KHIF—
I was yanked awake by two large hands gripping my arms and jostling me to my feet. My entire body felt as if there were boulders holding me down, just under my skin, weighing down my blood and making my muscles clench with their weight.
Without thought I cried out, waking Ryker immediately. His eyes flew open, and he strained to sit up but was unable. Flinching and groaning, he watched with frustrated helplessness as Olin brought out a rope and tied my wrists together, his face unreadable. I watched him closely, trying to catch any sign of what they planned with us. His face was so blank, so concentrated on tying the rope around my wrists that there was nothing in his eyes I could see, nothing in the way he looked at me, at the other men in the camp.
By the time the men were ready to move out of their camp, I had Ryker sitting up and back against a boulder. I had checked his wound and saw no signs of infection. It was healing well, as quickly as my shay'yah was able to bind the skin closed. He was able to stand with my help, and walk with heavy breaths only with prodding from Olin and Paul.
Ryker and I travelled behind the men's horses until early afternoon, the ropes binding my wrists biting into my skin and chafing painfully. Every time I flinched or made a move to position the rope better, Ryker growled, his anger frustrated and helpless. I smiled up at him, trying to calm him, but he simply glared at me, as if berating me for my own serenity.
Yes, I seemed composed, but he knew as well as I that the peace I pretended to feel was just that: pretend. Inside I was terrified. I had never been more than a few miles outside of Nibea, never been too far from Rothart for very long, even. And with each step away from Wal'yah, I could feel my connection to the ancestors dimming. Their song was nearly silent in my mind, my soul crying out to them with each breath I took.
Gods, how I missed my home. How I missed the crash of the waves against the rocks so far under my window, the smell of the salt in the water and the seaweed clinging to the shore. The beautiful way the gray-blue of the sky met the deep, shadowy black of the ocean in the winter always made my heart feel as if it was too full, as if it wanted to run along the waves, crash into the ocean, and never emerge from the haunting depths that sung so beautifully into my ear, riding on the winds that wove their way into my bedroom each night. When the full moon shone in through the wide window I kept open even in the depths of winter, I imagined I was a wild mage, dancing and praising the moon, singing my prayers to the great mother whose form the moon itself emulates with its silver glow. I had spent every day of my fifteen years calling Rothart home. Besides going out with my father and Ryker on raids, I hardly ever left the comforting stone walls or the embrace of my Grana, my Mama. Never left the sides of my sweet baby sisters Naka and Ally. I always swore I would protect them, would spend my life in pursuit of their happiness. Since Ally was born when I was six, my little sisters had become my everything. I spent my days with them, I spent my nights singing them to sleep, and I made my healing potions with them in mind. Always, always, they were near me. They were like puppies that followed my every step, just beside a bemused Ryker.
I wondered with every step away from home if I would ever see it again. We had left Rothart burning to ash behind our backs, the heat on the back of my neck singeing my hopes and turning my dreams of ruling in the castle of my ancestors to dust. His big arms around me, clutching my stiff and catatonic form close to his body for warmth, Ryker had led me and the small contingent of men and servants who had survived the raid south, away from home, away from danger.
Danger had followed us, though, as each step brought only more pain, more death. In the midst of a snow storm that brought even us, winter's children, to our knees, the last of our women died before we could find aid from a Nibean tribe. The last child, one that had carried messages in Rothart, caught a fever that burned him inside out as I sat beside his bedroll and sobbed, holding his hand until his fingers were frozen solid around my own and Ryker had to crack them to get them from me. Only when we were at our weakest, when we cowered in the dirt, against boulders the size of giants, did the final blow come that left only me and Ryker to face the harsh land alone.
The soldiers of Pryn came like banshees, screaming and attacking with the force of the sun god they worshipped. Weakened, sick, starving and frozen, we never had a chance.
With Ryker dragging my near-lifeless form behind him, we fled, leaving what was left of my father's chosen men to die so that I could escape. I felt like the worst kind of coward; felt like the only way to atone for their sacrifice was to give them the burial they deserved, because they had all dropped to the earth in pools of their own blood to save their precious son of the gods.
Gods damn them. If only they knew that I was no more a god than I was a wild mage.
We hadn't made it far. Another contingent of Pryn soldiers blocked off our retreat and with Ryker's war call my men found us again, fought by our side, and battled with more ferocity than any shadow from the realms of chaos. We had obliterated the soldiers, and then the rest of my men, those brave men who had survived Rothart only to die here, alone and in a land foreign and evil, had dropped to the earth to let their souls follow their friends and comrades in endless sleep.
Ryker, injured and barely able to breathe, had demanded I leave him. Gods, for how long he had been by my side, the man still refused to admit when he was being a dung-brained idiot, and consistently denied and wouldn't accept the proven fact that I was a stubborn mule.
My grana always said I truly was a gryphon incarnated. She attributed my stubborn streak to her husband, the Mala Bheur before my own father, and laughed with genuine warmth when she spoke of my granda. My grana was the Cailleach Bheur, the demi-goddess queen and spiritual ruler of Nibea before me. While the Mala Bheur ruled over the people, the Cailleach Bheur ruled their souls and their hearts. They were separate, and yet one, working together for a powerful Nibea. The Cailleach Bheur belongs to her people, and her people obey her and lay down their very being for her. The title of Cailleach was passed down by blood from mother to daughter, or, in my case, grandmother to grandson.
My grana never had been able to explain why the power of the Cailleach Bheur had been passed to me rather than one of my sisters, ending a line of centuries of women Bheur's. But it had, and my people had only just begun to accept me as their Cailleach when the men of Pryn had descended on Rothart and taken everything from me.
I spent my life being trained in the dark arts of the Cailleach. My grana taught me of the land, of the forces of Nature and Chaos working against each other, and for each other. She taught me of the herbs of the earth and the poisons, potions and salves that could be made with simple ingredients that would make me more powerful than any being of magic. The magic— what Nibeans call shay'yah, for ours is a separate kind of power than the magic of other nations, other peoples— in the Nibean blood is thin and rare, but it runs thick through the Bheur line. My line.
The moment my grana died, just a few months before that raid that caused the death of my entire family, she had bestowed upon me the title of Cailleach Bheur. Somehow, it was as if she knew what was to come, for with her last breaths, she swore to me trials, pain, anger, revenge, terror, and defeat. And then she swore to me victory.
"Listen to me, Khif," she whispered, using the nickname she formed from my given name, which was rare. Not even my parents called me Khifrin, the name they gave to me. In my life I was called Nangwaya— or Waya for my family and Ryker and any of my other teachers and mentors— which was the title for the future Cailleach. Now I am called Cailleach Bheur, like my grana before me. Grana was the only person who dared call me Khif, and I was the only being in all of Nibea who called her anything but Bheur. She was my grana, and that didn't change because she was also the Cailleach.
"Never forget the things I have taught you," Grana wheezed, her voice coming out as more breath than words. "You will use the dark magics in your life more than any other Cailleach before you. You are more powerful than you know, little son. Always, always keep your ancestors by your side, and you shall never fail. You are Cailleach Bheur now, Khifrin, and I will always be with you."
As a yank on the rope that bound my hands to Olin's horse ahead of me woke me from my stupor, I felt Ryker's eyes on me. Turning to him, I smiled and ducked my head, trying to keep the memories from his prying eyes. I can feel tears prick into my own eyes at the memory of my grana. Every other Nibean had been terrified of her, as much as they had been in love with her. The powers of a Cailleach were sometimes misunderstood even by my own people, and it had always been a lonely position to be in. Even my granda, whom my grana had loved with her very soul, had been just the slightest bit wary when my grana spoke of the ancestors and their will. But, despite the fear, all had listened and obeyed when Grana spoke. When she opened her mouth even the wind quieted to hear her words.
And I was supposed to take over where she had left off. How was that even possible? I was only Khif, much too young, too inexperienced, too small and much too skinny to be of any use to anyone. I could fight. I could hear the whispers of the ancestors with each breath I took, and I could feel the ghosts of the great mothers who had passed before me fight by my side. But I could not do the things Grana said I could. I was not powerful, and I didn't think I ever would be.
I watched and hid as my mother was beaten and killed so horrendously that I still dry heaved each time I remembered, and yet Grana told me I would do great things. If I couldn't save my mother, what was the point of those great things?
When the slavers finally stopped to rest for lunch, Olin untied me from his horse and handed me a thick piece of stale bread. I could see bits of mold growing on the brown crust, but I stuffed it almost whole into my mouth anyways. My stomach was past the point of growling and simply hung angry and heavy in my stomach, my hands shaking with lack of proper sleep and food. I couldn't even remember when I had last had a real meal.
When Olin handed Ryker a larger piece of bread, Ryker broke it in half and gave me the other half. Olin watched with curiosity in his eyes as I ate the second piece, knowing how angry Ryker would be if I even tried to refuse the food. It may seem odd to a stranger, one who does not bear l'ayai— the connection— of a Cailleach and her war'rog, but to us it is breathing, it was as natural as movement. He was larger and needed more sustenance, yes. But I am his life, his love, his very soul. I do not argue over his giving me his food because the l'ayai demands that I accept it without complaint. To do anything different would bring him dishonor.
After the bread was devoured I moved silently to Ryker, yanking his shirt up and studying the makeshift bandage I had put on his body. He let me retie it as he ate, studying the men around him. I knew what he was doing: watching them for weaknesses, strengths, anything we could use against them. I knew, because this was the same thing that I did. This was who we were.
Paul was the smallest of the men, although small wasn't quite a word I would use to describe him. He was tall and thinly built, with slick black hair and eyes that shone with intelligence. The only thing we had to fear from him was that devious intellect, as either Ryker or I could easily take the man physically. He didn't look as if he could even carry a sword, much less use one.
Talen was an Akaran, it was obvious from his dark skin and bright hazel eyes and the bits of wild magic I could smell in his soul. He was a bowman, from the calluses and nicks in his fingers.
Olin was huge and would cause the most trouble if we tried to escape, although I felt that maybe he wouldn't fight us too much if we did.
And the last man, a man the others only referred to as Sir which, I knew, was a Nelek word of honor, was a well-built, albeit too soft man, with long and thickly curled black hair that reached his shoulders, and rich clothing.
Ryker's wound was still healing nicely, looking even better than it had that morning, even with his physical exertions throughout the day, and a few more of the herbs Olin had helped me pick out stuffed into his bandage would help even more. I put my hand on Ryker's arm when I was finished and forced him to look into my eyes.
"Not yet, Ryker," I whispered.
"Waya—" he began, beginning to call me by my old title, and then he shook his head and frowned, as if he had bitten his tongue. "I apologize... Cailleach, please rethink this. If we wait too long, there will be more. We have a chance with only four men that we won't have when we're in the Pryn capital, which is where we're undoubtedly headed. Please, Bheur. Think this through."
"Ryker, let me ask you. Even if we did escape now, where would we go? Back to Rothart? It's burned down, Ryker. I am no longer Cailleach, so stop calling me that."
"You can't just burn away the blood that flows in your veins, my Cailleach."
His words sent a thrill of anger through my body. "No, I can't. The Pryn already did. They burned everything that made me Cailleach."
"Wal'yah is still alive and well, my Cailleach. You shall rule again someday, I swear to you. I won't rest until you are back beside the souls of your ancestors."
"Alright. But then listen to reason, Ryker, even if you won't face reality. You are still injured. If you push yourself too much, you'll die and I'll be left completely alone without even you to protect me and bring me home. Slipping out of a large city full of slaves will be much easier than escaping from four men whose only duty now is to keep us with them, with your injury and my own hindering us. We are too weak to escape now. But—" I paused and held up my hand when Ryker began to protest my words, and he was silent instantly. "—But, if a situation does arise where we can escape, we will take the chance. So keep your eyes open and your head up. We'll get out of this, Ryker. I swear to you, I'll get you home."
"Yes, Cailleach," he muttered, finally giving in to my words and leaning back against the boulder he was sitting against. He flinched and gripped at the bandages on his chest, rubbing at them as if to push away the pain.
My eyes flitting to Paul, who watched me and Ryker with a discerning look in his eyes, I ducked my head and gripped Ryker's arm tightly, making sure he was listening closely.
"Ryker, you must stop calling me that. Paul knows of Nibea, and I think he speaks our tongue. Call me Khif, or do not call me anything at all."
Ryker flinched, but nodded, easily obeying the command I forced into my voice.
"Yes, Khif."
THEO—
I danced around the sword tip, jumping out of its way as Napa bounded my way again, a fierce look of determination crossing his face. With a downward swing of his own sword, I managed to knock Napa's to the side, a big enough opening that I jumped in much too eagerly, earning a dagger jutting up into my crotch, pressing tightly against my pelvic bone.
"You cannot fall for tricks, highness," Napa hissed, his breath barely moving his chest at all. If I hadn't known the man for so long, I wouldn't have even been able to understand the thickly accented words that were halted and stiff because of his concentration on his dagger tip. "If something seems too easy— it likely is."
"Alright, alright," I muttered, shoving Napa's hand away and flinching as I thought of how close Napa had come to severing my manhood. And how a lesser man wouldn't have been able to so gracefully control his hand as to not cut me. "I get it. Now get that blasted thing away from me."
Napa smiled, one of his rare and ridiculous smiles that always made me think of the silly tales told of elves dancing and singing in the moonlight, praising the god that ruled over the Gangaon lands.
Napa's yellow hair hung down his back in a thin wave of perfectly straight gold. His body was built like a much younger man's— thin and curved like the wickedest of daggers. His eyes were bright hazel with just the smallest flecks of gold and his skin the color of burnished gold.
I had loved him since the slave had been given to me when I was a child, as a companion, a teacher and a friend. Napa, whose real name I hadn't been able to pronounce as a child and was still unable to pronounce, had only been thirteen when he had been sold as a slave to a Pryn slave merchant and a few years later bought by my father. Although Napa was only ten years older than me, he had already been a highly proficient swordsman at fifteen— when he had been brought to me— and had taught me as much as he could of the ancient art passed through the Gangao people like blood.
For most of my life, Napa had slept at my feet, in a small cot on the ground, to be near in case I needed anything during the small hours of darkness. Many nights Napa had laid awake with me, dazzling me with the stories of the land of Gangao, a land of magic and myths that I wished to one day see. I had promised Napa, when I was still young enough to believe my own words, that one day I would bring him to his home and Napa would show me the wonders I knew only in the stories the slave weaved with his gravelly, accented voice.
Napa sheathed his sword silently, moving away from me and watching the soldiers around the courtyard in their own training exercises.
"I saw the princess from Gangao, my lord," Napa began, his eyes sparkling with amusement. I looked up from my own sword and sharpening diamond as I began to sharpen and clean my weapon, studying the amused look in Napa's eyes. "She is beautiful."
"Yes, she is," I muttered, pressing the diamond to my sword and running it down its length, sharpening it with practiced precision.
"Your highness," Napa muttered, suddenly straightening from his slack against the wall he had been leaning against while I sharpened my sword. The sound of the diamond against the metal of the weapon was grating but also comforting in a strange way, the consistent sound a background to the thoughts and worries swirling through my mind. "A messenger comes."
I stood and moved next to Napa, who pointed at a blurred form moving thirty feet below us. Perched on the wall between one of my mother's many flower gardens and the training courtyard the soldiers, guards and nobles used, Napa and I had been sitting silently in the weak winter sunlight for over an hour in silence. I had been picturing the banshees Napa had recently told me stories of, daydreaming of their endless black hair and red eyes. I didn't think my words as a child to Napa would ever come true, but by the gods, I still wished for them. I would give anything to see the wondrous people of magic and myth Napa had been born to.
What Napa's finely tuned eyes could see clearly was only a blob of movement to me until the boy was just under the wall, holding his hands over his eyes to block out the sun that shone just behind me and Napa. The boy was barely ten, with wide green eyes and a large mouth.
"Your highness," he gasped, his chest heaving in his exertion. "Your father, the king, requests your presence, my prince. He and the generals wait in the war council room."
"What?" I asked, my voice too harsh in reply to the boy's words. "Why? What's happening?"
"Don't know for sure, your highness. I just heard something about the Northmen on the northern borders, my lord."
"Are they attacking? How could that be? The Nibeans haven't come over onto Pryn lands since..."
"Your highness," Napa muttered, holding onto my arm and motioning to the boy. "I think you'll get more information from your father than this messenger child, don't you agree?"
I growled at Napa in irritation, knowing the man was making fun of me, and jumped down off the wall, making the boy flinch back at the sudden movement. I flicked a small silver coin at the servant and began my trek towards the war council room, my brain in turmoil.
The Nibeans hadn't crossed the sea onto Pryn lands in ten years, not since the peace treaty had been called between Nibea and Pryn. They had retreated and hadn't been heard from since, besides the occasional pirate attack and raid on the northern borders, but those had been indiscretions pushed by both sides, as I knew my father had even condoned many of the attacks on the Nibean people. I myself had sat in a meeting my father had called, and had seen my father pay the captain of a band of pirates to attack the Nibean castle Rothart, where it was said their royal family lived. The Gal Medhse hadn't expected to really cause any damage, only to shake the Nibean people up, remind them that Pryn was still a power and held a sword over their throats at all times.
That had only been a few months before, when the fall winds had begun to turn bitter and snow was scented in the winds from the north. Had the attack somehow been so successful it had angered the Nibean people to attack Pryn, without any real chance of winning? Nibea was a threat to Pryn, yes, because they were powerful, fierce, and dangerous, but they could never take over my country. Where one Nibean killed two Pryn soldiers, five more would take his place. Pryn was endless, and Brak was too small an island to house many fighters, no matter how well trained and viciously they fought.
All my life, I had heard the stories of Nibea, told to me by my uncles, my cousins, and finally even by Napa, who had spent a few months in the war in the north before being given to me.
The royal family was sacred to the Nibean people, being descendants of a long line of magic-bearing peoples who spoke to the spirits of the dead and commanded legions of demons. The queen was called Cailleach Bheur, which meant 'Bringer of Winter,' a title given to her by her mother before her, and was trained in the ancient dark arts of war, poison, and death. Although there was a king, be he husband, brother or son of the queen, the true ruler was always the Cailleach Bheur, the spiritual leader of the Nibean people and the wise woman of their entire island.
The last Pryn had heard of the royal family hadn't been much. They were very secretive and it was difficult to get any spies even near the family, much less close enough to know intimate details, for as far back as the royal bloodline went, so did the bloodline of their servants, who were always the same families breeding servants for the sole purpose of serving the Cailleach Bheur and her king. So the last I had heard of the family, there were only six in the immediate family. The Cailleach Bheur, who had been ruling as wise woman for more than seventy years, her direct son, who served as her king, and his wife, a woman born into a noble family of Nibea, although not the Bheur bloodline, who didn't even earn the title of queen and was only 'wife to the king,' and three children of the king. The eldest was guarded by one of the most powerful war'rog warriors, born and bred to be the bodyguards to the Bheurs, and many mentors and teachers, not the least of which was the Cailleach Bheur herself, who protected her with her shadow magic as much as with her own body. The other two children were watched over, but they were almost insignificant compared to the eldest daughter, for she was to be the next Cailleach Bheur.
All resided in Rothart, which, to me, was a strange custom. I had over twelve brothers and none lived anywhere near me. I wasn't the eldest, nor the youngest, and was only to be Gal Medhse because my mother was the true queen. I had brothers ten, even twenty years older than me, and all had been sent away the moment they were born. For to keep the next king and his heirs in the same place seemed like madness. So how had the Nibean royalty lived all together in one castle, without fearing that the royal family would be wiped out in one strike?
Dear gods, I thought suddenly, stopping in my tracks. Napa, forced to swerve so as not to ram into my back, cursed at me in Gangaon. Is that what happened? Was the royal family massacred because of that pirate father hired?
"What the hell are you doing?" Napa hissed, glaring at me in a way only Napa dared to.
"The Nibeans. Their royalty is gone."
"...What?" Napa seemed genuinely confused, of course not having followed my train of thought with me.
I was silent for another moment, and then I shook my head and began to run again, my chest heaving, although, irritatingly, Napa wasn't out of breath at all.
"... Nothing. It's nothing."
Dear gods, I thought as I ran, praying silently for the family I had never met, but of whose demise I now was certain. And sick to my stomach with the knowledge that my father had wiped them from the face of the earth. Bear their souls to Death's realms in peace.
When Napa and I ran into the war council room, twelve pairs of eyes looked up at us, almost all annoyed. My father, the Gal Medhse, sat on a leather chair before a large map with pins stuck in it. He was a well-built man in his late sixties— of whom it was still clear to any who looked on him that in his youth he had enjoyed a strong, virile body— his hair completely shot gray, and the wrinkles around his blue eyes heavy.
The man who had been in the middle of a sentence when we burst in was General Miron, the general of the king's armies, a heavy-set man in his early thirties with discerning green eyes and thin, constantly strained, disappointed-looking lips.
The rest of the men were the advisors to the Gal Medhse, including the knight Yuul, who served as the Gal's spiritual advisor and personal bodyguard. The last man was sitting in a dark corner, his bright amber eyes watching me with amusement and greeting.
"Hello, brother," my eldest brother, Aviv said, his voice snarky and thick with the amusement that shone through his eyes. Aviv was forty-two years old and was our father's first born. He had been born of the first queen, Levania, who'd had the title of Gal Madya taken from her when Aviv was twenty years old, turning him from the crown prince into a bastard son of the king, who would never be more than that. And, I knew, all of that was because of my own mother, the current Gal Madya, being chosen over his mother.
Throwing away his queen and first son, the king had taken on his younger concubine and years later she had given birth to me, shoving me into Aviv's place as future Gal Medhse. Although Aviv never openly showed his hatred for me, I wasn't an idiot. I knew, if I turned my back, Aviv would put a dagger in it faster than I could take my next breath. And, all things considered, I wouldn't blame him if he did. I had no true interest in the throne, was self-aware enough that I knew I would probably never really make a good king, and knew Aviv well enough to know that he would make a great king. He had travelled to many other countries in his life, knew the politics and diplomacies there, and had allies in many of those countries that would turn away almost anyone else from Pryn. He had military experience, a cunning brain, and seemed to genuinely care about the people of Pryn, something that I greatly lacked. I felt only a sense of duty that my father had chosen me, and guilt that I would never match up to Aviv.
"It's good of you to join the Gal Medhse's war council," Aviv finished with a yawn. "Did we catch you during a nap?"
Although a bastard, Aviv had been the true son of the Gal Medhse for twenty years, and most in the council favored him and showed him loyalty. Because of that, our father had given Aviv a large castle in the west, bestowing on him the title of Count of Worlor, and a seat on his ruling council.
"I was in the training grounds, which is on the far side of the castle, my lord," I said as calmly as I could, refusing to rise to Aviv's bait. I bowed low to my father and then moved to his right side, fighting every bone in my body that told me to sneer at Aviv from my position of honor. Better king or not, he was still my brother and we had never gotten along well, and it didn't all have to do with our political positions. "I apologize deeply for any delay I have caused."
"Who is this?" General Miron demanded, glaring Napa down with a discerning look. After a pause he frowned and then, "What is this?"
"That is Napayshni," Aviv said, pronouncing Napa's name perfectly as he stood and smiled widely over at Napa, whose face remained as blank as stone, something I envied of him. "My younger brother's pet."
"Why is he in the Gal Medhse's war council, pray tell?" the general asked, his voice threatening.
"Because he is also the young prince's bodyguard," the knight Yuul said, a warm smile plastered on his face as he turned from Aviv to the general. "You would not deny the future Gal Medhse protection, even among allies, now would you, general?"
I was grateful to Yuul who, as far as I knew, was one of my few supporters. The general, however, hated me. He hated my youth, my inexperience as a fighter, and my lack of anything that would make me an exact copy of the powerful, strong and cunning Aviv.
"Enough of this," the Gal muttered, irritation etched in every line on his face. "We have wasted enough time waiting. Myk, your report."
Known only as Myk, the man who stepped towards the map was the Gal's spymaster. His position of power was great, the fear everyone felt towards him even greater. He knew even the lowliest slave's deepest secrets, and his loyalty was only to the Gal.
"The Northmen have attacked and completely decimated the northern coast towns of Ryiel, Sant Marna, and Calei. All were razed to the ground. The force of warriors moves inward from the coast, south, as if they are headed towards the capital. The reports are mixed on how many men, but I have deduced it to be around two-to-three-hundred fighters strong."
"Why now?" Yuul asked, mirroring my own unspoken words. "They haven't attacked Pryn borders openly since the war. What provoked this? With such a large number, it has to be the royal family that sent them, and not only bands of thieves and pirates as in the past."
"Or," the Gal began, his eyes on the map before him, with three black X's where the three coastal towns had once been drawn out, "Not the royal family. Tore," the Gal said, looking up at a man with spectacles and thin lips. "Who would rule or— say— command the Northmen army if the royal family was no more?"
"Ah," Tore mumbled, looking around him with an embarrassed glow to his cheeks. Tore was the scholar, the lord of the libraries and the keeper of knowledge for the Gal, and as such was the only expert we had on the Nibean people. "That is quite a complicated, um, question, for, uh, the Nibean people do not truly have an army, as we think of it. They have bands of fighters when war is declared, and most men and women are trained in some kind of, ah, fighting style, but they do not have an army. The closest thing they have to an army are their war'rogs, who fight for their royalty. So I, um, suppose, if it truly came down to it, uh, the, um current Cailleach Bheur's war'rog would become general of the armies until another of royal, or at least, uh, noble blood, could be found."
Yuul spoke next, his eyes thoughtful. "So the Cailleach Bheur's war'rog is kind of like her bodyguard, right?"
"Um," Tore muttered, shrugging slightly. "It is more than that. The war'rog is said to be the spirit brother to the Bheur. He is her soul mate."
"So they're married?" I asked, intrigued. I could tell Napa had to fight his amusement at my curiosity, knowing I asked the question not because I needed to know for knowledge on the violence, but simply because I was curious for curiosity's sake.
"Ah, no," Tore said, shrugging again. "The war'rog warriors who are attached to the Bheurs are, ah, eunuchs. Cut as children, so that their only thoughts are, uh, on the Bheur they serve, and so that they don't rape her. For the purity of the Bheur is held above all else, even life. The Bheur and her war'rog are soul siblings."
"Alright, so say the war'rog died as well. Then what?" The Gal's words were pointed, and almost all in the room now knew why he asked the questions. Some knew of the Gal's gold in the hands of the pirates, and others were now putting the pieces together. Most were smiling. Surprisingly, one of the few who looked anything less than pleased was General Miron, who frowned down at the map, staring at Brak on the paper as if he could bore a hole through it with thought alone, his brows furrowed.
"The war'rog are a small clan that lives just next to Rothart, but, ah, not, uh, in the castle, per say. So if the Bheur's war'rog was killed, um, the leader of the clan would, uh, take up the mantle, so to speak."
"And these war'rog are the only Northmen truly trained in battle?"
"Yes, my lord, them and the royal family," Tore nodded, his hands wringing as sweat began to drip down his face. The man was uncomfortable talking to one person, and shyer than any rabbit, so speaking to a room full of powerful men was making him tremble from head to foot. "Although, I— um, the Nibean people must never be underestimated. They are industrious, cunning and, um, historically brutal. Trained or not, they will still kill ten Pryn to, I'm sorry, every one untrained Nibean."
"Then we will send a thousand trained Pryn soldiers to every one untrained Nibean farmer," the Gal said, his words a mockery of everything Tore had said. With the Gal's disdain, and the general's glare at him for denying his soldier's battle prowess, Tore got very small and very quiet very fast.
"Theodore," the Gal continued, turning to face me and drawing every eye in the room from Tore to me. "You will go to the coast. It's about time you got blood on your sword, and what better way to begin than with dirty Northmen blood? You will lead two thousand of General Miron's best, and most well trained men," –he said this with a nod at the general, and one to Tore— "and stop them before they can get any further than they already have. Show the Northmen that without their Bheur they are nothing but a state of Pryn now, and that we will not tolerate dissent. You will not show mercy, Theodore, do you understand this? There are to be no survivors and no hostages, not even slaves. Kill them all— all that oppose you. You will leave within the hour.
"Aviv, you will go with my son. You will be his advisor." The Gal paused, glared Aviv down, and reiterated, "His advisor only, Aviv. My son is the future Gal Medhse, and as such must learn how to command his troops. You will advise him with the knowledge you have gained in your own battles, and in your years, and nothing more.
"General," he said, turning to Miron. "Help my son on his way. Your men have five days to get ready. I want them on the coast in a week, and back home in two. Brak is finally mine."