Revolutions

173 - Inuxeq

I'm disgusted by the realization, but the truth is undeniable: Taqsame's camp is larger than I expected.

From our cover in the sparse brush, I count at least four rows of tents, each one arranged with a precision that tells me this isn't just a haphazard gathering of rogues or rebels. This is a methodical assembly of a well-disciplined army. The camp sprawls across the valley floor like an infection, with flickering campfires in the cold, dry night air. I watch figures move between them—warriors sharpening weapons, men hunched over small fires and sharing a meal between them, scouts returning from their rounds.

A hand on my arm pulls me from my thoughts. I glance at Yachaman, who barely spares me a look before her eyes return to the scene below. She doesn't need to say anything—I already know what she's thinking.

Taqsame is preparing to overrun and overwhelm Haesan's forces. We should leave and warn her.

I exhale slowly and force my grip to loosen on my obsidian dagger. Not yet. Not before we know what we're completely dealing with.

Behind me, the Aimue scouts crouch low, their faces shadowed. Some press themselves flat against the ground, ensuring that their bodies are barely visible against the brittle grass and dirt. For a bunch of farmers, they're proving they could be good hunters—silent, careful, patient. Not warriors in the way I was raised, but capable nonetheless. That's not a compliment I give out lightly, mind you.

A cold wind slides between the trees, kicking up dust. The scent of burning wood and roasting meat drifts from the camp, mixing with the more familiar stink of sweat and iron. This close, I can hear deep, confident voices belonging to warriors who believe they've already won. Just look at them, striding about the grounds and joking with one another. Being so arrogant, just like their leader.

Speaking of their leader, Taqsame's voice doesn't carry above the others, but he's very clearly here. He's always here, weaving himself into the minds of the warriors who've chosen to follow him. They believe in him, like a demigod, the chosen one by the gods themselves. What else can explain how he survived the attack by the Sunfire?

An unbidden memory rises. Two wounded Aimue warriors collapsing at our feet. Blood drying in streaks against their faces. Their tunics were torn and dirt-stained. Their breaths ragged as they told me about the ones who attacked them.

"No colors, no banners... but they said they came for him."

The one they called the Sun.

A hint of movement near the camp's center draws my focus. With their heads bowed and voices low, a group of men clustered around a patch of dirt, using twigs to draw lines into the ground.

Yachaman shifts beside me, her voice barely above a breath. "Okay, Tuatiu. I think we've seen enough."

I don't answer. Instead, I let my gaze trace the movements of the warriors below, watching how they organize themselves, how they carry their weapons. I know these men. Not personally, but in the way all warriors know each other. The way they move, the way they stand, the way they grip the hilts of their blades. This is what they're built for. War. This is the challenge we're set to face. And I don't know if Haesan is ready for it.

The fire crackles, sending out a slow coil of smoke into the cool night air. The Aimue sit in loose clusters, eating, sharpening weapons, or just staring into the flames, hoping the embers hold all the answers to the multitude of questions that plague their tired and restless minds.

I stand near the edge of the encampment, watching them. Waiting.

Yachaman is beside me, arms crossed. We simply remain in silence. But what more is needed to be said to one another? The Aimue agreed to stay. She managed to convince them, cutting through their reluctance like a blade through old rope. They'll fight, to protect Qapauma, Tapeu, and, tangentially, their own homelands.