Page 19 of The Witch who Trades with Death

Chapter Nineteen

Heimili went to wake both Khana and Haz before dawn, but she was already awake. Plagued by nightmares about undead creatures and Yamueto’s hands.

This was a mistake, she thought, picking at the breakfast Heimili made for them. She didn’t understand how Haz could wolf his down; it tasted like ash. “What happens if someone deserts?” she asked, quietly enough that only Haz heard.

“It depends. Sometimes it’s tundra banishment for a week or a fortnight. But sometimes they just execute you,” he said. “Abandoning your comrades puts everyone at risk.”

She gulped, stomach churning around what little she’d managed to eat.

Amati trudged into the dining room, carrying a shield, spear, and heavy-looking bundle in a blanket. It was very odd seeing such a frail woman carrying weapons of war, but she held them with confidence.

“I think the spear and shield are big enough for Haz,” she grunted, dropping the blanketed bundle. “But the armor is definitely not.”

She handed Haz the spear. It eclipsed him in height by at least an arm’s length. He whistled, testing the edge. “Did you sharpen this last night?”

“No, I’m sending you to war with dull weapons,” she said, rolling her eyes. She unwrapped the bundle, passing him a handaxe and sheathed knife. “You get the shield and weapons. It’s best if they stay in the family. Khana, take this and try it on.”

She pressed a folded piece of clothing in Khana’s hands. She swallowed, her throat dry, and went up to her room.

When Khana heard the word “armor,” she thought of the Reguallian suits of metal and leather carefully folded on top of each other, or the ancient bone armor preserved in one of Princess Sita’s library books. She did not think of cloth, but that’s what Ghuran armor was, at least for foot soldiers. Multiple layers of linen, pelt, and wool had been sewn to form a tough hide, which Khana had no doubt would keep her warm, though she worried about its ability to protect her from spears and claws.

The armor wrapped around her arms, chest, and stopped at her shins; it was supposed to go only to the knees. It came with underclothes, too: a long shirt and trousers. The belt cinched in at her waist and would probably be used to hold weapons. Bulky leather gloves went on last. Everything fit well enough, but still felt wrong. Like she was a cheap actor about to put on a laughable performance.

She went back downstairs to find Haz hiding behind his new shield as Amati threw seat cushions at him. “Your baba spent far too long cleaning the dishes this morning! All the debris was hard and crusty.”

“Sorry, sorry!” he laughed. “I surrender! Baba, I swear, I just forgot.”

“I’m aware,” Heimili grumbled, but he couldn’t quite hide his amusement. He looked up, spotting Khana first. “Well, gods damn. You look like a soldier.”

I look like a child playing dress-up, Khana thought, but didn’t say.

Amati pinched the armor, testing how it fit. With a satisfied nod, she handed Khana one last piece: her helmet. The metal was dulled with age, but she trusted it to protect her a lot more than cloth. The inside was covered in leather, not that that made it particularly comfortable when she put it on.

Haz rapped his knuckles on the helmet. “Great! Now we just need to get me some armor, so I don’t die.”

“You’re not going to die,” Khana grumbled, adjusting the helmet from where it’d tilted at Haz’s touch. “That’s half the reason I’m doing this.”

The line to town hall was almost as long as last time. Despite the cold pre-dawn air, Khana was completely warm, almost cozy, in her armor and cloak. She took the helmet off, tucking it under her arm. It made her feel a little less ridiculous.

Almost everyone around her had a similar conundrum as she and Haz. She saw several spears, but their owners were missing helmets or armor or shields. Some shields needed a spear. Some people were in full armor, but still needed directions.

“Move,” someone ordered, roughly pushing her aside. Khana stumbled to her knees and dropped her helmet.

“Hey,” Haz barked. His eyes widened. “Sipah? That you?”

Khana pushed herself to her feet with her helmet, brushing the snow from her legs. The burly, bearded guard from the Pinnsviri household was indeed there, crossing his arms as he waited impatiently for the line to move forward.

“Why, good morning, my dear friend Hasyamin,” Haz said, lowering his voice to sound like Sipah. “Would you mind terribly if I join you in line? I’m in a great hurry and it would mean so much if I–”

“Shut your mouth,” Sipah ordered. “I don’t have time for you militia brats.”

“You’re militia, too, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m a Pinnsviri guard, employed directly by an Old Family. They loan us out to the chief in units so we can fight with the other full-time soldiers, separate from you goat farmers. But the town still makes us get supplies with the rest of the rabble.”

“Gods, it’s almost like we’re all soldiers in this mess together,” Haz taunted.

Sipah pushed him back with a single hand. “First rule of the military: just because you carry a spear doesn’t make you a soldier. You’re still a nobody.” He gave Khana a side-eyed glare. “Or a filthy soul-sucker.”

She shrank back, wishing her armor would swallow her.

Haz whistled. “Bhayana always said you were a jackass before your morning tea. I see she underplayed it.”

Sipah rounded on him. “What did you call me?”

Haz did not back down. “I merely repeated what your master’s granddaughter told me.”

The guard smirked, brown beard twisting with the movement. “Tell me: when you showed such disrespect, did she slap you, punch you, or go for your non-existent balls?”

The two glared at each other. Khana and everyone else stayed back, wondering who would throw the first punch.

“The line’s moving!” someone shouted behind them. “Get out of the way if you’re going to fight.”

“Haz, let’s go,” Khana whispered, pulling him into town hall. “Can you try to avoid getting hurt until we’re in an actual battle?” she hissed, once Sipah was safely behind them.

“When he stops being a jackass.”

“I’m serious, Haz.”

“So am I,” he said.

Beneath the main hall was the armory. Tired-looking soldiers – those full-timers Sipah mentioned, perhaps – helped fetch weapons and told people where to go. “Where do they get all of this?” Khana asked, gaping at the rows of spears and shields. Most were made of bone, but at least a quarter of them were wood. She hadn’t seen this much wood in Pahuuda ever. Not even in the Pinnsviri house.

“If a soldier outgrows their armor, or dies without heirs, it ends up here,” Haz said. “But most of it is made by workers. Not everyone can make a good suit of armor or a spear that won’t break the first time you use it. The ones who are good at it are hired by the chief. She even buys wood from the rest of the kingdom – and Tlaphar, once upon a time – because it’s easier than metal.”

“How much will it cost us?”

“Nothing. They’re technically free, paid for with those good ol’ taxes.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“Bhayana told me.” He grimaced. “Gods, every time I say her name, I feel I need to wash my mouth and ears out with soap.”

The soldiers found some armor for Haz and weapons for Khana. The shield was multiple layers of animal pelts and hard leather, surprisingly heavy, and big enough to cover most of her body. They gave her the shortest spear they could find, which was still two heads taller than her, as well as a knife and axe that both went on her belt. All of it felt too heavy, bulky, and unreal.

“Try to look a little less terrified, girl,” the soldier grumbled, helping her slip the axe into her belt.

“We’ll have more luck with that if you can tell us where to go,” Haz cheered. He actually managed to look confident and almost dashing in his armor, as if he was wearing any other outfit.

When they handed over their enlistment forms, the soldier checked them against a slate slab covered in numbers and glyphs Khana couldn’t read. He said, “Well, you’re both in the same squad: the Red Frogs Nine.” He made a face at that. “What’s a frog?”

“It’s like a lizard, from the Reguallian jungles,” Khana explained. “It hops.”

“That strikes fear in the heart,” Haz snorted. “Why are they giving us names like that?”

“The color is the battalion, the animal is the company, and the number is the unit,” the veteran explained. “Most companies only have seven units, but we’ve got so many recruits that some have as many as eleven. Most Reguallians are in Red and Orange Battalions, so that’s where all the weird names are. You’ll find your unit on the field. They’ll have a banner. Now get going.”

Finding their unit turned out to be more difficult than anticipated, as half the town was doing the exact same thing. They made a sea of gray and black on the tundra, trying to gather under bright-colored fabrics clinging to bone poles.

“Who do you think our serji will be?” Khana asked, straining her eyes against the ocean of banners.

“Hopefully not a rotten bastard,” Haz said. “We should probably go toward the red flags.”

The soldier had spoken true: all the dozens of flags were divided into seven colors. A closer look revealed that they each had an animal sewn on in a contrasting color under a number. Despite being able to speak Ghura, Khana couldn’t read it, though she quickly picked up the symbols used for numbers as Haz counted them for her.

They walked past red panthers, monkeys, and snakes before finding the frogs. Or at least, blobs that looked vaguely like the silhouette of a frog. The anatomy was warped: the back legs too long, the front ones too small. But at least it was recognizable, and there was a symbol for nine under it.

“This should be it,” he said.

Most of the squad was already there, and Khana blinked at a familiar face. “Xopil!”

The tall man’s wide face brightened. “Mistress Khana! Good to see you here.”

“I haven’t seen you since you got stabbed. How are your injuries?”

“Healed. My wife took good care of me.” He hesitated, then bowed his head so far he bent in half. “I need to apologize. I should have thanked you properly for saving my life, long before this.”

Khana squirmed, uncomfortable in the face of so much unwarranted gratitude and regret. Especially in public. “It’s… it’s all right. It may have been best to avoid me, given how bad my reputation is.”

“That’s what my wife said,” he replied, straightening. “She didn’t want me attacked again, and I thought I’d lose what little respect I had by being with the witch. But I was stabbed; I already had none. I was just afraid.” He brightened. “But, now you’re in our unit!”

“Hurray,” said a new face in a deadpan voice. He was older than Khana by at least a decade, his face scarred by an old pox sickness. He leaned against his spear and didn’t hold his shield, letting it rest against his leg instead.

There were two other new faces. One was a wiry old woman who had grown her hair out to her waist and wrangled it into a single braid. The ends were so old they were still black while the top of her head was gray. The sixth person was the youngest of the unit, if not the field: a lanky teen with a big nose and yellow wool cap who looked just as awkward in his armor and shield as Khana did.

Everyone under the flag had undeniable Reguallian blood – or possibly Tlapharian; she couldn’t quite tell at a glance. She wondered how many of them had been born in Pahuuda; they were all speaking fluent Reguallian.

“I count six. Who’s the seventh?” Haz asked.

“Our serji,” Xopil said. “I don’t know who it is, yet.”

“Who cares? They all treat you like shit, especially in training,” said the one with pox scars.

“Only if you’re rude, Itehua.”

“Or try to start an illegal drug trade,” grumbled the older woman.

Itehua scoffed. “I performed a valuable service that the chief refuses to acknowledge. Which is a shame for her, because it’s a gold mine.”

Xopil nudged Khana’s shoulder and pointed to the old woman. “That’s Lueti. The young one is Yxe.”

“I’m Haz.”

“Khana.”

“We know,” Itehua sneered. “The witch. Just our luck.”

“Nine is an unlucky number,” Lueti mused.

They might be onto something there. So far, Khana counted a criminal, an old woman, a boy, and herself. That didn’t make for a particularly fearsome unit, even with Xopil. Looking at the other units around them, they had a lot more grown men and muscled women. What were the chances that all the bad apples ended up in the same group?

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m only with you for training,” Khana said. “I’m joining the medics after this.”

“How do you plan to get the life force necessary to heal others if you’re not in the front with access to the enemy?” Yxe asked.

Khana hadn’t considered that. In her mind, animal sacrifices were always an option. But if they were fighting in or beyond the mountains, it wouldn’t be practical. Not to mention she’d burn through the entire town’s food supply after the first battle. She would have to sacrifice more memories, more of herself, to secure the aji.

“I… don’t know,” she stammered. “I suppose the commanders will have to figure that out.”

“We’ll make a strategy for that later.”

Khana jumped at the new voice. She hadn’t heard her approach. But as soon as she saw the face, she calmed. “Mist – er , Serji Neta!”

Neta was just as large and intimidating as she’d been in the trial, with the same snowy leopard cloak on her shoulders. She had the same shield, spear, axe, and knife as they did, but had an additional one on her belt, almost long enough to be a sword.

“Oh, thank the gods , someone with a spoonful of sense!” Haz cried.

Xopil saluted with a fist over his chest. “Serji.”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to be in charge of us?” Itehua demanded. Khana winced at his tone.

Neta raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“You’ve got a leopard cloak. You’re a Cituva, aren’t you? What’s an Old Family bitch doing here?”

“I’m a bastard, as I’m sure you know,” she said. “And you are going to follow my orders without question.”

“Yeah?” He stepped up to her, letting his shield fall to the ground. “Or what, bastard bitch?”

Khana put a hand over her mouth. Lueti hissed. Yxe subtly stepped behind Xopil for protection.

Neta smirked. “Spears and shields on the ground. If you can take my cloak from my shoulders, I’ll call you serji.”

Itehua grinned, his pox scar twisting, and dropped his spear. Neta set hers on the ground.

“I can’t look,” Khana whispered.

“Ten coppers on Itehua,” Haz said.

“Haz!”

Neta had barely put her weapons down before Itehua struck. Rather than block or dodge, Neta grabbed his arm and swung him over her shoulder. He hit the ground with a thud. The other nearby units froze to watch as Neta twisted his arm, making him howl.

Keeping Itehua pinned, Neta turned to the rest of the unit. “This is the way to bloodlessly put down an opponent. Of course, when you’re in battle, your goal is to kill. So be sure to keep them secure enough that you can free a hand.” She unsheathed her knife and pressed the point to Itehua’s throat.

He froze, swallowing.

“You want the neck, but you can also hit them under the armpit.” She pointed to that with the knife. “This is usually the weakest part of the armor. Invaders’ armor often doesn’t even cover it, as they’re made of metal, and it leads to friction. Unfortunately for them, there’s a big vein right there. They’ll bleed out in seconds.”

Neta dropped Itehua and sheathed her knife. “Any other objections?”

Nobody said a word.

“Excellent. Let’s begin.”