased was on his way home. Then the tribe’s new chieftain would break the silence.

—

A light breeze picked up suddenly, and Alakuz saw the torch in Kareva’s hand flicker, and prayed silently to Povod, begging him to stay calm. He could see dozens of other men, eyes closed, clearly concentrating on expressing the same silent wish. There could be no clearer sign of the gods’ disfavor than the fire going out. 

—

Kareva could not bring himself to pray for the fire to hold out against the wind. He would simply play his part and let the gods make their own decision about his father’s worthiness. When the sacrifice was complete, and the young woman (What was her name? Someone had told him but it had slipped his mind) stepped away from the pyre to wrap up her hand, he walked forward and, with the twisted confidence of a man who no longer cared if he had the gods’ favor or not, thrust the torch into the appointed place beneath his father’s body. 

The fire caught. Within seconds, it had caught on the cloth containing Varyta, and then suddenly the whole altar was on fire. Kareva stared at the flames and wondered to himself how the gods could have watched the last six years of his father’s life and still seen fit to welcome him into their company.

—

Alini held the hem of her robes over the cut on her hand and watched the Oproz’s face as the fire grew and burned brighter.

Years ago, on one of her first nights caring for the dead, Alini had accidentally passed her hand too close to a candle while holding some linen she’d already dipped in the anointing oil. To her shock, the linen had quickly gone up in flames. Rakili had quickly smothered the blaze with more linen, then quietly admonished the novice to be more careful—and not to try to douse it with water if it happened again. 

It was the first inkling Alini had that the oil they were treating the bodies with was flammable. She pulled Rakili’s sleeve. “Priestess, are the gods not supposed to decide who burns?” she whispered, scandalized.

“The gods decide who joins them in their halls, child,” whispered Rakili, “not who burns. That is…a minor embellishment. To comfort those the dead leave behind.” She smiled reassuringly and patted the younger girl’s hand. “Keep it to yourself. It would do no one any good to question the gods’ power any more than they already do while they’re grieving.”

“Yes, Priestess.”

—

In front of the pyre, Kulava heard a sniffle from his right. His cousin Boruz ul-Mikal was weeping openly, doing everything he could to keep silent while tears streamed down his face. Varyta-Kogon’s unwillingness to leave the last desperate remnants of the Etela to their fate had saved Boruz and his wife and children from starvation, as well as Kulava and his family. 

They’d been wandering aimlessly for months, forced to live in the wilderness off the main roads, stealing just to keep themselves alive—until the day the messenger bearing the scorpion amulet had appeared in their camp and told them where they could find shelter. Varyta had given them their lives, kept them safe for as long as he could. 

A tear ran down Kulava’s cheek as well, and he offered silent thanks to Arinka for blessing Varyta with his fire. He thanked Povod for holding back the wind. He thanked the blood goddess Vei for keeping the Hodrir strong, and her brother, the water god Vetta, for the precious gift he had given them, the oasis in the tunnel outside Kalaa Ukruv'r. He praised the moon goddess Kavi, who must be waiting to make her appearance this evening out of respect for the dead. He thanked Visav, the god of wisdom, who must have swayed any of his fellows who questioned Varyta’s worth. He thanked the goddess of the hunt, Mestei, and the goddess of the earth, Likai, for keeping him and his people alive long enough to reach Ukruv'r. Lastly, he thanked Kalvuz the god of smiths for keeping his sword arm strong for long enough to give him the chance to repay his debt. 

He saw Alakuz standing next to Kareva, and when the Ra’an Ohtar met his gaze, he silently touched his fist to his chest to salute his benefactors.

—

Kareva, for his part, was still trying to figure out what to say. His first instinct was to tell everyone the truth, but the idea of starting his reign with the admission that they were all doomed was utterly ridiculous. 

Kareva and Alakuz had set a plan in motion to exploit what had happened in order to make the warlord angry, to make him chase them around the desert for a while and eventually fight them on a battlefield of their own choosing, and maybe, in their chosen defensive position, Kareva’s men could hold off those thousands for long enough to make the enemy question whether the fight was worth it…and maybe, if every other possible thing went right, their women and children could also make it through the desert to Makan Alabar undetected, and the Pohyor wouldn’t look for them that far from Kalaa Ukruv'r…but he had to be realistic. Everything he saw ahead of him pointed towards their extinction. 

And that was not what they needed to hear from him right now. 

And he certainly couldn’t tell them what was really worrying him: the idea that the gods had been wrong—that his father was unworthy of them, and that if he’d been accepted into their halls then they were clearly not paying close enough attention. If they were there at all. 

If they ever existed in the first place.

Raising that question probably wouldn’t play well with this crowd.

He raised his voice to make sure they could all hear him, and he steeled himself to do the opposite of what he wanted to do.

“My father…” 

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up at him. Eight hundred sixty-nine Hodrir fighting men (and the fifty-three outsiders who had signed themselves up for a suicide mission for his father’s sake), another three thousand-odd women (of far more varied age than the men, who never lived anywhere near as long), and a few hundred children. 

And one who should not be there, staring daggers at him, smiling malevolently as ever, come to mock their father’s funeral. Then he was gone, just as swiftly as he had appeared. 

No one spoke—including Kareva, for a moment, while he recovered.

“My father loved you all.”

Again, no sound save for a couple of sniffles from the crowd.

“He did his best to rule the Hodrir as our chieftain, and guide the Etela as High King, and to honor the gods with his bravery in battle and his humility in everything else. And surely he is feasting with the gods now, reunited with your fathers and husbands and brothers and sons.” 

“Long live Varyta!” shouted one voice in the crowd, then a few others repeated the cry. 

Kareva nodded and let them have their say. “Indeed he did,” he said, mostly to himself. Longer than he wanted. Longer than was good for him, or me, or any of you. He looked down to compose his thoughts while the last of the cheers died down. “You all know the danger we find ourselves in. The gods handed down a command to us, long ago, never to kneel to our enemies, so we might never have to become the servants of anyone but them.”

Murmured assent.

“The gods test us now. They test our resolve. They set an enormous force against us and demand that we fight in their name. They ask if we are brave enough to do their bidding.” 

Silence. 

“Well, my friends…” and he willed himself to get even louder, “If we aren’t, then who the hell is?”

There was a smattering of laughter. He had them.

“Are we Hodrir not the true and loyal servants of bloody Vei herself?” There were some shouts of the affirmative from among the crowd. “Have we not held back mighty empires for centuries? Are we not too hard for even this miserable desert to kill?” 

The crowd was in it now, roaring their agreement. Kareva looked around, taking in the faces of the men he was asking to follow him into certain death. He saw the man that Alakuz had put in charge of the outsiders, and tried to hold eye contact with him for a moment, to express to him, somehow, that he understood. To show him the respect and the love he deserved. To thank him. To apologize. 

The other man didn’t seem to get the message. Kareva sighed and held up a hand for silence again. “I dedicate this coming battle to the brave warriors of the Khivir, the Lomir, the Sutrir.” The sound of hundreds of fists hitting chests in unison gave Kareva goosebumps. “The Mitvir and Kasvir.” The soldiers saluted a second time. “The Tvomir and Vaymir and Gvelir!” A third salute. “They were not always our friends, but they were Etela. They stood and faced down these northerners without any fear. They died as heroes, and they are surely waiting with the gods now to welcome my father, and to welcome those of us destined to join them next.”

A fourth salute. Kareva put his right fist to his chest as well this time, softly, solemnly. “We have had a high standard set for us. I am determined to meet it.” He paused once more. “Are you with me?”

The soldiers roared. Their women cheered as well. Kareva stood stock still, taking it all in, full of self-hatred. He caught himself looking for his brother again, but the specter was nowhere to be found. 

He was alone.