by Gwynn White
“And if they don’t? I’ll be a server for the rest of my life . . . picking up ostrich dung for the fires.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it. I’ll—” She bit her tongue; it was premature to share her nascent plan with him. “I’ll plead with Father for you.”
Clay lifted his head to look at her, his eyes wrought with pain and sorrow. “I don’t know, Lynx . . . he’ll be furious that I raided without permission.”
“Leave him to me. I give you my oath that I’ll do my best to fix this.” She sucked in a breath. There was no going back now.
The muscles in Clay’s face relaxed, and she knew she’d said the right thing, even if it trapped her into a marriage with Lukan. There’s no guarantee Kestrel was right about me marrying him, she reminded herself.
Lynx cracked a wry smile as she reached for her antiseptic tincture. “Now, come, let me patch you up. Father will be less mad if he doesn’t know how badly that ostrich tore you up.”
Clay sniggered. “It’s going to sting, isn’t it?”
“About as bad as sticking your head in a bee hive.”
“Great.” Clay winced as she gently rubbed the gash on his thigh with the clove-scented ointment.
The larger of the planet’s twin moons nudged the sky by the time Lynx had finished dressing Clay’s wounds.
“Wait here. I’ll get your horse,” Lynx said as he creaked to his feet. She trotted through the tuffet grass to the thorn tree where they had tethered their horses. Holding both bridles, she walked back to him.
Only when he was seated did she mount her own horse. They rode across the arid terrain, picking their way through clumps of dry grass and scrub as they headed back to the Norin encampment.
Lynx twirled her braid and feathers. Her mind was on her upcoming negotiations with her father. She caught Clay watching her.
“Did I hear the bitch correctly?” Clay asked. “Are you to marry Lukan?”
“Apparently so.”
Clay grunted. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“The Unity says a daughter of the Norin king will marry the Chenayan crown prince, not the eldest daughter. We all know Kestrel’s the better candidate. Mad as he is, Mott would be an idiot to choose me.”
Clay snorted a laugh. “Unless he likes the idea of you knocking Lukan’s teeth out.” He shot her a sideways look. “If what you told us about your meeting with Lukan is true, that’s how your marriage will go.”
“Oh, it was true all right. Father will vouch for me.” She grimaced at the memory of her first and only meeting with Crown Prince Lukan Avanov and his father.
That summer, she and her father had been summoned, along with the other leaders of Chenaya’s vassal states, to attend a meeting in the Chenayan capital, Cian. All started off well enough. Lynx had enjoyed her first train journey, a seven-day trip on the public steam train that dissected the empire. Matters had gone downhill quickly when she arrived at the palace.
To the blaring of trumpets, Mott had appeared, accompanied by Crown Prince Lukan and his brother, Prince Tao. Lynx had studied Lukan as he took his seat on the dais below his father’s throne. She grudgingly admitted he was good-looking, if one liked angular faces with blunt chins.
Lukan had noticed her scrutiny. His dark eyes had swept over her body, clad in her leather tunic, leather trousers, and boots, as if she were a wench serving beer in some low-rent tavern. A wench he could tumble for a handful of coins. His lust was so obvious, the other leaders in the hall had turned to stare at her. A few of them had even laughed.
The humiliation still made her cheeks burn.
Not only was she a Norin princess, her blood every bit as royal as his, she was also a warrior. The men she led and fought beside would never dream of looking at her with such disrespect. She had loathed Lukan ever since.
Only her father’s steadying hand had stopped her from marching up the dais to hit Lukan. Her father had dragged her from the hall before Mott even started his speech.
She knew the emperor was furious at their defiance. Both she and her father came away from the meeting convinced that Mott would never choose her to be a future empress. From that moment, Lynx had thought the whole encounter a roaring success.
Seems she was wrong.
“The whole idea of a Norin marrying a Chenayan is sick,” Clay said, spitting out the words like poison. “They’re our enemies and will be until we kick them out of Norin.”
“While I share your sentiment, I’m not holding my breath that we will be kicking them out anytime soon.”
Clay turned fiery eyes on her. “How can you say that? You, of all people?”
Four hundred years of Chenayan domination had made her cynical. Give Clay a year or two, and he would end up feeling the same way, too.
“Nothing would give me greater joy than to be free of our masters, but we have to be realistic. Even at our most ferocious, our rebellions against them are no more effective than ticks biting an elephant.” Lynx straightened her back and set her face in a hard line. “Still, we can’t stop fighting. To do so would be to lose . . . forever.”
They reached the signal fires protecting the outer ring of the Norin tents.
“Who goes there?” a voice called.
Lynx nodded with satisfaction; at least five crossbow quarrels were aimed at them in the darkness. “Heron, it’s me, with Clay.”
Heron stepped out of the shadows, crossbow hanging at his side. He strode toward their horses, his long, braided hair swinging as he walked. “You’re late, Lynx. I hate it when you’re out at night without another raider.”
Lynx sensed Clay bristling next to her.
“Clay’s with me, so I had all the help I needed,” Lynx said, loud enough for the raiders patrolling close-by to hear.
Clay grunted, but she could see from the way his shoulders straightened that he appreciated her effort.
They intercepted Heron at the edge of the tents. Blue eyes fixed on her, he brushed his hand along her leg.
“There was a letter from Mott today,” Lynx said.
“I heard.” Heron’s voice sounded strangled.
She squeezed his hand. “There’s a dead ostrich at Pinion Point. Please send out some servers and raiders to bring it in.” The bird would be butchered and preserved for Norin cooking pots. She looked over at Clay. “I need to get him home. And my father and I have to talk.”
Heron’s eyes flickered to Clay expectantly. “An egg?”
Clay shook his head.
A mix of sorrow and sympathy flitted across Heron’s face, and he stood aside to let them pass.
Lynx was about to knee her horse forward. A scream cut the air, and galloping hooves pounded nearer.
Hare, one of Lynx’s best friends, skidded past them, and wheeled her horse around. “The Chenayans are attacking! North gate. About fifteen guardsmen.”
Chapter 3
Lynx stood in her stirrups and peered toward the northern gate. Above the steeple of Norin tents, smoke swirled in the air against livid flames. Something, probably a tent, exploded in a flurry of orange sparks. She swore.
“Clay, get home. Tell Father we’re safe and that I’ve joined the defense.” Heart pounding, she forced the façade of control expected of her as commander-in-training and turned to Heron. “How many raiders do you have here?”
“Six. With me, seven.”
“You come with me,” she said to Heron and then called to the rest of her troops. “The rest of you, hold this position. Do not let the bastards through if they attack here.”
Six raiders could do little to repel the Chenayans if they attacked this gate in numbers, but she had to appear confident.
Heron swept up behind her on her horse. He wrapped his arms around her waist—strong, protective arms she knew well. She started wheeling her horse around when she realized Clay was still there.
“I said go home. Now go.”
Clay fixed her with a hard stare. “If I were holding an egg, would you se
nd me home?”
No, she wouldn’t. Damaged as he was, she would send him into battle to protect their people. But he hadn’t come home with an egg.
Another explosion rocked the sky.
“Clay, there isn’t time for this. Go.”
“No, Lynx. Please let me fight. Just this once.” Clay’s eyes were beseeching, his voice desperate.
It broke her heart, but Lynx shook her head. “You’re not a raider. Mother will kill me if anything happens to you.”
Heron snorted a laugh. “Happens to him? It’s a bit late for that, Lynxie. Judging by the bandages, the kid’s already in tatters.”
High-pitched screaming—a child’s voice—pulled Lynx’s attention back to the fighting.
“There’s no time to waste.” She shot Clay a beseeching look of her own. “Get killed, and I will never forgive you.”
Clay gave a wild whoop and kicked his horse into action.
Lynx led them at a full gallop around the outer ring of tents toward the fires. Amid the screams and shouting, steel clashed on steel. There were only two official entrances to the Norin campsite, both guarded. The rest of the raiders on duty would be circling the perimeter of the encampment. Once through the barricades and into the camp, the Chenayans would find little resistance until the off-duty raiders rallied. Even then, it would be a rout.
Imperial guardsmen were unlike ordinary Chenayan foot soldiers: they had an extra edge no training or weaponry could give; they moved faster than any Norin; they never seemed to tire; their crossbow quarrels never seemed to miss; and—even more frightening—Lynx was convinced they felt no fear.
Twenty feet from the battle, she pulled up her horse to assess the situation.
The guardsmen had broken through the line of raiders at the barricade. Despite being shot at, they systematically torched tents. Not everyone escaped the inferno, given the nauseating stench of charred flesh that hung in the air. Bodies of the dead and wounded, all Norin, lay trodden underfoot, making fighting treacherous.
Screaming battle cries, raiders armed with machetes and axes converged to meet the enemy. The guardsmen surged forward, their steps unnaturally quick and light, their short-handled battle axes flashing faster than any Norin could move. The first line of raiders fell to deadly strokes. Still, the raiders came.
It was only a matter of time, and they would be cut down, too.
She shook her head in despair and whispered to Heron and Clay, “Attacking them from the front is futile. We need to flank them.”
“We need more raiders,” Heron said.
Lynx was about to reply when, in the blink of an eye, the guardsman closest to her sliced through a young raider with a sword. The girl’s battle cry stilled as her severed body crumpled into the dust.
Hare. Bile bubbled into Lynx’s mouth. All she wanted was to join her voice to the battle cries and to rip the Chenayans to pieces with her machete. But a rash move like that would cost Lynx her life.
She gestured to Clay and Heron. “Dismount and bring your crossbows.”
Lynx, Clay, and Heron slipped away from the fires. She led them to a grove of trees and tussock grass opposite the fighting. Hiding from the light of the two moons, she hunkered down into the grass and lifted her crossbow. Heron and Clay lay on either side.
It was the perfect spot for sniper attacks. As long as the raiders in the camp kept the guardsmen pinned at the gate, they could pick the Chenayans off with poison-tipped quarrels. She had no compunction about shooting people in the back. Stealth and poison were the only way the Norin held their own against the Chenayans. Even in moonlight, the Chenayans, with their dark hair, bronze-colored skin, and mail armor, were easily distinguishable from the fair-haired Norin.
“How many murghi-tipped quarrels do you have?” she whispered to Heron.
“Five.”
Between them, she and Clay also had five. Not enough. She gritted her teeth. “Fire at will and then get out of here. The bastards will rush us as soon as they figure out where the attack is coming from.”
They let fly a barrage of quarrels. Their bolts hit with precision, born of years of training and cold-blooded hatred. Eye lined up to her crossbow sights, Lynx fired into the back of the guardsman who had killed Hare. It ripped through his armor and struck him in the shoulder. The air oomphed out of him, and he staggered forward, only to collapse on his knees. Seconds later, he tumbled to the ground.
Lynx marred her face with a harsh, ugly smile. Thanks to the murghi, the Norin poison, within minutes, he would be delirious and unable to move. Within days, a slow, agonizing death would claim him, befitting a man who dared slaughter her friend.
By the time the Chenayans figured where the quarrels were coming from, ten of their number lay dead or dying. En masse, the raiders at the gate swarmed the remaining five. Still, the Chenayan axes flailed, until finally, sheer weight of numbers brought them to their knees.
Lynx stood and raced to the camp. “Attend to our injured!”
She unsheathed a machete and made for Hare’s killer.
Heron grabbed her wrist. “Wait. He’s still conscious.”
“Then he will feel my machete,” she replied, voice like ice.
Heron let her go, and he and Clay fell into step with her. She nudged her boot under the guardsman’s shoulder and tossed the man over. His lips were already turning blue from the murghi, and his eyes were glassy. But that was not what held her attention. A pea-sized chunk of jasper, lodged in his nose next to his right eye, gleamed in the moonlight.
Ignoring his inane ramblings—the effect of the poison—she knelt and poked the tip of her machete under the stone.
He cried out in pain.
She ignored that, too.
With a grimace, she drove the tip of the blade deeper and deeper under the gem until it finally broke free in a spurt of blood. The guardsman groaned, and his body jerked. Before long, even those halting movements would cease as the poison tightened its grip. Then, for three or four days, he would linger in agony between death and despair as each of his organs shut down. Death, when it came, would be a mercy.
Lynx picked up the jasper and held it up to the moonlight. She breathed out a disappointed sigh.
“Nothing,” Heron said.
Clay looked on, his face contorted with morbid interest.
“Just a piece of rock.” Heron narrowed his eyes.
“I had to check.” Lynx tossed the bloody stone onto the guardsman’s chest. “Something gives these bastards their supernatural powers.” She stood, calling to the servers, who had now emerged and battled fires with water buckets. “As soon as that’s done, stake the Chenayans out in the desert. They will either die of murghi, or the vultures will get them.”
“Yes, Princess Lynx,” someone called.
Lynx knelt next to Hare. Tears of sorrow and anger spilled down her cheeks as she brushed Hare’s braids away from her face.
A hand landed on her shoulder, and she looked up into familiar blue eyes. King Thorn. Her breath caught.
“Father.” She stood. “We killed them all . . . but at what cost?”
“At what cost, indeed.”
She and her father stood side by side as raiders and servers scurried around them. The servers—Clay included—attended the Norin dead and injured while Heron led the raiders carrying the Chenayans out into the desert to die.
Lynx tucked her hand under her father’s arm. “Why? That’s what I want to know. They harry us, poach our ostriches, make life hell, but they’ve never done anything as suicidal as this.”
Her father raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Suicidal? Is that what you think?”
Lynx nodded. “Every Chenayan died tonight. What was the point? If they wanted to slaughter us, why only send fifteen men?”
A server ran up to her father and thumped his fist to his heart. “King Thorn, sir, we lost twenty-six people and have forty injured.”
Her father shook his head. “Thank you, Lizard.” He turned to Lynx. �
�As future Commander of the Norin raiders, what message do you think Mad Mott sent us tonight?”
From his tone, her father had some definite ideas. Sixty-six Norin dead or injured, with just fifteen Chenayan casualties. Despite the cool autumn evening, Lynx rubbed her arms against a sudden chill.
“I wish I knew,” she replied. “You tell me.”
“Tomorrow,” her father said, “after the funeral. We have much to talk about.” His blue eyes turned flinty. “Not least of all, Clay’s failed egg raid.”
Lynx’s stomach clenched at that disaster, sidelined by the battle. “You heard?”
“Kestrel told me.”
“Did she also say she destroyed Clay’s eggs?”
Her father ran a scarred hand across his face. “She did. I should have known the day could only get worse when she babbled that at me.” A sigh escaped his chest. “Find your brothers. We need to plan for tomorrow’s funeral.”
* * *
A sharp wind whipped around Lynx as she played a soft, melancholy tune on her fiddle in front of the unlit funeral pyre.
The Norin did not leave their corpses languishing. All night, servers had scoured the plains for scarce firewood to build a pyre tall enough to consume the bodies of twenty-six men, women, and children. By morning, the pyramid of bodies and wood had been ready. Lynx’s nose burned with the reek of precious kerosene, used to soak the wood to speed the burning.
As she played, Lynx spotted Heron pushing his way through the gathering crowds. Everyone who could be spared from guard duty had collected on the dusty plain outside the camp for this send-off. Heron’s sun-bronzed face broke into a sad smile as he joined her. She smiled back as he stopped next to her. He stood so close, her elbow knocked into his side as she played. She didn’t mind. He was her best friend, and it was comforting to have him here.
The royal family always took the lead at public events. Clay, dressed in a server’s apron, and her older brother, Wolf, braids and feathers rimming his face, stood to her left. Wolf was her father’s heir and would inherit the throne on his death. Wolf’s wife, Aloe, wearing a server’s apron, flanked his side. She held their young son. Lynx looked around for Kestrel. Instead of joining the younger generation, she stood behind their parents, seated on the other side of the pyre. As king and queen, they presided over this somber affair.