Chapter 2
AKhan was only ever as great as his reputation, and Ragnar Valthorne—the Great Khan of the Valthorne tribe—was a man of disgusting success. From the Kuraltai to the Bacchalia, from the Thessaran Empire to Kemet, there was not a soul who hadn't heard of the warlord that terrorised the Grass Sea.
Shadows moved from branch to branch, keeping to the foliage, hiding in the dark. Eyes swept over the camp below, trying not to alert the soldiers to their presence. The assailants watched as the men polished their armour, laughed around small campfires, and shared their meals.
The shadows exchanged glances, nodding and separating. Their orders were simple enough: eliminate their target, or die trying.
Nyraxa Varkesh did not look up from her letters.
The candlelight flickered across her tent, casting long shadows that danced against the canvas walls.
She lounged on a pile of cushions, a stack of parchment beside her, a quill moving steadily across the page, which she rested on a solid leather book.
Her hand was elegant, as though she had written a thousand letters to a thousand men of distinguished titles and would write a thousand more.
Kohl lined her eyes, making the green of them almost luminous in the dim light.
Black strands of wispy hair fell past her shoulders and face in a way that should have looked dishevelled but somehow only added to her beauty.
She wrote on, undisturbed, unbothered by the night or the camp or the knowledge that they were far from home in hostile territory.
Outside, a shadow passed her tent.
Nyraxa's hand continued to move across the page. The letter was nearly finished—a report to a contact in the Bacchalian court, full of carefully worded nothings that would be read a dozen times for hidden meanings. She loved this part. The game of alliances that weren’t quite solidified, as though they were ice sculptures in the making.
The shadow passed again.
Whoever it was had circled her tent three times; it seemed they were here for her.
She finished the sentence. Dotting the final 'i'.
Then, without looking up, without breaking rhythm, her other hand moved.
The dagger was attached to her thigh; there was another under the cushions.
In every tent, in every room, in every place she ever slept, there had always been a blade for her to throw.
Her fingers closed around the hilt, and she threw in a single motion that was too fast to dodge.
The blade tore through the canvas, breaking through a human skull. The body fell, and peace returned to her tent.
Nyraxa set down her quill, picked up the next letter, and began to read.
The stream ran cold and clear through the forest, its surface catching the moonlight in silver ripples. A man stood waist-deep in the water, his scarred back to the bank, long black hair plastered to his skin as he bathed.
In the trees above, hidden amidst dark, dense leaves, an assailant nocked an arrow.
The shot was perfect—a clear line aimed at a still target. He drew back the bowstring, exhaled slowly, and prepared to release.
But something was wrong.
He couldn't place it at first. It was just a feeling prickling at the back of his neck that meant he was being watched. But he was the watcher. He was the hunter. His eyes had left his target, so he looked down once more.
A sudden pain spread through his spine.
A piece of wood protruded from his gut.
Driven up through his torso with enough force to pierce lung and heart and spine. He opened his mouth to scream, but only blood came out.
Below, the stream was empty.
The man was gone.
The assailant's body toppled from the branch, crashing through leaves and branches before landing on the bank. He stared up at the sky, unseeing, as a figure emerged from the shadows behind him.
The man from the stream stood there, naked, water still dripping from his tanned skin. He pushed his long black hair out of his face, revealing eyes that could only mean one thing—Death.
The man looked at the body, then the bloodied branch in his hand. "Amateurs," he muttered. Then he turned and walked back towards his camp.
Nyraxa’s tent flap opened; she looked up from her letters as the man entered—naked except for a cloth wrapped around his waist, water still beading on his skin. His long black hair was pushed back, revealing the sharp lines of his face and the extensive scars that marked his body.
She tsked, shaking her head in disapproval. "Bathing at this hour, Great Khan?" she asked mildly. "Risky."
He crossed to a trunk in the corner of the tent, opening it to reveal clothing. "How many?"
"One, outside my tent."
"Three in the trees. One by the stream. One by the horse lines." He began to dress, pulling on his robes. "Kasimir is handling the rest."
Nyraxa set down her letter. "Sisi's people?"
"Who else?" His voice was flat. "She doesn't give up easily."
"I would be a little disappointed if she did."
If Sisi was anything, she was persistent; for the last five years, she had made it a mission to kill the Great Khan, finding him a thorn in her flesh, one she could not allow to exist. From the young age of thirteen, she had understood that the man who stood in her path was not her brother—the Crowned Prince of the Kuraltai—but her father's successor, the rising warlord to the north.
Ragnar fastened his sash, then reached for the black mask that lay waiting in the trunk, two horns curving back from its temples. He fastened it over his face, hiding everything but his dark eyes.
When he turned back to Nyraxa, he was no longer a man bathing in a stream. He was the Great Khan of the Valthorne tribe. The Warlord. The Punishment of Ukhel made flesh.
Ragnar Valthorne.
A man so badly cursed that his curse extended to his bride; anyone who dared marry him would die on their wedding night. So far, five women had lost their lives, each tale more gruesome than the next, all on the night they were to wed.
"Poison. Assassination. A 'tragic accident' with a horse. Two that no one could explain." Nyraxa leaned back on her cushions. "I wonder how this one will die."
Ragnar pulled on his boots, declining to answer.
“Sisi might not be able to reach you here, or she might already have planned the next woman’s death. There is truly no way to tell.”
Ragnar stood, fully dressed. "The Borjigin offered a bride.
Why would I not take it? They know of the fate that befell the others.
If they want to throw away their daughter, who am I to stop them?
" He paused; they both understood they were being offered something he needed most in exchange for political leverage and permission to use his name for their own protection.
Ragnar didn't mind; a Khatun was necessary for a growing tribe—that much was clear.
"The reports say she's reasonably beautiful. "
Nyraxa's lips curved. "I suppose every man wants a beautiful woman to warm their bed. You know you don’t have to wait for a wife? I can always send you one of my girls."
“No need," Ragnar grunted. He did not need a bed warmer, nor did he want an assassin in his bed that could gut him in an instant if her mistress were displeased. "She doesn't need to be educated or smart. She can learn. As long as she can be loyal to the Valthorne, that's enough."
"And if she's not?"
Ragnar paused, moving towards the tent flap. "Sisi will sink her claws into her." If his wife were a weakness, his enemies would exploit her, and all he could do was brace himself for the inevitable fallout, which would take years to recover from.
Nyraxa laughed—a low, amused sound. "To find a princess willing to marry a man of common blood is already hard, let alone a warlord.
She might die of fear before you even make it to the steppes.
Even just seeing your disfigured skin is enough to repulse a woman of the Grass Sea; how much more a princess who grew up surrounded by finery?
You have truly forgotten your origins, Great Khan. "
Ragnar glanced at her. The Khanvaaris of Valthorne were not friends or family; they were simply people with similar origins and goals who desired the same thing as their Khan: to conquer.
The tent flap opened. A man entered—tall, broad-shouldered, his face hidden behind a bō? that left only his dark eyes visible.
"Kasimir," Ragnar acknowledged.
Kasimir nodded. "The assailants are handled. Eighteen in total. We should move at first light. They'll send more once they realise this group failed."
Ragnar nodded, then he turned to Nyraxa.
"You'll handle the rest?"
She waved a hand dismissively. "I'll drag our forces away from the main route and make enough noise to draw Sisi's attention. She'll think you're with me, buying you time to reach Tarsyn." A smile. "Enjoy your bride, Ragnar. Try not to frighten her too badly."
Nyraxa watched them go. Then she picked up her quill, dipped it in ink, and returned to her letters, this one addressed to one Caius Zarnok.