The next few minutes were a blur as your new warrior detail made quick work of Eshkar’s guards, and somehow in the melee, Baëkhyun was once more astride his horse, galloping towards you, reaching out, and deftly snatching you from your pavilion, maneuvering your body to sit before him on the horse as he thundered out of the arena.  

He smelled of iron.  Of clean sweat and new blood, and it should have turned your stomach.

It should have.

Shouts from your guards followed, but the horse was swift, and soon you had cleared the inner city and were thundering down the narrow streets of Sippar.  Within minutes, however, the sounds of pursuit reached your ears, and you turned to find your guards riding after you, whipping their chargers into dizzying speed.  Baëkhyun laughed defiantly, his bloodied hands buried in the horse’s mane, his body warm and firm behind your own.  

In your ears, your heart thundered louder than the horse’s hooves.

Some time later, you reached the outskirts of Sippar; the border between your city and Larak.  Baëkhyun pulled the horse to a stop before leaping off its back, and striding toward the boundary stones that separated your city from its neighbour.  Bending, he wrapped his arms around one of the stones--a boulder around four feet across--and heaved.

Slowly the stone shifted, lifting as he prised it from the dirt, only to fling it backwards and out of the way, staggering a bit before moving onto the next one.  And the next.  And the next.  Glistening sweat dripped down his body in interesting ways as he struggled, and you pulled your veil across your face to hide a smile.  Moments later your guards rode up in a frenzy, only to find you calmly mounted, watching as Baëkhyun single-mindedly wrested boundary stones from the earth.  

“Help me,” he growled.

The men looked to you, but you merely nodded, so they dismounted, and put themselves to the task.  It took four of them to drag each boulder from its hole--and only after digging around the stones, to loosen them from the soil. 

Eventually, when a sizable gap in the border had appeared, Baëkhyun stood, panting, and squared his shoulders.  Raising a hand toward Larak, he gave you a fierce grin.  “My final groom price,” he said, his eyes burning into yours as he made his pronouncement.  

“The city of Larak, my Queen, is yours.”

***

The ride back to Sippar was much longer, as none of the horses had the stamina to move at anything above a trot.  Hidden cicadas droned in the fragrant fields of wheat, shining golden in the late afternoon sun, and the insect’s sound--along with the rocking of the horse, and Baëkhyun’s solid warmth behind your back--dragged at your senses, pulling you into a stupor that you could ill afford.  

After the third time you jerked yourself away from the inviting comfort of his chest, Baëkhyun leaned forward, his mouth hovering just above your ear as he whispered, “Sleep, little lamb.”

“I cannot,” you murmured, pulling away from him once more, and glancing at the guards who impassively stared ahead.  

“There’s no shame in being tired,” he whispered softly, intimately.  “Let go.  I’ll take care of you.”

Though the concept was tempting--you hadn’t been coddled since childhood--still, you shook your head, and put iron in your spine.  “No; I’m fine.  I’ll rest once we reach the palace.”  

He chuckled.  “There’s a lie, if I’ve ever heard one.”

He was right.

You lied.

As soon as you entered the palace gates, you were immediately surrounded by a chattering swarm of guards, and advisors all talking simultaneously until you raised a hand for silence.  “As you can all see, I am fine.  Return to your daily business.”  Turning to the nearest servant, you ordered him to bring you the prison warden, and your army captain to your antechambers.  Then, turning to the last lingering courtier, you asked, “Where is the head of the erstwhile king?”

The painted man faltered for a moment, his false otter fur eyelashes fluttering as all attention oriented on him.  “My Queen, we were all in an uproar when you were--” he flashed the still-bloody Baëkhyun a look of pointed distaste--”carried off by this foreign--”

“He is my consort and your future king, Lord Menussah.  Focus.”

Menussah pouted, and smoothed a hand over his perfectly shaven head, preening as he looked down the length of his long nose at a dusty, sweaty Baëkhyun, who only responded with a gleaming, feral smile.  “What’s left of him probably still lies in the dirt of the arena.  With you stolen like some sort of maiden from the barbarian tribes, we didn’t really have time to think about the oversized carcass of an old, dead king.”

“If the body isn’t too far gone, then throw it to the lions,” you ordered.  “Have his head placed in a skin of new wine, and delivered to Captain Gizzal for safekeeping.”

“Great Queen,” Menussah said with an overexaggerated bow before he flounced away, full of self-importance as the courier of royal orders.   

“I don’t think that he likes me,” Baëkhyun muttered quietly, leaning close enough for only you to hear.

“He will survive. Lord Menussah has been trying to win a place as my consort since I was sixteen years old,” you chuckled.  “He doesn’t dislike you, he’s merely upset that you’ve taken the life of comfort to which he anticipated becoming accustomed.”

“Is that so?” Baëkhyun said softly, looking after the colourfully attired courtier.  “I’ll remember that.”

***

After briefly refreshing yourself, you joined the men in your antechamber.  Your subjects sat ramrod straight in their carved cedar chairs, but you were surprised to find a fresh Baëkhyun there, as well--not seated so much as comfortably draped across the chair to the right of your own.  As you sat, a servant entered with a tray of sweet fruit, dripping golden honeycomb, pungent white sheep’s cheese, and freshly baked flats of bread, and set it before you on the obsidian table.  “I did not request this,” you said, frowning, and pushing away the tray.

“I did,” Baëkhyun countered, pushing it back.  “You haven’t eaten in hours.”

“Has anyone here?” you challenged.

The other two men shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.  “No, Your Majesty.”

“See?  Matters of state take precedence over feeding one's belly,” you said to the white-haired man, who merely grinned, and leaned closer.  

“Isn’t it a Queen’s job to feed her people?  You know that they won’t eat without you, and isn’t it unfair to hold mere subjects to your lofty standards?”

Sighing in mild irritation, you signaled the servant to bring enough food for everyone.  “Satisfied?” you growled.

“Soon,” he murmured, leaning back with a smirk.  

After taking the requisite bite necessary to signal the men to start eating, you clasped your hands, and leaned forward, elbows planted on the table.  Eyeing the almost emaciated man sitting beside your war captain, you raised a brow.  “What are you called?”

He swallowed the bread in his mouth, coughing slightly, before reaching for a goblet of water.  “I am called Sagma, Your Majesty.”

“How fares the man who was brought to your prison yesterday?”

“He’s nigh unto death--”

You frowned, and he rushed to finish.

“--but he has betrayed two more spies, who we now have in custody.”

“Excellent.”  Turning to Captain Gizzal, you asked, “Have you heard anything from the scouts?”

“Larak’s army remains in the great City.  It would appear as if Eshkar was counting on your…acquiescence to his demands, and thereby did not marshal his forces.  Furthermore, we were able to keep knowledge of his…demise from leaving Sippar.  We don’t have much time, however.  If too much time goes by without word to his nobles, they will start to grow suspicious.”  

You stared into the distance as you mulled his words.  “Has my army been mobilized?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.  They await your command.”

“Take three quarters of my men and leave the last quarter to guard Sippar.  Begin your march upon the Larakites at dawn.”

“My Queen,” Baëkhyun said smoothly, leaning forward, crowding into your space, “There is a better way.”

Looking at him sharply, you gestured for him to speak.  

“I know your distaste for war, and once your soldiers start to march upon Larak, we will have no way of keeping Larak from learning of our incipient attack, and mobilizing their own army.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Send me, instead.”

You blinked.  “Send…you.”  Sighing, you leaned back.  “You, against the might of Larak?  I know that you are more than you appear, but one man against thousands is impossible.”

“Have you heard of the hydrueban?”

“No.”

“A fearsome creature from the west, with nine heads.  You cut off one, and two more emerge from the bloody neck.  Destroying its body is impossible.  To kill it, you must simultaneously remove all of the heads, and cauterize the stumps.”  His eyes gleamed.  “We don’t need to sacrifice Sipparite lives to defeat Larak’s army.  We need only…” He spread his hands.

Silence reigned as you blindly stared forward, your mind creating, destroying, and reassembling countless plans.  Then, slowly, you looked at Sagma.  “Have the prisoners brought to the throne room.”

***

By the time the prisoners were brought--securely tied, but still fighting and cursing--to your throne room, you were sitting on the dais, dressed in your most imposing finery--the twins curled about your shoulders.  The men were dragged to the foot of your throne before the guards kicked the backs of their knees, forcing them to kneel.  They ranted and raved, cursing the guards--cursing you--but you remained silent.  Impassive. 

Minutes passed.  More.  Still more, until they grew tired, suspiciously looking around at the lack of reaction to their imprecations.  Still, you remained silent.  The men began to fidget, to strain their bonds, confusion warring with defiance on their faces.  Still, you remained silent, until one of them broke, screaming, “Say something!”  Drool dripped off of his chin and onto the floor.  

All at once, you rose, and descended the steps, smiling as you as the prisoner’s breaths quickened.  Slowly you walked to them, and then around--looking them over like so much kine before coming to stand behind them, still silent.  

Finally, the taller one twisted backwards to look at you desperately.  “What do you want?!”

“You will, I think, tell me everything that I want to know.”  Slowly, you circled around to face them, noting how they stared forward, refusing to meet your eyes.  

“We will tell you nothing!” the taller one spat.  “Torture us!  Kill us!  We are prepared to die.”

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