Page 86 of The Gilded Ones

Guilt sweeps over me, and I clench my fists to keep them from trembling. Tears pouring from the deathshriek’s eyes… I shudder at the memory.

Beside me, Belcalis glances at Adwapa. “There is such a thing as too much enthusiasm, Adwapa,” she informs her.

Adwapa sniffs, unimpressed. I return my attention to White Hands, who’s now holding her hand up in a fist. “Alaki of the Warthu Bera! Conquer or die!” she commands.

“We who are dead salute you!” we reply, raising a fist and then beating it across our chest.

“Wherever we attack, we will conquer or bury ourselves in its ruins!”

“We who are dead salute you!” we repeat, beating our chests. “We who are dead salute you!”

“Move out!” White Hands commands, leading her horse onward.

We quickly do the same, pouring down the hill and out the gates, where the recruits fall seamlessly into place beside us. They’re riding horses as well, but their jatu commanders ride in small tents on top of gigantic grey-skinned mammuts, or in chariots pulled by orrillions, the massive silver-furred apes growling warningly at each other and any horses that get close.

As we head towards Hemaira’s main square to meet with the rest of the army, the citizens clap and cheer. “May Oyomo protect you, Death Strikers!” a few call out.

I can only shake my head, marvelling at the inconstancy of humans, as we continue riding through the streets.

The journey through the Eastern desert is long and brutal, much more so than I expected. I’m used to going on raids in rough terrain, but the desert is another beast altogether. The emperor has commanded that we make a stand at the N’Oyo mountain range, which borders the far edges of the desert, so for two weeks now, we’ve been slogging through sand, gritting our teeth when it slips through the crevices in our armour to invade our delicate parts. Every day, coucals have been flying back and forth, passing information, not that there’s much of it. We know there are thousands of deathshrieks waiting for us in the mountains, but the scouts can never get close enough to get a full count. The mist is too thick to penetrate.

Before, I never understood how far the capital stretched, but now I can’t help but count the days and hours, tracking the movement of the sun across the sands with heated irritation. It’s not only the apprehension, the fear of venturing out into the unknown. It’s the other soldiers – the common ones.

Even though they’re now fully aware of what we alaki are, as is most everyone in Otera, they’re used to seeing women only in the home. The idea of female soldiers does not sit well with them, and they’ve been treating us accordingly, hurling abusive words at us when the jatu aren’t watching. They’re especially hateful towards the bloodsisters of the Warthu Bera, since we’re the only ones who wear golden armour.

The alaki from the other training houses are armoured and painted fiercely according to their houses, but they’re not like us. Even though they number in the thousands, they’re not as swift, as fierce, and they don’t tolerate pain as well as we do. I’ve been observing them throughout our journey, and it seems the karmokos were right: we the alaki of the Warthu Bera are stronger than the rest, and it is because of our training. While all the other alaki were treated like regular soldiers – given healers when they were injured, rest when they were tired, and food when they were hungry – we were regarded as demons and trained accordingly. We were flayed, beaten, subjected to deathshriek screams. The unfairness of it would sting to my core, except I know that it has made me tougher. That’s why I don’t take too much offence when the foot soldiers grumble about me and my bloodsisters and pick at us. I know we can take them in a fight.

I try to remind myself of this every time I ride Ixa. The common soldiers are even more hateful when they notice him, his reptilian scales gleaming blue against the scorching desert sun. Yes, mammuts are ten times larger and the orrillions perhaps more impressive in their armour, but only Ixa can make horses shy away and zerizards flee when he passes.

Even now, as we near the midway point, an oasis deep in the desert, the animals still dart away. I ignore their panicked neighing and clucking as I hurry towards the lake at the oasis’s centre. Ixa is so thirsty, his tongue is already flicking out.

“It’s all right,” I whisper to him once we reach the water’s edge. “You’re here.”

De…ka, Ixa whispers, diving into the water. He’s been parched these last few days.

I take out my waterskin, about to kneel down to fill it, when a shadow falls over me. “What in the name of Oyomo are you doing, alaki?” an unpleasant voice snarls.

My heart plummets. Baxo, a hefty Northern foot soldier, approaches, a scowl on his weathered face. Like many of the other foot soldiers, Baxo has made it his business to harass the bloodsisters of the Warthu Bera. I ignore him and continue filling my waterskin. No point getting into a confrontation with someone supposed to be on the same side as you.

When I don’t reply, he stomps closer. “Are you stupid, or do you not hear me? What in the name of Oyomo are you doing, alaki?”

I sigh, rising and sealing my waterskin. “Getting some water,” I reply.

“Getting some water?” he growls. “So you think you can bypass the rest of the line just ’cause you have that great beast of yours.”

Now I see the other soldiers gathered behind Baxo. They’re certainly not in any line, but they’re there, and that’s enough for Baxo.

“My apologies,” I reply. I try to exhale away my growing anger. These men are only human. They aren’t jatu, they aren’t trained. I could kill them with less effort than it would take to swat a fly.

“Why? You’ve already gotten all the water you need.” Baxo points to my waterskin. “You don’t need to get back in line. What you need to do is get back on that great beast of yours and go to where the rest of your kind are.”

He points to the far side of the lake, where the other alaki have gathered by themselves. Or, rather, where they’ve been herded to. The foot soldiers have all crowded around the lake and made sure to push all the alaki to the muddiest side.

“What are you waiting for?” Baxo snarls. “Go on.”

He points again, but a low growl sounds. Ixa is out of the water and slowly advancing, teeth on full display. Each one gleams, butcher-knife sharp.

Baxo quickly takes a step back, his face turning chalky white.

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