Meixiu VII, Gamila VII

PA 1.3

Meixiu

“What kingdoms lie to the north of yours?” Meixiu asked the captured King Tobias who—while still bound and guarded—had at least been given the privilege of a chair this time. “What’s the political landscape beyond your kingdom like?”

“I’m sorry, General, but I’m not telling you anything until I get an answer, one way or the other,” the king grunted, his voice tense but firm. “So don’t bother wasting your breath.”

Meixiu clicked her tongue, but otherwise forced herself not to show any disappointment. Pressing Tobias for anything had proven impossible once he’d made his offer of allegiance. Likely, he was hoping he could sweeten the deal by keeping any other information close to his chest until they gave him an answer.

Unfortunately for both of them, that would take a couple more days at least before Joseph’s reply made it back to them.

Suddenly, her interrogation of the prisoner was cut short by the arrival of one of the guards.

“General,” the guard began, her mouth set in an unsure frown. “There’s someone here to see you. An… escaped prisoner? I think? Of the enemy. He says he was told to bring you a message.”

“Oh?” Meixiu frowned. Could this be a trap? Or… “Did he say who sent him?”

“No,” the guard shook her head. “He looked seconds away from dying when he arrived. I’ve had some of the others give him food and water while I came to get you. I figured we’d wait until you arrived to get the full story.”

“I see…” she grunted, before nodding. “Very well then. Take me to this messenger, and I’ll have someone take the prisoner back to his tent.”

“By your orders, General.”

--

The guard had been right when she’d said that the messenger looked about two steps away from death. He looked like he hadn’t had a proper meal in days, all skin and bone. His hair was unkempt and matted, and even chugging water as he was he was panting as though he were overheating. One of the guards surrounding him had taken pity on him, holding their shield over his head in an attempt to block out the sun and give him a bit of shade.

“He looked worse when he arrived,” the guard told her quietly.

Meixiu let out a low breath. If this person really did have important information for her, then there was no telling how close they’d been to losing it forever.

But he’d survived, and that was what counted.

“So, you’re the man I’ve heard so much about,” she walked up to him, frowning lightly as he looked up at her. The man barely looked like he registered her presence. “I am General Meixiu, and I’ve been told you have a message for me. But who sent it? Why did they send it? And who are you, that they trusted you to deliver it?”

The man blinked languidly at her, before he finally seemed to register her presence. “I am…” he coughed, taking another sip of water. Meixiu’s frown deepened, but she waited patiently for him to finish. “…I am Akil. I was… I was apart of that… the army. But she just… it just kept getting worse… and then she… and then…”

“Hey, hey!” Meixiu snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Calm down. Look at me. Who sent you? What is the message. Answer those questions and then I’ll leave you to recover in peace. Got it?”

The man—now named Akil—blinked at her, before nodding slowly. “A… A woman sent me. I don’t know anything else about her. She told me… she told me to give you this…” And with that he raised up one of his hands, which was tightly clutching a small clay pot, covered in black symbols and markings.

A woman had sent him? That has to have been Gamila then, right? It wasn’t like there was anyone else who could have done so.

But if Gamila sent a half-dead man to her…

She must have been desperate.

Without another thought Meixiu grabbed the pot from his hands. At once, the black markings painted along the sides translated in her mind, switching from Amharic symbols to Chinese characters.

Quang has retaken Dàhé. Olivia moves to join him, bringing her army with her. They plan to finish off your army in the next battle. Be careful.

Meixiu raised an eyebrow. ‘Finish off her army?’ If anything that was the other way around. Could Gamila be wrong? Had she been compromised? Was the enemy feeding her false information? …Had she defected? Was she feeding them incorrect information on purpose?

Meixiu shook her head. She had complicated feelings about Gamila, but logically by this point there’d be no reason for her turn against them. Jumping at shadows would only hurt her in the long run. Whatever the case may be, they would head back to Dàhé regardless. If Gamila’s information was right, they could lock the entire Song army into a siege, and maybe even cut off Olivia’s army. And if it was wrong, then they could use the opportunity to resupply and regroup anyway.

Meixiu let out a breath. “You’ve done well to get this to me, Akil,” she nodded solemnly at him. “Now, you can rest. You there!” she pointed to one of the guards standing around him. “Get him a tent and more water. He looks like he might be suffering from heat stroke, so get him out of the sun and cooled down. Make sure he doesn’t die, that’s an order!”

“Yes, General!” the guard saluted at her, before crouching down and helping Akil stand up, walking him deeper into the camp.

“As for the rest of you,” she turned to the others. “We’re leaving for Dàhé! Spread the word and have everyone start packing up! I want us to be ready to leave by noon tomorrow!”

With a flurry of salutes and ‘Yes Ma’ams’ her soldiers dispersed, beginning preparations for the march back to Dàhé.

And if Gamila’s information was right, then perhaps this war would soon be over.

--

Gamila

The journey from Fortaleza to Dàhé, while short, was insufferable.

Dàhé was closer the northern border of the Wen-Olivia (or maybe just Olivia now) Alliance than it was to the center, putting it at about a two day walk on foot. However, when coordinating an army, they could only move as fast as the slowest person—in this case the soldiers dragging the carts full of supplies along the muddy, unpaved ‘road’ between Fortaleza and Dàhé. And so, what had begun as a two-day march turned into a five-day slog.

However, much as she spent those days slowly shuffling forward and waiting for the supply train to catch up, Gamila did discover one very important thing.

See, out of the five royal guards (plus Gamila), one of them was always stuck to Olivia at the hip. Selma, the right hand of the Queen. Tall and muscular, armed to the teeth and glaring at everyone like she was a moment away from stabbing them.

Gamila had only met the woman in passing before. In the city, she acted like any of the other royal guards. She guarded the palace, patrolled the city, etc. Occasionally she’d be in the Queen’s chambers when Gamila was there to report, but beyond that there was no way to tell her apart from any other of the royal guards. However, once they left the city, she immediately beelined for the Queen and hadn’t left her side since. And, unlike every other royal guard, she carried with her a sack, one attached to the front of her belt that was never removed.

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Gamila let out a low breath, realizing what, exactly, was in that bag.

It wasn’t hidden, not really, but then it wasn’t like anyone else knew how important the thing in it was anyway. That was what she was banking on with her own, after all.

(It was hidden underneath her clothes and spare armor in her pack. Every time she thought of it being so easily accessible her heart skipped a beat in fear, before she reminded herself that she’d know if somebody had found it. She wondered if Olivia sometimes felt the same.)

But in this case, without even realizing it, the Queen had made an intractable mistake.

Her enemy had discovered where her soul was, and so her doom was sealed.

--

Getting Selma alone had proved more trouble than Gamila had first expected. The woman spent every waking hour next to the Queen.

It was maddening. However, after three days on the road of watching both of their routines, she’d managed to spot a singular moment each day that they were apart.

Every evening, after the army set up camp for the night, Olivia would retire to her tent to bathe herself, something with normally took twenty to thirty minutes.

(Whether that was just because she liked bathing or that she still hadn’t gotten used to using a bucket, Gamila didn’t know and didn’t really want to question.)

During that time, Selma would head to the center of camp, where the supply tents were, to record how many supplies they had left, how many they’d used, etc. It was apparently something that Olivia refused to do herself, but also only trusted Selma to not fudge the numbers and steal a bit off the top for herself. After her bath, Olivia would join Selma at the supply tents, along with two other royal guards, where they’d stay until Olivia retired to her tent for the night.

It was a small, twenty-minute window. But it was the only chance she’d get.

And so, on the fourth day of their journey to Dàhé, Gamila entered the supply tent a minute behind Selma, prepared to do what was necessary.

The woman was standing over the collection of spare spears, individually counting each one as Gamila entered. She wondered how the woman remembered everything. She didn’t write anything down, but surely she didn’t have that good a memory, right?

Gamila thrust the thought out of her head. It wasn’t like it mattered much anyway.

“T’ila,” Selma frowned, turning to look at her. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be guarding the Queen right now?”

“The Queen sent me,” Gamila lied, walking closer to the other guard. “She sent me to grab that bag for her,” she pointed to the one hanging from her belt. “She said it was important.”

Selma’s face instantly went dark, her hand reaching down to grab her stone dagger. “No, she didn’t.”

Gamila nodded. “No, she didn’t.”

And then the spy lunged at Selma, her own dagger flashing out of its sheath in a single smooth move.

Which was instantly blocked by the real guard’s blade.

Bouncing off the blade, she turned her thrust into a rolling slash, only for a mere flick of Selma’s wrist to block her once more.

Instantly, Gamila realized she was outmatched in terms of skill. Parrying with such a small blade was beyond her, and while she wouldn’t call herself unskilled, she knew enough to know Selma would beat her if this came down to a real fight.

And the other woman knew it too, if the triumphant look on her face told her anything.

Luckily, Gamila wasn’t one to play fair.

Stepping closer, Gamila lunged into the other woman’s guard, making what would for anyone else be a suicidal move and thrusting her blade at the other woman’s face.

It spoke a lot about Selma’s skill that she managed to not only stumble back in time to avoid the strike, but also land a hit on Gamila at the same time, slashing open her bicep.

In a normal fight, against a normal opponent, that move would have been a win for Selma.

Unfortunately for her, no mortal injury could kill Gamila.

And so rather than scream or panic or even just step back, Gamila took another step forward, further unbalancing the woman, causing her to stumble and trip on the spears she had been looking over a moment before.

Selma glanced down, her eyes widening in horror as she lost her balance, before glancing back up just in time to see Gamila’s dagger ram into her stomach.

And Selma screamed.

Gamila’s eyes widened in horror, realizing what would happen if anyone heard her and, panicking, punched the woman in the mouth.

To be fair, it worked. But in turn, it also left Gamila’s own guard wide open and, with a single, painful thrust, the dying woman in front of her stabbed her dagger straight into her heart.

Time froze for a moment, the two fatally wounded women staring at each other. Gamila’s face was one of shocked pain, while Selma’s was twisted into something that could almost be called triumphant.

A heart beat around an open wound. And Gamila sighed, looking up from the dagger lodged in her heart to look into the eyes of Selma.

“Ah…” she murmured softly. “What loyalty, to use your last breath in the name of your Queen. I’m honored to behold it, truly.”

And with solemn resolve, Gamila yanked her own blade out of Selma’s stomach and shoved it back into the woman’s own chest.

And Selma, right hand of the Queen, fell over dead.

Gamila stood there dazed for a moment, before some commotion outside the tent caused her to snap out of her stupor.

Reaching down she yanked the blood-soaked bag off of Selma’s belt, opening it quickly.

And there, inside of it, was the Queen’s soul. A small, glass-like orb swirling with reds and yellows.

Gamila stared at it with a bitter expression. Even though it wasn’t hers, it still felt wrong to hold in her hands.

Well. She’d come this far. It was time to make it count.

With a deep breath, she raised the orb high above her head, and brought it down on the ground, shattering it in an instant.

She let out a breath, the job done.

And then she realized something.

The people outside were getting closer. They were coming in here.

Gamila panicked, glancing around the tent for a way to escape, some alibi, something that meant her cover wouldn’t be blown yet.

It would be worth it, having killed one of the enemy leaders, but she’d prefer if she could get both.

She stared at the bloody dagger lodged into Selma’s chest, and without thinking, yanked it out and shoved it into her own side, before dead-dropping to the floor so fast she broke her nose.

It healed instantly, but it still hurt.

“I’m telling you guys, I heard something here!” someone said from outside the tent. “It sounded like a scream!”

“What, you think someone’s stealing from the supply tent?”

“They screamed, though. Wouldn’t that mean they got caught? Why should we need to do anything?”

“Come on guys, the least we can do is check. Worst case, nothing’s wrong and we can just…”

The flaps of the tent opened up, and three soldiers warily walked in, their hands on their weapons as they glanced around the room, before stopping dead when they saw the bloody corpses on the ground.

“…By the gods,” one of the soldiers whispered, staring down at their bloody bodies.

Feeling like she’d been laying there long enough, Gamila coughed roughly.

“Hey, hey, you’re still alive!” the soldier yelped, kneeling down next to her. One of the others dropped down next to Selma, while the last turned wildly in every direction, as though trying to find an enemy that didn’t exist. “Are you alright!? No, wait, stupid question. Um, what happened!?”

“…I,” Gamila choked, luckily not having to pretend to be in serious pain. It actually was kind of hard to answer questions like this. “…A traitor…”

“Shit, shit!” the soldier hissed, before noticing the knife in her side. “Wait, the knife’s still in there! Uh, don’t worry, I’ll take it out right now!”

“Don’t!” she hissed at him. “The knife… keeps the blood in… Take it out and… I’ll die!”

It would also break her ruse if they saw her heal instantly, but she wouldn’t be telling him that.

“Oh, um…” the soldier trailed off, before turning to his companion. “What about the other, is she… holy shit! That’s Selma!”

“She’s dead…” the other soldier whispered, his face ashen. “She’s dead. The Queen’s right hand is dead!”

All three soldiers looked at each other, expressions of horror etched across their faces.

And then, suddenly, a voice called out from outside the tent, his voice echoing across the whole camp.

“THE QUEEN IS DEAD!”

The soldiers froze in shock, before turning to the exit. Two of them ran out without thinking, while the one still looking over her sat frozen in indecision.

“…Go…” she whispered to him, injecting as much dramatic severity into her tone as possible. “…Find the traitor. I will… I will find my own way. But avenge the Queen… Avenge her, avenge us…!”

The soldier stared down at her with wide eyes, before closing them solemnly. “I swear to you… I swear, I’ll avenge you! I promise!”

Gamila let out a wet chuckle, closing her eyes. “…Thank…you…”

There was a shuffle, and the sound of footsteps getting quieter, before she was left alone with the corpse of Selma.

…

She was alone, right?

Cracking one eye open, she glanced around the tent, finding that she was, indeed, alone.

…

‘Holy shit that could have gone so badly,’ she wailed mentally. ‘How did they buy that!? Oh, thank you nameless soldier, for being so gullible. Holy shit. Holy shit! That was so close!’

Letting out a shaky breath, Gamila shoved herself to her feet, yanking the blade out of her side with a wince. Standing up as quickly as she could, she stumbled over to the tent flaps, glancing out quickly to see if anyone was looking.

But nobody was there, instead she could see a crowd building up a distance away from her, staring at—presumably—the dead body of the Queen.

Letting out a relieved sigh, Gamila quietly slipped away, already preparing a hundred and one excuses for how she survived and where she was as she quickly ran back to her personal tent.

The blood wouldn’t wash itself off, after all.

9,895 God-Kings Remain