Seeing the towering flames consume their encampment in the distance, the remaining Nipih warriors find themselves with no other choice. Trapped in the treacherous marsh, their eyes meet the unyielding gazes of the Haikam surrounding them. With a reluctant nod, they drop their weapons, signaling surrender. Pomogr, the Haikam chieftain, acknowledges their submission with a look of wary satisfaction.
“Take them as prisoners,” he commands his men, “but keep your eyes on them.”
In the smoky haze that chokes the air, the once-proud encampment of the Nipih is reduced to embers and ash. Naci strides through the scorched grounds, her eyes as cold as ice, flanked by Horohan and a contingent of Haikam warriors. The remaining Nipih who hadn’t been caught in the fire are herded like cattle, their faces a mix of shock and disbelief.
“Move them to the center of the camp,” Naci orders, her voice unyielding. The Haikam warriors nod and start pushing the dazed prisoners toward a remaining undamaged cottage in the middle of the encampment.
Horohan scans the group and steps forward. “Who among you led your tribe? Who is your chieftain?”
The prisoners murmur among themselves, their eyes flicking to an elder woman who stands a little apart from the rest. She locks eyes with Horohan and steps forward.
“Our chieftain died a week ago. His son, Hokom, assumed leadership and led us against the Haikam. If he still breathes, he’s in the marsh,” the elder woman says, her voice steady despite the circumstances.
Naci glances at Horohan, whose eyes meet hers with unwavering trust, before addressing the elder woman. “If your young chieftain values the lives that remain in his tribe, he will cease any further hostilities against the Haikam. Submit to their rule or face extinction.”
Her words hang heavy in the air, a grim promise entwined with a sliver of hope. For in that moment, all present—Haikam and Nipih alike—understand the weight of the choice before them. To bow to the unyielding will of a would-be conqueror, or to defy her and risk utter annihilation.
The Haikam warriors escort the subdued Nipih prisoners into the ruins of their own encampment. Ash and charred remnants of structures crunch underfoot as they make their way to the center, where Naci and Horohan await them.
Among the captives, the tension is palpable; hushed whispers of curses are directed at Hokom, who walks in the middle of the throng, his hands bound. “If it weren’t for those outsiders, we would’ve won. This is all a trick of fate,” he snarls back defiantly, meeting their accusatory glances with seething anger.
Naci and Horohan, standing at a distance, can’t help but be amused by the scene. “Sounds like someone’s giving fate too much credit,” Horohan remarks.
“Indeed,” Naci agrees. “As if we sprang out of the ground just to foil his plans.”
The tension among the Nipih threatens to boil over. The air is thick with muttered curses, most aimed at Hokom and his late father for leading them into this disastrous situation. Faces are flushed, eyes are narrowed, and the collective energy of the crowd buzzes like a hornet’s nest that’s been disturbed. The weight of their collective failure, their wasted efforts, and the humiliation of their capture compresses into a palpable force.
Mothers clutch their children a bit tighter, elderly men shake their heads in weary resignation, and younger warriors exchange glances, their hands twitching as if they wish their bound limbs were free to grasp a weapon, any weapon. Hokom himself, his jaw clenched and his eyes ablaze with a mix of defiance and desperation, bears the brunt of this discontent.
“Damn you, Hokom! Your arrogance has led us to ruin!” one of the younger warriors spits out, glaring at him.
“You and your late father are the disgrace of the Nipih!” an older woman shouts, clutching her young grandchild close to her.
“My father was a great leader! He would’ve never allowed this to happen!” Hokom snaps back.
“Great leader? He’s the one who started this reckless feud with the Haikam!” another man chimes in, his eyes red with anger.
“Reckless? It was a chance for glory, for wealth! You all were behind it when we set out!” Hokom retorts.
“Glory? Wealth? What do we have now? Ashes and shackles!” a young mother hisses.
“And who do you think is going to free us from those shackles? You?” Hokom sneers, his eyes narrowing.
“Enough of this. We’ve heard plenty from you, Hokom. Your words are as hollow as your leadership,” an elder states, his voice laden with disappointment.
“You’ll see. Had fate not been so twisted, you’d all be singing my praises right now,” Hokom mutters, shaking his head, but the bitter conviction in his voice does little to convince the crowd.
It’s as though the tribe’s long-standing rivalries, petty grievances, and hidden resentments have been uncorked, all channeled into a volatile mix of shame and blame. Amidst the rising hostility, the very fabric of the Nipih community seems to hang by a thread, ready to unravel.
Sensing the escalation, Horohan takes a step forward, raising her voice to address the crowd. “What about the Moukopl taxes and tributes? I’ve heard from the Haikam women that they suspect you’ve been avoiding full payments. Is that true?”
Her words fall on deaf ears as the crowd’s ire continues to mount, now more uncontrolled than before.
The crowd’s attention barely shifts at Horohan’s question; they are too consumed by their internal strife to heed her words.
“Who cares about Moukopl taxes now? We’re prisoners, thanks to you, Hokom!” a wiry man shouts.
“The Moukopl? Do you think they’ll spare us now, when even our kith and kin have turned against us?” an elderly warrior adds, his voice tinged with both anger and sorrow.
“You’ve shamed us, Hokom. We’ve lost our honor and our homes. What’s left for us now?” a young woman questions, her eyes filled with tears.
“Stop blaming everything on me! Had I had proper warriors, not cowards, we would be victorious!” Hokom yells back, his own frustration reaching its peak.
“Cowards? You call us cowards when you led us to this disaster?” a middle-aged woman retorts, her voice filled with venom.
“Don’t pretend you weren’t excited about the prospects of war, about the promise of taking Haikam lands,” Hokom snaps back.
“A promise you made, and look where it got us!” a teenage boy accuses, pointing a finger at Hokom.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“As if you weren’t eager to prove yourself in battle. Don’t point fingers when your own hands are stained,” Hokom responds, his face flushed with both anger and embarrassment.
Pomogr, noting the deteriorating situation, tries to intervene. “Separate Hokom from the rest. Get him out—”
But before he can finish his sentence, Naci’s blade flashes through the air, quick as a bolt of lightning, severing the tension along with Hokom’s head. It tumbles to the ground, eyes wide with disbelief, lips parted in an unfinished retort. Blood splatters on the sand, a dark punctuation mark to the spiraling conflict. The crowd falls into stunned silence, the air thick with a mixture of fear and shock.
Naci cleans her blade with a flick, sheathing it with practiced ease. Then, her gaze sweeps over the crowd, locking eyes with more than one of the Nipih who’d been shouting moments before.
“Here you go, are you happy now?” she begins, her voice dripping with disdain. “I got rid of the troublemaker. Will you listen now to what we have to say? I find it incredibly distasteful how you all turned on one another, blaming all your problems on him the moment something bad happened. But you know what? Taking the blame is also part of a leader’s responsibilities. Now he’s gone. He paid for his and your mistakes with his life.”
She pauses, scanning the faces in front of her, her voice turning icier with each word. “What, no cheers? Not thrilled that the so-called root of your suffering has been removed?”
Her gaze hardens as she continues. “From this moment on, you answer to me, Naci of Jabliu. Your fate is mine to handle, and if you harbor any thoughts of defiance or escape, remember this moment. For as long as I breathe, you will never know defeat.”
Her words, loaded with a biting edge, hang heavy in the air. Naci waits, her eyes challenging, as if daring anyone to break the silence that follows. “I’ll ask one more time, and I expect an answer,” she says, her voice like cold steel, “What about the Moukopl taxes and tributes?”
The same elder woman who had spoken earlier steps forward, her eyes meeting Naci’s without flinching. “Yes, we have been hiding some of our wealth. But that has gone up in flames now—literally. It was grain that we exchanged with the Yohazatz.”
Naci raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “You have ties with the Yohazatz? That’s news.”
The elder woman sighs, “It’s not as big a feat as you may think. Only the Kamoklopr desert separates us, eastward.”
Horohan snorts. “Traveling across that desert is beyond foolish.”
“It is, but there are a handful of merchants who make the journey once in a while,” the elder woman explains. “They know the terrain well and manage to avoid the Moukopl controls. These routes have been long-standing, and they’ve served us well.”
As they talk, a few Haikam warriors huddle together, whispering among themselves. “Do you think it was wise to let Naci take control of the Nipih like this?” one of them murmurs. “She’s a loose cannon.”
Pomogr, overhearing the whispers, interjects, “Loose cannon or not, without her we would be the ones scorched and cursing our fate. This victory is hers. And, in the rules of fair conquest, it’s only fitting she takes the reins. Besides, if she can make these Nipih cough up the truth so easily, just imagine what else she can accomplish.”
The Haikam warriors continue to exchange glances, their doubt growing like a weed in fertile soil. Meanwhile, Naci asks the elder woman her name.
“Selir,” she replies.
“Selir, you are hereby designated as the temporary governor of the Nipih. Make sure to oversee the rebuilding.”
With that settled, Naci turns her attention to Pomogr. “I’m glad the issue with the Nipih has been resolved. I hope I can count on your support should the Jabliu need help against the Alinkar.”
“You have it,” Pomogr says, nodding resolutely.
Naci continues, “Horohan and I must return to Jabliu. We’ve settled matters here, and now we have other responsibilities. I want you to free the prisoners. Help them construct their encampment further from this location.”
Pomogr nods again. “Consider it done. I wish you and Horohan a swift and safe travel.”
“Thank you,” Naci says, her eyes taking a final sweep over the faces of the Nipih. For a moment, her gaze softens, but just for an instant. “You’ve been given a second chance—make the most of it,” she tells them, before she turns to leave.
They both guide their horses back through the Haikam settlement, where a crowd of enamored women gather to bid them farewell.
“We knew you’d pull it off,” one woman exclaims, her eyes shining with admiration.
Naci grins, acknowledging the praise with a casual salute, before nudging Liara to move. Horohan follows suit, and soon enough they find themselves trotting along the trail to Jabliu.
“So, what’s on your mind?” Naci breaks the silence, glancing at Horohan.
“Yesterday’s battle was … incredible. Your tactics were flawless, and the way you brought the Nipih people to their knees—”
Naci interrupts, wearing a teasing smirk. “Sounds like someone fell for my charms.”
Horohan snorts, obviously amused. “As if. But you were a sight to see, especially atop Liara. When did you learn to do that crazy stunt—fighting on horseback like some war goddess?”
“Oh, Liara and I have been practicing that since we were both young,” Naci replies, patting her horse affectionately. “I’m pretty sure you won’t find a better rider in all of Tepr.”
Horohan raises an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”
“You bet it is.”
Within moments, both women are aligned side by side, their horses sensing the competition, muscles taut with anticipation.
“On three?” Horohan suggests.
Naci grins, thrilled by the prospect. “One. Two. Three!”
And they’re off, hooves pounding against the earth, wind whipping their faces as they accelerate down the path. Horohan takes an early lead, but Naci’s experienced riding soon closes the gap. For several heart-pounding moments, they’re neck and neck, each rider urging their horse to find some hidden reserve of speed.
Finally, as they approach a pre-decided finish line marked by a peculiarly shaped tree, Naci leans low over Liara’s mane, whispering words of encouragement. The horse seems to understand, surging forward to cross the line just a half-length ahead of Horohan’s steed.
Naci pulls Liara to a stop, panting but grinning wildly. “Told you I’m the best rider.”
Horohan slows her horse next to Naci, also out of breath but laughing. “Okay, okay, you win this round. But don’t think this settles anything.”
After their exhilarating race, Naci and Horohan continue down the road, arriving at a secluded spot alongside a bubbling river just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Trees line the water, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze as if whispering secrets to one another.
“Perfect place to set up camp,” Naci declares, dismounting and beginning to unload their gear.
“And perfect for a bath, too,” Horohan adds, glancing pointedly at the river. “Especially after that race. I can smell you from here.”
Naci sniffs the air dramatically. “I think you’re mistaking that for the scent of victory.”
In record time, a warm fire is crackling, its glow reflecting off their faces. Naci stretches her arms, satisfied. “Ah, nature’s beauty and us. What more can you ask for?” She says, taking in the idyllic scenery.
Deciding to wash up, they undress and cautiously step into the river, each trying to find a spot that’s not too shallow but not too deep either. The water is cold but invigorating, washing away the grime and tension of the last few days.
“So, how do we do this? Take turns scrubbing each other’s backs?” Horohan asks, suddenly aware of the potentially awkward situation.
They position themselves, each gripping a handful of river-soaked plants to serve as makeshift scrubbers. “Ready. Set. Go!”
What follows is a frenzy of splashing water, laughter, and half-serious accusations of cheating. Finally, they both stand, out of breath yet again but undeniably cleaner.
Naci wakes up to the comforting sound of birds chirping, and the morning light filtering through the trees. She sits up, rubbing her eyes, and realizes Horohan is missing. A pang of concern hits her, but then she spots her, feet dipped in the river, pulling up a surprisingly large fish with an air of satisfaction.
“Wow, and who is going to cook it?” Naci calls out, clapping her hands in drowsy applause.
Horohan grins, swinging the fish toward the shore. “I figured you’d want breakfast in bed.”
Naci chuckles as she stretches and ambles over to Horohan. “Well, aren’t we a modern woman? Fisherman, warrior, and chef.”
Together they gut and grill the fish, the smell wafting through the air, making Naci’s stomach growl in anticipation. They eat in companionable silence, each absorbed in their thoughts but content in each other’s company.
It’s only after they’ve broken camp and started on the trail again that Naci realizes something is off. She reaches up to adjust her hat and pauses. “Hey, this isn’t my hat,” she exclaims, pulling it off to examine it.
Horohan bursts into laughter, her own hat sitting jauntily atop her head. “Oh, you just noticed? I wondered how long it would take.”
Naci shakes her head, chuckling. “You little trickster. Give it back.”
“Nah, I think it suits me,” Horohan retorts, nudging her horse to a trot. “You’ll have to earn it back.”
“Oh, it’s on,” Naci says, grinning as she spurs her horse to catch up.
They’re so engrossed in their playful argument that they don’t notice the plume of smoke rising ominously on the horizon.