Inside the yurt, the atmosphere is thick with incense and the weight of many eyes upon them. Around a low wooden table sit the council of elders, faces like worn leather. Naci and Horohan take their seats, casting uneasy glances at each other before focusing on the task at hand.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Naci begins, trying to keep her voice steady. “Our tribe, Jabliu, is facing dire straits. We seek your alliance and support in the times that are to come. Alinkar has turned against us, and the Moukopl have drafted most of our able-bodied men, including my own brother.”
The elders exchange meaningful glances. One of them, an older woman with deep-set eyes and a stern countenance, speaks, “It’s an unfortunate situation, indeed. But you’ll forgive us for wondering what’s in it for Orogol? We’ve kept our people safe, as you’ve clearly noticed.”
Naci feels Horohan’s hand briefly squeeze her own. “Protection goes both ways. Uniting against a common enemy is wiser than standing alone. Plus, we have resources, crafters, and knowledge to share.”
One of the other elders, a grizzled man with a graying beard, chimes in. “The Alinkar are a force to be reckoned with. They might not look kindly on anyone aiding you. We risk their wrath by aligning ourselves with you, do we not?”
Naci nods, acknowledging the point. “It’s true that Alinkar is formidable, but they’re also on the cusp of internal conflict. Their heir, Horohan, has been disinherited. A tribe without a stable line of succession is a tribe vulnerable to infighting, instability, and, eventually, collapse. Helping us now might actually mean preventing a future threat.”
The stern-faced woman raises an eyebrow. “You make an interesting argument, but we need more than mere speculations. How can we trust that you’ll hold up your end of this alliance?”
Naci leans forward, locking eyes with the council members. “Jabliu values honor above all else. My father, the chieftain, has instilled in us the importance of keeping our word. If that’s not enough, we’re willing to offer an initial exchange of resources as a sign of good faith. When the time comes, we’ll stand with you, as true allies should.”
“Very well, your words shall be considered,” says the elder, signaling the end of the discussion. The council members rise, departing to a separate chamber, leaving Naci, Horohan, and the young shaman, Konir, behind.
“So, where is your chieftain?” Horohan inquires, unable to contain her curiosity.
Konir chuckles. “Ah, our chieftain has been away for some spiritual rejuvenation, you could say. In these lands, even leaders need to seek wisdom from the spirits.”
His nonchalant manner makes Naci uneasy. She doesn’t trust Konir, yet here they are, in a room filled with sacred artifacts and mystic symbols, at the mercy of the council’s judgment.
Konir catches Naci’s skeptical gaze as he toys with a small bone talisman hanging around his neck. “You don’t trust me, do you? Don’t worry, it’s a common first impression. People often find me … difficult to read.”
Naci crosses her arms, not breaking eye contact. “Trust is earned, not freely given.”
Konir grins, relishing the tension. “Ah, a cautious one. Good, good. Caution keeps you alive, but it also might make you miss opportunities, wouldn’t you say?”
Horohan shifts uncomfortably, eyeing the shaman. “What kind of opportunities are you talking about?”
Waving his hand dismissively, Konir moves closer to a shelf laden with jars of dried herbs and vials of unknown liquids. “Oh, the kinds that come once in a lifetime. You see, Orogol is rich in many things, not just manpower. We have resources, mystical and material, that could tip the scales in any conflict.”
Naci narrows her eyes. “If you have so much, why hasn’t Orogol expanded? Taken over neighboring tribes or become a significant force against the Moukopl Empire?”
Konir turns, his fox-like eyes locking onto Naci’s. “Who says we haven’t? There are many ways to exert influence. Overt conquest is so … gauche. And it makes you a target. No, Orogol prefers to operate differently, where it’s safer, and frankly, more effective.”
Horohan leans in, intrigued despite herself. “Spies…?”
Konir laughs, the sound echoing oddly in the confined space of the yurt. “Oh, you two are sharp, I’ll give you that. Let’s just say, Orogol has eyes and ears where they’re needed. Whether we choose to lend those to your cause is still … under deliberation.”
Naci clenches her fists, realizing the gravity of what Konir is insinuating. Aligning with Orogol could give them a formidable edge, but it comes at the cost of aligning with a tribe as slippery as their shaman.
Konir senses her turmoil and leans in, whispering just low enough for only Naci and Horohan to hear. “Choose wisely, Naci of Jabliu. Alliances are more than treaties and exchanges; they’re soul-binds. Once you’re in, there’s no going back.”
The tension is cut by the flap of the yurt opening, signaling the return of the council. As the elders file in, Naci can’t help but wonder: In seeking Orogol’s alliance, what exactly is she getting herself into?
The flap of the yurt opens, and the council of elders files back in. The air is even heavier now, laden with the weight of a decision. The stern-faced woman who had spoken earlier takes her seat and clears her throat.
“After much deliberation, we have decided that it is in the best interest of Orogol not to enter into an alliance with Jabliu at this time. We anticipate that Alinkar will find a suitable heir, and we cannot risk the wrath that would follow from aiding you.”
Naci’s eyes narrow, her fists clenching beneath the table. A boiling rage surges through her veins, but she keeps her voice steady, barely. “Is that so? Well, thank you for your time.”
Konir grins maliciously, leaning in close as they prepare to leave. “Such a shame we couldn’t come to an agreement, Naci of Jabliu. I hope this little meeting has been … enlightening for you.”
Naci glares at him, choosing not to dignify his words with a response.
Outside, Naci and Horohan mount their horses in terse silence. As they ride away, the silence stretches on until Horohan can’t stand it anymore.
“You’re angrier than I’ve ever seen you,” she says cautiously. “Is it because they refused our proposal?”
Naci hisses through clenched teeth. “No, it’s not just that they refused. It’s that they wasted our time, deliberating like that was actually a thing they needed to do. They knew from the beginning they weren’t going to help us. They were just toying with us, stalling. Shameless scum.”
Back inside the yurt, Konir watches them ride off into the distance, a smug smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
“I think we’ve done quite enough here,” he murmurs to himself, chuckling softly as he starts to rearrange some of the sacred artifacts on the shelves. “Yes, the seed is planted. Doubt is a powerful thing. She will think twice before trusting anyone now. And that … that will be her undoing.”
He rubs the small bone talisman between his fingers, savoring the tiny ripple he has just sent out into the universe, a ripple that could one day become a wave.
The sky darkens as they continue their journey north, the temperature dropping with each passing mile. The landscape changes again, this time giving way to rolling hills dotted with sparse trees. As the sun sets, Naci spots a flat area surrounded by a semi-circle of rocks. A good place to camp, she thinks.
Horohan gathers some dry twigs and leaves, kindling a fire with a few deft strikes of a flintstone. The flames flicker and dance, casting their warm glow over the cold ground. They take out some dried meat and berries, eating in relative silence. Beside them, their eagles ruffle their feathers and feast on some smaller game they’d caught earlier.
Horohan begins to hum softly, a tune that usually lifts their spirits, but Naci remains disengaged. She pokes at the fire with a stick, her face a mask of contemplation.
“You’re still thinking about what happened with Orogol, aren’t you?” Horohan finally asks.
Naci sighs, staring at the fire as if hoping it would give her the answers she’s seeking. “It’s not just Orogol. It’s this whole fragmented, petty tribal system we’re a part of. We’re facing a common enemy, the Moukopl Empire, and yet, here we are, embroiled in our tiny rivalries and meaningless feuds. It’s pathetic.”
Horohan stops humming, looking at Naci thoughtfully. “I hear you, but even if by some miracle all the tribes in Tepr came together, do you really think we could stand a chance against the Moukopl Empire? They’re too powerful, Naci.”
Naci looks up, her eyes piercing. “That’s exactly the sort of thinking that serves them, Horohan. They want us divided. They want us to think we’re powerless. Because a divided enemy is easier to control. See how the Yohazatz are such a big deal the Moukopl started drafting our men? We have much to learn from them. Maybe if we were unified, we could be allied against our common enemy. Their northern wall wouldn’t stand a chance if they didn’t have our men to protect it.”
Horohan frowns, pondering Naci’s words. “So you’re saying that this belief—that uniting won’t make a difference—is actually another one of their tactics to keep us oppressed?”
“Exactly,” Naci snaps the stick she’s been poking the fire with and tosses it into the flames. “By keeping us divided, they sow doubt and fear. They make us believe we’re better off looking out for ourselves, holding onto these little patches of land and age-old rivalries. But all it does is make us weak. Easy prey.”
Horohan nods, her face solemn in the flickering firelight. “I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. We need to start thinking bigger.”
The cold night eventually gives way to a bleak dawn. Both Naci and Horohan are up and ready, breaking camp in silence. Khatan takes to the sky, soaring high above them as they mount their horses and continue north. The air grows colder, their breaths visible in puffs of mist.
As they get deeper into Haikam territory, an unsettling quiet envelops the landscape. No shepherds, no hunters. The emptiness is palpable, a stark contrast to the usually bustling life of tribes.
Horohan senses the odd atmosphere first, her eyes narrowing, fingers flexing instinctively around her bow. "Something feels off," she murmurs, her voice tinged with a hesitance she rarely shows. "This quiet—it's not natural. It's as if the land itself is holding its breath."
Naci, who had been scanning their surroundings cautiously, nods in agreement. "Yeah, you're right," she says, her voice carrying an undercurrent of concern. Her hand instinctively tightens around the hilt of her sword. “We should be prepared for anything."
The tension rises with each hoofbeat as they make their way up a steep, rocky hill, a natural vantage point that promises a better view of the land. And then, just as they near the crest, the silence is violently shattered. The unmistakable sounds of battle—the metallic clash of weapons, the desperate cries of men and horses—fill the air, echoing off the hills in a cacophony of chaos.
As they crest the hill and their eyes take in the scene below, it becomes painfully clear why the territory seemed so empty: the Haikam tribe is engaged in a life-or-death struggle. Caught completely off guard, they're fending off a brutal raid from the Nipih warriors. The Nipih cavalry moves with a swiftness that suggests premeditation, swooping in to pillage and destroy. Their arrows fly with deadly accuracy, finding the gaps in armor and shield, leaving fallen Haikam warriors in their wake.
“One hell of a mess,” Horohan mutters.
Before they can react, a Nipih horseman spots them from a distance. Mistaking them for reinforcements, he signals to his comrades and nocks an arrow. The arrow whooshes through the air, narrowly missing them.
“We’ve been seen,” Horohan says, tension filling her voice. “What do we do now?”
Naci’s eyes narrow, her grip tightening on her weapon. “We help the Haikam. They’ll be indebted to us, and maybe then they’ll see the value in helping us back.”
“Or we could die trying,” Horohan adds grimly.
“Do we have a choice? They have seen us; we’re involved whether we like it or not.”
Horohan sighs, pulling her weapon free. “Alright, let’s do it.”
Kicking their horses into a gallop, they descend the hill with Khatan screeching from the sky as if heralding their arrival. Naci’s blade catches the sunlight for a split second before plunging into the torso of a charging Nipih horseman. Beside her, Horohan’s bow sings, each arrow released finding a deadly perch in an enemy warrior. Their sudden intervention becomes a whirlwind in the middle of the battlefield, throwing the Nipih raiders into confusion and disarray.
Just then, Khatan swoops down from the sky like a bolt of lightning, his talons outstretched. He dives at a group of Nipih archers, raking his talons across their faces and blinding them before they can loose another volley. His screech pierces the air triumphantly.
Emboldened, Naci stands up on Liara’s back, who seems to understand and steadies herself accordingly. With increased elevation, Naci becomes a dervish of death, her sword whirling in wide arcs that make it impossible for the enemy to get close. Every swing cuts through armor and flesh, every parry is a prelude to a fatal counterattack.
Horohan circles around her, bow in hand, taking the role of a deadly sentinel. Any Nipih soldier foolish enough to think Naci is exposed finds an arrow suddenly embedded in his chest or throat. Together, they become a fortress unto themselves, a bulwark the enemy cannot penetrate.
As minutes stretch into an eternity, the Haikam tribespeople find renewed vigor. Encouraged by the ferocity of their unexpected allies, they begin to push back with increased determination. The lines hold, then advance, inch by hard-fought inch.
Despite being outnumbered, the Haikam begin to regroup, inspired by the unexpected help. Together, they slowly push back the raiders, inflicting enough damage to make the Nipih think twice about continuing their assault. Finally, the Nipih start to retreat, disappearing into the hills from whence they came.
Naci and Horohan come to a stop, their breathing heavy, their bodies coated in grime and sweat. The Haikam warriors approach them cautiously, weapons still in hand but eyes filled with gratitude.
“Looks like we’ve got their attention,” Naci murmurs, sheathing her sword.
“And hopefully their trust,” Horohan adds, lowering her bow.
The chieftain of the Haikam, a grizzled man with a fierce gaze, steps forward. His eyes widen as he gets a closer look at Naci and Horohan.
“By the spirits … you’re Naci, daughter of the chieftain of Jabliu, and you,” he turns to Horohan, “you’re the heir of Alinkar. What has happened that brings the two of you here, at the hour of our need?”
Naci’s eyes meet the chieftain’s. “It’s a long story. Horohan has been disinherited, and Jabliu is on the brink of war with Alinkar. We were seeking allies. Finding ourselves here, in the middle of your battle, was a coincidence.”
“But a fortunate one,” Horohan adds. “For both sides, I hope.”
The chieftain nods solemnly. “Your bravery has not gone unnoticed. You’ve risked your lives for a people you owe nothing to. We are in your debt. The Haikam will lend aid to the Jabliu in your time of need.”
His expression turns grim. “However, we have our own crisis. As you’ve seen, our encampment has suffered greatly, and the Nipih remain a constant threat. We can’t focus all our resources on aiding Jabliu until we’ve dealt with them.”
He looks at them, his eyes filled with a mix of desperation and hope. “Will you help us take down the Nipih? We plan to strike at dawn. With your aid, perhaps we can finish this once and for all. Then, with clear minds and safer borders, we will aid you in your war.”
Naci and Horohan exchange a glance, weighing the options, the risks, and the debts yet to be paid. Finally, Naci speaks.
“Very well. We’ll help you deal with the Nipih. If we succeed, we’ll have forged a strong alliance. We hope that your tongue is not made of paper.”
The chieftain lands his strong hand on Naci’s shoulder, which makes Horohan frown in annoyance. “You are talking to Pomogr of Haikam, lady. You won’t find a more loyal man in all of Tepr.” He then turns his head to Horohan and bursts out laughing. “And, not going to lie, I always had a bad feeling about your father. The Alinkar chieftain’s head will make a fine addition to my collection.”
Inside the yurt, the atmosphere is thick with incense and the weight of many eyes upon them. Around a low wooden table sit the council of elders, faces like worn leather. Naci and Horohan take their seats, casting uneasy glances at each other before focusing on the task at hand.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Naci begins, trying to keep her voice steady. “Our tribe, Jabliu, is facing dire straits. We seek your alliance and support in the times that are to come. Alinkar has turned against us, and the Moukopl have drafted most of our able-bodied men, including my own brother.”
The elders exchange meaningful glances. One of them, an older woman with deep-set eyes and a stern countenance, speaks, “It’s an unfortunate situation, indeed. But you’ll forgive us for wondering what’s in it for Orogol? We’ve kept our people safe, as you’ve clearly noticed.”
Naci feels Horohan’s hand briefly squeeze her own. “Protection goes both ways. Uniting against a common enemy is wiser than standing alone. Plus, we have resources, crafters, and knowledge to share.”
One of the other elders, a grizzled man with a graying beard, chimes in. “The Alinkar are a force to be reckoned with. They might not look kindly on anyone aiding you. We risk their wrath by aligning ourselves with you, do we not?”
Naci nods, acknowledging the point. “It’s true that Alinkar is formidable, but they’re also on the cusp of internal conflict. Their heir, Horohan, has been disinherited. A tribe without a stable line of succession is a tribe vulnerable to infighting, instability, and, eventually, collapse. Helping us now might actually mean preventing a future threat.”
The stern-faced woman raises an eyebrow. “You make an interesting argument, but we need more than mere speculations. How can we trust that you’ll hold up your end of this alliance?”
Naci leans forward, locking eyes with the council members. “Jabliu values honor above all else. My father, the chieftain, has instilled in us the importance of keeping our word. If that’s not enough, we’re willing to offer an initial exchange of resources as a sign of good faith. When the time comes, we’ll stand with you, as true allies should.”
“Very well, your words shall be considered,” says the elder, signaling the end of the discussion. The council members rise, departing to a separate chamber, leaving Naci, Horohan, and the young shaman, Konir, behind.
“So, where is your chieftain?” Horohan inquires, unable to contain her curiosity.
Konir chuckles. “Ah, our chieftain has been away for some spiritual rejuvenation, you could say. In these lands, even leaders need to seek wisdom from the spirits.”
His nonchalant manner makes Naci uneasy. She doesn’t trust Konir, yet here they are, in a room filled with sacred artifacts and mystic symbols, at the mercy of the council’s judgment.
Konir catches Naci’s skeptical gaze as he toys with a small bone talisman hanging around his neck. “You don’t trust me, do you? Don’t worry, it’s a common first impression. People often find me … difficult to read.”
Naci crosses her arms, not breaking eye contact. “Trust is earned, not freely given.”
Konir grins, relishing the tension. “Ah, a cautious one. Good, good. Caution keeps you alive, but it also might make you miss opportunities, wouldn’t you say?”
Horohan shifts uncomfortably, eyeing the shaman. “What kind of opportunities are you talking about?”
Waving his hand dismissively, Konir moves closer to a shelf laden with jars of dried herbs and vials of unknown liquids. “Oh, the kinds that come once in a lifetime. You see, Orogol is rich in many things, not just manpower. We have resources, mystical and material, that could tip the scales in any conflict.”
Naci narrows her eyes. “If you have so much, why hasn’t Orogol expanded? Taken over neighboring tribes or become a significant force against the Moukopl Empire?”
Konir turns, his fox-like eyes locking onto Naci’s. “Who says we haven’t? There are many ways to exert influence. Overt conquest is so … gauche. And it makes you a target. No, Orogol prefers to operate differently, where it’s safer, and frankly, more effective.”
Horohan leans in, intrigued despite herself. “Spies…?”
Konir laughs, the sound echoing oddly in the confined space of the yurt. “Oh, you two are sharp, I’ll give you that. Let’s just say, Orogol has eyes and ears where they’re needed. Whether we choose to lend those to your cause is still … under deliberation.”
Naci clenches her fists, realizing the gravity of what Konir is insinuating. Aligning with Orogol could give them a formidable edge, but it comes at the cost of aligning with a tribe as slippery as their shaman.
Konir senses her turmoil and leans in, whispering just low enough for only Naci and Horohan to hear. “Choose wisely, Naci of Jabliu. Alliances are more than treaties and exchanges; they’re soul-binds. Once you’re in, there’s no going back.”
The tension is cut by the flap of the yurt opening, signaling the return of the council. As the elders file in, Naci can’t help but wonder: In seeking Orogol’s alliance, what exactly is she getting herself into?
The flap of the yurt opens, and the council of elders files back in. The air is even heavier now, laden with the weight of a decision. The stern-faced woman who had spoken earlier takes her seat and clears her throat.
“After much deliberation, we have decided that it is in the best interest of Orogol not to enter into an alliance with Jabliu at this time. We anticipate that Alinkar will find a suitable heir, and we cannot risk the wrath that would follow from aiding you.”
Naci’s eyes narrow, her fists clenching beneath the table. A boiling rage surges through her veins, but she keeps her voice steady, barely. “Is that so? Well, thank you for your time.”
Konir grins maliciously, leaning in close as they prepare to leave. “Such a shame we couldn’t come to an agreement, Naci of Jabliu. I hope this little meeting has been … enlightening for you.”
Naci glares at him, choosing not to dignify his words with a response.
Outside, Naci and Horohan mount their horses in terse silence. As they ride away, the silence stretches on until Horohan can’t stand it anymore.
“You’re angrier than I’ve ever seen you,” she says cautiously. “Is it because they refused our proposal?”
Naci hisses through clenched teeth. “No, it’s not just that they refused. It’s that they wasted our time, deliberating like that was actually a thing they needed to do. They knew from the beginning they weren’t going to help us. They were just toying with us, stalling. Shameless scum.”
Back inside the yurt, Konir watches them ride off into the distance, a smug smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
“I think we’ve done quite enough here,” he murmurs to himself, chuckling softly as he starts to rearrange some of the sacred artifacts on the shelves. “Yes, the seed is planted. Doubt is a powerful thing. She will think twice before trusting anyone now. And that … that will be her undoing.”
He rubs the small bone talisman between his fingers, savoring the tiny ripple he has just sent out into the universe, a ripple that could one day become a wave.
The sky darkens as they continue their journey north, the temperature dropping with each passing mile. The landscape changes again, this time giving way to rolling hills dotted with sparse trees. As the sun sets, Naci spots a flat area surrounded by a semi-circle of rocks. A good place to camp, she thinks.
Horohan gathers some dry twigs and leaves, kindling a fire with a few deft strikes of a flintstone. The flames flicker and dance, casting their warm glow over the cold ground. They take out some dried meat and berries, eating in relative silence. Beside them, their eagles ruffle their feathers and feast on some smaller game they’d caught earlier.
Horohan begins to hum softly, a tune that usually lifts their spirits, but Naci remains disengaged. She pokes at the fire with a stick, her face a mask of contemplation.
“You’re still thinking about what happened with Orogol, aren’t you?” Horohan finally asks.
Naci sighs, staring at the fire as if hoping it would give her the answers she’s seeking. “It’s not just Orogol. It’s this whole fragmented, petty tribal system we’re a part of. We’re facing a common enemy, the Moukopl Empire, and yet, here we are, embroiled in our tiny rivalries and meaningless feuds. It’s pathetic.”
Horohan stops humming, looking at Naci thoughtfully. “I hear you, but even if by some miracle all the tribes in Tepr came together, do you really think we could stand a chance against the Moukopl Empire? They’re too powerful, Naci.”
Naci looks up, her eyes piercing. “That’s exactly the sort of thinking that serves them, Horohan. They want us divided. They want us to think we’re powerless. Because a divided enemy is easier to control. See how the Yohazatz are such a big deal the Moukopl started drafting our men? We have much to learn from them. Maybe if we were unified, we could be allied against our common enemy. Their northern wall wouldn’t stand a chance if they didn’t have our men to protect it.”
Horohan frowns, pondering Naci’s words. “So you’re saying that this belief—that uniting won’t make a difference—is actually another one of their tactics to keep us oppressed?”
“Exactly,” Naci snaps the stick she’s been poking the fire with and tosses it into the flames. “By keeping us divided, they sow doubt and fear. They make us believe we’re better off looking out for ourselves, holding onto these little patches of land and age-old rivalries. But all it does is make us weak. Easy prey.”
Horohan nods, her face solemn in the flickering firelight. “I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. We need to start thinking bigger.”
The cold night eventually gives way to a bleak dawn. Both Naci and Horohan are up and ready, breaking camp in silence. Khatan takes to the sky, soaring high above them as they mount their horses and continue north. The air grows colder, their breaths visible in puffs of mist.
As they get deeper into Haikam territory, an unsettling quiet envelops the landscape. No shepherds, no hunters. The emptiness is palpable, a stark contrast to the usually bustling life of tribes.
Horohan senses the odd atmosphere first, her eyes narrowing, fingers flexing instinctively around her bow. "Something feels off," she murmurs, her voice tinged with a hesitance she rarely shows. "This quiet—it's not natural. It's as if the land itself is holding its breath."
Naci, who had been scanning their surroundings cautiously, nods in agreement. "Yeah, you're right," she says, her voice carrying an undercurrent of concern. Her hand instinctively tightens around the hilt of her sword. “We should be prepared for anything."
The tension rises with each hoofbeat as they make their way up a steep, rocky hill, a natural vantage point that promises a better view of the land. And then, just as they near the crest, the silence is violently shattered. The unmistakable sounds of battle—the metallic clash of weapons, the desperate cries of men and horses—fill the air, echoing off the hills in a cacophony of chaos.
As they crest the hill and their eyes take in the scene below, it becomes painfully clear why the territory seemed so empty: the Haikam tribe is engaged in a life-or-death struggle. Caught completely off guard, they're fending off a brutal raid from the Nipih warriors. The Nipih cavalry moves with a swiftness that suggests premeditation, swooping in to pillage and destroy. Their arrows fly with deadly accuracy, finding the gaps in armor and shield, leaving fallen Haikam warriors in their wake.
“One hell of a mess,” Horohan mutters.
Before they can react, a Nipih horseman spots them from a distance. Mistaking them for reinforcements, he signals to his comrades and nocks an arrow. The arrow whooshes through the air, narrowly missing them.
“We’ve been seen,” Horohan says, tension filling her voice. “What do we do now?”
Naci’s eyes narrow, her grip tightening on her weapon. “We help the Haikam. They’ll be indebted to us, and maybe then they’ll see the value in helping us back.”
“Or we could die trying,” Horohan adds grimly.
“Do we have a choice? They have seen us; we’re involved whether we like it or not.”
Horohan sighs, pulling her weapon free. “Alright, let’s do it.”
Kicking their horses into a gallop, they descend the hill with Khatan screeching from the sky as if heralding their arrival. Naci’s blade catches the sunlight for a split second before plunging into the torso of a charging Nipih horseman. Beside her, Horohan’s bow sings, each arrow released finding a deadly perch in an enemy warrior. Their sudden intervention becomes a whirlwind in the middle of the battlefield, throwing the Nipih raiders into confusion and disarray.
Just then, Khatan swoops down from the sky like a bolt of lightning, his talons outstretched. He dives at a group of Nipih archers, raking his talons across their faces and blinding them before they can loose another volley. His screech pierces the air triumphantly.
Emboldened, Naci stands up on Liara’s back, who seems to understand and steadies herself accordingly. With increased elevation, Naci becomes a dervish of death, her sword whirling in wide arcs that make it impossible for the enemy to get close. Every swing cuts through armor and flesh, every parry is a prelude to a fatal counterattack.
Horohan circles around her, bow in hand, taking the role of a deadly sentinel. Any Nipih soldier foolish enough to think Naci is exposed finds an arrow suddenly embedded in his chest or throat. Together, they become a fortress unto themselves, a bulwark the enemy cannot penetrate.
As minutes stretch into an eternity, the Haikam tribespeople find renewed vigor. Encouraged by the ferocity of their unexpected allies, they begin to push back with increased determination. The lines hold, then advance, inch by hard-fought inch.
Despite being outnumbered, the Haikam begin to regroup, inspired by the unexpected help. Together, they slowly push back the raiders, inflicting enough damage to make the Nipih think twice about continuing their assault. Finally, the Nipih start to retreat, disappearing into the hills from whence they came.
Naci and Horohan come to a stop, their breathing heavy, their bodies coated in grime and sweat. The Haikam warriors approach them cautiously, weapons still in hand but eyes filled with gratitude.
“Looks like we’ve got their attention,” Naci murmurs, sheathing her sword.
“And hopefully their trust,” Horohan adds, lowering her bow.
The chieftain of the Haikam, a grizzled man with a fierce gaze, steps forward. His eyes widen as he gets a closer look at Naci and Horohan.
“By the spirits … you’re Naci, daughter of the chieftain of Jabliu, and you,” he turns to Horohan, “you’re the heir of Alinkar. What has happened that brings the two of you here, at the hour of our need?”
Naci’s eyes meet the chieftain’s. “It’s a long story. Horohan has been disinherited, and Jabliu is on the brink of war with Alinkar. We were seeking allies. Finding ourselves here, in the middle of your battle, was a coincidence.”
“But a fortunate one,” Horohan adds. “For both sides, I hope.”
The chieftain nods solemnly. “Your bravery has not gone unnoticed. You’ve risked your lives for a people you owe nothing to. We are in your debt. The Haikam will lend aid to the Jabliu in your time of need.”
His expression turns grim. “However, we have our own crisis. As you’ve seen, our encampment has suffered greatly, and the Nipih remain a constant threat. We can’t focus all our resources on aiding Jabliu until we’ve dealt with them.”
He looks at them, his eyes filled with a mix of desperation and hope. “Will you help us take down the Nipih? We plan to strike at dawn. With your aid, perhaps we can finish this once and for all. Then, with clear minds and safer borders, we will aid you in your war.”
Naci and Horohan exchange a glance, weighing the options, the risks, and the debts yet to be paid. Finally, Naci speaks.
“Very well. We’ll help you deal with the Nipih. If we succeed, we’ll have forged a strong alliance. We hope that your tongue is not made of paper.”
The chieftain lands his strong hand on Naci’s shoulder, which makes Horohan frown in annoyance. “You are talking to Pomogr of Haikam, lady. You won’t find a more loyal man in all of Tepr.” He then turns his head to Horohan and bursts out laughing. “And, not going to lie, I always had a bad feeling about your father. The Alinkar chieftain’s head will make a fine addition to my collection.”
