The Grey Ones
The Demons of the North: IX

JUNIPER

The sun was already setting. Juniper had lingered in Neema’s abode and shared her supper. There was still no news about what was happening and Juniper had a strange feeling inside her belly. Something was afoot, she felt it in every fibre of her body.

Suddenly, a soldier entered Neema’s tent. He bowed and said something in their tongue, and Juniper could see the woman’s confusion before she nodded, rose, and began working with her herbs and concoctions.

“Lady Juniper,” said the soldier, his accent strong. “The Vasaath has requested your presence.”

Juniper looked at him, bewildered, and nodded. “Tell him I will be there shortly.”

The soldier grunted and nodded before he left.

Turning to Neema, Juniper asked, “What did he say? Any news?”

“They’re going into the fray. They want me to make Dreamgrass powder,” she said, and when she saw Juniper’s clueless eyes, she sighed. “It’s a powerful muscle relaxer from the heartlands of Kasarath.” She tied a piece of fabric over her nose and mouth and took a bundle of dried grass from the ceiling and worked it into a fine powder. “It’s the only thing strong enough to sedate a Kas. We use it when healing battle wounds. Don’t come any closer!”

She held her hand out to keep Juniper from looking over her shoulder, and Juniper felt her pulse rise.

“This powder can cause a large Kas total numbness for a few hours, but it’s too strong for us humans.”

“Why would they want you to make this?” Juniper asked.

“Well,” Neema muttered from under her mask, “the only reason I could think of is that they expect there to be many wounded. Away with you now, girl. Don’t keep the Vasaath waiting.”

Juniper nodded and hurried away. She felt her heart in her throat as she walked through the camp. When she reached the Vasaath’s tent, he said nothing as he took her into his arms and kissed her.

“Please, don’t fight them,” she said to him. “I don’t want you to die!”

The Vasaath hummed and gently caressed her hair. “I am a warrior. I must fight. But don’t worry, menaan. I will come back to you.”

She looked at him, her eyes brimmed with tears. “How? You are grossly outnumbered, and—”

He hushed her gently and kissed her again. “I have never lost a fight, and I certainly won’t lose this one.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because nothing could ever keep me from you,” he whispered and slowly touched the lacing at her back. “Lie with me, Juniper, before I go.” His voice was lustful, rough, impatient. “Give yourself to me, give me your resolve.”

She felt entranced by his touch, by his voice, and by his kisses, and she pressed out a breathless, “yes,” before she was lifted into his arms and carried into his bed.

He was not as gentle as he was before, nor as patient. He was agitated—charged—but she felt the desire surge in her so strongly, she was somehow relieved he wasn’t gentle. Perhaps, she thought, they both felt the looming threat of never being able to touch each other again.

There was no time for careful preparations, no time for consideration. The general proved his might, but did so cruelly. This time, there was pain and there was fear. Her desire, however, was searing, and she embraced him with dedication and certainty. The fleeting pain was nothing in comparison to the crushing fear of losing him.

Their love was raging, passionate, their needs urgent—and their release was so strong, so powerful, it sent them both soaring, one after the other.

Juniper was numb and fatigued but held the Vasaath tightly, as though she thought, deep inside, that if she held him tight enough, he wouldn’t go. But he did.

He kissed her longingly, regretfully, and whispered words she could not understand before he slipped into the darkness of the night to join his men.

Juniper tried to listen to what was said out on the courtyard, but she could hear nothing but her own breaths.

She rose a while later, washed herself, and made sure to drink the potion. The thought that he might have planted a child in her as a gift made her almost purposely spill the drink but she came to her senses and drank it anyway. It tasted just as awful as she remembered it, and she washed it down with wine.

She could not sleep—she was too worried for that—and resorted to drinking tea in the Vasaath’s quarters to keep herself awake.

An hour or so after the general had left, she was joined by Kasethen who seemed just as worried as she. Juniper offered him some tea, and they sat together, waiting.

“I am too worried to go outside and listen for battle,” said she after a moment’s silence.

“I must admit,” muttered Kasethen, “that I’m not too keen on it, either.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Juniper. “Why would my father attack in the dark? It makes no sense! That would worsen their chances considerably!”

“Your father wants to attack at first light,” said Kasethen. “He sent a message earlier telling us that we had until dawn to surrender. But the Vasaath isn’t going to surrender, and he isn’t going to wait until they are ready. He will use the dark to his advantage.”

“What is their plan?” she asked.

Kasethen sighed. “A stealth attack. It’s best you don’t know the rest.”

Juniper glared at him. “Why?”

His golden eyes were filled with pain and regret. “It nothing for a lady like yourself to hear.”

“Kasethen,” she said and placed her hand atop his. “I beg you, tell me.”

The man sighed deeply and told her the horrible plan that had emerged from the darkness of the Vasaath’s mind, and she shuddered at the thought of it. There was little she could say once he had finished explaining to her the dreadful events that were planned. She didn’t even know whether she wished for it to be successful, or if she wished that those men would be spared from the nightmare.

It was a gruelling night, worse than any bad dream, and when the sun was about to rise, she waited impatiently for the general’s safe return—or the beating drums of the City Guard and the brass horns of Westbridge. But there was nothing. No drums, no horns, no general. When she stepped out into the courtyard and watched the sun slowly rise in the east, the morning was quiet. She looked at Kasethen who had followed her outside, and he seemed as confused as her.

“What does this mean?” she asked, but the man just shook his head, bewildered. Disappointed, terrified, sad, and exhausted, she let her shoulders slump down as she said, “I need to sleep. When I wake up, I suppose things will be different. It’s just a matter of how.”

Kasethen frowned but nodded. “Yes, we shall see.”

Juniper couldn’t even cry as she lay down in his bed. There was a feeling inside of her that she couldn’t be rid of, the feeling that something was brewing—like a storm in the distance growing ever so close, dangerous and wild.

She slipped into a troubled sleep and awoke sometime later by the thunderous cheers of the soldiers in the camp, and she sat up. Her heart beat loudly in her ears, and she wanted to run out there, into the general’s arms, but she remained put. Her legs would simply not move, and then, after what felt like an eternity, the canvas parted and there he was.

She was thrilled to see him alive and well, but there was something different about him. Perhaps it was because she knew what he had set out to do, but the only thing that came to her mind was a dark aura of Death around him.

He walked closer, stripping from his armour as he did and dropping the items on the floor; it was not like him to be so careless, and it frightened her. His eyes were burning with victory, but he looked tired, dismal.

“We won,” he said and lowered himself down next to her. “We sent the Westbridge dogs off with their tails between their legs. I am the Demon now, and they will never forget it.” He kissed her, slowly, and looked into her eyes. “I told you I would come back to you.”

Juniper sought in his face something she could understand, but he was a changed man—she prayed it was only momentary. Smiling, she kissed him back and said, “Yes, you came back.”

He moved closer to her, his face weary. Sighing, he repeated, “I am the Demon now.”

“Hush now,” she whispered softly and gently caressed his face. “Rest for a while.”

A deep sigh was released from the depth of his body, as if he let go of a brutal weight, and he placed his head against her bosom.

She held him tenderly, cradled him like a child in her embrace, but there was an itch inside of her that she could not scratch. How much was fair in war and how much could a man do before he was broken beyond all repair?