Chapter 22 #2
The Igwe smiled, mistaking quiet for weakness.
"Come now, Khan. We are all men here. The girl is beautiful—we knew she would be useful.
If you have sampled the goods before purchase, well...
" He spread his hands. "These things happen.
But now we have an army at our gates, and you have enjoyed our hospitality—and our women. Surely you see the debt."
Some nobles laughed, the Igwe saying what most had been thinking. Others watched Ragnar warily, recognising a predator being provoked.
Ragnar rose slowly.
The simple act of standing, of unfolding his considerable height to its full extent, sent a ripple through the assembled court. Men who had been sitting suddenly found reasons to stand, to step back, to create space between themselves and whatever was about to happen.
"The girl was a gift," the Igwe continued, apparently blind to the shift in the room's atmosphere.
"Gifts can be reclaimed if the recipient proves ungrateful.
" He smiled again. "Unless, of course, you prove your gratitude by summoning the Valthorne forces to our aid.
A few thousand of your warriors would make all the difference against Naiman. "
Ragnar walked forward.
His steps were unhurried, each one carrying him closer to the dais where the Igwe sat.
The crowd parted before him; no one dared stop him.
The Great Khan might be a man of heavy pride, but surely he would not attack their Igwe in front of his council.
There were limits, the social lines accepted by tribe leaders across the continent.
He stopped at the base of the throne.
"Igwe." His voice was quiet. "You speak of my Khatun as if she were a whore you rented out and now expect payment for."
The Igwe's smile faltered. "I speak only of what is—"
"You speak of what you think you know." Ragnar's head tilted slightly. "You think because you bought her, you own her. You think because you gave her to me, you can take her back. You think I am a man who can be bargained with, threatened, manipulated."
From somewhere in the crowd, a man scoffed, muttering just loud enough to carry, "Foreign barbarian, defiling our women and then acting offended. The whore probably enjoyed—"
He did not finish the sentence.
One moment Ragnar was standing before the throne. The next, he was across the room, his hand wrapped around the speaker's throat, lifting the man from his feet as if he weighed nothing. The noble kicked and clawed at the grip that was slowly crushing his windpipe.
"You were saying?" Ragnar's voice was conversational.
The man tried to speak. Only a strangled wheeze emerged.
Ragnar's other hand seized the man's jaw. With a single, brutal twist, he wrenched it sideways. The crack of bone echoed through the chamber like a death knell.
The man screamed. It was a horrible sound, wet and broken; his jaw hanging at an angle, swinging and flopping just above his sternum. A sword drove its way up through the soft tissue beneath the man's chin. The blade entered the skull, and the screaming stopped.
The warlord let the body drop to a silent audience.
Turning back to the dais, Ragnar stepped over the corpse as if it were no more than a piece of furniture. His mask was speckled with blood. His eyes were flat and cold and utterly without mercy.
"You should learn to watch your mouths before the Great Khan," Thane explained loudly with a sigh. "His temper is not good."
The Igwe had gone grey. His hands gripped the arms of his throne, knuckles white. He had not been attacked, but one of his council members had been killed without mercy before his very eyes. Once more, again and again, his authority was undermined and trampled on by such a horrid man.
Ragnar stopped before him again.
"I am not here because of your pathetic threats." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "I do not care about your opinion of me or your opinion of my Khatun."
He flicked his sword and blood splattered on the throne. The Igwe flinched.
"I am not helping you because you threatened me. I am not helping you because you insulted me. I am not helping you because of your wine or your hospitality or your pathetic attempts at diplomacy. I am helping you because my Khatun comes from this pathetic place."
A wave of relief spread through the hall.
Ragnar was quick to shut that foolishness down.
"Do not be mistaken, she has not asked me to save you or fight your war. Should she—at any point—ask me to destroy you, understand your place, Igwe. " His eyes moved across the room, touching each face, marking each flinch. "Do you understand?"
The Igwe nodded. It was a small, jerky movement, solidifying his shame.
Ragnar turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing." The room stiffened again. "Keep my Khatun's name out of your fucking mouths."
In the shrine, the gong had finally fallen silent.
Azul sat cross-legged on the floor of her small room, a game of Ukhel Dain spread before her. She had been playing alone for hours as the council moved through their plans for war.
Moving first one piece, then another. Testing strategies. Losing battles. Winning wars. The game unfolded beneath her fingers, becoming a prophecy written in wood.
Nkiru knelt in the corner, watching with wide eyes. She did not understand the game, nor did she understand why her mistress would sit here playing while the palace fell apart around them.
Azul's hand hovered over the board, considering. She reached out and picked up a pawn she had not yet used. She moved it forward. "Right on time."
Nkiru shivered, though the room was warm.