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Thirty-Three Tales of War: II
Dec. 14th, 2018 05:48 pmONE-HUNDRED and twelve years the homestead had stood, an isolated dwelling east of Mavska where the pines were sparse and the mountains steep. His great-grandmother settled this plot of land, back then just a patch of wild turnips, and established herself a respectable farm. Oh, the farmer could see it in his mind’s eye: a broad field lush with oats and cabbage, turnips, beets, a sheepfold and pen for the goats, a cow for milking and hens for eggs. Three buildings, there were. A storehouse, a second for sleeping, and a third for the animals when winter arrived.
But now, in real life, the farmer stood quietly in the middle of his yard thinking violent thoughts as an Ochetski war party beheaded his chickens, slaughtered his cow, and cast their bedrolls out wherever they pleased as if they were invited to be here.
Heathens. Savages. Primitive know-nothings hired by the Yellow Queen to fight in her war. He scowled at their chief, a young woman with muscles bigger than his, as she pulled her shashka through the neck of an unusually fertile goat. His uncle had given it to him when he came of age.
Two warriors appeared from the house with two chairs each. The farmer looked back at their chief. She—who had no shortage of piercings in her bony face—wiped her blade clean of blood, paying him no mind. There would be no consequences for this. There never were. The Upperbirths got to keep their walled cities, and the lowbirths stayed safe inside their homes. But those beyond the walls? Nobody gave a damn about them.
The Yellow Queen didn’t scare him. The war didn’t scare him. By the gods, he hadn’t even known there was a war until recently. The Northern army didn’t scare him, either; they tended to leave poor farmers charged with maintaining the family farm to their own devices. But, for some infuriating reason, this girl, this wild beast with her sharp sword and her strong arms frightened him to the roots of his soul. It didn’t matter they were on the same side. It didn’t matter she had no reason to trouble him. He scowled.
A distant thought crossed his mind. Last he spoke to his mother, she mentioned a caravan of Ochetski traders who stopped at the homestead to trade before heading to Mavska. Apparently, there were many skilled metal-weavers amongst their ranks. A flirtatious caravanner had presented her his own amulet as a parting gift one night. The emeralds alone kept them fat over winter. Maybe…
He glanced around. Everyone seemed too busy rifling through his belongings to notice him. He shuffled into his home.
The chief had, of course, taken the bed. He peered underneath the frame. Nothing but cobwebs and dust. He felt the seams for metal or string. Empty. With a grunt, he upended the mattress.
“Aha.” There. The war chief’s very own amulet. A simple ring of iron divided like eight wheel spokes with a knotted hemp cord. She had woven a few beads into the middle. One looked valuable, what with the streaks of gold…
The door snapped open. The farmer jumped, stuffing the necklace in his vest. No sooner did he withdraw his fingertips than did the chief step inside. She dropped her cloak on the floor and began to uncoil her bun. The tail end nearly fell to her waist. He gulped. If Ochetski heathens were anything at all like those from the north, long hair meant status and power. When she noticed him she startled, then started toward him. Each thud of her heel on the dirt floor sent a jolt of fear through his chest.
She held within stabbing distance, scanning him head to toe. Before he could duck, she grabbed his chin in her hand and pulled their faces close. Pain reflected in her violet eyes.
“Do—do you need something?” the farmer stuttered.
She released him and shifted away. For a moment, he hoped she meant to leave.
“You look like my brother,” she answered.
“And? Who’s he?”
“Dead.”
“Oh.” He crossed his arms. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“We‘ve failed many great warriors in this fight. I’ve failed them. Eight. Strong mothers, hardy sons. You northerners suffer no such loss.”
He chortled. “You’re in Zoldoni Chovrekozh. Property of the Red Queen. I’m no northerner.”
“So your loyalties lie west in the Yellow Queen’s war?”
“Anywhere but with that northern caste-whore in Sarona.”
“Tell me. You are a farmer. Is it so?”
“Yeah.”
“And we’re in Zoldoni Chovrekozh?”
“Didn’t I—”
“And are farmers in Zoldoni Chovrekozh usually thieves?”
His stomach lurched. “Thieves? What—” He paled. The necklace cord protruded from his pocket. Shaking, he extended it to her. “I—I was—you left out on the table, I just—I thought I’d have a peek, but—”
She raised her fist. He yelped, covering his head with his arms, as she rested her hand gently on his shoulder.
“My brother. He was a thief, too. That is why he died.”
The farmer trembled. Scenes of torture and death flashed before his eyes. Did Ochetski savages believe in mercy? Did they have any kindness in their hearts?
She sighed. “You know? Keep it. Consider it payment for food and beds. I’m sure your ghosts haunt you more than mine.” At the door, she hesitated. Just as he expected her to come charging back and throttle him, she shook her head and left.
