Viyeki stared at this savior that had arrived seemingly from nowhere, like a hero out of the oldest tales of the Garden. He knew of General Suno’ku, of course—most Hikeda’ya did. She might be no higher in the Order of Sacrifice than Viyeki was among the Builders—a subordinate of the ordinal leader—but because of her family blood she moved in much higher circles than Viyeki could ever dream of joining.
As he watched her, fascinated, Suno’ku turned to one of her lieutenants. “See to the wounded. Make them well enough that they can ride.”
“What about those who are too badly injured?” the Sacrifice asked.
She only stared at him, her expression flat as a frozen pond, then turned back to Yaarike. “How many are you here?”
“Perhaps two hundred left, more than half of them Builders,” the High Magister said. “We also have the Celebrants you see with the general’s body, half a dozen Singers under Tzayin-Kha, and a few Echoes. The rest are Sacrifices and now fall under your command.”
“But you stand over us all, High Magister,” the general said. “I would not flout the Queen’s sacred ranks.” Which was only barely true, Viyeki knew. Suno’ku was of the Iyora, the Owl Clan, in the male line of the legendary Ekimeniso himself, Queen Utuk’ku’s long-dead husband. The Iyora were all but co-equal with the queen’s own Hamakha clan, and both of them were as far above even Yaarike’s noble family as the uppermost peak of the great mountain stood above the squares and public markets of the Nakkiga floor. Among the noblest clans, family blood always outweighed the hierarchy of the orders, even the most powerful, like Sacrifice and Song.
Viyeki’s thoughts and Suno’ku’s quiet conversation with Yaarike were both interrupted by the arrival of League Commander Hayyano and a troop of his warriors leading three mortal prisoners, all with their arms bound behind them. The largest of the captives, a young, muscular, yellow-bearded Northman, was bellowing in his crude tongue. Like most Builders, Viyeki did not speak a word of any mortal language, and he thought the hairy one sounded more like a bear than any thinking creature.
Suno’ku’s lips twisted a little at one edge. “How I hate the sound of their barbaric yapping. Magister Yaarike, may I kill them all so we can have some quiet?”
Yaarike shook his head. “No, General, not yet. Hayyano brought them at my request. Will you question them about their numbers? I do not have the skill to do it myself.”
Viyeki could not help wondering at this, since his scholarly master spoke the mortals’ common tongue better than almost anyone in Nakkiga. He assumed Yaarike was testing the Sacrifice general in some way.
Suno’ku repeated Yaarike’s questions in the mortal’s own speech, then shared the answers. “He says that he is Floki, son of the great thane Brindur Golden-Hair,” she explained. “He says that if some of his men had not turned coward and fled, he would already have taken all our heads by now and the fighting would be over.” But the prisoner would not tell them anything else, not the numbers of the Northmen waiting outside nor any other useful information.
When she had tried several times and could get nothing further from the red-faced mortal or his brutish companions, the general unsheathed her sword, a slender span of silvery witchwood that seemed almost too long for her. The mortals could not look away from it, their eyes so wide the whites showed all around. “I suggest it is time to use more direct methods, Magister,” Suno’ku said. “I scarcely blooded Cold Root today, and it still yearns to drink mortal ichor.” She then produced her poniard, long and wickedly sharp, and held both blades before the Northmen. “Or if my lord Yaarike wants the conversation to pass more slowly, I can use Cold Leaf, which will remove smaller pieces.” She leaned close until she was only a hands-breadth from the prisoners’ faces. “Either way, I will make the enjoyment last as long as I can.”
The mortal who called himself Floki began bellowing again, but this time there was a tone of terror in his voice that had not been there before.
“Your famous weapons will not teach them what they do not know, General,” said Yaarike in a tone of regret. “I fear we have learned all we can from these.”
Suno’ku kicked out, knocking the one called Floki to the stone floor. Viyeki heard what sounded like the mortal’s shin breaking. The bearded soldier clutched his leg, rolling back and forth, gasping in pain.
“Whether they had told us more or not,” Suno’ku said, sheathing her weapons once more, “it would not have changed the nature of our problem. You have two hundred here, Magister. I have scarcely twice those numbers myself. I mustered every last able Sacrifice in Nakkiga and could find and mount less than four hundred to bring with me. But it matters not. What we must do now is prepare to escape.”
“Escape?” Yaarike was clearly surprised, something Viyeki had seldom seen. “How? The tunnels below us lead nowhere.”
She shook her head. “Tunnels? No. We shall ride from here—smash our way free if we have to. I did not come so far and so fast to die here in an obscure border fort. I have a more important task.”
Yaarike nodded. “You came for Marshal Ekisuno’s body, of course. Your foreparent—your ancestor.”
Suno’ku showed him a harsh smile. “No, High Magister. I came for you and your Builders. Because without you, Nakkiga will be overthrown by the mortals. Your clan, my clan, they will all be slaughtered in dark holes, like rabbits.”
Unsure of what was happening, the yellow-bearded mortal began to shout again, bellowing threats. Suno’ku gave a sign and one of her Sacrifices drew his sword and struck him hard on the head with the pommel. He did not make another sound, but lay on the floor twitching and drizzling blood from his scalp.
“I will kill that one myself in a moment and enjoy it like a good meal,” Suno’ku said. “But our time is short, so first we must make our plans.”
As the general conferred with Magister Yaarike and the plainly overwhelmed Hayyano, who could only gaze at Suno’ku in awe, Viyeki watched with an interest that almost made him forget their terrible situation. He had never seen Suno’ku before, but of course he knew of her. The general was famous for her bravery, and although a few other female officers held equally high rank in the Order of Sacrifice, none of those commanded either the loyalty or the fascination that the ordinary Sacrifices felt for Suno’ku.
The general had weirdly light eyes, so pale and gray-shot that they seemed like twilight skies compared to the purplish midnight of most Hikeda’ya. She was tall for her sex, but not unusually so—both Yaarike and Hayyano were taller—and her movements were swift and almost impossibly graceful. She was like a bright flame, Viyeki thought, drawing the eye each time she moved.
“But only a few of the mortals were destroyed during your arrival,” Hayyano said. “They vastly outnumber us still. Surely we should wait and let them wear themselves down. They are far from home and their supply lines are vulnerable.”
“And what if there are more of them coming, Commander?” asked Suno’ku. Hayyano blinked; he might as well have flinched. “While we are pinned here in the wreckage of Tangleroot Castle, the outer walls of Nakkiga are in ruins and the mountain gate in the City Walls at Three Ravens is all but undefended. Did you not see that great ram of black iron the mortals have brought? Where do you think that is to be used? Not on these old, decrepit stones. That is for knocking on the very door of our home. They will be breaking into the queen’s own chamber before the summer months have ended, may the Garden preserve her always.” She shook her head. “No. We must break out of this ring now and make our way north as quickly as we can. High Magister Yaarike, do you agree?”
He looked at her for a moment. “Yes. If it must be so, then let it be sooner rather than later.”