Chrétien de Parthenay
Seneca Territory (Modern-Day New York)
Down went Ganondagan, in fire and smoke, towering walls and mighty houses reduced to ash. Down went Totiakton, to the sounds of butchery—screaming women and squealing hogs. Down went Gandougarae, defiled down to the very soil of its once-fine fields. And through it all, Chrétien’s spirits sank lower and lower. Why was he here? Why were any of them here? The only war they were fighting was against corn and pigs, their only enemies women and children running to the hills. The warriors of the Seneca were nowhere to be found. Whatever drove them to abandon their own wives and children, their own towns and villages? Chrétien wasn’t sure. But it felt like a trap. Something was off about this whole campaign—he had felt uneasy as soon as they entered Seneca territory, and was just waiting to be ambushed every time they set upon one of the towns. But nothing ever came, and Chrétien started to wonder if his instincts were unfounded.
Chrétien sat on a tree stump absentmindedly, watching the soldiers destroy what was left of Gandougarae. Le Vicomte and the invading party from the north had arrived for the assault on the town Totiakton two days before. Only, their fiery spirits were quickly doused when they realized the state of things. Soldiers under any banner wished, among other things, to fight and kill their enemy. There was no enemy here, and even the sordid joys of raping and pillaging grew dull after a time. The morale now was stale—you could feel the lack of energy in the air everywhere you went. It was both smothering and exhausting, and dragged your own mood down with it.
The native soldiers were even more upset, to the point of becoming belligerent. Athasata and his Flint warriors grew angrier by the day, demanding to seek out the Seneca warriors wherever they were hiding and defeat them. But Denonville seemed unconcerned with all of it, and demanded they follow his orders. Day by day, the tentative ‘alliance’ Le Marquis had formed with his tribal allies was weakening. If nothing changed, Chrétien suspected a mutiny soon—Athasata and Le Marquis had already gotten close to blows twice. That of course put Chrétien in a difficult position. His Deer had been more content to run Le Marquis’ errands for a time, but even they had grown tired and desperate for actual battle. It had been weeks since their triumphant victory against the Great Wolf, and it was not enough.
Chrétien had realized that there was a fundamental disconnect between the two groups of fighters here, an ideological difference that Denonville had not accounted for. He was here, ultimately, to strike a harmful (if not fatal) blow against the Five Nations, and thus, their allies in England. He had decided to invade in the first place in part due to English encroachment on other tribes in the area, potentially cutting off valuable trade partnerships that the French had enjoyed for years. To Le Marquis, if those partnerships remained intact and the fur trade still thrived in favor of the French, this campaign would be a success. But he had called over three thousand native soldiers from different tribes to fight with him, and they did not share the same goals. To them, this was not some brief campaign to deter the English. This was an act of furious vengeance, a crusade to destroy the Five Nations once and for all. Denonville had conveniently used these warriors’ fervor to help him break through the Wendat peninsula into Seneca territory and defeat his enemies for him, but now it was coming back to bite him.
More than anything, Chrétien realized that he felt aimless. He supposed part of it was a symptom of his circumstances, but it ran deeper than that. He was caught between identities, allegiances, ideologies, all of them conflicting inside him. Born a Frenchman, sworn to fealty for King Louis, son of the Lord of Parthenay. And yet he was more at home here among the Deer, adopted into the Chonnonton after earning his place. He could not altogether abandon the mark of his birth, nor could he cast off his sworn oath so easily, even if it was made under duress.
At the same time, he was a pragmatist first and foremost—before he met these Deer and found a new place among them, and new beliefs along with it, he looked out for his own survival and well-being above all else. His new brothers were his bond—Jikohnsasee and Gyantwaka and everyone else were closer to him than all his relatives of birth, besides his sister. But this new family was dying, an entire people on the brink of extinction. As hospitable as they had been to him, as comfortable as he felt among their ranks—it would not be wise to embrace them so wholeheartedly. However little he felt towards his mother country, it was undeniably one of the strongest powers in the entire world, in constant competition with England for the right to claim the throne. True, he meant nothing to the King of France, and likely never would. But a part of him believed it was better to be an ant among nobles than a king among ghosts.
Gyantwaka had tried, to his credit, to help Chrétien, to guide him on the right path. Only, no one knew what the right path was, even someone as wise as him. All he could do was teach Chrétien, filling his mind with information and allowing him to draw his own conclusions. Ever since they reached Seneca country, the two had spent their free time together. Gyantwaka would teach him all manner of things—how to mend and heal wounds, how to make salves and curatives from saps and herbs in the area. But more than the mundane, Gyantwaka’s lessons started to include more and more of the spiritual, the metaphysical, the realm of the False Faces. What did it mean to be righteous? To be cruel? Do any of these actions lead to anything, in the grand scheme of things? What were humans put on this earth to achieve? But despite all the hours spent discussing these questions, Chrétien still hadn’t settled on a good answer. Perhaps, he thought, he never would.
Worst of all, perhaps, Chrétien got the feeling that Jikohnsasee had started to resent him. They had been drifting apart ever since Gyantwaka took him under his wing, and that distance grew with each passing day. In a way, the old man had forsaken her for Chrétien, spending all his time teaching him, like he was preparing him to be chief instead of her. The irony of this was not lost on Chrétien—he was not just an outsider, but a complete foreigner to these lands, and held no allegiance to these people before Le Marquis commanded it of him. What’s more, he doubted Gyantwaka would have taken such an interest in him if Jikohnsasee was a man, or if he was a woman. Despite all her achievements and triumphs, despite decades of hard work, despite killing the Great Wolf herself and avenging her people, she would always be held back by the circumstances of her birth. The thought frustrated Chrétien—like everything else in this world, her womanhood was out of her control, and most of all apathetic to her own wishes. He wondered if she felt as helpless as he did.
Chrétien had grown guilty over Gyantwaka’s preferential treatment, and had thought about talking to Jikohnsasee about it more than once. But he never did. He still wondered why. It was obvious, the way the old man was treating him, the way she felt about it. He had known both of them for long enough at this point to know how they thought. But Gyantwaka was content, it seemed, to leave her by the wayside, and so Chrétien had said nothing on it thus far. Perhaps it was the doldrums of war that drowned out everything else, leaving no time for small talk on silly feelings. Perhaps he was trying to determine if it was his place to intervene between two people who were so close. Or perhaps Chrétien was just making excuses for himself and his own inaction. He benefited from Gyantwaka’s time and expertise, after all, so why would he want anything to change? Was it his responsibility to go to bat for Jikohnsasee, to champion her rights to the old man’s time? Like everything else, he could never seem to come up with a good answer.
A gathering crowd among the ruins of Gandougarae shook Chrétien from his contemplation. He stood up and ambled towards it, shooing his nagging thoughts away like they were pestering flies. He pushed through the crowd of French soldiers towards the front. He saw Le Marquis stand atop a mound of wooden rubble, with his adoptive father not far behind. To his right, he saw Athasata and his Flint warriors start to approach from the distance. What’s going on?
“Écoute, mes marines!” The governor shouted gleefully, his hands raised towards his subjects. “For today is a day of celebration! We have strode into the savages’ heartland, routed their forces, and destroyed their biggest towns, tore down their great palisade walls! We have dealt a cutting blow to them! Rejoice!”
A resounding cheer erupted from the marines. Chrétien just stood there, perplexed. Why was Le Marquis calling for a celebration? They had hardly achieved anything.
“And more than that,” he continued. “I must extend a fervent thanks to our flanking unit, helmed by one of our newest capitaines, Monsieur Jean-Pierre d'Harcourt!”
Le Vicomte smiled, and took a bow. The onlookers cheered again.
“When the savages heard we were approaching from the west,” Le Marquis explained. “They resolved to fly, true to their feeble and cowardly natures. While many escaped, Le Capitaine d’Harcourt and his men were able to cut some of them off as they approached from the north. While they killed many, they also captured some alive, and I am proud to say that four among the ranks of their prisoners have been identified as savage chieftains!”
Two troops paraded a small handful of middle-aged or older Seneca men onto the mound of rubble. The marines jeered at the men, throwing rocks and broken twigs from the ground at them. Chrétien sized them up. None of them carried themselves like chiefs, except the one in the middle. There was a good chance, in fact, that none of them were chiefs, that this was all one big display of false showmanship to placate the marines. But why? And why now?
“Next, I would like to thank our own little savages,” Le Marquis said with a smirk. “Or rather, our valiant allies and warriors from these lands. If I could please have the warrior Joseph join me, so that I may deliver a proper congratulation.”
Athasata broke through the crowd of Flint warriors, and approached the mound. He looked just as confused as Chrétien felt, which gave him a strange sense of peace, albeit fleeting. He stopped at the foot of the mound, hesitating for a moment, then climbed it to stand next to Le Marquis.
“Without the aid of you and your fine warriors,” Le Marquis told him. “It is quite likely that we never would have made it this far, or at least, not without a great deal of trouble. Thank you, and all your comrades, for making the journey here an easy one. In recognition of your feats and service, I offer you these men—chiefs of your enemies, to kill and scalp, as is your custom.”
An uncomfortable murmur spread through the crowd of marines. Athasata looked back at his own men, confused. They seemed to offer him no reassurance, but he turned back around, and nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “I accept your gift.”
Le Marquis smiled and motioned with his hand, and two marines shoved the captured men off the mound. In their bindings, the so-called chiefs stumbled and fell, rolling down the rubble until they reached. As soon as they hit the ground, Athasata’s men set upon them. Chrétien could not even witness the carnage as the men surrounded the captives completely. All he heard was a few seconds of screaming and bloody gurgles before silence returned once again.
“Excellent,” Le Marquis remarked. He said this with an unmistakable disdain as he averted his eyes from the brutality below. “Well, I will leave you to your business, then. And for my marines: rest well tonight, and eat and drink your fill. Tomorrow, we march to the north, and prepare to cross the great lake!”
His last words caused Chrétien’s heart to stop dead in his chest. At first, he couldn’t believe his ears. North was the opposite way they were supposed to be going—it was the way Le Vicomte and his army had come, across the great lake on their boats. Why would they be heading north now? Unless…
Suddenly, it all made sense—the fanfare, the empty congratulatory speech. Le Marquis was planning to retreat back to New France, and take his marines with him. They were done here. The campaign was over.
The other marines began to break file, resuming their prior activities. Chrétien just stood there stunned as the crowd dispersed. As it did, he saw Jikohnsasee near him. She stood there, too, but her entire body was trembling with anger. Seeing her made him angry, too. This was not what they were promised. Why were they stopping now? They had barely lost any men—the campaign so far had faced practically zero resistance outside the skirmishes in old Wendat country. What the hell was going on?
“Monseigneur!” Chrétien called to Le Marquis as he began to climb the mound of rubble. The governor turned, looking down at Chrétien like he was vermin.
“What do you want?” He replied.
“I… I just want to understand, sir,” Chrétien began. He stood for a moment at the top, catching his breath. “You said in the morning we would head to the north. But we just came from the north. The other towns, the rest of their warriors—they’re either south or east of here.”
“What’s your point?”
“I… I just don’t understand. We’re winning. We haven’t lost hardly any soldiers. Why are we turning back now?”
Le Marquis sighed condescendingly.
“Listen, boy. I know this might be hard to understand since this is your first campaign, but most wars are not fought and won in a month. We invaded with a deliberate and strategic objective: to destroy the towns of l’Sonountouans, and any of their warriors we came across. We met that objective. Now we’re going home.”
“But we haven’t accomplished anything. We won a handful of small battles, killed some pigs. And I’m supposed to just head back to the capital with my head held high, pretending that we’ve scored some great victory?”
“Are you so desperate to die on the battlefield? We have won, little man. Go find some wine and make merry with your savages. Besides, Christmas is just around the corner. We shall celebrate it in our homes with our families, rather than out here in the filthy wild."
“But—”
“Dismissed.”
With that, Le Marquis turned and stepped down the mound, heading towards the ruins of the town. Le Vicomte looked at Chrétien for a moment—Chrétien couldn’t tell what lay behind his eyes. Malice? Jealousy? Contempt? Pity? Perhaps all of it. He said nothing though, and simply turned and followed his master closely at his heels. Like the lapdog he is.
Chrétien sank to his knees atop the rubble. His entire mind went blank, his body numb from all feeling. This was it? This whole campaign, this crusade that he had committed every part of himself to, mind body and soul. All the autumn months he’d spent training, the countless combat drills and formations, working tirelessly to hone his body and mind. All these battles fought, side by side with his comrades, clashes of stone and steel as bodies piled up on the ground. And now it was over. It hadn’t even been two months, and it was all over. And all Chrétien had to show for it was a few dead Iroquois and an empty cavern where his heart used to be.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
He heard someone else climb the rubble, and soon enough, Jikohnsasee was there, standing next to him.
“What did he say?” She asked. “What did he tell you?”
“I…” Chrétien began. He couldn’t even find the words. How could he? What was he supposed to say to her? That Le Marquis had just decided to end this? That it was all over for both of them, just because a single man commanded it? That she and all the other Deer who had sworn vengeance upon these people would never see it? That she, just like him, was merely at the whims of a man who could hardly even understand the war he had started?
“It’s over,” he said. “It’s all over. That’s what he told me. Tomorrow, we pack up our things and head back over the lake. It’s done.”
“What?!” She stood, balling her hands into angry fists. “But we haven’t done anything!”
“I know. That’s what I told him. He doesn’t seem to care. I have no idea why. It doesn’t… it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Take me to him,” she said. “I need to speak with him. I have to try to persuade him otherwise.”
“It won’t work. He’s the governor of New France. He thinks he’s the king of his own little kingdom. He doesn’t listen to anybody.”
“Let us speak with the Flint Chief, Athasata. I doubt he has been told of this."
Chrétien nodded, and stood. Together, they made their way around the city's exterior to the other side, where Athasata and his legions of men idled.
"Joseph," Chrétien called to him, wading through the crowd of Mohawk warriors. Soon enough he found him, meditating on the ground.
"What is it?" Athasata asked.
"Are you aware of what the Onontio plans to do?" Jikohnsasee asked him.
"I do not. Why?"
"That little charade on the hill was his victory speech," Chrétien explained. "He's calling it quits."
"What?!"
Athasata stood at once, his eyes sharpened.
"I know, I know," Chrétien said, raising his hands. "I don't know what he's thinking."
"We would ask if you'd join us in speaking to him," Jikohnsasee said. "Your words carry more weight than ours."
"It isn't even a question," Athasata said. He was already pacing towards the French camp. "Come."
It didn’t take long to find Le Marquis—he was sitting by a campfire, accompanied by Le Vicomte and a few other captains.
“Onontio,” Jikohnsasee said as she approached. She knelt on the ground, bowing her head in respect. Le Marquis returned none of it. He saw her and Chrétien standing beside him, and sighed, like they were annoying inconveniences rather than his own soldiers.
“What is it?” He asked.
“I understand that you plan on returning to New France tomorrow with your troops. I’d strongly urge you to reconsider doing so.”
“This is your idea, is it?” Le Marquis asked Chrétien, ignoring her completely.
“No, Monseigneur,” Chrétien replied. “I mean—yes, it is, in that I think retreating would be a terrible idea. But Jikohnsasee has come of her own volition, as a representative of her soldiers. If you consider their loyalty important to you, please listen to what she has to say.”
Le Marquis said nothing at first. He looked back to the other nobles, like this was all some amusing joke. Chrétien stood there, bearing the heat of all their gazes. Then Le Marquis stepped forward, standing uncomfortably close to Chrétien and Jikohnsasee. His breath was rancid.
“I’d like to remind you both of something,” he said. “You lead a half company of soldiers. And how many remain now, after the campaign? Twenty? Less? Do you seriously think I care about the loyalty of twenty of my soldiers? You are but a drop of sand in the vast desert of my army. You are less than an afterthought—you are dust blowing in the wind. I fought the corsairs of Barbary off the Strait of Gibraltar. We would lose a hundred, two hundred men with every attack, sometimes more. And you would have me change course because of the whim of twenty? You should consider yourselves lucky that I have even allowed you to speak to me. You, boy, are an ensign. The only reason you’re even standing here is because of your adopter, and the only reason I have deigned to grant you this audience is because he has accomplished himself during this campaign, unlike you and your half-company. You might want to thank him.”
He eyed Jikohnsasee now. She towered over him, but he did not waver.
“And you”, he continued, pointing his silk-gloved finger in her face. “You are here because you have sworn fealty to me, not the other way around. Need I remind you that you and the savages you command have already fought one war, and lost. There are hardly a handful of you left now. But you were not content to flee, and try to keep on living as best as you can. No, you and your compatriots desired vengeance, more than anything else. And out of the goodness of my heart I have granted that for you. I allowed you to swear fealty to me, to stain the pristine colors of my Kingdom’s uniform with the iniquity of your kind. And here you are, second-guessing me."
"You spit on your own soldiers as if they were worms," Athasata interjected. "And you call yourself their chief? Let me remind you that I command a third of the warriors here. None of my men are content to leave now. We have not accomplished anything."
To Chretien's surprise, Le Marquis just shrugged.
"We have accomplished our objectives," he said calmly. "If they don't align with your own, that is a shame, but ultimately, it's not really my problem."
Le Marquis sighed.
"I understand your desire to stay here," he said. His tone was irreverent and condescending, like he was speaking to children instead of commanders in an army. "However misguided it may be. I can't fault your poor fools for failing to see the bigger picture. Fine, then. I certainly don’t have anything better to do, so allow me to indulge you two for a brief moment. I assume you have both noticed that there seems to be a distinct lack of Sonountouans in their own country. Every city we've laid siege to has been miraculously empty, have they not?"
The three didn't answer, staring coldly at him.
“Right. Now, let’s perform a little thought experiment, shall we? Where in the world have all our enemies all gone? Do we suppose that they’ve just up and disappeared? How very convenient for us! I shall inform the King of their new weakness! We'll have the whole Five Nations under our control by the spring.”
“They are likely luring us into some trap,” Jikohnsasee conceded. “But that doesn’t mean we just retreat. The Western Door tribe will never forget what we’ve done, and will surely wreak vengeance if we do not destroy them now."
"I agree," Athasata chimed in. "You must understand that my brothers are like wasps—once you’ve overturned their nest, you must crush each one of them and burn it all to the ground, or they will come back and sting you, over and over again. We can’t just leave.”
“Ah, but we can,” Le Marquis returned. “And, in fact, we shall. This is, believe it or not, the best time to do so. My experts have informed me that the ice of the Cataraqui* shall soon be cold enough to freeze the entire lake over. So we are faced with two options: retreat now, and prevent l’Iroquois from retaliating unless they cross a sea of ice, or stay here, and cut ourselves off from being able to leave. The ships are already waiting for us in the bay. Would you have us lose our fleet and only means of egress, all to chase an unknown enemy that has evaded us for weeks?”
“No,” Jikohnsasee said. “We're not saying that. But—”
“Good! So you’ll return with us tomorrow, and await further orders. Dismissed."
Le Marquis turned to address Athasata.
"Obviously, I do not have command over you as your soldiers like I do these ingrates," he said, waving at the other two like he was shooing them away. "You are of course, then, welcome to do as you please once we depart tomorrow. If you want to stay here and get killed, that's your God-given right. But you will do so alone."
Le Marquis turned on his heel, and returned to the campfire. Chrétien looked over at Jikohnsasee, who just stood there, stunned. At least we feel the same way. Athasata lingered for a moment. His fists tightened, but he did not say or do anything further. He walked away as quick as he could, a hidden rage lighting a fire in his step.
Chrétien shuffled uncomfortably, trying to figure out what to do, if there was anything to do at all. He lingered there for a moment, watching the other nobles drink and smile at each other. It disgusted him, their nonchalance at all of this. This was just another game to them, a chance to curry favor back at home. Whatever happened, whoever died—as long as it wasn’t one of them, they couldn’t care less.
A quick motion caught the corner of Chrétien’s eye. It was the quick and fervent movements of a pen. A scribe sat by the campfire near Marquis, writing furiously. Le Marquis was speaking to him—no, he was orating to him. And suddenly, it all made some horrifying sense to Chrétien. That scribe was writing a missive, no doubt describing the details of this perfunctory “invasion”. It was all a big show—to King Louis, all the way across the seas, it would no doubt seem like a success. Le Marquis had, after all, burnt the three largest Seneca villages to the ground, and raised the banner of his kingdom high atop the smoldering embers of their ruins. And that’s all that mattered: the ever-distant King’s approval. Le Marquis had been comfortable acting as his own little prince, isolated from the motherland and her scrutinous gaze, but this was still temporary for him. His true goal was to curry enough favor with Louis to be summoned back to a higher station, no longer having to deal with the wild New World and its lack of conveniences for the rich. It was all a sham performance, and Le Marquis had pulled it off with aplomb.
Anger returned to him, boiling in his stomach. Anger at the injustice, anger at the apathy. But what was he going to do? Tell Le Marquis off again, earn another slap across the face? None of it would make any difference. He was the Governor of New France, and Chrétien was just an ensign. A cog in a machine of thousands, one hardly aware of his own existence. A pawn, to be used and discarded.
No, there was nothing to be done. In a just world, they would continue the fight, to the Seneca and the rest of the Five Nations, and never rest until they all lay in ruin, and the Iroquois were defeated. But perhaps, in a truly just war, this invasion would have never happened in the first place. Nor would it have needed to. In another world, in another life, the Wendat would still be here, and the Erie, and the Chonnonton. They would all be alive and thriving, and there would be no need for wars or invasions or genocides. But that was not the world they lived in. Chrétien’s heart sank in his chest, cold and despondent. He could do nothing but sit and wait for Le Marquis’ next orders. At the end of the day, despite his hard work, despite his great triumphs and terrible failures, he was just another soldier.
“Oh, one more thing,” he heard behind him. He turned back to Le Marquis, who didn’t even look at him. He pored over the details of the scribe’s missive, ensuring the lies inked on it were convincing enough. He continued speaking, his back turned to Chrétien the entire time.
“Due to Capitaine d’Harcourt’s success in capturing some of the savage chiefs,” Le Marquis said. “I have promoted him, and granted him new responsibilities. That includes the command over your little half-company, among four others. You will report to him from now on. Jean-Pierre, why don’t you give your new ensign his first duties?”
Le Vicomte looked surprised—clearly this was an impromptu assignment. But of course it was. This was all part of the game, all to show Chrétien and Jikohnsasee who really held the power here.
“Of–of course,” Le Vicomte said. He stood, thinking for a moment. He looked at Chrétien, who just met his gaze, deadpan. Chrétien showed nothing in his face because he felt nothing. Even his animosity towards Le Vicomte paled in comparison to his newfound one towards Le Marquis, his anger at the situation.
“Well, we’ve spoken about building that fort at Niagara,” Le Vicomte mused.
“Oh, come now,” Le Marquis replied. “Surely you can do better than that. Listen to how they have whined and complained about the unfairness of their current station. They yearn to do battle with the savages, to destroy them at any opportunity. Such a valiant cause should warrant a related post, no?”
Le Vicomte thought for another moment more. Chrétien’s heart began to race, and a numbness spread over his whole body. It felt like he was on trial for some crime, and Le Vicomte was the judge who would decide his fate.
Then, a smile spread across his adoptive father’s face. It was a maniacal smile, and Chrétien could not help but feel like it spelt his doom.
“They trained in Le Fort Frontenac before this, didn’t they?” Le Vicomte asked. “We’ll need someone to defend it after we leave for Niagara. We can station them there, have them hold the fort for us.”
“See? That’s more like it,” Le Marquis laughed with a clap of his hands. “What a splendid idea. And here I was thinking of who should be assigned to its defense, when the perfect answer was right here in front of us.”
“But—but that’s the nearest fort to their territory,” Chrétien protested. “They will surely come to retaliate, and the fort is the first place they’ll attack.”
“All the better for you,” Le Marquis said. “You wanted to serve your King and country, and destroy the Iroquois. This way, the Iroquois will come to you, and you can destroy as many as you can. And I do believe that’ll be a great many—the walls of that fort are high and strong, as you know, and the poor savages are not ones for sieges.”
Chrétien could say nothing in response, his words caught in his throat, hard enough to give him heartburn. Le Vicomte was sending him to his death. He knew the fort would be attacked—it was not only the closest to Iroquois country, but also isolated from the other forts in New France. They would be forced to defend against whatever force the Five Nations sent after them, all with two dozen men. It was suicide, and everyone around that campfire knew it. More than that, it was convenient for them. Le Marquis would be rid of a nagging thorn in his side, and as he already said, twenty soldiers meant nothing to him. And Le Vicomte would be rid of the only person left to defend Anne-Marie from him. This was it. He would cross the lake, take his post. And then he would die. It might take a month or two, perhaps even a year for them to launch their counterattack. He might take a few dozen Iroquois with him, a hundred if he was lucky. But then he would die.
He turned to look at Jikohnsasee for support. To his surprise, she was kneeling on the ground, her eyes closed. She chanted in her native tongue under her breath in a steady and undulating rhythm. The nobles around the campfire watched her with a condescending amusement.
“What on earth do you suppose she’s doing?” Le Marquis chuckled.
Jikohnsasee finished, and stood again, towering over all of them.
“I am cursing you,” she told him. “All of you. I prayed to the gods and the spirits I hold dearest, the ones who have watched over me all my life. You should pray to whatever gods you hold dearest instead. Pray for me and my men’s safety, and our health. For should we fall under your command, defending this fort, we will not die. Our souls shall wake as angry spirits, and torment you for the rest of your miserable lives. And when those lives end, they will not end well. My spirits are those of vengeance. They have empowered me to kill those who have wronged me, to destroy the mighty warriors of the Five Nations. And they have told me of your fates, little men. Oh, they have told me so much. Whatever you will have us suffer, whatever doom you will leave us to, you will suffer tenfold. Mark my words, you will suffer all of it and more.”