Zu positioned himself behind a tent, concealed, but barely. Stealth had never been one of his strengths. The spot afforded a decent view of the area Ulula had sectioned off for the prisoners. He resolved to keep vigil over them, to stay up as many nights as it took for Sinza and his band to make their move. He expected it wouldn’t be long, despite his warning that very evening.
Lodan’s Day had passed a turn and a half earlier, marking a new year and a turning point, both on Ex’ala and in the war. As Solodon approached, tender buds bloomed, plugs of grass sprouted from the raw terrain, the trees sported young leaves, and morose spirits rose. With their first major victory as fresh as the vegetation, talk of mutiny would slip from people’s minds. Although opportunistic men and women would always be ready to strike if given an opening, Zu was satisfied that whatever mutinous gatherings might have been would soon dissipate. But to ensure that the heart and soul of his people remained healthy, he had set out that fine, cool evening to carve out the tumor. To banish Sinza from his camp and his army for good.
Zu pulled out a knife and whittled away at a stick. It was a pastime he’d picked up in the early days of the Great Northern War. A fellow soldier had told him to let the tree speak and it would reveal the shape it should take. The trees had never said a damned thing to Zu, but whittling kept his hands busy. Idle hands meant an idle mind, and an idle mind meant trouble. He was awful at seeing the grain and coaxing shapes from the wood. The best he’d managed was an oblong jinki ball he’d thrown in a drunken game with Ulula a few years back. That he’d made the ball himself hadn’t given him any advantage. She’d slaughtered him mercilessly, stealing a bit of his pride and more of his money.
If he were forced to pass the time long enough, Zu might be the first soldier to draw his own blood during the campaign.
As Eroa would have it, he’d hardly had to wait an hour after supper, before Hlenice, full and gleaming, crested in the cloudless sky. He had whittled half of his spear-fork-sword monstrosity when Sinza and a group of his men sauntered up to the captives’ pen, laughing and mocking the Perysh. Zu wouldn’t be drawing his own blood that night after all.
Hooting and hollering, a drunk and wobbling Sinza pelted a prisoner with a rock, striking the man on the brow and knocking him unconscious. The neighboring southerners protested but were quickly hushed by the others, fearful of what sort of tormentors the Banxians might be. Many of the Perysh believed the orcs to be mere savages just waiting for the opportunity to rape their women and burn their homes to ash. Or so they had conveyed to Zu during his stay in the southern country.
Rising from his seat, Zu chuckled to himself. How predictable. He spoke in a deep, commanding voice. “Sinza Jekon! I, Zu Godra, challenge you to Lokanu. You may pick which weapon I kill you with, or you may run like the coward you are.”
Sinza belted a blustering laugh to wake the snakes from their slumber on the next hill. “You are challenging me to a duel for throwing a stone at a prisoner?” he asked, incredulous.
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“I thought you fond of our ancient, sacred rite. Did you not challenge Geg to Lokanu for failing to pay his debt?”
“That was a debt of honor,” Sinza argued. “This isn’t the same at all.”
“So say you.” Zu closed the distance. “For me it is. You have shown yourself to be morally destitute. You no longer have a place among our soldiers.”
“No place—” Sinza reeled. “Why do you care? The Perysh are dogs who should have been put down. But our fearless leader, who does nothing but lose, insisted any survivors be brought here. We starved through Solynon and Alternon, and now he’s using our limited supplies to feed these bastards!”
Sinza huffed with indignation, but Zu could smell the orc’s fear, clear as the pollen on the stiff breeze.
“I was serious in my challenge,” Zu said. “A duel. To the death.”
By then a small crowd had gathered, curious, awestruck.
“Why are you protecting these prisoners?” Sinza choked out. “When the humans capture ours, they kill our men, torture and rape our women and children, then set them aflame or cut off their heads and impale them on pikes, displayed for all to see. Why should we show mercy?”
“It isn’t mercy. Nor is it weakness to rise above retaliation. It is the Senda Clan’s way. These men and women are soldiers. It was not their decision to fight Banx. They are following their king. And he is angry that your qish wouldn’t return his lord’s slaves. They are no different from you—”
“They are nothing like me!” Sinza roared, defiance and anger and hatred dulling his fear.
“They are just like you and me and your followers here, fighting to make sure that their families are fed, that their kings and lords and queens and ladies will continue to shelter them so they don’t starve or die in the forest. You accuse them of being rapists and murderers. Can you claim to be any different? You while away your idle hours doing the same—raping unprotected soldiers, drinking away your coin and challenging good men to duels for your petty pride.”
“You come from on high to accuse me? Are you so much better, Chosen One?”
“No. The only difference between you and me is this: you believe everyone is beneath you, as if we owe you our gratitude for the honor of standing in your presence.”
“And you don’t?”
“I put myself above no one,” Zu said. “You came out here hoping to provoke me but then balk when you are caught. You wanted to show your band of followers your worth, but they follow you only because it is difficult to be alone and a comfort to know that someone is protecting their backs on the battlefield. Once you’re gone, one of these men will doubtless try to fill the inconsequential void you leave behind. Let us instead hope for brighter tidings. Let us hope the war doesn’t last much longer now that we’ve tasted the sweet mead of victory.”
The men with Sinza were quiet, stricken. They stood behind their de facto leader, but they wouldn’t stand with him. Not against Zu.
Zu broke the strained silence. “The choice is yours.”
Sinza looked from Zu to his men and back again. “If I leave, they’ll come with me,” he said, but a worm of doubt wriggled in his glimmering eyes. “Your friend, your brother, can hardly win a battle when we’re on his side. How do you think he’ll fare when we’re gone?”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Fine. I’ll go.” Sinza stood rooted in place as the tense seconds slipped by, staring at Zu, perhaps hoping he might change his mind.
He wouldn’t.
The orc turned, stumbled out of camp and into the darkness beyond. Half his men followed out of instinct; the other half wavered, their loyalty divided.
No one spoke; not a sound disturbed the clear night sky, save the whistle of the wind and the screech of a distant owl diving for its dinner. In the end nine stayed, thirty followed Sinza into ignominy. As far as Zu was concerned, Banx was the stronger for it.
