‘Of what?’ I crouch in front of her, but she looks past me.
‘They dragged him away during the last raid.’ The implication of it squeezes my chest. Before I can rise, she grips my collar. ‘Do you understand how it feels to go through the pain of labour, to have fought death to hold him in my arms, and then to lose him? They took him –he was pure– and they took him. I’ve seen what happens to the ones taken; they will teach him to forget me.’
‘I do understand,’ I whisper; I have nothing more to offer her.
‘Return him, then,’ she cries. ‘These are your wars, not mine.’
It’s sickeningly familiar. Is it easier to govern a people by enslaving their minds? It is easy, then, to create an army entrenched in your virtues before setting them free to encroach upon their mothers’ lands.
The love of violence has nothing to do with it. This is an empire creating weapons to punish people resisting them.
Adel orders a squadron to remain back with the survivors in our encampment. We collect animal bones to leave offerings for the amiable jinn, and say a quick prayer for the dead.
I ready myself as Adel instructs the rest of the squadrons to form a wide-flung position, concentrating our smaller numbers for quick manoeuvring. Khor’s central settlement’s quarters are arranged ina large oval, cramped between gated entrances, with a three-tiered imperial ziggurat to the west. He decides on a two-pronged barrage: Squadron Two will cover the northern gates beside the Tezmi’a tributaries. Squadrons One and Four will squeeze the Azadnians from the south into the north, where Squadron Two will intercept the enemy from uphill, archers dropping them into the streams below. Squadrons Three and Five are to recover villagers.
We hike up the alluvial path. Dissonant shouts ride the valley breeze between the rocky arches of the Black Mountains. The city itself is a living, wailing creature.
‘Is that a chant?’ Cemil asks, face hard.
Adel readies a paper kite between his fingers and pauses. ‘A prayer.’ As if he recognises it. ‘You will see soon enough. Your region may not be what you remember. From reports, the Azadnians have besieged every fortress, stripping Khor clean, taking any artisans, siege engineers, healers, farmers, merchants and youth, while using the rest as meat shields in the citadel so we don’t fire arrows.’
The squadrons begin rubbing ash and attar into bond points.
We hike down the final trail, in view of the city gates. Clay-rammed houses nestle within the emerald land, some burnt and crumbling in the aftermath of the siege. Smoke billows through dirt roads into a bazaar. The pink-rimmed sky is congested, carrying a miasma of blood.
From our height, we get a full view. Some villagers tend to cattle while others carry out rations for the occupying troops, but the youngest are forced to stand in line around the courtyard of a bone-stone monastery with tarnished raven carvings. Guards stand with long spears, and one by one, each youth pushes up their tunic to their chest or holds out their tongue. Worse is when some are ordered to shut their eyes for the spear to poke against the eyelid, drawing up blood. The three spots of the mortal soul. They line up before a wide clay bowl, letting blood drip into it, chanting in flat tones:I beseech my soul to the emperor of the Heavenly Crane.
With it, my bonds quiver weakly.
One Khorinite boy will not cede his blood, hands curled into fists. The spear hilt swings and cracks against his back. Still he stands, so the soldier swings again, aiming at his hands, shattering the bones.
Red sears my vision. ‘They use them for Mitra?’
Adel studies me carefully. ‘Who knows, underling? They could be punished for dissent, violated, recruited into troops or used for Mitrarituals.’ Adel faces the troops, voice eerily calm. ‘Watch carefully what they force upon our brethren. To them, Sajamistani tribes are not human, but things to be sacrificed. If the enemy desires sacrifice, we will make an example of them.’
Squadron Two begins the engagement, attacking Azadnian guards at the main citadel fortress beside the Tezmi’a River, while Squadron Three forms a camp to collect survivors. My squadron flocks to the dikes on the west, our offensive focused on clearing the quarters around the smaller citadel, to reach Khor’s imperial ziggurat.
Tall copper gates fence off the western entrance, with guards atop bone-stone turrets on this section of the citadel. At our approach, ground-level guards appear. In a blink, my two khanjars erupt with nur before I flick them through the chests of three of the soldiers like needles bobbing through fabric. Yabghu is approaching another at the other side of the entrance; his Smokeless-Fire affinity rends the air in flashes of undetectable heat energy before guards can shout for reinforcements. The dead bodies’ features are no older than mine, and if they are young, they must be new recruits.
‘Clear out the citadel,’ Yabghu orders my trifecta.
I back away as our squadron pours through the gates and follow Cemil and Katayoun inside the fortress. Strangely, the first limestone staircase plunges into chambers seamed underground toward the ziggurat. By the time I find Cemil in the first corridor, he is crouching near a naked boy who is curled in a corner in a poisoned daze. Worse than the image of him is the blankness in his eyes, which do not register relief at the sight of us.
The boy does not speak, clenching the sable cloak Cemil handed him. His chest is lined in black whorls of soot, marring the flesh.
Cemil turns to me, voice barely a whisper. ‘I will take him.’
‘Wait.’ I piece things together. ‘There are more of him because,’ I glance again at the boy and his eyes have darkened considerably, ‘this is bait—’
The boy lunges. I throw my palm out, a rope of nur snaring him before he could wrap his hands around Cemil’s neck.
‘He’s possessed!’ I cry. The boy snarls, and his mouth froths, a jumble of moans spilling out. Behind us, Katayoun cries out from the barracks as I slam the boy’s arms down. He bucks in strength unnatural from the myriad of jinn possessing him.
‘Use your olive oil; it isn’t too late for him,’ I say quickly.
Cemil reaches into his satchel, finding attar and olive oil. We quickly slather it around the boy’s neck before Cemil uses the side of his hand to saw against his skin. It’s a technique to spiritually behead the jinn’s soul. Eventually, the boy’s eyes roll back, and he shudders, arms flapping up and down as the jinn escapes, likely, through his fingers. He stills, unconscious but alive.
We rush down the corridor to help Katayoun. We find three more villagers intentionally placed to bait our squadron. Their tongues are bruising blue, eyes bleary, skin slick with a sheen of sweat – unaware of what had been done to them. I see that Mitra has not been seeded within, only the bond of jinn-poisons.
