Naamah's Blessing

columns of ants, grown men shivered and wept, jostling one another as they cast terrified glances at the waiting ants.
    One who was not weeping pushed his way through the throng, his face impassive. Plates of gold were sewn into his armor, immense gold plugs stretched his earlobes, and he wore an elaborate gold headdress adorned with feathers and red woolen fringe. A pair of younger warriors flanked him.
    Raphael smiled. “At last.”
    The
Sapa Inca
Yupanqui approached the edge of the moat and halted, his gaze seeking Raphael’s. “You are the one who calls himself Lord Pachacuti.” He cast a raking glance over the steel-clad warriors. “I see you have my most useless son with you.”
    “May I kill him myself, Lord Pachacuti?” Prince Manco called in a high, fierce voice, his gauntleted hand clutching his sword-hilt.
    Ignoring him, Raphael murmured to his herald.
    “The Divine Lord Pachacuti offers you the honor of death by his own hand!” the herald announced.
    The
Sapa Inca
was silent a moment. “If I consent to this, will you accept the surrender of my people?” he inquired. “Will you spare them further bloodshed and horror?”
    This time, Raphael deigned to reply on his own. “If they will acknowledge me the
Sapa Inca
, I will do so.”
    The ruler of Tawantinsuyo gave a single curt nod. “Then it shall be so.” He turned to the throng behind him. “Such is my final act. When I am slain, you will kneel and swear loyalty to Lord Pachacuti. I order it so!”
    There were a few cries of protest, and the two warriors at his side, whom I guessed to be two of his other sons, argued bitterly against it, but the vast majority of Qusqu’s army, trapped between the heavily guarded moat and the seething mass of ants, simply looked stunned and relieved.
    Waving all protests into silence, the
Sapa Inca
Yupanqui called for a ladder to be brought forth from the fortress and laid across the moat. His own sons lowered it in place, their copper-skinned faces expressionless save for the tears that streaked them. As the
Sapa Inca
made his careful way across the rungs, I found myself weeping, too.
    Upon reaching the ground, he paused before me, reaching out with one finger to touch my tears.
    “So such strange eyes can weep,” he murmured. “It is good to know.”
    “I am sorry!” I whispered. “So very sorry.”
    An expression of profound regret touched his features. “That is good to know, too.” Turning to Raphael, the
Sapa Inca
removed his headdress with dignity, holding it forth with steady hands. “Lord Pachacuti. This is yours now.”
    Raphael’s hands trembled a bit as he received it, and he exhaled a long, shaking breath. “Lord Yupanqui, I thank you.” Although I could sense he was itching to don it, he passed it instead to his herald, who accepted it with a reverent bow. “But I shall not wear it before the priests ordain me.”
    The older man gave an impassive nod. “That is wise. It is always wise to honor the gods. It seems it is their will that you prevail here.” Sinking to his knees, he bowed his head, exposing his neck. “If you would show mercy, strike swiftly.”
    “I shall,” Raphael promised, calling for a sword. “Bring me your best blades!”
    His D’Angeline-armed warriors, the odious Prince Manco included, hastened to proffer their hilts. Ignoring the hilts, Raphael examined their blades instead and selected Temilotzin’s. Unlike the others, the steel blade wielded by the Jaguar Knight had sustained no nicks or scratches, and the edge remained keen.
    “You fought well today,” Raphael said to Temilotzin. “You fought with wisdom and cunning.”
    The spotted warrior shrugged. “It is what I do, Lord Pachacuti. Your Quechua do not understand edged weapons.”
    Testing the heft of the sword, Raphael cut the air, making it sing, a bright, keening sound. “Now!”
    Beneath the shadow of the blade, the
Sapa Inca
shuddered.
    The blade fell.
    It was a clean blow. Like all D’Angeline noblemen, Raphael knew how to wield a sword, and with his physician’s knowledge of anatomy, he’d struck true, severing the
Sapa Inca’s
neck. His head rolled free and his body slumped to the ground, blood spilling from the trunk of his neck. I swallowed against a surge of sorrow and nausea, thinking to myself that if I never saw another beheading in this lifetime, it would be too soon.
    But the deed was done.
    To a man, the warriors of the army of Qusqu knelt in homage to their new