Akwiratheka

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Akwiratheka had been a formidable warrior since his youth. He had quickly grown taller and stronger than his brothers and other children his age.

At the age of ten, he could defeat a fifteen-year-old with his fists, and by fifteen, he was as tall and strong as a grown man. At seventeen, he went hunting and returned with a massive deer, and at twenty, he single-handedly killed an adult bear that had awakened mid-winter, when it should have been in deep hibernation.

His reputation spread far beyond his tribe, earning him the most beautiful women and the finest home for his family.

The great Hendrick Theyanoguin had made him his adopted son, and when he was killed at the Battle of Lake George, he entrusted the tribe's future to Akwiratheka with his dying breath.

In truth, the old man didn't have that authority. It was up to the matriarch to decide who would lead the Mohawks. Luckily for Akwiratheka, the matriarch—his adoptive sister—held him in high regard.

She was Hendrick Theyanoguin's biological daughter, unlike him, but they were close nonetheless. They often spent long nights talking, eating, and smoking together.

Even though they didn't always agree, far from it, she made him the leader of the Mohawks. For three years now, since Hendrick Theyanoguin's death in 1755, Akwiratheka had been doing his best to guide his people toward greatness.

His adoptive father had frequently spoken to him of his dreams and ambitions. Though they formed a single longhouse with the other Haudenosaunee tribes, that didn't mean the Mohawks should be confined to the modest territory they currently occupied.

They were like a people trapped between two titans locked in constant conflict, with an ally they couldn't absorb without shattering the Great Peacemaker's vision. Their only path forward was to let the red serpent and the white serpent destroy each other.

Then, the Mohawks could take their rightful place and expand their territory to the coast.

The English were not blind to their ambitions. They had dared—perhaps too soon—to proclaim that one day the Hodenausaunee would return to live in New York, and this had not been well received. But Akwiratheka cared as little for their opinions as he did for the cries of a duck about to be eaten.

But above all, Akwiratheka was a father.

He had many children. Some were, unfortunately, no longer with him, but he still had four sons and a daughter.

His eldest, Kahionhes, was an adult and a force of nature, much like him. With each passing year, he resembled his father more and more. He was Akwiratheka's greatest pride, even though he still had much to learn.

His second son, Tayohseron, was no slouch either. His main flaw was his excessive love for challenges and his overblown pride. In that respect, Tayohseron was more like his father than Kahionhes.

His third and fourth sons were both very young. Rawenniyo had potential, but he was too impulsive and overly eager to impress the Mohawk chief, his hero. Akwiratheka had to admit that the current situation—the fact that he had been captured—was entirely his fault. It was he, not his son, who had insisted Rawenniyo accompany him. He had wanted to rush his training as a warrior, and now his son was a prisoner in this fort.

As for Tehonwaskaron, he was too young to be involved in adult matters. Akwiratheka had decided it was best to let him play and enjoy his childhood without any concerns.

Tehonwaskaron was endearing and often asked to ride on Akwiratheka's back. Not only did the great chief allow it, but he also enjoyed it. He loved spending time with him—a privilege he had scarcely afforded his other sons.

But none of this compared to his feelings for his only daughter, Onatah.

She was his little princess, his treasure, his ray of sunshine, and so much more. She meant more to him than anything else in the world. While he would do anything for his children, he would not hesitate to destroy the world for his beloved daughter. Woe to the man who dared to covet her!

"Chief Akwiratheka? We're ready."

"Good. My tomahawks."

The warrior respectfully handed his chief his favorite weapons, which he accepted. As Akwiratheka turned, his gaze met that of his eldest son. A flame seemed to burn in Kahionhes's eyes, but Akwiratheka had no intention of letting him join.

"No, not you, Kahionhes. You stay here."

"Father, I can—"

"Show me your arm."

Kahionhes froze under the imposing figure of his father, who towered over him by a full head.

"Your arm," Akwiratheka repeated in a threatening tone.

The warrior with long black hair obeyed and showed his injured arm. The frightening wound was hidden beneath a thick, blood-soaked bandage.

Without mercy, Akwiratheka pressed down hard on the wound. Kahionhes grimaced immediately, his face turning as pale as fresh snow. He didn't cry out and remained standing, refusing to show his pain.

Akwiratheka's cold gaze bore into his wavering son as he pressed even harder. Kahionhes couldn't endure it and fell to his knees.

"You stay. Watch the English."

He stepped past his kneeling son and joined the other warriors who had come with him.

***

The night was long, dark, and silent. The only positive thing was that the rain had stopped.

Adam was deeply asleep, reliving a memory of François—something that hadn't happened in a while.

He was in Corbie, François's hometown, attending a very important meeting with the parents of the woman who was supposed to become François's future wife. She was also present, her cheeks red like those of a young girl in love.

But François didn't love her. He didn't even feel any sympathy for her.

In truth, he knew very little about her. Her passions didn't interest him. She might have been kind, but he had no interest in her.

Above all, she was very unattractive.

Agathe Desmoulins was short and round, with oily skin marked by a difficult adolescence, dry, straw-like hair, and eyebrows so thick they seemed like a broad bar across her eyes.

Her main asset was her parents' wealth, modest compared to French nobility but respectable to most people. This was what interested François's parents, who wanted a profitable marriage for their son.

They had told him—or rather told François—that love would come later, but he hadn't been convinced. François's enlistment in the King's army had followed shortly after this first meeting.

DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG!

A bell rang out in the center of the fort, violently pulling him from his sleep.

What—?!

A string of drool trailed from his mouth, but his mind was clearer than ever. In an instant, he was up and dressed.

Learning to dress quickly was one of the first things you learned in the army, as it was essential for mounting an effective counterattack.

"The Indians are in the fort! Everyone, get up!"

"Quick! To arms!"

"Find the enemies! To the ramparts!"

In no time, the entire garrison was on alert.

Adam hurriedly left the barracks where he had been sleeping and rushed forward to locate and neutralize the intruders.

In the darkness, only ominous silhouettes and restless shadows could be seen.

Following an instinct, he headed to the storehouse where the young hostage was being held. By now, the boy was no longer left exposed to the elements—he would have frozen to death in this dreadful weather.

"Follow me!" Adam shouted to his men, their faces still worried and tired.

"Where are we going, Lieutenant?"

"To check that the prisoner is secure! They're probably trying to free him!"

Leading about twenty men, Adam moved quickly to the southern part of the fort, where the storehouses for cannonballs, powder, and other military supplies were located. Naturally, they hadn't left the boy near these, especially the powder, for fear he might do something rash—even at the cost of his own life.

The young officer opened the left building's door and was relieved to find the child still there, tied to a cannon carriage so he couldn't stray too far from his cot.

Phew! He's still here!

Adam couldn't hide his relief and immediately ordered his men to form a line in front of the door, ready to fire if the Indians decided to come this way.

It feels like they infiltrated the fort from the north.

"Sergeant Marais, go gather information on the number and location of the enemies. If you find Monsieur de Bréhant or Monsieur de Montcalm, inform them that the hostage is secure."

"At your orders!"

"Sergeant Laroche, try to gather men to guard the ramparts. The enemy might use this attack as cover for a larger assault!"

"At your orders, sir!"

Adam watched his two subordinates disappear into the darkness, unable to mask his own concerns. Since joining this corps, he had learned to fear the English. They were capable, disciplined, well-equipped, and cunning when necessary. They were formidable adversaries.

Before this, he hadn't thought much of English soldiers. He had known they were strong, but that was during the First World War. His knowledge was insufficient to form an opinion of them during the Second World War, but it was clear in his mind that the British Army of the 21st century was a shadow of what it had once been.

In a word, Great Britain was no longer frightening.

But they weren't the only ones.

The French Army, humiliated during the Second World War, now seemed barely capable of waging war against terrorists in Africa. To him, it had become an army of bureaucrats relying on outdated equipment and leaning on its allies.

Without nuclear weapons, France would certainly have stopped being taken seriously long ago.

But here, in this era, it was a titan rivaling the great colonial empires, capable of holding its ground even if they united to bring it down.

For over a year now, he had been proud to be French.

"What's happening?! Let me go!" the young Iroquois shouted, pulling at his chain and interrupting Adam's thoughts.

Adam refocused his attention on him, his gaze distant. That seemed to calm the boy.

"Silence. You're loud."

"Is it my father? Has he come to save me? Haha! Then you don't stand a chance! He'll crush you!"

"I told you to shut up, kid. I can't understand a word you're saying."

Adam had only learned a few words, and even that had not been simple. With Brother Joseph, it had taken immense patience, the kind worthy of respect from a saint.

But those few words weren't enough to understand what this child was saying, especially given how fast he spoke. Even though he enunciated each syllable, the speed at which he uttered them left Adam unable to catch anything.

To his ears, it was just a stream of strange sounds.

"Hey, you know all your friends are going to die because of you, right? None of them will leave here alive. Their blood will be on your hands, kid. Doesn't that bother you?"

Adam's voice was eerily cold and calm, as if he were talking about something trivial. Like some mundane accident.

Even he was surprised by it.

What was that?

He didn't recognize his voice—more precisely, his tone. He was somewhat aware that he couldn't speak here as he would in the 21st century. Yet, it was only now that he realized he was talking about the deaths of dozens of people as if it were nothing.

His face turned somber as he realized he was dangerously changing because of this war.

The child stayed silent.

Maybe he understood what his captor meant, or perhaps he had realized that talking to this man with a large scar on his temple was a waste of breath. Only Rawenniyo could say.

Just then, a great commotion broke out outside the building. Several gunshots rang out, accompanied by terrifying screams.

Fuck! Now what?!

Adam drew his pistol and cautiously peeked outside.

"Oh, shit..."

Bodies lay everywhere in front of the door, both Native warriors and French soldiers. The remaining French troops were doing their best to fend off an enemy on the rampart.

Adam watched as a long arrow struck the chest of one of his subordinates, who collapsed with a loud cry of pain.

He couldn't help but take a step back.

"Damn it!"

The commotion was drawing more soldiers, but the Mohawks seemed to hold their ground.

Boom!

A loud noise echoed above his head. Someone was on the roof.

He recognized footsteps, a sign that the dreadful noise was not the sound of a lifeless body falling.

Several Native warriors appeared in front of the building's door, forcing Adam to retreat further. He could see their intimidating silhouettes outside and hear them speaking to one another.

The child behind him could hear them too and called for help, causing Adam's heart to leap in his chest.

Shut up, for God's sake!

Of course, the Natives heard him loud and clear and pushed the door open.

Their leader, a towering figure, entered, gripping two bloodied tomahawks firmly. He had to duck slightly to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe.

His merciless gaze immediately locked onto the young Frenchman, who had positioned himself behind the child. Adam was using the boy as a shield, pressing the barrel of his pistol against his temple.

His finger trembled on the trigger, but Akwiratheka had no doubt the cowardly insect would pull it if he stepped any closer.

"Don't come any closer! Or I'll kill the kid!"

The Mohawk chief froze, his gaze flicking between his son and the one threatening him. He didn't speak Adam's language but understood perfectly from his tone, gestures, and expression.

"Release my child, and your death will be swift," he said in a deep, hate-filled voice.

"Father! Save me!"

"Back off, now!"

"If you don't release my son immediately, I promise you a slow, agonizing death!" the chief roared, his voice erupting like a volcano. "You'll beg me to finish you off!"

"Back off! Damn it!"

The tension was immense, and neither man seemed willing to back down. Inside the building, the Frenchman and the Iroquois barked threats at each other without progress, while outside, the situation grew increasingly dire for the Native warriors.

Although they had come in force, it wasn't enough to overcome the garrison. They were being killed off quickly, forced to retreat south of the fort.

Akwiratheka was informed amid the cries and wails, and it only fueled his fury. He refused to leave without his third son. Then he heard the Frenchman speaking in his tongue.

"You... warriors... leave... or... child... die!"

The words were crude, as if spoken by someone missing half their teeth, but they were the same ones as earlier in the day.

"You want us to leave? Impossible! Not without my son! Give him back to me, now!"

"Father!"

"You... warriors... leave... or... child... die!"

"Is that all you know how to say?!"

The chief was enraged, but every second counted. His warriors were dying, and he was making no progress.

"Chief, we're out of time! We must leave!"

"NO!"

"YOU... WARRIORS... LEAVE... OR... CHILD... DIE!" Adam shouted, pressing the pistol harder against the child's temple.

"FATHER!"

"CHIEF!"

For the first time in his life, Chief Akwiratheka felt powerless. Even at the Battle of Lake George, when they had been slaughtered like dogs by the French, he had never felt this way.

No words could capture the turmoil in his torn heart.

The Frenchman was terrified—it was obvious—but he was the one with the power to end this. He held his son, he held the gun.

Akwiratheka would have given anything to see that pistol turned on him instead.

The mere thought of his child lying in a pool of blood crushed him, making it impossible to think clearly.

Finally, despite his son's cries and pleas for rescue, he stepped back.

Adam's eyes widened as he saw the anguish on the giant's face.

Only then did he truly grasp what he was doing. Fear was suddenly replaced by overwhelming shame, so strong it made him want to vomit.

What am I doing, for God's sake? Am I really doing this? Taking a child hostage?

His eyes shifted to the boy's tear-streaked face, then to his trembling pistol.

What... what am I becoming?

Under the gaze of both the chief and the boy, he lowered his pistol and reached for a large black iron key hanging from a nail, out of the child's reach even with a tool.

Slowly, he inserted the key into the mechanism binding the boy's ankle. When he turned it, there was a metallic click, and the shackle came loose.

The boy looked warily at the soldier before running to his father. The giant immediately enveloped his son in his arms, lifting him as if he weighed nothing.

"Leave," Adam murmured, his armed hand hanging limply at his side.

Akwiratheka raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. If he delayed too long, he would die with no peace of mind. Turning his back on the Frenchman as if the man wouldn't change his mind, he muttered, "We will meet again, Frenchman."