Chapter 18: The Spire of Last Days
"Your last surprise was most puzzling," the Ortheri Cowr said as he stepped out from behind a piece of broken wall, only a few dozen strides from the Spire of Last Days; yet with three Ortheri warriors beside him, and more to either side, it might as well have been a hundred leagues away. "How did you arrange to have a ballista turned on my tower?" If Yîgeke or Kargöz were considering answering, they weren't given the chance; he waved his hand dismissively and continued. "It's no matter. My men have scoured this hilltop for hours. I don't know where your friends are; have they abandoned you already?" He smirked, twisting a bit of his beard with one hand. "But they aren't here, readying some surprise rescue. It is just the two of you, and the eight of us, here, waiting for you." He gestured, and more Ortheri sprung up from behind them, where they'd been hidden beside the path, ringing them completely in a circle of Ortheri. "Shall we have a cozy little chat? I'm afraid I didn't bring any tea. It seems the slaves who make it are otherwise occupied. I'm sure you'll forgive me this lapse of courtesy."
Hands still clasped together, Yîgeke and Kargöz drew closer to one another. The tingle of the kiss was fading; already it seemed like a dream. She was now looking around into the shadows and hiding places afforded by the ruins. Surely her mysterious ally, the one who'd been atop the statue, had anticipated this eventuality and was already in place to rescue them? Her heart stumbled and lurched; she saw no sign of him. Nor did she know if he was an ally at all.
Gesturing to the valley beneath them, where the Ortheri army was forcing the Haehînbór masses to part before them, the Ortheri Cowr continued in a low, slippery voice. "Soon, the Ortheri Baugcaun will join his army. He and I have passed many a cheerful evening discussing this day, and it seems we have one small disagreement of strategy. The point of contention is: what shall we do with the survivors?" He turned, pontificating as if heedless of his audience, as his men tightened the circle with their spear-tips and axe-blades shining. "There won't be many either way, I'll grant you that. But the prophecy is clear enough that they should be slain to the last. The Ortheri Baugcaun is staunchly in favor of that option. Those who surrender will be put to grisly deaths. And of course, it is ultimately his choice to make; I am but an advisor." He turned back to drink in their reaction: Kargöz was fuming, readying some passionate retort, and Yîgeke was withering. Her eyes flicked side to side hoping to see some sign of the cowled figure, but this hope, and every other, was waning with every beat of her heart. She was not the First Hand, not really. It was all a deception piled atop another deception, and here, now, there was no one left to be fooled by it. Least of all her.
"You may be thinking, how could the Ortheri survive the loss of so many slaves? And this is my concern with his approach. He feels that the Haehînbór will be unruly now. If the prophecy plays out, and they are neither free nor extinct, what then? How shall we keep them in line? And he is confident that, soon, we shall have new slaves aplenty, plucked from the Westerlings, and new lands of conquest to pillage. Which may be true. But I feel that, even if we have Westerlings at our feet, they will need an example. And what better example could I offer them than the Haehînbór? You were born to be slaves. Had we not conquered you, you would have found someone else to be conquered by." As he spoke, he was striding indolently around the clearing at the base of the Spire. He paused just before Yîgeke and peered deeply into her eyes. "Even now, at the verge of foment, you simper, and long for your chains."
Two of the Ortheri were right up behind them now. One held Kargöz by the upper arms, tightly enough to leave bruises, while another gripped Yîgeke's shoulder just firmly enough to keep her from running, but no more. Her hand was still in his, though it was only a matter of time before they were separated. She glanced down at it, hoping to draw strength from the sight of it, but instead she saw the small knife at his side. If she moved quickly, she could snatch it and plunge it into the Ortheri Cowr's chest before anyone could stop her. He was right there, gloating, so close she could feel the breath in his words. He wouldn't have any way to avoid the blow.
And then the Ortheri would cut both of their throats. Or worse. And below them, their people would be struck down to the last. Their hope had been false all along. The prophecy was a weapon, indeed, but it was not their weapon; they'd been clinging to it and honing it for generations, without realizing its point was pressed against their own hearts. She was not the First Hand, and there never was such a thing as a First Hand. She looked at the knife, then turned away, her eyes darkening with shame as she knew she would not seize this moment, not make an ultimately futile and fatal gesture. That she would do nothing but be a slave.
"And this is why I believe we can still use you," the Ortheri Cowr continued after a pause. He took a half-step back, and plucked the knife from Kargöz's belt. He turned the tip to his chest and held it there; with a gesture, he urged the Ortheri holding Yîgeke, who grabbed her head and turned it to face him. "Shall I take your hand and place it on the hilt myself? How else could I do more to give you this moment of opportunity? Just so that you would know, in your heart, that you lack the will to act on it. That you and your kind belong under our heels."
Her eyes flicked to Kargöz, who was still fuming, but at least had the wit to do so silently. Qemik would have thrown himself onto a spear-tip long since. Thinking of him, she turned to glance down into the valley. Even here she could see the brilliant gleam of the Ortheri Baugcaun's armor as he rode. Her people quaked before him, withering. Many were staring up at her, awaiting a sign that would never come. This final sliver of hope was about to be plucked from them and there would be nothing left.
Turning to take a few strides towards the Spire of Last Days, the Ortheri Cowr laughed, low and sinuous, like the sound of a snake over sand. "And here we are presented with the very best stage on which to show this to the last of your wretched people. I could have my men cut your hearts from your chests right now. But how much better if your people, down there," he waved a hand in an all-encompassing gesture as if to gather them all and pluck them up to put in a pouch, "see you rise into the Spire, and then, and only then, perish." He whirled to stare at her. "Do you see it? Can you see it, First Hand?"
She stared back at him blankly. If the hooded man were here, something surely would have happened by now. Perhaps this outcome was what he'd wanted all along, and he had no reason to intervene again. Perhaps the Ortheri had seized the Spire before he could position himself. For all she knew, he was lying in a ditch with an Ortheri axe in his back. There was no hope left.
"I can see that you cannot," the Ortheri Cowr continued, stepping to her and tapping her forehead. "There isn't much to you, is there? You are…" He trailed off, then laughed. "You know, I don't even know your name, or what you do. Nor does it matter. You have only one purpose left to serve. You see, back in Caras Lithgweth it was my intent to have your death, carefully arranged, serve to reinforce the idea that the signs were false, that the sand-mouse must once more be quiet. But it will be so much more effective here, at the very cusp of your people's extermination, at this place of so much portent. These ruins are drenched in the spirit of endings. This shall be the Last Days, either of your people, or of their hope. When they, in their multitudes, see your head struck off, and the Sixth Spear fall from your lifeless hand, they will surrender. Those we allow to live will be meek and servile for a hundred generations."
At this Kargöz could be silent no more. "So, this is your plan? I can see why you are the advisor to the depraved king of a corrupt people, if you have no more idea now than to repeat your failure. It cannot work. How would they believe that they can still hope for liberation in some distant future? The prophecy is spent. There is no way they can believe that the Ortheri do not know of it. They have nothing to lose by fighting."
Stroking his beard, the Ortheri Cowr turned to Kargöz and studied him throughout this outburst. "You may be right," he conceded. "Your words echo those of the… 'depraved king of a corrupt people'; perhaps you and he have much in common. But you see, this suits my purposes just as well." He turned to gaze out over the pastures below. "Some few of your people may surrender and be spared, to become model slaves, preparing the way for their Westerling successors. Perhaps some of the fellows who've abandoned you will be amongst them?" He smirked, catching Yîgeke's eye, hoping this would wound her, but when it did not, he shrugged and continued. "And most will be slain. Either way, they will trouble us no more." He turned and concluded triumphantly, "All that now remains to be seen is how many choose the chain, and how many the axe."
Taking a step towards Kargöz, he spoke instead to Yîgeke without turning his eyes to her. "You, the First Hand, shall be instrumental in this effort. But this slave, he is of no value to us." He then turned and stepped away. "Kill him now."