UW02. Plains of Sand and Steel

by Alisha Klapheke

  Bleed power into my limbs!”

  Little spears of orange and red shot from Ona’s blade as she chanted too.

  “Wake, iron! Wake!

  Rise for me in battle!

  It is the dawn of their destruction,

  And the first fruits of our day!”

  Ona’s blood was filled with horses chomping at the bit and ready to charge. She felt her lip curling. She was ready to rip sword, tooth, and shield into the enemy. Ona could smell her own fear and rage like vinegar and blood. Her hands had never vibrated with this kind of power.

  She was going to kill so many people today.

  As Invaders flowed around Ona and Lucca, clashing with other warriors’ yatagans, Ona blocked a downward strike with her shield, her movements foggy to even her own eyes, her body rushing like a storm-tortured river. She pushed the attacker’s sword-hand back, and sliced low, taking out his leg before he could even think about defending himself.

  “My iron is the end of my enemy

  The beginning of his next life,” she chanted.

  “A last cold kiss before the soul break

  His sword is a branch against my blade

  A weak will and his blood is mine

  I am the power he cannot fight,

  The force he cannot halt,

  The strike they do not see.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucca raise his sword, circling his left shoulder at a dizzying speed. His blade opened the Invader where neck met body. A spray of blood marked Lucca’s brigandine, a visible shout. The scent of war swirled through the air: iron, blood, sweat, spark, and foreign oils.

  The Invaders’ skin smelled like disaster. Ona pushed and fought a memory of men in the doorway of her aunt’s villa. Not now. They wore the same five slashed sigil on their surcoats, the identical faces of want and desperation and that sick mixture of loving and hating the horrors they committed. She couldn’t weaken now.

  Use it, she told herself. Use the fear, the anger, the need.

  Two hulking men bore down on her. Her horse was actually slowing her, trapping her in the thick of things. Slipping off, the men blinked at her speed. The chants were working. She scooted left and right, stacking the Invaders, so only one could come at her in turns. The first hesitated, shieldless, but with sword ready. She raised her shield to distract him, lifted her knee, jumped, then kicked him in the chest with her other foot, knocking him into the next man. She soared high and drove her steel into the man’s throat. Pulling her weapon free before the other man realized what was happening, she drew the blade across his cheeks.

  A foul way to die for a foul way to live. The blood was black and beautiful in this light, and if there hadn’t been a crowd of Invaders fighting four paces away, she’d have been tempted to use it to paint the walls.

  Laughing like a demon, she hurdled the bodies, pushing back into the fray. Five men surrounded Lucca, who’d jumped onto an overturned ox cart.

  She began shouting.

  “My body spins with the swiftness of the falcon,

  I dive and my enemy sees my talon, my sword, flashing

  My iron consumes his soul.”

  Lucca echoed the chant and leaped into the air like a stag, making soldiers stop and gawk. He flashed down in a quick twist and drove an Invader’s sword to the army’s feet. Then Ona had no more time to watch her friend spread ruination, because a woman like a tower swung a sword at her face.

  “Wake iron!” she spat.

  Her sword sparked, raining orange and white and green, and began moving with her thoughts, asking only for a fraction of the power of Ona’s muscles. Ona had the woman at her feet, bleeding from three wounds before she could squeal like the Invader pig she was.

  A sun-colored head appeared beyond a knot of Invaders. Though he didn’t have a crown or even a fine helmet, Ona knew who he was. Her heart knew who he was. Its shivering rage told her.

  The king.

  Sweat ran down his bearded cheeks. The moisture darkened his ugly surcoat as he lifted a large sword with both hands. It banged onto an Empire fighter’s shield.

  Ona turned to find Seren in the chaos.

  She rode into the fight, firing arrow after arrow and taking Invaders’ lives like she was Death itself—relentless, shocking, and cold.

  “For our city!” Seren shouted, her earlier fear washed away.

  The people echoed her and surged toward the gates.

  Seren could certainly keep that title of hers if she wanted to. This was proof enough.

  Ona struck another man at the neck, two more at the thigh, crushed one’s nose with the edge of her shield, and spun to find Adem.

  Blood covered half his face and dripped from his beard. He fought well, no wasted flourishes, no fancy moves. Just clean cuts and practiced precision. No surprise there.

  She and Lucca cut through the enemies until Ona dropped her shield, reached out a hand, and grabbed the king by the hair. The strands of his sunny mane cut off the circulation in her fingers as she put her sword to his throat. Victory surged through her heart, beating like drums in her chest. This was the best day of her life.

  “Back off!” she shouted to the other Invaders, knowing the steel at the king’s neck would make her meaning plenty clear.

  “Ona!” Lucca’s face was pale. His lips made a line and he gave her a nod.

  The rest of the Invaders did indeed back away, fear glazing their eyes. Those strong enough retreated to their ropes, climbing away. The injured leaned against the walls, sadness making their eyes large and hatred twisting their mouths. They were so much larger than any Empire fighter or Silvanian. But their cheeks were hollow and their skin parched as they watched her drag their king to his knees.

  She held the ruler tight. He laughed under his breath and she let the sword nip him, loving the red trickling from his neck. This man was like the sun to them. She wanted to end him. Now. Now. Now. She could taste his death on her tongue like wine.

  Adem found Ona’s side. “Congratulations, Onaratta Paints with Blood.” Though his words were pretty, he didn’t seem so pleased in saying them. He had to be jealous.

  Adem addressed the retreating Invaders in their own tongue. “We will send word for a ransom and terms.”

  Ona looked to Lucca, who seemed as surprised as her that Adem knew the language.

  “Ransom, hm?” the king said in perfect trade tongue.

  She nearly dropped her hold on him. “Shut it.” She leaned her sword into his neck again.

  Surely Adem was only talking ransom to ward them off. Ona met Seren’s gaze. Seren’s eyes were on fire. They shared a vicious smile and Ona knew they were of the same mind.

  This king was going to die, hopefully by Seren’s own blessed hands.

  SEREN

  Barir and the other physicians had settled the injured on cots near the back gates, to the Northeast, and as the sun rose over the day Seren had feared would never come, she walked among them. Even beside her loyal Meekra, the steadfast Cansu and Hossam, her insides felt cold, so cold. A part of her had truly believed Akhayma would fall under Invader swords last night. Thankfully, her body had been so tired that despite the nightmares clawing at her on the bed in Meekra’s chamber, she’d slept a good handful of hours.

  A fighter on a cot near a table covered in clean cloth and shining surgery instruments bit a strip of leather to keep from crying out. A physician with small, steady hands tugged a thread and needle through his wound. Seren set a hand on the man’s forehead. Sand and sweat lay on his skin. She dipped a cloth in the clean water, drops falling quietly into the bowl amidst the fighter’s muffled grunts of pain. He squeezed his eyes shut. Singing a mountain song, Seren wiped his brow and cheeks like her mother had when she was little and sick.

  As the physician tied up the stitches with precise movement, the warrior’s eyes flicked open. Seren took the leather from between his teeth.

  “Our Blessed Pearl.” His thick fingers curled around her hand gently.
“Thank you for warning us.”

  The physician glanced up, gaze watchful, careful. Unlike the warrior, this physician wasn’t in a haze of pain. He could see the danger in the situation. If Adem spoke out against Seren, all who supported her would be imprisoned. And that was a best case scenario. She hadn’t seen the general since the battle.

  “Shh. Rest now, warrior. Thank you for your courage.” She offered a smile that wasn’t easy to give and walked on.

  Fighters lifted their palms when they could. They called out thanks and blessings, telling her she’d saved them all with her vision, that she was their leader now, deserving and righteous. The formality of chewing mint and bowing was absent and Seren wished it could always be like that. Battle stripped life to what was truly important.

  But she didn’t like them calling her righteous. She had a body buried under her bed. The body of their kyros, the body of her husband. She was far, far from righteous. Meric had to be properly cared for. Today. She put aside her planning to pay attention to another fighter.

  An angry gash marred the woman’s muscular throat and the blood flow had slowed to a trickle. Her eyes stilled. Seren’s chest ached. The familiar feeling was a lot like hunger, a gnawing want, but one that would never be satisfied. She closed the fighter’s lids with her fingertips and whispered a prayer. Feeling the dead woman’s sweat on her own skin helped her take some of the weight of the warrior’s death.

  “Thank you. You’ve done what I haven’t yet been able to. You gave all for those you love. Drift to that next place, fighter, and know you died with the ultimate honor.”

  Meekra appeared with a bowl of water and Seren washed her face and hands.

  With one last prayer said above the wounded, she and her retinue walked along the smooth city walls, toward the back gates and the training area.

  On the hill above the archery range, slaves—hoping to earn their way into the caste system—rubbed yatagans with cloths, scrubbed bloodied shields, and sewed new fletching onto new arrows, ignoring purpling bruises and blood-soaked wraps on their arms and legs. The large bells over their heads rang lightly.

  A group of warriors brought another load of arrowheads. The differences between the men and women were suddenly shocking. Seren had never really noticed the lack of muscle in the slaves and their hollowed cheeks. The thin hair and downcast eyes. She hated herself.

  Her own ancestors had been slaves. Being partially mountain blood, they’d had to serve until someone apprenticed them. Then, the next generation had worked their short, rough lives trying to earn enough silver to remove caste bells and move up to middle. They’d failed. She remembered what Father had told her long, long ago. It’d taken her family four generations to become high caste and that was partially luck. Father had impressed the kyros during a feigned training battle during his time as a base-level fighter and he’d been moved up quickly. Father had always claimed it had less to do with himself than the fact that the kyros had been in a good mood that day because he had just learned his wife was pregnant with Meric’s younger brother, Varol.

  Some of these slaves and low-castes had fought for Akhayma when she’d ordered the warriors to give out weapons to anyone who would fight. And now, here they were, in the same poor position as before. Given little to no respect. The cost to remove a bell didn’t seem high to her, but she’d always been high-caste, through her father’s work as a high ranking general. Maybe the cost was more significant than she’d thought. And if it was, that wasn’t right. If a person was willing to fight, willing to work, they should be treated the same as anyone else.

  Anger surged through Seren, hot and unforgiving. Anger at herself and everyone else who’d participated in this for so long. She knew the Empire treated people better than the Northern Isle folk, but it still wasn’t right.

  Tonight, she’d demand the removal of every slave’s metal belt-and-bell contraption.

  She’d heard that Jakobden’s new amir had done the same, with Meric’s reluctant permission, made only because Jakobden was an odd, but highly profitable little corner of the Empire.

  And war or no war, Adem or no Adem, she couldn’t stomach that part of the Empire’s traditions any longer. The metal bell belts were leaving. Tonight. And the cost of removing a caste bell, the price of moving up in the Empire would be lowered. She could call up the scribe. Have it announced at the feast. Maybe it would go over since everyone was simply relieved at having lived through the attack.

  ONA

  “Not so kingly now, are you?”

  Ona sneered through the bars at the Invaders’ king as Lucca walked down the slope separating the training field from the line of cells to join them. Mud caked the king’s once shining hair and the new day’s heat pulled his stink into the air.

  “Muddy as the pig you are.” Maybe he wouldn’t understand what with her Silvanian accent and all. She gave him a very specific gesture to ensure he picked up her meaning.

  Lucca knocked a knuckle against the king’s bars. “Ona. That isn’t polite.”

  “I didn’t intend politeness,” she said, switching to their own language.

  “I suppose as long as you don’t run him through before Seren and Adem do what they want, you can have your fun.” He looked at Ona. “He’ll probably need to keep most of his limbs for now.”

  She plucked her knife from her sash and reached an arm through the bars. The king’s dark eyes moved, but aside from that he remained utterly still, sitting in the mud with his hands and feet bound like a Silvanian slave. She’d done the binding herself after the battle late last night. She ran the tip of the blade up his cheek and pressed lightly into the soft flesh beneath his eye.

  “Eyes aren’t limbs. He doesn’t really need two of these, does he, Lucca?”

  “I’d say one works well enough for the dirty work his kind do. But Seren might not like you damaging the hard-earned loot.”

  Ona’s knife bit into him and a speck of blood appeared. He didn’t flinch. She pressed a little harder. “They’re ugly eyes anyway.”

  “You think so?” Lucca crossed his arms. “I think he’s rather good looking. Different from us. Different from the many kinds of people here. But yes. Definitely a fine looking man.”

  “Are you going to fall for every foreigner you meet now?”

  Lucca’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared.

  Ona shrugged. “He doesn’t know what we’re saying.”

  Lucca’s jaw tensed. He spun and walked away. Ona sighed and returned her dagger to her belt.

  “A Silvanian, hm?” The king said perfectly. In Silvanian.

  Her heart tripled its pace. Maybe he hadn’t fully understood her comment about Lucca and loving foreigners. And even if he did, he could never guess it was Seren Lucca seemed to be interested in.

  The king closed his eyes. “I appreciate your people’s talent with paint.”

  Everything in Ona’s view, except the man’s face, went white.

  “I saw a young man who could craft a fresco so true to life that I would’ve sworn the birds he made could take flight right off the wall,” he said.

  Ona threw herself against the bars, sword out. Hands pulled her back. Shaking, she turned to see two of Seren’s guards—Erol and his never-ending scowl and Hossam with that mop of hair. Cansu must’ve been injured or somewhere resting.

  Seren adjusted the tie at her forehead and the bell there shot the sun back at Ona.

  “Come, friend,” Seren said quietly, gaze flashing to the king and back. “We should celebrate our success.”

  “But he—”

  She looked directly into Ona’s eyes. “I know. Believe me. I know. But we can’t do anything about it yet. We have to be wise.” One of her hands went to the wool on her sash. “Let’s go to the feast.”

  The king laughed and they both turned.

  Seren frowned. “What is so amusing? I don’t think, in your position, you’d have much to laugh about.”

  He shook his head, looking down
at his bound feet, and said something in his own language.

  Seren stiffened. She turned and started off, her feet moving fast. Erol and Hossam trailed her.

  “What did he say?” Ona said as she caught up.

  “Merely a slur. I won’t repeat it. It’s some sort of cultural insult.”

  Ona gave her a look.

  “Fine. He spoke metaphorically, but I think the intent had to do with a squirrel instigating the act of love with a lion,” she whispered, making sure the guards couldn’t hear.

  Ona snorted. “That sounds difficult.”

  The wrinkles between Seren’s eyes smoothed. “It would have to be. At least for the squirrel.”

  “She’d end up as dinner rather than lover.”

  “But now that I think on it, he used the female term for lion. He said lioness.”

  “She won’t be bothered much then. Doubt she’d even notice his tiny intentions.”

  Seren pressed a hand over her eyes.

  “Are you really going to ask for a ransom? Or was that only a ploy to get his men to back down? Or was that just Sweet Bean having some fun with the pigs?”

  “Sweet Bean?”

  “That’s what I call General Adem.”

  Seren’s face was priceless. “No, you don’t.”

  “I do. Just in private.”

  Behind us, Erol and Hossam laughed quietly.

  Seren cleared her throat. “General Adem already sent a message concerning the ransom. It includes a demand for silver and that all Invaders return to their own borders.”

  “I suppose it makes sense. Might as well get the silver coin to go with all the trouble.” The Empire wouldn’t have to actually release him. They could just get the silver and then kill everyone in sight, including the king. It was a smart plan.

  “These raiders have sent us so many refugees,” Seren said. “We need to build onto the city.”

  “You shouldn’t have to. The bastards should leave people to their homes.”

  Ona’s jaw pinched as she ground her teeth together. Her bones pressed against the leather and metal of her sword as she gripped it tight, wishing that foul king’s warm blood covered her hand. Like a Northern witch’s healing symbol, it’d dull the pain in her body and heart, she was sure of it.