The Fires of Vengeance

by Evan Winter

  “Priestess?” the queen asked again.

  “There’s poison in the dart, my queen,” Hafsa told her. “It’s dragon’s blood.”

  On the stairs, the Lesser named Uduak met the assassin, and as much as she abhorred violence, Hafsa could not have torn her eyes away were she promised all the cures to all the world’s diseases. Uduak struck first, swinging his great sword in a tight arc, but missed when the other man jumped back, landing two stairs higher and out of reach.

  Shouting as he went, the accompanying Indlovu charged past the big Lesser and attacked. The two Indlovu, assassin and loyalist, exchanged strikes, both blocked. Then, using his higher vantage, the assassin kicked the loyalist below the neck, unbalancing him, and before the loyalist could regain his footing, the assassin hacked down with his sword.

  Hafsa thought to look away. She didn’t want to watch a man murdered, but the loyalist wasn’t undone. He raised his shield and the assassin’s blade smashed into it. It wasn’t a good block, but it meant that the assassin was only able to shave a sliver of flesh from the side of the loyalist’s neck and shoulder instead of stealing his life.

  Having saved himself, the loyalist spun down and away, letting the big Lesser take his place to continue the attack. They did it as smoothly as if they were performing a practiced dance, and Hafsa felt her mouth drop open when, without a wasted step, the big Lesser moved up the stairs to whip his huge sword at the assassin’s head.

  Moving like a surgeon’s stitching needle, the assassin darted in and out, and as weightless as the Lesser made his massive sword look, he could not wield it well enough to land a blow. The scream, then, from the loyalist, who was no longer in the fray or in danger, was a shock. The sound he made was so raw and ragged it had to have torn his throat to shreds.

  “Goddess wept,” Hafsa said, seeing the man stumble on the stairs.

  He was doubled over in pain, his head thrown back at a near impossible angle, the veins in it full, tight, and visible even from a distance as he clutched at the cut on his neck. He staggered one step, two, then tumbled twelve strides from the stone stairs to the courtyard floor.

  “The assassin’s blade,” Hafsa shouted to the big Lesser as she left the queen to run toward the fallen loyalist, “it’s poisoned!”

  Reaching the downed and writhing man slumped against the stairs, she skidded to a stop and dropped to her knees.

  “Hold still,” she said, grabbing his head in both hands to steady it as she examined the wound. “Hold still!”

  The shallow wound the assassin’s blade had shaved into the Indlovu’s neck looked innocent enough, except for the tiny splashes of black dragon’s blood that bubbled and festered at the edges of the lacerated flesh. Hafsa knew that the best method for saving those poisoned in this way was to amputate the infected area, preventing the poison’s spread before it could reach the heart or brain, but the poison was in his neck and that left her with just one option.

  “Listen to me,” she said to the screaming man, trying to get through the fugue of his agony. “I’m going to give you something. It will taste foul, but you need to bite down on it and swallow the juices. It will take away the pain.”

  His pupils were dilated and his eyes bulged from his head, but she’d captured his attention, and he nodded at her, reaching for her with tremoring fingers, desperate for anything that could ease his suffering.

  Leaving a hand on him, holding him as still as she could, Hafsa searched the inner pockets of her robe for the right pouch and tried not to see the hope in his face. She pulled free the pouch she’d been looking for, opened it up, and poured the contents into her palm. There was only one ball of oiled herbs left, a small one, too small. She wanted to cry.

  The loyalist scrabbled for it and she let him take the ball. He put it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed, and Hafsa sat with him. But she knew that what he’d taken wouldn’t be enough. She’d been so busy dealing with the wounded from the battle between the queen’s loyalists and Odili’s traitors that it had been days since she’d last refilled her pouches.

  His screams grew louder, his thrashings became worse, and the whole thing, from her running to his side to his dying, happened in just a few breaths, but it felt like she watched him suffer and spasm forever. When it ended, his eyes, glassy and unfocused, were fixed on her. She could see the accusation in them, damning her. She’d promised to take away his pain. She’d promised him a lie.

  As if from a great distance, she heard bronze smash against bronze, and, too drained to feel fear, she looked up. The assassin was close, only a couple of stairs up from the courtyard. He’d fought his way down, forcing the big Lesser to give ground to avoid the poisoned blade.

  Hafsa saw that more Indlovu, more loyalists, were running over, and that the seven soldiers from the top of the wall were on the stairs and almost down them. There wasn’t much hope for the assassin, and the champion was waiting for him at the base of the steps.

  The assassin must have realized this too. He glanced back up the way he’d come, saw it was blocked by men, and jumped down beside Hafsa and the dead Indlovu. He reached for her, she recoiled, more out of instinct than thoughtful action, and then she felt someone pull her beyond the assassin’s grasp.

  The champion was there. He’d pulled her back, putting himself between her and the assassin.

  “Breathe deep,” the champion said to the poisoner, “it’ll be the last one you take.”

  The assassin, seen up close, had a thin face that was prettier than any murderer deserved.

  “Ukufa waits for us both,” he said. “The dart pulled from your thigh? It was coated in dragon’s blood. Do you feel its fire, Lesser? Does it burn?” The assassin smiled and tilted his head at the dead Indlovu, coaxing them to note the body. “The pain is just beginning.”

  His gesture called Hafsa’s attention to the dead man, and as soon as she looked he attacked. He’d tried to distract the champion, and the trick had worked on her. From the corner of her eye, she saw the killer thrust his poisoned blade for the champion’s chest, and just as she drew breath to cry out a warning, Hafsa Ekene was showered with gore.

  One moment the champion had been facing a mortal injury, and the next, he had one of his blades through the assassin’s sword arm, pinning it and the man’s poisoned weapon helpless. But it was the champion’s second sword that had spilled the most blood. It was buried hilt-deep in the assassin’s open mouth, and its point, having broken through the back of the man’s skull, vibrated like an instrument’s plucked string.

  The assassin’s dead body hit the ground beside her and Hafsa’s attempted warning cry came out as a shriek.

  “Stop that,” the champion said to her. He was already crouched and breathing heavily. “Is what he said true? Was the dart poisoned?”

  Noting to herself that she was likely in shock, she still managed a nod and a few words. “You killed him …”

  “I did,” he said.

  “Champion Solarin!” yelled one of the men atop the ramparts. “Five horses and four riders are fleeing the keep. The general is one of them.”

  The champion shouted back, “Who else is with them?”

  “Two Indlovu and a gray-haired woman.”

  “Mirembe,” the champion said, sniffing as if in disgust. “She runs, abandoning the rest of her council.”

  Hafsa, shaken as she was, had to save the Lesser. “Give me your sword,” she said for the second time that day.

  “Why?” It was Nyah. She was a few strides distant and hurrying over.

  “I must cut away the poison before it finishes its work.”

  “How are Queen Tsiora and your daughter?” the champion asked the vizier.

  “They’re safe. They’re … thank you, Champion. They’re safe,” Nyah said.

  The champion, shoulders slumped, nodded as if his head were a boulder.

  Hafsa reached for one of his swords. The champion sheathed it and grabbed her wrist before she was even close. He was look
ing at the dead loyalist.

  “Why should I trust you?” the champion asked. “You couldn’t save him.”

  “It was too late,” Hafsa said. “He was cut in the neck and the poison travels through the body. If it reaches the head or heart, it kills. There was nothing I could do.”

  “It burns,” he said.

  She nodded. “And it will get much worse.”

  “Save him,” Nyah said. “Do what you must.”

  “It’s in his leg,” Hafsa said.

  “Amputation?” the champion asked.

  “You’ll die otherwise,” she said.

  “You’re not cutting off my leg,” he said, looking over her shoulder.

  She turned to see that the queen had come, and as if Hafsa had not just told him that he was within reach of the Goddess’s everlasting embrace, he began speaking to the queen.

  “Five horses left the keep,” he said. “It’s Otobong, Mirembe, and two Indlovu. The last horse is unridden. It must have been for their assassin.”

  Queen Tsiora was watching the champion like nothing else existed. “You’re poisoned?”

  “We have to stop them. They know you have agents in Palm. We can’t let them get to Odili.”

  The queen turned to Hafsa. “I heard what you said. Save him.” Then back to the champion. “Give the priestess one of your swords.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Champion, we are your queen and you will—”

  “I will not.”

  Another Lesser had arrived. “Tau’s right, my queen. We must stop Mirembe and Otobong.” The new Lesser gave Hafsa a sidelong look like he was wondering if she could be trusted with what he was about to say. “They know too much.”

  “None of this matters, Hadith,” the vizier told the new Lesser. “They’re gone. You’ll never catch them on foot.”

  “Then we don’t chase them on foot,” Hadith said. “How many horses are left?”

  Hafsa wished she could shake sense into everyone. They didn’t have time to talk about horses. The champion’s leg had to come off.

  “How many did they take? Five?” Nyah asked. “That leaves three. But few can ride the animals.”

  “I can, a little,” said Kellan Okar, striding over. Hafsa knew him. Everyone knew him.

  “As can I,” Nyah said, “and, Ingonyama Okar, I know your reputation as a fighter, but we two are no match for their four. They have three Indlovu, and Mirembe is a powerful Gifted.”

  The queen, as if waking from a reverie, looked up and away from her champion. “We will ride the first of the three horses, Ingonyama Okar and Ihashe Uduak can ride double on the second one, and, Nyah, you’ll ride alone on the third.”

  “What? No!” Nyah said. “Queen Tsiora, you cannot think to take part in chasing after—”

  The queen raised a hand. “We find ourselves growing weary of being told ‘no.’” Her gaze skimmed past her champion and landed on Hafsa. “Priestess Ekene, we will call over our Queen’s Guard and they will hold the champion down. Save his life.”

  “I won’t let anyone take my leg!” Tau said.

  The queen rounded on him. “This is our order, Champion. How dare you. We will not see you die this day.”

  “Uduak!” the champion said.

  “Neh?” said the big Lesser, drawing closer.

  The champion pulled a dragon-scale dagger from his belt, struggled with the leathers around his poisoned leg, and pulled them down. Uncovering his leg had to hurt more than a salt scourging, but he bore the pain and maintained enough modesty to ensure his manhood remained covered. The juxtaposition of insanity and propriety was enough to make Hafsa want to laugh, until the moment grew more insane.

  “Uduak, cut out the wound and poison,” he said.

  Hafsa sputtered; no matter the frequency with which she encountered it, the effortless idiocy of men always surprised her. “You can’t do that,” she said. “It’s been too long. The poison may have traveled. We need to take the whole leg.”

  “Uduak, the priestess is concerned,” the champion said. “Cut away a large section.”

  The big Lesser grunted and took the black-bladed dagger.

  “You don’t understand,” Hafsa said, trying to use words the Lessers were sure to know. “Even if you catch the root of the poison, the edges of it will have traveled farther. What stays in you may not be enough to stop your heart, but the poison causes unimaginable pain. It’ll drive you insane. You’ll end your days begging for death.”

  The champion focused on her, and she blanched. He’s already mad, she thought.

  “Pain?” he asked, spitting nonsense. “Pain lost its hold on me a thousand lifetimes ago.” Without looking away from her, he spoke to the big Lesser. “Cut deep and true, Uduak. We’ve a warlord to kill and a city to win, and I’ve wasted too much time already.”

  With not a word, the man named Uduak aimed the blade at the champion’s bare and bleeding leg while the champion kept his eyes and scarred face on Hafsa.

  She couldn’t abide such stupidity. “Give me that!” she said, trying to snatch the dagger from the big Lesser, but his grip was like granite and she came away empty-handed. “Listen,” she said to the champion, “your man will probably make your leg as useless as if I’d amputated it anyway. Let me do the cutting. I’ll go as shallow as I dare and I can avoid the muscle and major arteries.”

  The argument worked, the champion grunted his assent, and it was, as her old mentor had been fond of saying, time to twist the knife.

  “This is beyond foolish, but if it’s all you’ll allow, then I can get you out of this with nothing more than a gory wound, a limp, and the burning you feel in the leg now,” she told him. “Well, that’s until the traces of the poison spread deep enough to make you feel like you’re being burned alive from the inside out.” She paused for effect and to let her words sink in. “No matter,” she said. “You have many sharp toys. It won’t be hard for you to end things yourself then.”

  He nodded. “Shallow cuts, Priestess,” he said. “My leg must work.”

  She hadn’t expected that. She’d used the same tactic a hundred times on patients, and once she’d properly explained the folly of their preferred course, they always came round to her way. She wondered if the poison had already muddied his mind, but one look in his eyes told her that, muddied or not, his mind was made up.

  The big Lesser handed her the dagger.

  “Champion—” she began, trying again anyway.

  “Shouldn’t we do this quickly?” he asked.

  “Bandages!” she shouted to a startled Ihashe. “Bring me bandages.”

  Blood poured from the leg as she dug into the champion’s thigh, doing her best to picture the path the poison was most likely to have taken as it traveled through him. Someone handed her the bandages. She didn’t know if it was the same Ihashe and didn’t bother to look.

  It might work, she dared to think. It might be enough to keep the champion alive, for a time. The blade was sharper than anything she’d used before, and the cut was clean. Indeed, it was distressing to think that they wasted so precious a material as dragon scale on swords instead of using it for surgical tools.

  Then, finishing her grim job, she sawed through the last fibers of flesh and tore the ruined shank free. Someone retched. It was Chibuye. The child was watching the grotesquerie, her eyes wide and mouth open.

  “Chibuye, you should not be here,” Hafsa said as she flung the dead meat to the ground to free up both hands to fill and bandage the wound, but the child did not move and Hafsa was too busy to shoo her away.

  The champion, who had remained silent for the whole of the cutting, continued watching Hafsa. So when the queen laid a cool hand on her shoulder, she jumped.

  “My queen?” Hafsa said.

  “Will he live?”

  “I don’t think it’ll be the poison that kills him, at least not directly,” Hafsa said, tightening the last of the bandages and leaving the champion to groan as he pulled the l
eathers back over his leg. “But his pain will never end or abate, and I believe that when his will finally fails him, he’ll die anyway, by his own hand.”

  “That’s not how I go,” the scarred swordsman said, as if his words were power.

  Hafsa wanted to tell him that nobody cared how he thought he’d go, especially not the Goddess.

  “Give him anything he needs. Do whatever you must,” the queen told Hafsa. “Nyah, order the horses readied. We have traitors to hunt.”

  The vizier drew close to the queen. “You have to know that this is worse than unwise. If you chase Mirembe and are lost in the effort, Odili will rule and the Omehi will be no more.”

  The queen glanced at the champion before answering. “That’s not how we go,” she said.

  The vizier pursed her lips tightly enough to kiss a beetle. “Tsiora.”

  “Nyah, can you handle Mirembe on your own?”

  The vizier said nothing.

  “Then ready the horses,” the queen said. “We will not permit these traitors to get to Odili.”

  Nyah bowed to the queen and whispered to her daughter, who moved to stand beside Hafsa.

  “Priestess,” Nyah said, “I have another favor to ask…. ”

  “Of course, she’ll be cared for until you return,” Hafsa said.

  The vizier kissed the child on the forehead, mumbled a thanks to Hafsa, and went to do as she’d been bid.

  As the vizier walked away, the queen spoke to the Ihashe and Indlovu in the courtyard.

  “The man who fought and died for us will be honored,” she said. “Burn a pyre for him. Let its fires consume the body and free his soul. Beneath tonight’s stars, he goes to the Goddess, unfettered and unashamed.”

  Several fighters came forward to take and prepare their fallen brother.

  “Kellan Okar, you told us you could ride, and you will. We need your sword. We need the man wielding it,” the queen said, making the handsome Noble practically fall over himself in his hurry to salute. “Priestess, stay close. We find it likely that you’ll be needed again before this is done.”