Shock peep’s I’m not writing a Daine fic! But an Onua one! There’s millions of Fic’s on how Numair came to Tortall but I have yet to find one on her, anyways I hope that you like it! 
Now I’m gonna do the math, so here we go. At the start of 

Squire it’s 17th year of Jonathan and Thayet’s reign (bless ‘em.) As we need to go back in time, we can do it by Numairs age who we know to be about 34 we can subtract the 8 years for 

Page, First Test and the Immortals Quartet, are you following so far cuz I’m lost. In The 

Emperor Mage were told that Numair left Carthak shortly before his 21st birthday, and to give our beloved Black Robe a year or so to be a starving street magician and then to get him self established in Tortall he be around 22/23. Onua has to come into the tale at about the time that he is 23/24, at the 6th year of our monarchs reign. So adding on the couple of years where she is supposed to have managed the Rider horses we are now at start of Wild magic where Numair is 26, right? This fic starts two years before she goes to Corus, 4th year of J&T’s reign, and as I feel that she is a little older than Numair she is 22 at the start of this. Please if there is a simpler way to work this out and I’ve missed it don’t tell me because I will cry. 
If you remember from Wild Magic it said that Onua was an abused K’mir wife so that where my story starts.
Whoop’s almost forgot-Disclaimer I don’t own these whish I did but I don’t. 
(Bold and in Italics = Thoughts)
Dark days 
T he scars left by Zhir Anduo’s mercenaries (as no God on this planet would get the young woman to call them an army) were still dark. Sarain she suspected would forever bear the mark as the bones; what was that word? Foz, fossi-fossilized, that was it, of the dead became a part of the landscape it’s self. The young woman had some ideas of philosophy and magical theory as she could read Common at a basic level. Her family had been renowned horse breeders, they were the only K’mir tribe that Jin Wilima had tolerated and that was simply because of their skill at breeding the fine horses he used in his battles. Due to her families proficiency she had been allowed to learn to read and write, especially as they aided her Gift. The Gift was what the fool Warlord, had assumed was the root of the K’miri Raadeh’s talent. The Sarain Warlord had no time for book’s or theoretical notions he only bothered with his own wants and desires. Which was the of conquest pain, supremacy and rape. Kalasin may have been married to Jin Wilima but the union had been political one. 
Kalasin didn’t mind having an arranged marriage I suppose, she knew that she would be a beautiful pawn in men’s games. It’s the price of being a princess. 
The young woman sighed, and let her gaze drift slowly over the surrounding field. 
Kalasin would have accepted her role as the wife of Jin Wilima had the man been a good ruler or had he even been a good man. 
The Warlord had been neither; the brutality he acted out upon his wife had only extended to his people. The man’s devotion to causing Kalasin pain had been sickening, it was his dream to get the proud K’mri woman to beg. Privately the young woman felt that Kalasin had been a threat to the Warlords masculinity, he could take Kalasin and force her to bed but she never ever wanted him. The young woman had been very much a idealistic child of thirteen but even then she had understood the brutality of the world. She had listened to her elder’s talk of the law that Kalasin was protesting against, the one that prevented more than five K’miri meeting at a single time. The young woman had known and been awed by the great Kalasin, her daughter Thayet had once gifted her with a bracelet because she had helped to train Thayets favourite horse. Buriram Tourakom, Thayets guardian had seen potential in the little horse girl and had taught her how to use a bow and the dagger. 
Those were pleasant day’s, not innocent, but pleasurable. In times of death and famine not even a babes mind is free from fear. 
Kalasin’s death had rocked her world when the K’mir tribes had risen up to Kalasin’s call and rebelled at the death of their most prized daughter. The young woman had been traumatized to hear of Kalasin’s fall but understood the action behind it; it was the K’mir belief that sometimes death was the only answer. The Warlord had earned his reward in the end, as had Zhir Anduo because both of them had eventually found their way into the Black Gods hands. 

With all that’s good in the world Mithros’s court will know of the crimes that their bloodthirsty crusades for rule had bought. 
The young woman whose black hair was braided either side of her face rose a hand to shad her eyes against the twilight rays to survey the distant hills beyond the horses paddock. 
I hope Mithros judged but that the Goddess bestowed the punishment for his crimes against Kalasin and the humiliation of Thayet. 
The Great Goddess was known for her vengeance against the abusers of women. The braided haired young woman’s face crinkled up into a humourless smile, 

if that was so all men would end up in Chaos’s Realm. She then went back to her task of grooming down her horses. The only creatures along with her dog that she had left, and that she loved. The conflict in Sarain had never really stopped; it just slowed down once in a while. Eight years ago lowlanders had butchered most of the K’miri Raadeh, the young woman’s tribe and family during the mayhem. They only had twenty horses now, in a portable coral that used to stretch wide enough to hold two hundred. 
Its all his fault, Horse lords, what did I ever do? What did I do? To get stuck with him, ouch! 
One of the few stallions in her little herd put his hoof down hard upon her is if to say you can stop brushing and start moping when I say so.

 The dark headed woman smiled and returned to her work with a passion, it was the only thing that gave her pleasure these days. Her back ached from where she had landed on the stone grate; the mottled bruise that was spreading across the base of her back matched the one beneath her left eye. Only her eye bruise was accompanied by deep gouge that if she wasn’t careful would scar. When she straightened her green-grey eyes tightened and winced with the pain. Its getting better she told herself. She rubbed the base of her back cautiously, her sued shirt felt butter soft against her abused flesh. She had tanned the leather and sewn it herself when the old bull had keeled over the winter before. It was one of the few possessions that she could call her own as a woman in Sarain, but then again a woman was owned by her husband or her father, so nothing was hers. The sound of hoof beets caused her to start like her horses did when spooked. The rider was still away off, but the woman knew who it was. IT was her husband. However the woman wasn’t going to romantically run to him, throw her arms around his neck and then press soft kisses around his face and shoulders. If she’d had the courage she would have taken her tanning knife and slid it between his ribs. She would have yelled a K’mir War cry and watched as his heart burst, as his throat clogged with blood and he drown upon the thick liquid spilling into his lungs. Then she would have her revenge for last eight years, she lowered the brush that she had raised like a knife. She had held it handle down in a attack position like Buriram taught her. It was no good, she never be able to be free of him, she wasn’t good enough to live without him, wasn’t that what he told her every day. 
Horse Lords I haven’t boiled the water or put the pig on the spit! 
She dashed off into the house. If everything wasn’t done for when he got back he would beat her, despite the fact that he had been gone for days and she never knew when he would return. The dust from the path rose up around her bare feet, and added to the dirt clinging at the base of her skirt. The water pail usually needed two to lift it when full, but as her husband had decided that any domestic activity was the work of slaves and females she lifted it alone. Her husband had gradually driven away the rest of her family until only she remained to do the day-to-day chores of 

his farm. Her arms had built up enough strength over the years and learned to deal with the stress of the water pail and constant beatings and breaks. Her body had learned that abuse was a part of life so now it walked with a stoop as if whishing to be as unassuming as possible. It was as if her body thought that if became a part of the furniture he would forget that she existed, like a chair that rested in the corner but was generally ignored because it was just a chair. Her body had learned the lesson that like a chair she could be used without pain, or be punched and kicked until she was suited to the way that he wanted to sit. Her body may have accepted his rule, but her mind did not. She tolerated him; it was her mind that once in a while fought back against his strength as it caused her to raise her eyes to meet his. He hated that; it was if it was a challenge of his supremacy, she’d raised her eyes once when he was entertaining his drunken friends. She hadn’t been able to move for a week. Her blood had mixed with his sweat after he finished. He’s grinned and licked the blood from the corner of her mouth, and laughed with his intoxicated friends as they watched her struggle to breath. The most frightening thing about that night had been the fact that he hadn’t been drunk; most people blamed their darkness and violence on the effect alcohol. Her husband had been stone cold sober the night that he beaten and raped her to the amusement of his friends. 
A shadow passed over the threshold of his house…he was home. The young woman cowered in the corner of the wooden hut, the water was warm but his food wasn’t ready.
Damn him and the food…he was going to hurt me whether the food was ready or not, bastard.
The dark haired woman knew it was stupid but she was beyond caring. As the large shadow entered the room and transformed into a man she raised her fiery gaze and determined face to his. 
Door slammed. 
The horses whickered.
And the dog wined.
The woman cried out once, just after her face rebounded of a fist and before it hit the wall. Now her back and scratch would have to start healing all over again. 

The young woman could hear hoof beets; it was strange because usually that sound would send her running desperately to get her tasks done. But not today. Since he the last time he’d left her, bleeding and catatonic on the floor, a new resolution had built up in her. She would take it no more. Her dog stood at her side like a hunched sentry, he too had had enough. 
He was going to kill me…he held his dark hands at my throat, and squeezed. 
Only the dog’s frantic barking from out side, and his desperate attempts to get in had distracted the man at the last second. A moment in which darkness was ready to settle in and claim the young woman’s spirit. The dog’s loyalty had saved her. 
The woman reached down and caressed his silky ears, careful of the half healed ring around his throat, and the red patch or sore flesh across his jaw. Injuries that were incurred when he’d pulled to hard on his metal leash, and when her husband had silenced him with a whip. She had raised the dog from a pup. The large hunting dog’s mother had been a wedding gift from one of her few remaining relatives. This one was the only pup that the woman had been allowed to keep as he could hunt rats, and brought in small game. The brunette woman only had him now as his dam was gone; she’d been beaten to death by her husband for attacking him. The young woman had only been nineteen, when she’d watched her beloved dog die trying to save her. And after he’d finished with the dog, he pushed her sobbing body that was already sore from his interrupted lesson down and attacked her with hands still crimson and steamy from murder. That night had the first one where he slammed her to unconsciousness. Tonight would be the last time he attempted. 
Her husband’s bloody hands had almost strangled her. In the moment, that instant when a vague mist of comfort and peace settled over her soul, she had suddenly realised a truth. She didn’t want to die. Not because she feared death, the Black Gods cloak was warm and soft. She just didn’t want to die in vain. She’d invited his wrath deliberately, enraged him so that he’d kill her. So that her death like Kalasin’s would make a point. Her sacrifice would show the Saraine that a husband should not own his wife. That it was not for a man to train and chain a woman like an animal. That it was not a husband’s decision wither his wife lived or died. However as she’d felt her body’s rhythms slow and almost stop she knew that she’d lied to herself. She had convinced herself that she was dying a martyr. But deep down she knew that she had simply wanted to die to stop the never-ending agony. 
That’s not the K’miri Raadeh way. She thought ashamed. I don’t want to die a useless death having done nothing in my life to be proud of. 
The young woman fingered the blade in her hand. 
It was razor sharp. 
A Shang would be proud of it. 
Her few possessions were packed on one of the smaller geldings. She picked him because unlike the stallion’s he would be easier and calmer to handle. She would have to take about two other horses to sell quickly on the way, before the magistrate ordered her arrest. She would free the other livestock; some other clan would find and keep them. She had no money at all; the sale of the horses would give her some funding for her journey. He’d always kept whatever meagre profit the little herd made, and then he took that money, gambled and lost. In five years he had squandered away the work of generations. He had taken advantage of a lonely and affluent child, married then abused her inheritance and her body. The young woman had been urged to marry, because although the K’mir allowed woman to possess her own horses, Saraine’s laws did not. She recalled the day that she had first met him, a wealthy merchants son. Not K’miri, but he was charming and handsome to the pretty K’mir orphan, who’d inherited her clan’s wealth at her families’ death. She had only just turned fifteen the day they got married; he had smiled at her guardians, smiled at her. His muscled body had shadowed over her small frame appearing concerned. Now she knew that the constant touches and glances that day had not been protective but possessive. In the semi dark of the candlelight she learnt the lesson with a slap that she must never speak out of turn. 
He was home. He dismounted and charged into the house. 
‘Where are you bitch! Where the hell is my…’ he came out of the house again, striding to where she stood. A tall man with long black hair. His hard body was sheathed in soft travel stained clothing. His handsome face was contorted with outrage. Why have I never noticed that he’s not all that big? That he is not a demonic figure of nightmares but a man. Just a man. Men bleed and men die.
He was twenty feet away now. 
‘Bitch? Woman?’ She repeated in her corroded and dead voice. 
What was her real name? It had been forever since she had heard it. She had almost forgotten that she had her own identity, an individuality not linked to him. 
‘I know my name…’ She rasped, ashamed. 
How long had been since she’d spoken and not screamed. Weeks? No. Months? No. Years? Perhaps. 
The young woman never heard her name spoken from his lips. To him she was ‘A bitch. A whore. A Woman. A Slut.’ To herself she was the coward, the weakling, and the slave. Her birth name was something that she had repressed for a long time. He was ten feet away now, huge and domineering. 
The woman who bore that name would never have turned into such a pitiful waste of flesh. 
‘Its Onua Chamtong of the K’miri Raadeh. Your death.’ She spat out savagely. She would not use her Gift, her heart demanded blood, hot and heavy. Besides she’d prepared her knife special. A war cry, taught long ago, ripped free from her ravaged chest. Deep from within the broken and abused flesh of her torso, her repressed pride burst free from her heart. 
‘Tahoi, charge…’ With that wild command the dog dived. Onua and Tahoi sprang at their oppressor like a starved wolves at a doe. 
Their hunt would have worked, they would have taken down their prize had her husband not carried a knife from the house. 
He slashed the dog down the side. Her knife buried into his muscled ribs, missing his heart and lungs. 
The man bellowed in rage. 
He grabbed one of her braids and flung her into the coral fence. Impaling her shoulder on a tethering spike. 
She screamed. 
He pulled her back, and forced her down. 
‘Bitch! You whore! I’ll kill you, I’m gonna beat you so hard that even the Gods, won’t recognise you.’ He’d lost his knife in the fray, it didn’t matter though. He was never one for toys; he preferred to feel his own knuckles and fists breaking her body. 
He liked it. 
Her eyes through a glaze of cruel ruby met her dog’s liquid brown eyes. She smiled. ‘On…Onua Chamtong. I die nam…ed …as…I…I…was born.’ Her darkening subconscious was lightened by the thought that she would die fighting. Hopefully the wound that she had inflicted upon him would be enough. Enough to kill him…

Cold, grit, pain. Pain. A warm tongue, lapping, lapping. Soothing. 
The black tendrils of the girl’s hair twisted off to form a delicate pattern of spider webs across in the mud. If only the insects that were crawling over her skin would get caught in those webs would leave the young woman in peace. The workers of the dead were already aiming to renew her body and make it apart of the natural order of life and death. Their constant bites and the irritation of flies laying their eggs brought a fresh wave of hurt throbbing around her body. All she wanted to do was lie down, lie and sleep. 
But she wasn’t ready to die. 
Not yet. 
Not while that bastard walked. 
Humans only withstood suppression for so long before hate, and liberation bred forth from their bruised hearts. And once that rebellion and freedom had been released that person was forever marked. Marked with the need to protect others from the same mistreatment. Onua would not allow him, to harm any other poor child left alone in the dark.
The annoyance of the pest’s fluttering around and in her body roused her consciousness causing her chaotic mind start functioning. Something warm lapped at her face and a familiar whine resonated in her ears. A warm mouth was then aiming to clean the blood darkening the young woman’s round, tanned face. The congealing blood from one long gash, caused in retaliation to her frantic attempts to fight back, glued her inky eyelashes together. The cloying fluid had bound her eyes shut, physically blinding her. However her sluggish mind realised the truth of the matter, the fact that she had been blind for years. As a girl she had been blinded with the hope that that he would one day change into the romantic illusion that she had fallen for. When that hope had eventually rotted away in the putrid drudgery that had become her everyday life, her mind by then was blinded with the conversion of his enforced ‘lesson’. The lesson that she said she was worthless without him. As a girl Onua had been a head strong, burly child able to stand up to her elder brothers and sisters with a spirit that shocked even her gentle parents. Her mischievous humour and quick mind usually managed to over come any disagreement without the need to resort to blows. However in the space of the two days it took her family to be hunted down and massacred her spirit had been weakened. Damaged and lost in the desperate and life shattering numbness of grief. Her husband had been so manipulative that even her mind had been twisted and warped by his abuse. He’d convinced her young mind that like the flies that now cleaned her flesh of decay, she was only there to serve him and she herself was nothing but a sordid necessity. 
I’m a fool. 
Onua knew that if she had of really tried to escape she could have succeeded; it just seemed easier to stay with the devil that she knew. 
And if you are told something everyday for so long you start to believe it. I detest him, but I think I know why I never tried to leave. While he was hurting me he wasn’t abusing some other poor child. It was my bad judgement and weakness that allowed him into my life. It should therefore by my strength and independence that removes him from it!
Tahoi’s soft healing tongue had managed to smooth the blood from off her face. 
Her eyes sprang open.
Her voice gritty from screaming and the nighttime dust coughed and attempted to cry out releasing the pressure of the agony. The scream issued as a rushing of air with no sound. The weak sound of a drowning cat smothered in a bag. She sucked in more air and then this time she bellowed in rage at the top of her voice with all the power in her limp body. The harsh echo crusaded across the barren landscape where he had discarded her body. The vibrating waves of sound connected with the roar of the wind and rose up pulsating, bonding, with the song of the hunt. 
The cry was vow to the abusers and music to the suppressed. 

Revenge

The K’mir were nomadic tribes, itinerant, but always returning to certain places to make their camps at selected times of the year. The K’miri Raadeh were no different from the rest of their people. The camp where Onua Chamtong had lived with her husband had not moved in over six years however. The camp had one day become an established farm. The portable corral had been rooted and strengthened into a permanent one. It had been his decision. 
Roaming is for whoring, thieves and begging, murderous gypsies ... not a man like me. Isn’t that what he had said?
Onua had at the time mutinously thought that the brightly coloured gypsies with their close relationships and their passion as one of the most gifted peoples on the planet. She had wanted to go east disguised as one, but a lone gypsy was a more foreign sight than a lone woman in Sarrain. It was a shame as with her colouring she could have passed as one. 
Onua had only just reached the farm, her farm, his farm. 
Soon to be the lands farm.
She reflected with a sparkle of chilling humour. She climbed up a near by tree to achieve a better perspective. The hard bark and the cool winter wind bit into her freshly healed fingers. Causing the pink of new flesh to warp and darken. 
It was an dark hour before dawn making her footing on the densely iced branches precarious. Determination was the only weapon that allowed her to keep climbing. She eventually gained a vantage point high enough to make out the void shapes of the main farmhouse and the small barn. The bleached landscape of the dusty plain had become a jumble of hoary threads that ran off to unknown ends. Snow leaden clouds buried the moons light, so only the largest of silhouettes was distinguishable from within the swirling gloom. 
I hate the night. Evil hands, dark shadows…the absence of light. Nightmares are real. Winter moonlight is the worst as it strips the vivid terrain of its calm nature. Subdues it beneath the firmness of its depravity. It renders the land weak and dead. 
The watery sun, rose over the horizon gradually seeping fragments of detail into the small fences and trees. Nothing moved. Numbness spread from all the parts of the woman’s body. Causing drowsiness to halt and skip her heart beat. Her breath plumed out over the frozen trees. Slowly the young woman brought her gift to light therapeutically warming her limbs and hands. She hadn’t dared use her gift before the disguise of sunrise as the red fire would have highlighted the position, which she had strived for under the cover of darkness. The light would have given her quarry forewarning. Onua had a deep-set sense of honour and had set ideas of what was right and what was dishonourable. The K’miri were a proud people with ridged traditions on the rules of face-to-face challenges. The girl had challenged him once and almost lost everything. She no longer considered her husband a man to challenge. This was a hunt. Not the honest respectful hunt of the wolf to the deer, but the mocking hunt of a stout cat to vermin. Onua wanted him dead.
Onua’s hate filled eyes scanned the newly sunlit farm. Her rounded K’miri features were locked in the mould of a grim purpose. She still carried the blade that had tasted his blood before. Now it would not only taste his blood but it would drink it. 
Her limbs were locked in to position. Her body was primed for battle, but where was her enemy?
Damn it come out you bastard. Get up! Horse Lords its cold. Why did it have to take me so long to recover. Summer till winter. Where are you, you rat infected piece of shit…where are you…
After her husband had left her rotting, half insane with pain and the need for revenge she had dragged her self to the centre of the pool in who’s mud she was dying. The cool water had bathed her wounds and cleansed them somewhat. From there the injured Tahoi has dragged his mistress to the waters edge and applied the curative lap of his tongue to her many deep wounds. Onua had heard it said that a dogs tongue in appose to cat’s inflamed scratch had healing properties. She had in turn weakly soothed his wound and bound it in her precious sued shirt. The huge ferocious looking dog had hunted down food and stolen covers for her. He had pulled her to the water to drink and bathe; Tahoi had loved his mistress back to health. Perhaps the dog’s only fault was his blind devotion as now all his hard work had only bought him back to square one. Onua was back at the evil human’s farm watching and waiting for him to rise. 
The sun was fully up now, but the shack still remained silent. In an instant Onua knew she had been a fool. In her craving for revenge she had forgotten how he left for days and never returned, and with her gone no doubt he had left to find some other poor child to devour. The lithe young woman dived down from the tree branches onto the unyielding ground and charged to the wooden farmhouse. She kicked in the door and viewed the dank interior. He must have left in a hurry. Bit and pieces of clothing and furniture lay everywhere, lost for a want of something to do without a master. The air was old and damp and green moss crept up the side of one wall. White water marks and fungi degraded the floorboards by the dead fireplace.
He has been gone a long time. Damn! I’ll never find his trail. Now she realised what had felt wrong while waiting in the tree; there were no horses about, and none registered on her senses. He had got rid of them all.
Onua trailed through the warped cupboards and found a few items of some use, moth eaten blankets, tin cups, shirts, and overly large but warm boots. All the other items of real value had either been taken by him or pillaged later by opportunist thieves. 
Tahoi entered the dark human cave that smelt like death. Nothing in here was alive except for the burrowing crawlers and the death plants that could kill if eaten. He snorted at the change in the place…why had he ever feared it? It was the man that made him hate it so. His girl had been the only reason that he had stayed. He looked up at her with soulful eyes, as she stood lost in the middle of the biggest room, lost in shadows of the past. He wined at her…what were they to do now that he was gone…there was no one to hate and as he lifted his nose and sniffed… no grazers to watch. She smiled at him, the affection in her eyes was all he wanted and needed. She beckoned him with one hand and he lovingly rubbed his head under her frozen skin but warming emotion. The hand stilled. His heart twisted…what had she seen that made her look as still as she had at the pond? A bit a flimsy cloth…what did his human call it? Paper that was it…paper. 
‘Look Tahoi, look. Its him.’ 
If she wanted to insist that it was the man he would let her but…it didn’t smell like him and he sure had changed in shape. His human carried the piece of paper over to the window and rubbed the marred glass until the white morning sunshine beamed through the beaten pane. 
‘Its his picture…Tuneau Chamto is in sus…susspsion for the …murd…der of his wife Onua Chamtong. Any person who has seen this man is to report to the local mages…strate with any informa…tion.’ 
This papers months old, I wonder why anyone noticed that I was gone. So he is allowed to beat his wife but not finish the job. This land is made upon injustice. 
Her mouth twisted with hate at the worlds blindness, she sighed in frustration and cursed in K’mir. 
Damn it!
Briefly Onua stared out of the window, sighed and then turned back to the notice. She haltingly read on. ‘Chamto was last seen travelling towards Maren border on the Great Road East. It may be east from Tortall but from here its west. ‘West!’ A black excitement built up inside Onua again, she would be able to at least track the way he went. ‘We’ll catch him yet, Tahoi. We will.’ Onua looked in forlorn amusement at her dog. I’ve been on my own for a long time to be sitting here talking to my dog. Ooh well Tahoi’s company is all I need.
She looked out towards where the sun had now fully risen and then in the opposite direction too where it set. ‘West’