Chapter Twenty-Four: Our Protection

He supposed it was a lucky thing that Cemil was busy consulting with his mentor and advisors the rest of the evening. Osmund felt that if they’d had more than a few seconds alone, he’d have immediately confessed to everything. Then he’d have pleaded for forgiveness for even considering the deception. It would surely ruin everything forever, but perhaps it would hurt less than what he was feeling now.

When night fell, he collapsed into his furs and pretended to sleep. Cemil did not come to him. The Meskato prince was probably being kind and letting him rest. He likely thought Osmund had worn himself out at the market, like he was an old dog who couldn’t handle too much excitement. A quaint idea.

Maybe once he sees that sad-eyed lover again, he’ll forget all about me, Osmund thought blearily. And then, it’ll be easy to betray him. It was an ugly thought.

And furthermore, he knew it wasn’t true.

This day of traveling was to be their last. All things considered, it wasn’t a remarkably long journey. Osmund still felt as though it had lasted seven lifetimes.

He’d had a rotten day, then a marvelous one, then an afternoon so unspeakably awful he could barely think of it without shuddering. It was probably too much to hope that today would move the needle back in the other direction.

This seemed increasingly unlikely as they began the trek up a gently sloped mountain path, and Cemil’s tense voice at the front of the column called out for a halt. Osmund raised himself up in the saddle to try to see what had stopped their progress, but he was too far back.

“Do you see anything?” he asked Nienos beside him, who sat tall upon an equally towering mount.

“Look like dead goats,” the orc told Osmund, squinting as he strained to see over the mass of horses. “Or just pieces. Bloody mess. Something big get them.”

Osmund shuddered. He was glad then not to be treated to a firsthand look at the gore. Cemil and a few of his people dismounted for a few minutes, apparently to inspect the mangled carcasses. The atmosphere in their party changed distinctly after that.

They were getting close to Kaliany Village—and, by extension, the gryphon lair that had begun terrorizing the nearby people. To see pieces of the creatures’ prey was strange, Osmund thought queasily. Gryphons, he knew from his lessons (and from more ambitious romance novels, which attempted a smattering of plot), swooped down and snatched up their meals whole, bringing them back to their lair to feed. They didn’t stick around to toy with their victims. At least, normal gryphons didn’t.

Fear, heady and thick, was beginning to creep its way inside.

Inside another hour, they rounded a curve of the sloping road and saw the wooden roofs of a human settlement peeking up overhead. This time, Osmund could tell instantly that something was wrong.

One by one, they marched their horses up into the clearing. Cemil had stopped in front of one ruin: a granary perhaps, before it had sustained the equivalent of a gaping cannonball wound. To its left was an abandoned house, its roof caved in, as if visited by the wrath of the heavens themselves. No moss or lichens had grown over the remains; people had lived here until recently.

Osmund looked over the ruined granary, and the wasted stones of it which lay all around like strewn guts. He knew what everyone was thinking, because it was running through his head too: a gryphon did that?!

Banu snorted worriedly. Osmund looked down at the dirt beneath the chestnut mare’s feet—and paled.

He wasn’t the only one to notice. Nienos inspected the dark-stained earth, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Most likely person,” he deduced. He indicated towards what looked like tracks leading up the road. “Killed by gryphon. Friend or family come back for body after gryphon leaves.”

“Heavens,” Osmund muttered. He was properly frightened now. “I-Is this all that’s left of the village?”

Gudrun arrived up beside them, on her hardy, shaggy-coated horse which was native to the northern territories (and the type Osmund most enjoyed brushing). “This? This isn’t the village,” she snorted, amused. “Just a few Anshan living outside of town. The survivors probably relocated to Kaliany for safety.”

Osmund gave the sorry remains another look. While similar in form, these structures were different in design to those he’d grown accustomed to in the Meskato city of Şebyan. This was a distinct culture. He wished very much they could’ve come under happier circumstances.

“Everyone take heed.” Cemil addressed the crowd of soldiers. “We’re dealing with creatures larger and more destructive than our estimate. A constant guard will be required in the village. Consider nowhere safe shelter.”

“Gryphons are day hunters,” one of the cavalrymen—a noble friend of Cemil’s—said, though he sounded himself unsure. “We should at least be able to sleep soundly when night falls.”

Cemil answered without looking over. “Assume nothing about these beasts is ordinary.” His words had an air of grim finality. “If we rely too heavily on books and conventional wisdom, we risk suffering for our arrogance.”

Osmund heard muttering in the back. He thought Cemil was going to ride on and ignore it, or at least reprimand the speaker. Father would never have tolerated the disrespect. “Raise your voice to me, not your neighbor,” the Meskato prince commanded sharply.

One of the mounted soldiers cantered to the front of the assembly. He was a thin-lipped man with a detached air. “Şehzade Cemil,” he began tightly. “We risk a hundred of our finest people against this unusually dangerous enemy. Why? If the Anshan have angered the gryphons with some heathen ritual of theirs, let them be the ones to defend their homes.”

The man had spoken with a calm, rational air, but Osmund flinched as if he’d yelled. He hadn’t been expecting someone to display such defiance, along with a naked callousness towards people in need. What’s more, others seemed to be murmuring in the crowd.

“Let us return home and live,” another cried out. “Why should we endanger Meskato lives for those who would spit at our feet and call us dogs?”

Dogs. Osmund’s mind worked. He remembered Emre using that same word to describe the empire. Does that mean…

Cemil’s face flickered with something. Osmund barely caught it, and wasn’t sure whether he’d imagined it once it had passed. “Because the Anshan are people of the empire now,” he declared with a gaze like fire. “That means they are Meskato too, and worthy of our protection. This is the entire reason for our great empire’s existence!”

Neither speaker dared venture a response to that. “If you wish to be remembered as a coward, then go, and never be welcome in Meskato lands again,” Cemil continued on, his furious passion boiling over. “Or, come with me and kill some fucking gryphons.”

A rousing cheer went up among the assembled crowd. Nienos and the other mercenaries beside him added their roar of approval to the mix. Osmund shrank down in his saddle. He wished he could fall asleep and have the whole bloody mess done with.

He could tell when they were getting close to the village, because as they rode on they started seeing marker stones, wagon tracks, and gates surrounding empty pastures. Maybe the Anshan’s sheep and goats had all been poached by gryphons, or else relocated to safety until the crisis had passed.

“Have you been here before?” Osmund asked Gudrun beside him, mostly to fill the tense silence, though he’d been curious for a while.

“Sure have. We mercs have been all over,” she boasted. She was handling her spear in restless hands, like she was preparing to dig it into an unsuspecting creature’s gut. “It’s a fine life. Why don’t you train with your saber and join us?”

Thankfully, Nienos chortled loudly at this, so Osmund could tell it was a joke. “I think I’m more suited for life at the house,” he admitted, rather needlessly. “But I would love to do the occasional bit of traveling. When it’s safe, that is.”

“Anshan people in Kaliany, famous for cheese and tea,” Nienos said. “You try some while here, eh? Maybe buy silk towel.”

Osmund supposed he might be doing some tourism after all. It wasn’t like he’d be a great help against the gryphons. Except maybe as bait, if it came to that. “That’s not a bad idea,” he admitted. A spot of hot tea sounded lovely, even if it wasn’t the kind he missed from home.

“Just don’t be offended if they don’t warm up to you right away,” Gudrun advised. She sounded like she spoke from experience. “The Anshan are suspicious of the Meskato.”

“Me? But I’m Tolmish!”

His denial made her chuckle. “You’re dressed like a Meskato, and you’re riding with them and speaking in their tongue. That makes you one of them.”

Osmund looked at Cemil, then thought about Emre and the men’s mother and their shared language and the hateful soldier, and everything he’d heard about massacres and suspicious villagers and the mistrust that went both ways. He wondered if his intuition was correct: that these were the lands Emre had meant when he’d talked about where his mother—and Cemil’s—had hailed from. He wondered how the Anshan felt about laying claim to a Meskato imperial prince. Did they love him? Hate him? Fear him?

Every step now brought them closer to the village. And to the impossible choice he’d have to make.