Githinji looked at the man. Like all Corlains, he had a full helmet, but the red hackle identified him as a commander of troops. The black cloud emblem on his shoulder had two lightning bolts, indicating he was from second brigade. If this was the second brigade commander, that meant her name was Zoya.
“Thank you, Colonel. Take me to them,” Githinji answered.
Githinji dismounted and adjusted the sword and pistol secured to his belt. Zoya led Githinji to a collection of men and women kneeling together, their hands secured behind them. Many wept, some hurled curses; most were simply quiet. Githinji smiled beneath his helmet. Cowards always tried to remain silent, as if his eyes no longer worked.
“I am Githinji, general of the Black Cloud Division. I’m here to pass judgment on you for your crimes against Corla.”
The prisoner closest to Githinji spat on him. It was a mucous-filled goblet that landed on Githinji’s knee. Githinji ignored the snot. He casually drew his sword and stabbed it through the man’s throat until his chin bumped into the cross-guard. The man gurgled momentarily and died. Some prisoners shrieked. Nearly all wept after they saw what happened to their comrade.
“As I was saying, I’m Githinji. You’ve committed crimes against Corla on its frontier lands. I’m here to bring order to the chaos you revel in.”
The rebel leaders wept and wailed. They begged for forgiveness. They showed how weak they really were. It insulted Githinji that men like this were his enemy. Corla wasted his military genius on dogs. As he continued to speak, he motioned for his executioners to line up behind the six remaining leaders. The begging increased in hysteria.
“Die like soldiers!” Githinji shouted.
It had the opposite effect. The rebel leaders proved they were inferior in every way to Corlains.
“You disgust me. I was going to inform you that your deaths were honorable because we recognized the charisma each of you had to lead this rabble. Now, I’m just killing you because you’ve embarrassed yourselves.”
Githinji motioned with his finger. The executioners immediately stabbed each leader between their shoulder blades. The rebel leaders uttered their last pitiful cries and fell to the ground. Their blood soaked into the dirt, but Githinji was already moving to a new group of rebels. These were the subordinate soldiers. Githinji knew that after seeing their leaders die like animals, many of the common people would gladly share the secrets they knew. Collectively, this data would combine to give Githinji the answer to where to strike next.
A folding table was brought before the rebels. A map of this part of the continent was placed on the table. Githinji stood to one side of it and gestured for the rebels to move in closer. None seemed willing to move, but Githinji’s soldiers yanked them to their feet and pushed them toward the table. The rebels fell and cried but quickly scampered to stand and approach the table.
“This, as you know, is a map of our world. As you can see, Corla takes up most of it. People like you want to stop this progress for mankind. I’ve been tasked to end this rebellion. It will be much easier for all parties involved if you just pointed out who I should kill next,” Githinji said.
“How about your mother’s ugliest bastard?” one rebel mocked.
The man’s head left his shoulders before he could ever hear any support from his companions. Zoya wiped her sword clean before returning her blade to her scabbard. That was what Githinji loved about his soldiers. They not only knew their place, but they could anticipate his orders. The same couldn’t be said for other Corlain commanders. Perhaps if those in power recognized Githinji’s value to Corlain society, that would change. At least he had duty in the frontier. The land smelled, and the people lived like animals, but he never ran out of military “challenges.”
“I should probably have started by saying that your lives me nothing to me. I’ll kill each of you and sleep soundly tonight because I won’t have to listen to you bawl like children denied a favorite toy. However, I’ll sleep just as soundly if you’re in my prison. The choice is yours. Give me the information I want, or I’ll let you tell it to my interrogators instead. I’ll let you guess which method involves more pain.”
Githinji tapped the handle of the pistol on his right hip. He laughed internally as more than one rebel focused on it. He almost wanted to toss it to them and see what they would do if given a weapon. Likely, they would disappoint him.
“Milord?” a man said as he timidly raised a hand.
“Don’t do it, Aron,” another said.
With a nod, Githinji instructed Zoya to execute the second speaker. After another round of shock and misery, Githinji addressed the first man.
“You were saying?”
The man hobbled around the table and pointed to a section of the map deep within Vikisoteland.
“King Hafoca married his fiancée just last night. She very much wants to kill Corlains. Warriors are flocking to his banner,” the rebel said.
“How many warriors does he have?” Githinji asked.
“I don’t have my numbers, milord, but when I was last there, the warriors filled the barracks inside their ring fortress.”
Idiot. Another reason these people needed stern education. The Corlain way was the only way. Githinji looked at Zoya and hoped she had an estimate based on this moron’s description.
“Hafoca has one of the larger fortresses. If his barracks are full, he likely has over four thousand warriors,” Zoya answered his unspoken question.
Githinji sighed. These people couldn’t even pull together an army to meet his division on equal ground. How could they ever hope to defeat the entire Corlain military when they had zero chance of facing the Black Cloud?
“You should all thank your friend. Between his statement and your combined stench, I’ve decided to spare the rest of you.”
A collective sigh sprang from the group of rebels. Some even blessed Githinji in the names of their heathen gods.
“Take these people away.” Githinji dismissed the prisoners with the flick of his wrist. “Zoya, a moment.”
Zoya approached her general. “Yes, sir?”
“How long until we can reach Hafoca’s ring fortress?”
“Vikisoteland will take about two weeks to travel to. That, of course, is if we push the soldiers hard.”
“Are you saying we shouldn’t?”
“I am, sir. We’ve fought many skirmishes over the past two months. The soldiers are getting restless. They need a break and we need supplies.”
“I hope you’ve come with solutions to our problems?”
“Of course, sir. We should head to Samburg. The mayor there will marry in a few nights. We could make it there in time to partake in the celebration. A little ferm and some warm bodies will go a long way with morale.”
Githinji considered Zoya’s suggestion. “How many days do you propose we rest?”
“No more than a week, sir. That’ll be plenty. By that point the troops will be anxious to kill more rebels.”
“Make it happen, and let the soldiers know it was your idea.”
“Yes, sir,” Zoya said.
Githinji spun on his heels and headed for his tent. He undressed from his armor. He soothed his brawn by rubbing oil into his skin to smooth the calluses that had formed. His body was muscular. He allowed a moment to admire his muscles in the full-length mirror. Despite his decades of service, he was still the best the Corlains had to offer. He would gain victory by crushing all rebels. This would ensure his ascendancy through the ranks.
Githinji laid his head down on the plush pillow laying on his soft mattress. He allowed himself to fall asleep.
Hours later, Githinji woke in the middle of the night. His armor was cold and black, but Githinji threw it back on. He exited his tent and searched for the prisoners he had spared earlier.
They huddled inside a few prison wagons. Their snoring surprised Githinji. How easily they’d forgotten the plight they were in hours earlier. Four guards approached Githinji.
; “Something I can do for you, sir?” the sergeant asked.
“Yes,” Githinji said. “You can keep these prisoners from escaping.”
“Sir?”
“One of them must have been a sneaky Namerian, because all four wagons just burned down,” Githinji said.
The sergeant nodded. He pointed at his soldiers. They grabbed jugs of oil and poured it through the metal bars.
“It’s a shame. I wanted them to stand trial,” Githinji said.
The sergeant threw a torch onto the nearest prison wagon. They were close enough to each other that soon they all burned. Githinji barely recognized the screams as he marched back to his inviting bed. True to his word, he slept great.
chapter 8
“On your left!” Swift Shot shouted, rolling to avoid an attack.
Two Dogs dove to the right as a yellow ethereal wolf snapped at his ankle. Two arrows flew through the wispy adversary. Both the wolf and the arrows disappeared. The arrows returned to Swift Shot’s quiver; the wolf rested again in the afterlife.
“Excellent shot,” Ancestors’ Hand praised.
Two Dogs and Swift Shot had vanquished another wave of Ancestors’ Hand’s apparitions. Their skills were already acute, but this level of realism ensured their combat prowess remained as sharp as the igsidian that made their blades.
“You don’t have anything bigger than that, old woman?” Two Dogs challenged.
“Summoning spirits isn’t as simple as making your body more resilient. I must search for the souls, identify that they would have been an ally in life, and give them a purpose to act on our behalf. You try doing that in the span of three seconds,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
“I just heard a lot of excuses,” Two Dogs said.
Swift Shot stifled a giggle.
It’s good to know she’s still on my side, Two Dogs thought.
Swift Shot and Ancestors’ Hand were becoming strong friends. Each having saved the other’s life created a bond that only warriors understood. Two Dogs had the same bond with Swift Shot, but sometimes he wondered if the Intakee woman was trying to steal his last remaining friend.
“You do realize I can only summon a spirit if it died in the immediate area?” Ancestors’ Hand asked.
“So?” Two Dogs said.
Swift Shot laid a calming hand on Two Dogs shoulder. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. How many wild animals do you suppose died in this exact field?”
“Over the millennia? I’d assume . . . a lot,” Two Dogs answered.
“And if my power worked across that length of time, you’d be right to criticize me. Anything longer than a month or two will be too corrupted to use as an ally,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
“Well, thank you then, for proving that being a protector is the best magical school for Mother Turklyo’s children,” Two Dogs said.
A snowball hit him in the back of the head. He tensed as the slush slipped beneath his shirt. He patted frantically to try to help it along its path. Swift Shot and Ancestors’ Hand shared a laugh at his expense while he executed his dance.
“That was a dirty trick,” Two Dogs said while pointing an accusing finger at Swift Shot.
The Lacreechee woman held up her hands and feigned innocence. “What? That was a freak whim of Mother Turklyo. One of her rogue snowballs.”
Ancestors’ Hand laughed again. Two Dogs redirected his gaze on the old Intakee woman. The moment he turned from facing Swift Shot a second “rogue” snowball hit him in the same spot. He twirled and charged Swift Shot.
“Devil woman!”
Swift Shot defended herself by sending an endless supply of snowballs at Two Dogs. He increased his speed and reflexes. He easily dodged the icy spheres. Occasionally, he plucked a snowball out of the air and hurled it back at Swift Shot. When the first one connected with her face, she showed outrage, but soon the two Lacreechee warriors were laughing as they had an impromptu snowball fight in the middle of summer.
“Children, behave,” Ancestors’ Hand eventually said.
It was the wrong choice of words. The Lacreechee called a momentary truce as they stared at the third member of their party. Ancestors’ Hand held her palms toward the Lacreechee. She backed away as she protested.
“Don’t even think of it. I’m too old for these types of games.”
Two Dogs and Swift Shot slowly advanced on Ancestors’ Hand. Each held a pair of snowballs that were rapidly becoming liquid.
“I’m warning you. I have bigger animals I can sic on you.”
Two Dogs and Swift Shot continued to walk toward her.
“Just . . . not the face,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
Two Dogs agreed to the terms. He chucked both snowballs. They were mostly water and spread as they left his fingers. Ancestors’ Hand yelped as the icy water hit her chest. Swift Shot’s snowballs had been re-frozen before she threw them. They exploded in powder as they collided with Ancestors’ Hand’s arms.
“Do you feel better now?” Ancestors’ Hand asked as she wiped the residual snow from her body.
“I kind of do,” Two Dogs admitted.
A snowball exploded after colliding with the back of his head.
“Okay, now I’ve got it out of my system,” Swift Shot said.
“Good, because we’re close to arriving at Samburg,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
Two Dogs instantly became serious. “How much farther?”
“Only a few more hours. Three or four at most,” Ancestors’ Hand answered. “We should wear our new cloaks from here on out. We’re avoiding the roads, but you never know when a shepherd will decide to take his flock the long way home.”
“Maybe I should scout ahead. I’ll make sure the way’s clear,” Two Dogs suggested.
“I know you want to be the hero in your own story, but I think it’s better if we all stay together,” Swift Shot said.
“I agree with her. The chosen one of the augury shouldn’t be alone,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
Two Dogs rolled his eyes but kept his comments to himself. “Lead the way, then.”
Two Dogs followed Ancestors’ Hand and Swift Shot, continuing their journey to Samburg. Ancestors’ Hand was correct in her estimate. Barely two hours later, the three entered the west gate. They each wore long brown cloaks that fully covered their ethnic clothing. Each kept their hood up and their eyes down as they passed Corlain soldiers guarding the entrance. Squads of Corlains marched throughout the city. Two Dogs gripped his weapons more than once as they passed the patrols. Fortunately, he could barely conceal his new spear within the lengths of his cloak.
“I feel exposed,” Two Dogs whispered.
“That’s because we are,” Swift Shot responded.
The city was bustling with energy. Nobody seemed to care about the three strangers in foreboding clothing as they rushed about their tasks. Everywhere Two Dogs looked he saw banners and flowers. He couldn’t read the strange Corlain language, but his instincts told him the Corlains were celebrating. It sickened him that these people were so happy while his people were likely ash by this point. His disgust multiplied tenfold when he noticed not everyone in the city was Corlain.
“They’re actually helping the Corlains?” Swift Shot whispered.
Two Dogs faced Ancestors’ Hand to consider her eyes before she answered. The woman looked equally disgusted.
“Many of them look like Azca. I’d like to believe they’re refugees, but smiles rarely accompany the downtrodden forced out of their homes,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
“Didn’t any of these people learn about what happened to the Belloots?” Two Dogs asked.
The Belloots were a shunned people among the true children of Mother Turklyo. Before the Corlains controlled most of Glostaimia, the Belloots lived on the land southeast of the Lacreechee, even farther away than the Azca. The Belloots met the Corlains first when they claimed to come in peace. The Belloots were too trusting. They took pity of the weary travelers. The Corlains repaid that generosity by takin
g everything they had. The Belloots made the fatal error of showing the Corlains their igsidian. Months later, the Belloots no longer existed, and the Corlains were spreading across the continent. Two Dogs sneered at the foolish Azcas making the same mistake now. No wonder they lost their lands. At least the Lacreechee fought the Corlains to a victory when the invaders came.
Swift Shot spat on the ground at the mention of the Belloots. “The traitors turned on Mother Turklyo. They deserve their misery.”
“It’s not just Azcas here. I see at least three other tribes. Wait . . . that group there looks like they’re Shahonist,” Ancestors’ Hand said.
“Not a single stone among them. Where is their honor? You couldn’t force me to live without my magic,” Two Dogs claimed.
“It looks like the mayor’s wedding will soon begin. The Corlains will move to their chapel. Any servants milling around will be our best chance at finding allies here,” Ancestors’ Hand said. “It would probably be best to take a seat in the mud with our hands cupped and our eyes down.”
“Why?” Two Dogs asked.
“The Corlains require something called coins to get goods. They don’t work as one people for the betterment of the tribe. Corlain victims sit like that to ask for some of these coins. It’s the easiest way to become invisible,” Ancestors’ Hand answered.
Ancestors’ Hand led them to a small stable. It overlooked the tables being arranged for a reception after the marriage ceremony. Two Dogs sniffed as the manure of various animals assaulted his sense of smell. The answer to why the air was so pungent revealed itself as Two Dogs sat in piles of droppings.
“The many things we do for Mother Turklyo,” Ancestors’ Hand joked.
Two Dogs and his companions waited in relative silence. At least he could finally set his spear behind him instead of walking stiffly with it tucked under his cloak. The sun slowly set as they sat in filth. It was a dehumanizing experience. Two Dogs’ hatred for the Corlains grew. Despite not needing these coins that Ancestors’ Hand spoke of, Two Dogs couldn’t stomach the fact they hadn’t received any. Not even the old woman of the group. Two Dogs made it a point to stare into the eyes of the Corlains as they passed on their way to the ceremony. Most were blatant in their desire to pretend not to see them. The few who mistakenly afforded a glance quickly looked away when Two Dogs’ deep brown eyes fixed them with a fierce stare. Some offered an apology or excuse in their vile trade language that Two Dogs hated. Visitors had been rare to his tribe, but Owl Talon and Bright Stone were adamant that the younger generations learn to communicate with their enemy.
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