Chapter 39 #3
Ragnar rose over the corpse. The rise and fall of his chest was the only outward sign that anything had moved in him at all. He looked at his hands for a moment. Then he looked up at Somadina, still crumpled at the foot of his own throne, watching pathetically.
Warlord was a title of brutality, now everyone in that room, understood perfectly, what that saying meant.
"Him too," Ragnar said.
One of his men stepped forward. "My Khan—"
"No—wait." Ragnar's voice had returned to its former quiet. "My wife will decide how he dies. The rest," Ragnar continued, scanning the hall—the courtiers pressed against the walls, the soldiers who had surrendered, the ones who had not— "kill them all."
As his men got to work, Ragnar was already leaving.
He moved through the palace like a wraith.
The corridors were chaos, and the first man who stepped into his path did so by accident.
A loyalist, young and still gripping his spear with both hands, his eyes going wide when he realised what he was looking at.
Ragnar killed him without breaking stride.
The second man tried to run. The third tried to surrender. It didn't matter. The hallway behind him was an accounting of every second he had yet to find her.
He had been calm in the throne room because he needed to be.
He couldn't remain calm any longer.
The corridor to Obiageli's courtyard was empty. The guards who should have stood at its entrance lay elsewhere, called to battles that would not save them. The door stood ajar, daylight spilling through its gap like blood from a wound.
Azul pushed it open.
Obiageli knelt in the centre of her chamber, exactly where Azul had known she would be. The ritual circle at her feet was intact; she was painting something on a piece of bark with a brush so fine it seemed to float in her fingers. She did not look up.
"Do you not die? What's the point of coming here when you will lose?"
Azul stepped into the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
"Why are you so certain I will lose?"
"The Valthorne may be in the palace, but they cannot outfight the sheer number of Naiman's army." Obiageli set down her brush and finally raised her eyes. They were peaceful. "Sit. Please."
Azul crossed to the table and sat.
"I should have known," Azul said quietly. "The kind of shit you'd try to pull."
Obiageli's lips curved. "Would it have changed anything? If you had known earlier?"
"No."
Azul would still have to placate Somadina; she'd still have to plan ahead with the Mal-kai, her plan was foolproof; Obiageli's trap was merely a dent.
"I know." Obiageli set the brush down. "That's why I wanted to meet you, because you were like me. We're twins after all."
"I didn't come here to talk."
"You came here to kill me." Obiageli mused.
She reached beneath the table and produced a board—large, intricately carved, marked with the familiar grid of Ukhel Dain. The game of warriors. The game of queens.
"Once." she said.
"Once." Azul relented.
They played in silence for a time. The only sounds were the click of carved wood on wood, the distant roar of battle beyond the courtyard walls, and the soft whisper of the wind outside.
Obiageli was good. She had always been good—trained by the palace, honed by years of isolation, sharpened by the constant need to think ten moves ahead of everyone around her.
But Azul was better.
She moved her snake piece into position.
Obiageli's eyes flickered. She moved her battalion to block.
Azul moved her stronghold.
Obiageli's hand hovered over the board. Uncertainty crossed her painted face.
The game continued. Pieces fell. The board grew sparse, the remaining pieces clustered in patterns that both could read and understand. As the game wore on, Obiageli's smile only stretched wider.
Finally, Azul moved her last piece.
Obiageli stared at the board. Her stronghold was trapped—no moves left, no allies to call, no escape. The game was over, and she had lost.
"Impressive," she breathed. "Truly."
She looked up, and in her eyes was something that might have been pride.
"It was a good game," Azul commended.
Obiageli inclined her head. "So it seems."
"May Ukhel kiss your corpse, sister."
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then Obiageli's eyes went wide.
Blood welled at the corners of her mouth—first a trickle, then a flood, spilling over her lips and dripping onto the board below.
Her hands flew to her throat, clutching, grasping at something that could not be grasped.
Blood streamed from her nose, her eyes, and her ears, painting her in shades of crimson.
She tried to speak. No words came—only blood.
Her body convulsed and then she collapsed forwards onto the table. The Ukhel Dain board was scattered beneath her, pieces flying in all directions.
Azul sat motionless, watching.
Mal-kai was a beautiful flower of deep indigo; it barely had a scent and so wasn't favoured for perfumes. That, and it was rather deadly to inhale over a long period of time.
A shadow fell upon the room, the daylight completely blocked from the windows.
Azul looked up.
Three emerald eyes gleamed in the window, looking at the corpse on the table.