The Touch of Astoroth

Chapter Four

Two and a half hours after Coyra gave in to sleep just feet away from the grave of her friend, Sarahfim Nakumnay woke to the blowing of the horn that announced the start of the day in their camp. Agile as a cat, she leaped to her feet, rolled her shoulders, and made her way over to the empty porcelain pot at the center of her tent. She stared at it coldly for a second, then turned her back on it and stalked over to the floor-length mirror at the corner of her tent; that and the rose wood trunk beside it were her only furnishings, but it was all she wanted. She gazed at her reflection, then took up a small glass vial, and smeared charcoal powder on her eyelids. She ran her fingers through her glossy hair, brushing them gently against the talisman at the back of her neck, then quickly braided and twisted her locks and secured them behind her head.

She turned just in time to see her father storm into the tent.

Zarkamal Nakumnay glared down at his daughter with such intense fury that any other being would have been cowed by his mere presence, but Sarahfim just stared blankly back at him clearing her face of all emotion.

"You were supposed to protect the plant," her father growled, "but not much protecting got done last night."

Sarahfim pursed her lips ever so slightly in the politely challenging way she knew well, but before she could form an argument, her father lunged forward so his face was inches from hers and snarled, "My daughter is seventeen years old. She fought in every battle since she was thirteen, she is a proficient warrior, and esteemed strategist, and yet two scrawny thieves can break into camp, steal the most valuable of our possessions, and leave again, and you don't lift a finger! Why is that?"

Sarahfim opened her mouth, ready with a cold reply, but Zarkamal didn't wait for her, "Do you know why we fight?" he thundered.

"Yes father," she said coldly, "I do."

"Because," he continued, and murderous gleam in his eye, "The filthy Izmeelans stole what is rightfully ours! A luck charm, gift from Sellnurrat, demon of royalty!"

"Yes father," she said, making sure no trace of exasperation entered her voice, "It was gifted to us many hundreds of years ago, and it was passed down through the generations -"

"AND IT WAS THE MOST VALUABLE THING IN THE KERMERRANIAN TREASURY, AND THEY STOLE IT FROM US!" her father bellowed. He reached for his belt.

For a moment Sarahfim thought he was aiming for his dagger – it would not be the first time her threatened her with a blade – but instead he withdrew a battered piece of parchment.

Sarahfim disguised a snigger when she saw it – the illustration of the luck charm. It was shaped like a circle, with a complicated cross pressed into it, and, even in the dim morning light filtering into the tent, the drawing gleamed silver, as if with an inner glow.

Zarkamal jabbed a finger at it, "Granted strength, speed, dexterity, and luck in general to the possessor," he told her, as if she didn't know this already.

She regarded him coldly for a moment, "Yes father."

Zarkamal spat on the carpet, then stormed out of the tent.

Sarahfim watched him go, not the least bit perturbed. She walked slowly back over to her mirror, running a hand over the silver and ivory luck charm that was tied under her braid.

She had stolen it easily from the Kermerranian treasury, and her father had thought the Izmeelans had taken it because some of their nobles were there on official business. That was more than eleven years ago now. Sarahfim had been no more than six when she'd taken the charm and had no idea of it's true value. It had been a pretty ornament, something of her own to play with, nothing of power; she had noticed the changes soon, however. The charm made her faster, stronger, more quick thinking. And also . . . it was comfort. Sometimes, when her father became too hard to bear, or when she could feel the ghost of her mother hovering over her, repeating her favorite phrase over and over, "You could do better." the luck charm spoke. It didn't really have a voice, but it urged her to be calm, reminding her that her mother would never say those words again, and that her father would not be on the throne for long.

With the help of the luck charm, Sarahfim could beat every single soldier in their camp. In fact, the only opponent she had lost to since she had the charm was her father, who was either too skilled or too strong to be taken down by luck alone. If that weren't the case, she would have challenged him for the crown and killed him, but maybe it was better this way. The plan was that her father would die in battle – and given her luck, that was rather likely – then she would step into the vacant spot of chief, the Izmeelans, weakened by years at war would be overthrown, and with her lucky talisman, none would be able to oppose her. It was only a matter of time before her father was killed.

Sarahfim ran her finger once more over the smooth ivory surface of her talisman, then turned and walked out of the tent, shoulders erect, and head held high.