The Last of the Etela, Chapter 3

Kareva's pardons stir up some controversy as the tribe prepares to leave the fortress for the last time.

Previously… Kareva had a terrible first day in charge, forcing the tribe to make battle plans and escape plans in order to try to survive the aftermath...

—

Sivridi stood outside the chieftain’s hall. She had not gone to the funeral. None of the Unseen had left the alley tonight. None of them could possibly have any idea what the new Oproz wanted with them yet—except her, and she had ruined it for herself and her sisters. And that was why she was here now, mortified at herself, but more worried about the prospect of the consequences if she kept silent.

She heard a few men’s voices approaching in the darkness and quickly recognized one of them as his. 

Presently he came around the corner, barely visible in the darkness in his black robes, except for at the eyes. The torchlight found them and danced in them, and suddenly they were staring in her direction.

She heard three blades drawn before she saw the guards materialize from behind him in the torchlight, and then one word: “Hold.” The three guards froze. Kareva ul-Varyta stepped out from behind them, arms crossed, appraising her in the darkness.

“Oproz, a word?”

He waited a moment before he answered.

“What can I do for you, Daughter of Vei?”

She opened her mouth, and nothing came forth. She’d rehearsed her speech several times in the past hour and the words refused to leave her lips. She shook her head, exasperated with herself, and fell to one knee, eyes cast downward. I was a fool. You offered me everything I have wanted for these past six years and I threw it back in your face. I beg you, let me fight for you. Finally, she croaked out, “Forgive me, Oproz.”

He stayed silent, perhaps waiting for her to say more. She was waiting for that, too. Why was this happening to her right now? 

“Rise.”

She looked up, unsure for a moment if he meant it. She stood as he walked the last few paces separating them. 

“I have already given orders for all the pehtur to be pardoned and armed for battle first thing tomorrow morning.” He paused for a second, holding her eye. “We are all Hodrir. We have no time left for holding old grudges.”

She nodded her understanding. “Yes, Oproz.”

“Good. See you tomorrow. We have preparations to make.”

As Kareva turned to walk away, Sivridi’s jaw tightened as she noticed the man who’d killed Kivli standing a few paces behind him, looking at her intently. She felt a momentary shiver of old, closely held rage and tried to force it downward. 

“Elakon, Daughter of Vei.”

“Elakon, Alakuz-Ohta.”

They had not interacted since he led his warband against the Daughters six years ago—the fourth and final company to seek battle with them that day. She shuddered as the memory of the bright blade bursting through her mentor’s back assaulted all her senses. He had made his reputation and career that day at her expense, lived well and advanced as she wallowed, forbidden even to die, and now he had seen her grovel… 

He stepped forward towards her. “Might I have a moment?” 

She simply nodded, not trusting herself to speak. 

“I think you know that I am the one who killed Kivli-Ohta.”

She nodded again.

“I wanted to tell you…it brought me no joy to do it. She was clearly beloved by the goddess, and one of the best fighters I’ve ever stood against.”

Sivridi took a deep breath, drawing on every bit of composure she could muster to combat the storm of grief and resentment and pride swirling within her. Finally, when she felt ready to speak, she nodded a third time. “You honor her, Ohta. And it would have taken quite a warrior to kill her.” She gently tapped her right fist to her collarbone. “I am at your service.”

Alakuz touched his fist to his own chest, then leaned in towards her. He whispered, “The Oproz pardoned all of you against my advice. I offer you my sincerest congratulations, and I beg you—for all our sakes, and most of all for yours—do not prove me right.”

—

Zamal ul-Ganruz strode purposefully through the suddenly chilly evening into the Kuja Nasir. This was surely the last time he would see her, one way or the other. He had to know.

“Limani!” 

He stood waiting outside one of a long row of huts occupied by all manner of unattached women—never married, widowed, separated—and the children who often accompanied them. 

In the three years since her son was born, Limani had never come to lay a claim of fatherhood on him. It had been driving him crazy the whole time. The child looked more like him each time they ran into each other (inevitable, in a stronghold this small), and whichever of Zamal’s character flaws had driven Limazi to spurn him in the first place was probably taking root in little Tobiaz as well. 

They probably all were. Zamal had plenty of flaws. But he was no fool, and he knew exactly what it meant that the Oproz had ordered the women and children to travel to Makan Alabar. 

“Limani!” He shouted again. “Come out and talk to me, damn you,” he muttered quietly, more a prayer than a challenge.

Then a curtain shifted, and all of a sudden there she was, tall and indomitable, her black eyes boring into him like they had the first time they met, and he remembered why he’d liked her in the first place, which embarrassed him and made him break eye contact for a moment.

“What do you want, Zam?” She looked tired.

“The boy. Is he mine?”

Her head tilted ever so slightly, but she kept her silence, her eyes never leaving his face.

“We’re off towards the mountain tomorrow. You’ll never have to see me again after tonight…I’m sorry, what I did back then wasn’t…I didn’t do right by you, and I know that, and I don’t expect you to forgive me or anything, just…” He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “If he’s mine, if I know I’ve got something of my own to protect while I’m up there…” 

Zamal looked down again, hoping she understood. 

Limani shook her head and chuckled softly. “I thought you were coming to see me once more for old times’ sake.”

Zamal started and broke into a sheepish grin. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no, but…” he looked down again and when he looked back up his smile was gone. “I really am sorry, Mani. You deserved better from me.”

She nodded. “I did. So did your son.”

Zamal, to his horror, felt tears welling up. “I…I, uh…”

Limani took another step closer and patted his arm. “It’s alright. It’s too late to do much about it now. Do what you can to help us get to safety.”

He swallowed hard and nodded. “I swear it.”

Then she was gone, and he was standing on his own again, with one burden lifted and a new, larger one in its place. 

Tobiaz ul-Zamal.

That was the only thing he thought about the whole walk back to his barracks. 

—

No one responsible for anything important was sleeping tonight. There was far more work to do, and political games to play, and now that the Oproz had done his part, it was time for the Ohtar to do theirs.

Alakuz walked quietly along the main paths of the fortress, averting his eyes to avoid seeing any post-funeral drunkenness that he might have to punish a soldier for on a regular day.

Apparently, no one was sleeping tonight, responsible or not.

Three spearmen were standing guard outside the door of the Avla Ohtar, the only building besides the chieftain’s hall that was still bearing lit torches. One of the guards noticed him before the others and nudged his fellows. They snapped into a smart salute. Alakuz waved them off with his hand and walked through the door. Makava was waiting for him behind the curtain.

“Are the others here already?”

“Yes, Ohta.”

Alakuz looked hard at Makava. “All of them?”

Makava winced. “Metan ul-Aravan…sends you his warmest regards and a reminder that he’s no longer a captain.”

Alakuz snorted with frustration. “Damn him. Go back over there and tell him the Oproz and I want to see him in the chieftain’s hall at dawn. Then come back and wait for me outside.” 

“Yes, Ohta.”

Alakuz inhaled deeply and held it for a moment. His mentor could still get on his last nerve. He exhaled and walked down the hallway towards the sounds of his colleagues talking amongst themselves, steeling himself to address them officially as their leader for the very first time.

They quieted themselves quickly as he pushed back the curtain, and stood to salute him as he stepped in. 

It was a far cry from the reception he’d received the first time he set foot in this room.

“Elakon, Ra'an Ohtar.” Georz ul-Zimion, one of the longer-tenured commanders in the room, was the one who broke the silence. “Can I assume, Alakuz ul-Nev, that we’re not simply here to confirm you as our overlord? I imagine that on a night as busy as this one…”

“No, Georz ul-Zimion, we are not.” Alakuz interjected with a slight shake of his head, shrugging off the pointed reminder of his unconfirmed parentage. He looked almost nothing like any of the other men in this room; he was taller, and his skin was significantly darker, suggesting that his father was almost certainly not Etela—which was no great scandal, as it happened from time to time when Hodrir delegations traveled for trade or to negotiate terms for mercenary work, but the fact that his father was unknown had made his promotion to Ohta most unusual. That he’d risen even higher was a stunning break from custom, and some pushback was not totally unexpected. “The Oproz has given me an order of policy to pass along to all of you, and I wanted to discuss it with you all, here and now, rather than with one or two of you at a time tomorrow when it becomes public. Please feel free to sit down, gentlemen.”

“What is this policy, Ohta?” Harila ul-Toruk, captain of the archers, leaned forward out of his chair to rest his elbows on the round wooden table. His younger brother Turan was the only captain not present.

Alakuz hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to try to ease into the conversation, then decided against it. “We’re getting reinforcements tomorrow.”

It took a moment for his meaning to sink in, and then seven or eight men seemed to answer at once. 

“He didn’t.” 

“Impossible.” 

“What is he thinking? Did you try to talk him out of it?” 

Georz ul-Zimion said nothing, simply glaring at Alakuz for a moment as the others chirped their resistance to the order. 

Alakuz held up a fist for silence, almost casually. The others quieted down.

“Well. I’m glad I brought it up now instead of waiting.” He turned to goad his most obvious opposition. “Georz-Ohta, you look troubled. Will you speak for yourself, or for several others as well?” 

“I don’t presume to speak for anyone but myself, Ohta. But I must object to this policy.”

Alakuz nodded. “State your reasons.”

“I have only one reason. It’s the only one we need. The pehtur are not to be trusted!” 

Mikal ul-Zalan chimed in from the seat to Georz’ left. “We should have shoved them all out the Sand Gate six years ago and let them die in the desert.”

“That’s right. You of all people, Alakuz—”

“I of all people, what?”

Georz cocked his head. “You made your name in that battle, obviously, killing that madwoman your patron was so fond of before she turned traitor, breaking the Daughters. You saw up close what it cost to put that rebellion down. You mean to tell me you’d welcome the pehtur into our barracks after all of that?”

Uskol ul-Sakara spoke up next. “You’d want to stand next to one of them in the shield wall? After they betrayed the Kogon and shed their own people’s blood?”

Harila ul-Toruk stood up. “Hold on, boys. Let’s not turn this into a shouting match for everyone outside to hear. Whatever we think of the pehtur, we all know that the Oproz’s word is law. But respectfully, Ohta, there’s a logistical question or two we have to answer. Who leads them? Do they have their own companies or are they to be mixed in amongst ours? And let’s not forget, they haven’t so much as stabbed a piece of meat with a fork these past six years, let alone trained for combat.” A few chuckles bounced around the room at that. “Are we sure they’re still good fighters?”

“This all seems very poorly thought through.” The other Ohtar fell silent, the smiles wiped from their faces: Georz’ tone was unmistakable. So was his meaning. Kareva and Alakuz had taken power so quickly that no one had had a chance to object. 

Alakuz willed his body to be very still. These men had all seen him in battle, calmly cutting through enemies as if they were made of water. They would not see him rattled here.

“Georz ul-Zimion, did you not do obeissance to Kareva-Oproz this very afternoon?”

“Of course I did.”

“And not even half a day later you’re already openly questioning his leadership in front of all your brothers?”

It was a risk, playing the ‘mutiny’ card this early. If Georz didn’t back down now, Alakuz might actually have to kill him. And that would be easy enough to do, he thought, but for the fact that he wasn’t sure the rest of the room would accept it. But the alternative was unthinkable: he couldn’t back down. He might as well hand his sword over to the other man right this minute, and his balls along with it…

Thankfully, Georz didn’t really seem interested in finding out if Alakuz was serious. “I simply meant…”

“You simply meant what?” 

Georz’ eyes blazed. He came from a long, proud line of Ohtar, Alakuz knew, and had likely imagined the title of Ra'an to be his for the taking after Metan stepped down. He must absolutely hate taking orders from a son of Nev—not to mention the thought of being passed over for one. 

If they weren’t all so likely to be dead soon, this might be a cause for concern. But here and now, Alakuz had no choice but to press his advantage. There would be one captain of captains, and his authority in this room would be absolute—circumstances be damned. 

Finally, the older captain bowed his head. “Avzaka-min. I meant no disrespect. I am simply…a bit frustrated by the suddenness of this order. I hope you can understand.”

Alakuz nodded. “Of course. Kareva-Oproz worried it would be controversial.” That was a lie. Kareva had made it crystal clear to Alakuz that he did not give a damn and would tolerate no pushback. “But he was confident that you, his good and loyal commanders, would trust his judgment and do your utmost to make the reintegration of the pehtur go smoothly. We have a massive battle ahead of us, after all. Oh, and Harila?”

“Yes, Ohta?”

“Are you truly worried that a group of warriors who were born and raised Hodrir are no longer capable of killing?” Alakuz smirked at the ridiculousness of the thought, and the rest of the men chuckled again—even Georz, grudgingly. The tension was lifting. 

“Now. About the logistics…”

—

Metan ul-Aravan waited quietly on the bench outside the chieftain’s hall, watching the sun begin to rise. Alakuz’ invitation to the hall of captains was one he could refuse easily enough, but an order from the chieftain himself could not be ignored.

Metan was forty-nine years old—ancient, for an Etela warrior, and he looked every day of it. Scars cris-crossed his arms and hands. His nose was crooked from countless breaks, sustained in contact with fists, shields, even a helmet that some fool once threw at him to try to buy time to escape him at the end of a battle. 

He didn’t get far. No one crossed paths with Metan ul-Aravan in battle and lived. His reputation demanded it. 

Maybe he’d been too good for his own good.

He’d always expected someone younger and faster to finally get to him, and it had never happened. He just kept leading his men to victory after victory, killing anyone and everyone who was unfortunate enough to end up in front of him, the indispensable and invincible right hand of his closest boyhood friend. 

And then one day, when Metan was forty-three, his friend’s oldest son plotted to assassinate and replace his father—and failed to get the job done. And rather than do the honorable thing and let justice be done, the boy pressed the issue with a no-confidence vote among the Ohtar. Metan watched in horror as four of his captains defected to support the younger Varyta, and had no choice afterwards but to order the rest of his men into battle against their own people. 

The result was a foregone conclusion. To a point.

The ringleaders—the traitor prince and his captains—obviously had to die. The law required it. But honor demanded the rest of the rebels die with them, and Metan found, in that moment, that he had lost the will to shed any more blood. 

So he took a step backward and left it to his best pupil to bring the rebellion to a halt. Alakuz was perfectly suited to the job, having no other loyalties but to Metan, and he played his part perfectly—so perfectly that three of the rebel companies (the three not led by a madwoman convinced the goddess was speaking through her) quickly saw their cause was doomed. 

They turned over the prince (and their own captains, for good measure), and Metan was quick to advise the King to spare them—as long as they never took up arms again and stayed out of the way of the decent folk they’d betrayed. 

Then he resigned and took up residence among them. 

After all, this catastrophe was at least partially his fault, any way you looked at it. He had elevated the four captains who betrayed the tribe. Their disloyalty was as black a mark on his reputation as on anyone else’s. And he didn’t have it in him to try to kill them in battle. He didn’t even have it in him to watch them die at the King’s hand in the aftermath. 

That weakness was the final straw, in his own eyes. So as far as he was concerned, his fate was exactly what he deserved. He would live out his days among the disgraced, and eventually he would die in his bed and disappear forever.

“Elakon, Uncle. You’re up early.”

Metan turned his head back towards the sound. Kareva stood leaning against the doorframe, a small smile on his face. 

“I didn’t sleep much. Neither did you, I imagine.” 

“Is there room for me to sit with you?”

“Of course, Matavuz.”

“Oh, knock that off. I’ve been Oproz for less than twenty-four hours. Dispense with the ceremonial nonsense.”

“You need to get used to it.”

“People have been treating me like a prince my whole life. Every single time I bump into a person, they make a big show of their respect. I’m perfectly used to it. Now, I guess if you’re here and not with Alakuz and the other Ohtar…”

“I’m not an Ohta anymore, Kareva.”

“We need you, Metan. The enemy is at the gate. We do not have the luxury of allowing men of your ability to stay retired.”

“Your father let me walk away.”

“My father’s dead. And I can’t help but think that if you were still standing next to him these past six years—next to me, next to Alakuz—we might not be in this mess right now. I need you back.”

Alakuz appeared from around the corner in the breaking dawn. “It’s done, Oproz.” he called as he approached. He nodded at his mentor. “Ah, Metan ul-Aravan! What a pleasant surprise it is to see you where I asked you to be, for a change.”

“Oh, don’t start with me. You know better than to ask me to show up there. You remember exactly what happened the last time I set foot in that place.”

“Yes. I was right next to you. Does that mean that the hall is cursed or that you are, do you think?” 

Metan opened his mouth to respond, but Kareva interrupted.

“Enough. Alakuz, you can piss him off more later. Metan, I’ve just pardoned all the warriors who joined my brother’s rebellion. We’ll be reintegrating them into our forces immediately. Alakuz has assured me that this is a terrible idea, that it will disrupt unit cohesion, lead to complaining and infighting…I don’t care. I need as many able-bodied warriors as I can find—and good officers to bind them together and lead them on Valtaa so that we can buy our people time to escape. Your retirement is over.”

Metan looked back and forth between the two wild young men in front of him, putting the pieces together: that was what that kid soldier coming to summon Sivridi yesterday had been about. That was how much trouble they had gotten themselves into in their one whole day in charge. “So, we’re all dead a few days from now, right?”

Kareva smiled. “Looks that way. And I can’t think of anyone who deserves a good death in battle as much as you do.”

Metan shook his head. “I don’t, though.”

Alakuz grabbed him by the shoulder. “Yes, you do. You’re not responsible for every stupid thing every one of your subordinates ever thought or did! And you’re certainly not responsible for four of them turning their cloaks. The goddess will be furious with all of us if we let you slip through her grasp. You’re coming with us.”

Metan paused. “Is this an order, Kareva? Are you commanding me to serve you?”

“If I have to. I’d rather just ask a favor of my father’s oldest friend.”

“And…you pardoned everyone? Even the three girls left over from Kivli’s outfit?”

“The Daughters of Vei will get the bloody ending they wished for.”

Metan chuckled darkly. “Well, shit. If they’re coming along I guess I have no choice. Someone has to protect Alakuz from what’s-her-name, at the very least…”

—

It took until the sun was almost at its highest point for everyone and everything to be ready. Barrel after barrel of drinking water had to be fetched from the pool in the caverns, countless loaves of bread baked in every oven available, every scrap of meat packed in salt, and all of it split between the warriors and the enormous refugee caravan. Kulava ul-Katuz and his warband of fifty-two outsiders, who had named their company Uskol’r (“the faithful servants”), were given the task of distributing the contents of Varyta’s horde to the women and children they were guarding: sacks of gold, silver and gems were emptied out a few pieces at a time. Priceless jewels fell into hands of people too preoccupied to think about how rich their ruler must have been in life to be this generous in death.

And now, outside the Sand Gate, the remnants of the Kogon’s pyre served one final purpose. 

The warriors of the Hodrir—now almost eleven hundred strong—assembled together to the west of the pyre. Everyone else, including the warriors of Uskol’r, stood to the east of it.

Sivridi stood silently in formation, flanked by men she didn’t recognize. The sword in her belt was unfamiliar as well; they’d confiscated her weapons after the rebellion and only the gods knew who carried her old sword now.

She had yet to speak to Taravi or Uzani since the soldiers came and announced that the new Oproz had pardoned them and restored them to the tribe—and now demanded their service.  They started calling out names right away, assigning everyone to their new companies. 

Splitting up old comrades wherever possible.

The strangers standing next to her had been coldly polite. Her new commander, Edren ul-Edren of the Kamar (the “red men,” for the clay dust they covered themselves with before battle) had made it plain that open hostility towards the newcomers would not be tolerated, that a pardon was a pardon, and that they were all Hodrir. And everyone still remembered the Daughters of Vei well enough to give her a reasonably wide berth. But beneath that politeness was a clear lack of trust. Not just in her company, she imagined, but throughout the tribe. 

They’d sent Taravi and Uzani to different companies for a reason, obviously. It wasn’t a particularly subtle move—nor was it wise. Isolating the newcomers would not be an option for long. Sooner or later, this tension would ease, or it would lead to violence. And in that case, they should have lumped all the pehtur together into one company. Easier to corner and kill, if it came to that. 

She turned her head slightly, looking for either of her sisters, and caught a glimpse of Uzani’s tall, intricately-tied braids on her left a few companies over. Her hair made her look a head taller than any of the men she stood with. In the old days, she would smear her braids in blood before battle, like Kivli.

That had been the conduit Kivli used to get closer to the goddess, to see her visions. Sivridi had never asked Uzani if she saw anything when she did it.

She felt a nudge on her left elbow. The soldier on Sivridi’s left was looking at her now out of the corner of his eye. “Edren-Ohta called us to attention. Face forward,” he whispered. Then he paused for a second. “He’s a real bastard when it comes to discipline. You can thank me later.” A hint of a smile played on his lips, then was gone.

It took her a second to register the kindness. He must be too young to remember to hate me. She turned her head back and dipped her chin a fraction of an inch, acknowledging the gesture.

Then she saw the crowd on the other side of the divide part, and the priestess came forth to start the parting ceremony. All the individual farewells were already to have been said. There would be a sacrifice, and then the army would go one way, and the rest of the tribe another. 

—

Alini stepped forward out of the crowd of women and children, walking two paces behind Rakili, doing her best to keep her mind quiet against the tidal wave of questions and fears assaulting her.

Why had she volunteered? She was clearly not ready for this responsibility, and if the gods were watching, they’d know it, and that could spell calamity for everyone here.

She had barely noticed they’d stopped. Rakili was already speaking the words. The story of the first Oproz, who’d given all of his blood to the goddess in exchange for his people’s protection. 

Oproz had not only satisfied her desire for blood, but also impressed upon her his worthiness, and she was pleased and proud to have the loyalty of such a warrior. And out of the red sands rose a new lair, forever to be watched over by Vei’s beloved scorpion…and the people within it would also be protected forever…

How she could recite that story when everyone knew Kalaa Ukruv’r was laid open, how they could offer another sacrifice when the goddess had abandoned them, was beyond Alini. 

This was all wrong. But she could not back out now. She must do whatever she could to keep the Hodrir calm and together. That was her duty.

There was nothing else to do but wait for her mistress to call on her.

—

The High Priestess Rakili finished her recitation of faith, took a deep breath, and looked out over both sides of the divide, at all her people, gathered together for what must surely be the last time. “All of you know the words. Speak them with me now.”

Soldiers and civilians alike bowed their heads.

“Patroness, accept this sign of our devotion, and protect our people.”

She turned towards Alini and held the knife out towards her, handle-first. The poor girl looked terrified as she took it. 

She smiled reassuringly at her. Don’t worry, child. We will all certainly be together again, soon enough. 

“Strike.”

—

Go to the next chapter.

—

The Last of the Etela: Table of Contents