Nisari’s triumphant cackle filled the air. “You’ve all drunk it, haven’t you? Every last one of you!”
Tazien watched her cousin’s face, a contorted mask of vengeful glee. The memory of the clay cup, Kadaar’s hand offering it, the metallic tang on her tongue after a long ride – it all clicked into place. She felt no fear, only a profound, dismissive weariness. Nisari, for all her borrowed ruthlessness, was so predictable.
She took a slow breath, the air in her lungs feeling no different than usual. “Is that what you believe, Nisari? That you are the first, or last, to consider poisoning the well?”
Nisari’s laughter wavered, a slight uncertainty clouding her triumph. “What… what do you mean? It’s the potent Rivenblight! Slow, agonizing… you’ll feel your blood turn to sludge. It has no antidote!”
“Rivenblight is a crude, easily detectable neurotoxin,” Tazien stated, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “It barely made it into the Top Ten of poisons I cataloged in the Forbidden Anatomy Codex. Its effects, while unpleasant, are hardly irreversible.”
*Weeks earlier, deep in the dust-choked confines of Tazien’s apothecary tent, the air hung thick with the scent of crushed herbs and burnt sugar. Zarifa, her brow furrowed in concentration, meticulously measured a pinch of dried, shimmering green powder onto a brass scale. Tazien observed, her gaze fixed on the meticulous process.*
*“The Emperor’s spies often employ this tactic,” Tazien had murmured, tapping a worn page in her Codex, its parchment brittle with age. The page depicted a crudely drawn water well, a skeletal hand reaching into it. “Water contamination. It’s effective against the unwary. We must assume it will be attempted.”*
*Zarifa grunted, stirring the powder into a thick, syrupy concoction in a clay pot. “Even if they don’t come for the well, they’ll come for the stores. The grain, the meat. Anything that sustains life here.”*
*“Precisely,” Tazien replied, her gaze distant, already envisioning a chessboard. “Rivenblight. A common, though potent, neurotoxin favored by those who prefer a theatrical, prolonged end. Its antidote is simple, if administered in trace amounts over time. A constant, low-level exposure builds immunity.”*
*She gestured to a large vat of fermenting millet porridge, the staple of their meals, simmering over a low fire. “We micro-dose every meal. Every communal drink. Make it a part of our daily sustenance. Not enough to cause illness, just enough to render any future attempt… inert. And we’ll start with the newest arrivals.” She’d smiled then, a cold, predatory curve of her lips. “Omariyan, for instance. And any unexpected guests.”*
*Zarifa had grinned, a flash of white teeth against her sun-darkened face. “A prophylactic against poisoned hospitality. I like it.”*
Nisari stared, her mouth agape, the cackle dying in her throat. “You… you knew? You already…?”
“Your ‘wedding gift,’ Nisari, was ingested weeks ago, diluted into a daily tonic,” Tazien finished, her voice a calm blade. “It tastes rather bland, doesn’t it? I recall your first meal here, how you complained about the tasteless gruel. You unknowingly consumed your own poison, rendering yourself immune to its effects even as you attempted to inflict them upon us.”
Kadaar’s initial alarm dissolved into a slow, dawning comprehension, then a low, guttural laugh that shook his powerful chest. Nisari, pale and trembling, stumbled back against the shed wall as her knees buckled under failure. Her poison, her grand gesture of revenge, was not merely thwarted; it had been made into a mockery, a pathetic, self-defeating act.
“Get her inside,” Tazien commanded, not looking at Kadaar, her eyes already fixed on the distant horizon where the first hint of morning light painted the sky. “Her services may yet prove useful.”
Just as the sun crested the peaks of the Khazarian Ridge, illuminating the vast, now-flooded plains, the vanguard of the Tarkesh forces appeared. Not as a formidable force, but as a scattered, disheveled assembly of half-frozen, mud-caked men, their breath pluming in the frigid air. Their horses, gaunt and shivering, struggled through the knee-deep water that now covered the Tarak Pass, their hooves sinking into the churned mud. The cold, relentless current of the newly released Vashni Dam waters had turned the narrow valley into an impassable, frozen marsh.
A few hundred paces from the edge of the submerged path, where the land rose to meet the Vosh territory, Kadaar stood waiting. He was no longer the dying peasant who had thrown a sickle at a noblewoman’s carriage. Clad in thick, steppe-dyed leathers, his broad shoulders squared, a heavy, unadorned iron sword sheathed at his hip, he was a sentinel of the land. Behind him, a line of wagons, laden with sacks of Sun-Silk Wheat, rose like a silent, golden challenge.
The lead commander, a man whose silver-threaded uniform was now soiled and torn, urged his weary mount onward, splashing through the water. His face was gaunt, his lips cracked. He pulled his horse to a halt, the animal snorting weakly. “You there! Are you the… the lord of this land?” he croaked, his voice raspy with cold and thirst.
Kadaar advanced a pace, his boots making barely a ripple in the shallow water. “I am Kadaar Vosh. And this, commander, is the Vosh domain.” He gestured to the vast, newly greening fields that stretched as far as the eye could see, untouched by the flood, brimming with the promise of harvest. “It appears your supply route is rather… compromised.”
The general’s eyes, hollow with desperation, darted from Kadaar’s formidable presence to the wagons overflowing with grain. His gaze lingered on the golden wheat, a hunger born of days without proper food. “We require passage, and provisions. By Imperial decree, you will assist our forces.”
Kadaar’s smile was a brutal, unyielding curve. “The capital's decrees mean little here. You stand on Vosh ground. And on Vosh ground, we set the terms.” He paused, allowing the biting wind to carry his words. “Your army will receive passage. And sustenance. In exchange for the absolute, unmolested sovereignty of the Vosh territories, free from Imperial tax, tribute, or interference. And every sack of grain will be paid for, at a price I dictate. In gold. Or in deeds. Your choice.”
A younger officer, impeccably dressed despite the mud splatters on his robes, pushed forward on a finer, though equally exhausted, horse. This was Fariz Malak, the Emperor’s personal envoy, his face etched with fury. “This is treason! You cannot hold our legions hostage! The Emperor will have your head, peasant!” He drew a gleaming, jeweled scimitar from his belt, its polished blade reflecting the weak morning light. His eyes, burning with aristocratic contempt, fixed on Tazien, who had now quietly emerged from behind Kadaar, a silent observer. “And yours, harlot! You would dare defy the will of Tarkesh?”
With a furious roar, Fariz spurred his horse forward, the scimitar whistling through the air, aimed directly at Tazien’s throat.