Accidental Suicide
"The best government is a benevolent tyranny tempered by an occasional assassination."
- Voltaire
The smoldering ember of the Poan ranger’s pipe floated in the gloom. He tapped the pipe idly against his palm before bringing it to his lips and taking a long, thoughtful drag.
He let out a self-satisfied sigh and lay back on his bedroll, thick white smoke billowing out around his head. He stayed there for a moment letting the pungent weed seep through his sub-conscious, raising his heart-rate and filling him with an edgy excitement.
Chuckling to himself, he stood up and paced over to the campfire. He lifted the cooking pot off the spit and emptied its contents over the flames. He was careful to stay away from the steam that sprouted up in a thick column as the contents were consumed by the hissing flames. Accidental suicide would not be an honorable way to die.
"Would his Lordliness care for a drink?" he asked, leaning over Jordan and checking the bonds that held the chieftain’s hands behind his back.
Jordan was sitting upright on his bedroll. Bound, gagged, and clearly seething with rage.
"On second thought," the ranger said, satisfied that the bonds were secure, "perhaps a strong thirst will keep you docile. The Lady doesn't strike me as the type of woman who appreciates a quarrelsome captive."
He sucked heavily on the end of his pipe and blew a thick stream of smoke directly into Jordan's face. Jordan's eyes began to water as the acrid fumes burned the membranes of his eyes.
"Oh. That's sweet. You're overcome with emotion," the ranger mocked, "Don't worry. I'm sure she won't let you suffer. Much."
Subduing Jordan had been a relatively simple job for the ranger. When their search party had made camp for the evening, he had been assigned the dreary task of rustling up dinner. He had carefully prepared two separate meals, while the other rangers busied themselves with setting up their camp. The first was for himself and Jordan, and the second, larger portion was for the other rangers. In the latter, he had adjusted the recipe slightly. Aside from the standard broad beans and lentils, he had also included a very generous serving of castor beans. These didn't have much of an effect on the flavor of the meal, but the high concentration of ricin had turned a straight forward bean stew into the last supper for the other rangers.
The four of them were now lying on their bedrolls, retching and groaning in agony. There was little hope for their survival. They would suffer for at least a week before succumbing to the effects of the poison. If they were lucky, the hearthland scavengers would end their torment long before then.
Jordan had been tucking heartily into his own stew when the ranger knocked him out with the hilt of his sword. The Poan Chief had crumpled forward onto his stomach, spilling his meal and falling face-first into the steaming puddle. The ranger’s confident hands had swiftly bound him with rope and propped him up on his bedroll.
The ranger gripped Jordan's head, pulling it forward so he could take a close look at the angry red blotches that covered most of it. He tutted under his breath.
"That's a nasty burn, Your Lordship. You really should be more careful with your food."
He laughed heartily as he delivered a couple of sharp slaps to the unconscious chief's face, and Jordan began to come around. The warlord roared with rage as understanding dawned on him.
"Calm yourself," the ranger ordered, delivering a swift boot to Jordan's stomach.
Jordan groaned in pain but stopped his impotent bellowing. It is quite difficult to maintain an indignant rage when you are struggling for breath. He settled for glaring menacingly at the ranger.
The ranger snorted and hocked a large wad of phlegm at his feet. He was not quite self-assured enough to spit on Jordon. There was still the barest hint of deference in his demeanor. Going so far as to actually spit on him would have crossed a psychological line he himself, was not fully conscious of.
A piercing shriek split the evening air. The ranger turned away from his captive and held out his right arm. Seemingly out of nowhere, a small, evil-eyed, raptor landed on the outstretched arm, its claws digging into the thick leather of his gauntlet. The ranger pulled some strips of dried meat from a small pouch he kept fastened to his belt and fed them to the bird. He clucked and cooed soothingly to the animal, stroking its lurid orange feathers as it tucked into the food. The orange coloring was an adaptation to the deep oranges and yellows that the sky now oscillated across, throughout the course of the day, and what passed for the night.
"Have our guests arrived?" he asked as the bird swallowed the last piece.
The raptor gave a short shriek in response. The ranger nodded and gently jerked his arm up, launching the bird back into the air. It flapped quickly and disappeared into the haze of the emberlight sky to resume its sentinel duty. There was nothing more useful in a ranger's arsenal than an eye in the sky.
He turned his back to the light of the Skyforge and scanned the horizon before him. They had camped on a slight rise in the open steppe and he had a clear view of the surrounding terrain. He spotted a small cloud of dust rising in the distance directly south of his position. He watched patiently as it drew closer, accompanied by the faint rumble of hooves.
"Ah yes," he said, turning back to Jordan, who had managed to sit himself back upright, "The lady comes to collect her prize."
He emptied the contents of one of the other ranger's knapsacks on the ground and used the bag as a makeshift hood to cover Jordan's head. He patted the warlord on the head before pushing him onto his stomach with his boot.
The ranger took another long drag from his pipe. He suddenly found that he needed it to calm his nerves. The swiftly approaching thunder of hooves seemed an ominous portent and was making him nervous. He had good reason to be nervous. Turncoats occupy a very delicate space. Once revealed, the sanctity of their lives becomes very tenuous indeed. Those who have been betrayed become enemies, and the benefactors of the deception no longer have any need for them since the turncoat no longer has anything of value to them. The Poan Ranger was not a quick-witted man. It was not until Slovenia and her bodyguard thundered into his camp that it began to dawn on him that his subconscious was screaming a dire warning at him.
"Hail, my Lady," he said nervously, arm raised in salute, "for a moment I thought I had misjudged the time of day, but for the sound of hooves I would have sworn that brightlight was upon me."
Slovenia chuckled as she dismounted from her horse. She glanced over at Ghana. The burly Knight caught her glance and winked back at her.
"Perhaps we should name you, The Lady Flattered," Ghana said, as he dismounted too.
"Aye, perhaps," she replied, turning to the ranger, "Well Zambia, it looks like my investment has paid off."
The ranger put out his pipe and bowed his head.
"My Liege," he replied, "you were most generous. I could hardly refuse."
She smiled cheerfully at this. He had not taken much convincing. Her glamour had been so effective that she had not even needed to touch him to get him wholly subservient to her. She looked around at the other rangers and frowned when she realized that, while incapacitated, they were in fact, still alive.
"Ghana, put those writhing lumps of Poan excrement out of their misery. Their incessant moaning is giving me a headache."
Ghana nodded. He swiftly and efficiently dispatched the wretched men with a carefully placed dagger behind the ear. An eerie silence descended over the camp. Zambia suddenly felt very exposed and alone.
"My Lady," he said, swallowing nervously as he indicated to his captive, "I present to you, Chief Jordan, Grimlord of the Poan Steppes."
"I thank you, Ranger," she said, addressing the nervous Poan, "Come forward and embrace your Queen."
Art by Daniel Sheldon https://www.facebook.com/speednperspective & https://twitter.com/Beatroute
