Page 50 of Humans Don’t Have Horns (A Crown of Blood and Magic #1)

Minera. She used to say it’s Niska’s Aldonian blood that makes her so disrespectful and wild.

But that’s bullshit. Everything she lacks is due to my deficient parenting.

I’ve rarely been around, drawn to the killing again and again.

And what did I know about parenting a child in the first place?

But what other choice was there? If I hadn’t adopted her as my own when her mother left, before her horns even came out, she wouldn’t have lived long enough to see them emerge.

I love my people, but sometimes their pain overshadows their honor.

I walk in Lian’s direction. I swear I can feel her before I see her.

She’s like a star beckoning me. Wherever she goes, I’ll be able to feel her pull.

She wears a Mongan uniform, and my heart skips a beat because that sight never loses its effect on me.

Her white hair is braided in her usual coronet.

And damn if she doesn’t look like a queen worth bowing before.

White eyes with bands of silver ringing them look up at me, and all I want to do is lose myself to that snowy allure.

She nibbles her lip in that nervous habit of hers, and my blood simmers in my veins as my eyes wander to her lips.

I hand her my axes, and she only looks at me with questioning eyes but says nothing as she takes them.

“Every woman needs a good ax,” I simper at her.

They are my favorite axes. The hilts are smooth from use.

Changing weapons before the greatest battle of my life isn’t smart.

But I want her safe. It’s superstition, I know, but I can’t help wishing they will bring her luck in battle.

I taught her enough to defend herself, and now she has my axes. I need her safe while I fight.

I want to kiss her right here and claim her as mine in front of everyone to see.

But she wouldn’t like that. She needs to be the one deciding the path.

I learned that about her a while ago. And if I push my desire and possessiveness aside, I know letting her dictate the path is for the best. So I turn my back to her before she has a chance to say anything and walk toward my oracle for the protector ritual.

Emek is already sharpening her knife in preparation.

Anavel, Hama, and the rest of the servants of the Goddess are staging the crowd at her side, ordering them to kneel.

I don’t even remember the first time I participated in a protector ritual as a contributor.

I was only a baby at the time. There was no other ritual we practiced that ever made me feel so elevated—that is, until I started practicing it as a receiver.

The rush of power that the ritual granted me as a receiver was so great that I sometimes wondered if I’d ever pushed for raids just for the thrill of the blood.

As much as my mind is set on retiring from the warlord position, the mere thought of not drinking the blood again makes me feel painfully hollow.

I push the idea from my mind and look at the Shavirs in the area.

Aldon’s brigade is already at the southern point of the canyon. Their pristine white uniforms shine in the early-morning light. It always made no sense to me. War is a dirty thing. But I guess it is yet to be seen how dirty they’re willing to make their uniforms.

At the eastern point of the canyon, Renyans and Kozaries are working on final adjustments to the irrigation system.

They have made an impressive three massive pipelines reaching all the way to the River of Tears.

Each of those pipelines diverges into three pipes, and together all nine of them create a crescent-shaped irrigation system.

Hopefully, the demichads will flee from the salt water pouring out of the pipes and in our direction on the west side of the canyon.

Behind us, Renyan healers are busy with the final preparations of an infirmary.

I never thought I’d live to see the day those haughty heathens agreed to heal us.

The idea of any of my warriors being actually healed by Renyans still twists my stomach though.

They are the most honorless of all the Shavirs.

Their souls are tinted with dark magic. But Lian showed me that Renyans also have good magic.

I can only hope the stars will protect anyone in need of the Shavirs’ aid.

Once the protector ritual starts, the heathens will be horrified and roll their self-righteous eyes at it.

They have never witnessed our rituals, and by allowing them to see them, we’re taking a great risk.

They might understand where our true power lies.

But the only thing worth trusting Shavirs with is their vanity.

They think of us as nothing more than animals.

In the ritual, all they will see is the brutality of shedding blood from old and young.

They will only see savagery in the warriors who drink it.

It doesn’t matter that those warriors will protect them as well.

They will never see beyond that. They will never notice the power, the magic.

Once, we didn’t need such rituals. But that was a long time ago in a different land.

As I approach Emek, she shifts her eyes from me to Lian.

“So you’re finally forgiven. We could hear the forgiveness being granted all the way to our circle.

” She snickers. And they say Niska is jeering.

I give her a murderous look because she never minds her own fucking business, but she only laughs in response. Not surprising.

A group of Mongans with musical instruments start to play a happy tune. Even for this, the behemas are our primary resource, their intestines turned to strings to strum on, their skins to sheets to drum on. Emek chants prayers, and the crowd starts to sing prayers of mercy to the Goddess.

The crowd sits in long lines, and the first Mongan in every line kneels in front of Emek and the Goddess servants.

Niska stands behind me, Bahar behind her, and the other warriors line up behind us, waiting for their offering.

I can hear the Renyans starting to flood the canyon with salt water from the east.

The Mongans in the first row raise their right arms, and our oracle and her helpers cut them with their knives with deft, swift movements.

They spill the pouring blood into brass goblets and continue this way as the contributors get up and move to the end of the line and new contributors take their spots.

These contributors have children with them, and as Emek and the others nick the children’s arms and they cry out, I can’t help but search for Lian in the crowd.

I can see her eyes widen in horror as she watches the children bleed.

They are minor cuts, and being Mongans means they’ll heal quickly.

But how can a Shavir understand such a thing?

My mind never forgets she’s a Shavir, but my heart sometimes does.

And when it is reminded of it, it hurts like a part of it was just ripped out.

Because while I know there will be no other woman for me but her, I’m not delusional.

I fully grasp the cost of loving a Shavir.

To love a woman who many of my people will never accept as their own.

And while my position is such that no one will ever dare to disrespect her, not to belong to your clan is a harsh fate.

I’ve seen how they treated Niska, even after I gave her my name, after she killed more Shavirs than anyone but me. The men adore her, but she hasn’t received even one proposal for marriage. They are too terrified of the idea that their children will bear her colors.

But that isn’t even the worst of it. I am doomed to witness Lian getting old so much faster than me, a woman who can die from the smallest of injuries. The mere thought is terrifying. But these are foolish thoughts. I don’t even know if I will live to see tomorrow.

Lian’s eyes find mine, and I hold her stare. I can see some of the stress leave her body, although her expression is grim. She nods slightly as if accepting what her eyes just witnessed as something she can’t understand, yet she is humble enough not to judge it.

Emek finishes enchanting the first goblet and hands it to me.

I hold it with both my hands and drink the sacred blood of my people.

I feel their power and magic filling my veins, and the cry of the battle leaves my lips as I finish the drink.

My warriors cry out as an echo, and the line advances quickly so they can take their turns drinking.

As the ritual comes to a close, the warriors gather and look at me expectantly.

I can see Niska’s division to my right and Bahar’s to my left.

Each division has three platoons. Nine platoons for nine pipes.

In each division, there are a thousand warriors.

Never have so many Mongans fought at once.

I spared no one. These are all the warriors we could have gathered.

The ones who ceased fighting a few years ago due to age were called, and so were the ones who have yet to make their first kill.

We win this, or we all die. There is no holding back.

Not when the children can’t be protected from the demichads in any other way.

I hate giving speeches, but it’s part of the job.

I step in front of the warriors so they can see me.

“In front of the greatest foe, in front of the greatest abomination, we need not fear. We do not walk alone to meet our enemy. Look to your side and see your fellow warriors. Look above you, and see the spirits of your ancestors guide you. Look within you and feel the blood of your people. With such aid, we go to war. With such aid, we look death in the eyes, and she staggers in fear!”

The warriors cry out in response. To an outsider, it might sound like a cacophony, but to us, it’s music.