Are You Finished

“Speak your piece quickly, for I’ve a job to do.” Rastaban felt confident when he imitated Rami’s tone, and he heard Dravi hesitate.

Then Dravi said, “You’re not his son, so stop trying to be.”

Rastaban said, “You are his son, and it’s long past time you start acting like it.”

Dravi’s answer was to slash at him with a hunting knife. Rastaban dodged, brought up his own knife to block. They tussled briefly, but Dravi’s years of hiding behind his mother had failed him. Rastaban gained the upper hand swiftly and pinned Dravi to the wall.

“Are you finished?”

Rastaban Knew

Son. The word echoed in Rastaban’s mind all that summer, through the ceremony declaring him a man to the final hunt of winter. He didn’t know if Dravi ever heard it, but Dravi didn’t matter, because Rastaban knew. He was Rami’s son.

It was almost winter when they reached the valley where Rami’s people lived. They returned to the valley each winter, and Rastaban had missed it fiercely. He’d set off for sentry duty up the mountain, posted in a cave that overlooked their encampment. He knew Dravi was behind him the whole time.

“Orphan,” Dravi began.

He was wrong.

Let The True

“The hind looked like it was killed in one sure stroke.” Rami knelt beside Rastaban as he skinned his prize.

“She was,” Rastaban said.

“And yet you are injured.”

Rastaban continued skinning.

“Don’t think I don’t see what my jealous wife’s whelp has been up to.” Rami reached out to ruffle Rastaban’s hair, then paused and placed a hand on his shoulder, like he did with the other soldiers.

Fierce pride burned in Rastaban’s chest; Rami considered him a man now.

“He means to kill me,” Rastaban said.

Rami rose to his feet. “Then let the true warrior prevail, son.”

Dirt Clean

At sundown, the boys assembled at the edge of the camp, kills in hand. Rastaban had brought down a hind with a single, swift throw. He was unsurprised to see Dravi bearing a generous brace of rabbits, but then Rhajj, one of the other boys, wore a guilty expression and carried two rabbits of his own.

“That many? Really?” Khouri asked.

“Everyone but Rami will know it’s a lie,” Rastaban said easily.

Then Khouri frowned. “Why is your face bruised? Did you have to wrestle her to the ground? It looks like a clean wound -”

“Dirt clean.” Rastaban looked away.

Of Boys and Men

It was pathetic, how easily Dravi was subdued.

Rastaban leveled the tip of the spear at Dravi’s throat. The moment he tried to lunge for the knife Rastaban had ripped out of his grasp, he’d run himself through on the spearhead.

“There is no bigger kill than man,” Dravi said. He lifted his head defiantly.

It would have been easy to lean on the spear and let nature finish its work, but Rastaban eased off slightly. “There are bigger kills than boys.”

“I am a man.”

Rastaban scooped up Dravi’s knife. “Only if you return tonight with a real kill.”

No One's Prey

If Dravi was nearly as good with a knife as he was at charming food out of the women, Rastaban might have been afraid, but he was busy seeking out the ultimate kill - a large cat or maybe a wolf. Most of the boys would come home with practical kills, the sort to be made into food, but wolf pelts were very warm, and Rastaban wanted one of his own.


He was ready for it when Dravi rustled through the grass to his left, and when the first swipe of the blade came, Rastaban dodged. He was no one’s prey.

Rastaban Would

There was little fanfare for the first hunt. Some men offered their sons last-minute hints, but most of them were raring to go. Rastaban gave his spear an experimental heft, a few practice jabs. He was ready to go.

There was only one moment of fanfare, and that was when Rami gave the signal. A single motion of the hand and the boys were vanishing into the tall grass, ready for prey.

Rastaban didn’t look back, simply crouched as he’d been taught and walked soundlessly, ready to spring. The men knew not every boy would return, but Rastaban would.

No Bigger Kill

Dravi stepped away from Shruti’s side, and Rastaban saw that he was armed only with a single, long-bladed knife. Rami hunted with the same sort of knife, and Rastaban knew what that meant. Dravi came to stand beside Rastaban and Khouri, pretended to sharpen his knife a few strokes.

“Father is pleased with whoever brings back the biggest kill,” Dravi said.

“Then may the best hunter prevail.” Ritual words were cheap, but Rastaban had tired of Dravi’s games.

“You know,” Dravi said, keeping his voice low, “there’s no bigger kill than another man.”

Rastaban shrugged. “Good luck with that.”

First Hunt

Twelve years old was the first time any of the boys were allowed to hunt on their own. Today would be the first time the men stayed back and let the boys go out and forage for food on their own, show they were worthy of remaining with the army. Rastaban stood on the edge of the grassy plain with his spear. Beside him, Khouri was nervously counting his arrows. There had been murmuring among the boys, for Dravi rarely hunted with them, and none of the boys believed Dravi would try for his first hunt today.

They were wrong.

So Am I

Khouri walked with Rastaban at the rear of the hunters’ ranks, bow strung and at the ready. Rastaban was armed with a spear and scanning the grass of the steppes. This was their one chance to venture this far north before returning to Rami’s homeland, and they were supposed to hunt the biggest beast they could find. Tales ran rampant of giant tusked beasts, and Rastaban was eager to bring one down.

“Dravi hates you,” Khouri said. “As does Shruti. They want you dead.”

“They can try,” Rastaban said.

“Dravi is Rami’s son,” Khouri said.

Rastaban shrugged. “So am I.”

Indeed

“Why do you help with women’s work?” Rami asked.

Rastaban was helping him sharpen arrowheads with a piece of flint. “Women are powerful.”

“You are stronger than most of them,” Rami said.

At twelve, Rastaban was taller than most of the other boys, faster, leaner, and could keep up with the soldiers during the hunt.

“And yet they can flatter and charm their way into anything they want - even out of death.” Rastaban set aside an arrowhead and picked up another piece of flint to make more. “The women know more than men realize - they would make excellent spies.”

“Indeed.”

Learning Curve

Rami taught Rastaban how to command an army. Kneeling in the dirt with a pile of sticks and stones, Rastaban learned to move a thousand men over mountains and rivers to defeat an army twice as large.

Rami ruffled Rastaban’s hair. “You have a quick mind for this. Well done.”

Rastaban knew Dravi watched from the shadows, sought the same praise, but Dravi would cheat at hunting and playing, and the other boys knew it.

When Rastaban wasn’t learning to make war, he helped the women with their chores. He learned to smile and compliment. Dravi learned to fear him.

Thank You, Dearest

When Rastaban finished with the last of the wounded, he watched Dravi huddle with Shruti and some of the other women. Khouri’s mother, he noticed, was apart from the women, standing over her husband’s body. Khouri stood beside her, solemn-faced, and Rastaban knew what he must do. He darted out of the camp and wandered a ways until he found a clump of wild flowers, and he plucked some of the biggest and brightest of the bunch.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and laid the flowers beside Khouri’s father.

Khouri’s mother smiled, ruffled his hair, and said, “Thank you, dearest.”

Men and Women

Rastaban learned to love roaming across the world with Rami and his soldiers. Sometimes he, Dravi, Khouri, and the other children would be left behind with the women so Rami and his men could raid for supplies. There would be mourning when some men failed to return, and Rastaban learned to be useful by helping dress wounds so he was out of the women’s way. Dravi, Rastaban saw, followed the women around and comforted them in their mourning. Rastaban also saw that, while Rami and his men praised Rastaban for his work, the women loved Dravi. The women were powerful.

Whatever Game

Dravi played with the other boys the next day after the men had made camp, and when the men suggested a mock-war, Dravi assumed command of one the teams, Khouri at his side. Whenever Rastaban was in command, he liked to use Khouri as his lieutenant, and Dravi knew it. Khouri cast Rastaban a wary glance, but he accepted Dravi’s word and stepped up to lead.

Rastaban could be a foot-soldier, for no man could be a good leader if he didn’t know what his troops had to do.

Whatever game Dravi wanted to play, he would lose.

Whatever Victory

Rami looked inordinately pleased that Dravi had caught his own rabbit, and he had Dravi sit with him that night at the supper fire. Usually Dravi sat with his mother. Rastaban sat on Rami’s left, as he always did, and watched Dravi roast the rabbit proudly.

Across the flames, Dravi caught his gaze and cast him a smile, a smile that turned smug when Rami ruffled his hair. Rastaban made a point of sharing his second rabbit with Khouri, who had only managed to catch a baby rabbit. Whatever victory Dravi had thought he had won, it would not last.

Insistence

“Rastaban, let me have one of your rabbits!”


Dravi popped out of the underbrush and nearly startled Rastaban into dropping one of the rabbits he’d caught.

“Dravi, what are you doing here? I thought you were with Shruti -”

“You’re supposed to call her mother like she asked. Now - a rabbit!” Dravi insisted.

Rastaban didn’t think he could ever call that woman ‘mother’. “Why do you want a rabbit?”

“Father said he wanted each of us to bring a rabbit for supper. You’ve caught three - give me one.” Dravi’s eyes were dark, cold.

Rastaban hesitated. Then he handed a rabbit over.

Too True

“Dravi doesn’t like you.” Khouri was one of the other soldiers’ sons and a good runner. Rastaban had admired him from the sidelines of several games when he’d opted to sit out with Dravi.

“I noticed,” Rastaban said. “I don’t know why.” He shouldered a bundle of kindling sticks and started back toward camp.

Khouri trotted alongside him. “He’s afraid The General doesn’t love him anymore.”

“Rami is his father - of course he loves Dravi,” Rastaban said.

Khouri shrugged. “The General is nicer to you.”

“Maybe Dravi should hunt more,” Rastaban said, but he knew Khouri’s words were too true.

Dark-Eyed and Sullen

Dravi was dark-eyed and sullen when Shruti tugged him away from her skirts and pushed her toward Rastaban, who had been about to follow the other boys out to help the men pack up the camp.

Rastaban paused and turned. “Hello.”

Dravi mumbled what might have been a hello in return. He was bigger than Rastaban, more well-fed.

“We should help the soldiers,” Rastaban said.

Dravi eyed the other boys, who gazed at him with distaste. He said, “Don’t wanna.”

Rastaban shrugged and hurried to help the others. He could feel Dravi’s eyes on him the entire time.

Of Course You Did

General Rami found Rastaban awake and sitting beside the fire, roasting a very small fish on a spit.

“What are you doing, child?”

“Making breakfast,” Rastaban said. He smiled up at General Rami. “Would you like some, General?”

The general knelt. “Please, call me Rami. Now, that is a very small fish, and it would be cruel of me to take it for myself. Where did you find it?”

Rastaban pointed. “Down in the river, with the other boys. They were taking too long with the spear, so I caught this with my hands.”

Rami smiled. “Of course you did.”

A Someday Kill

“Then why did he bring that boy?”

“For you to prove yourself,” Shruti said. “Listen to me, Dravi. You must go with Father, you must hunt and fight with the other boys. You must defeat that child, understand? You must prove to your father that you are his son, that you will reign in his stead.”

“I don’t like fighting and hunting.”

“Learn to like it. Now go.”

“Will I have to kill that boy?”

“Someday,” Shruti said. “Now. To bed.”

Rastaban reached out from the pile of furs and found a stone. He slept with it at his side.

Make Sharp

“You do that for me. Human life is not a treasure, Shruti. It is a tool and a weapon. A general must not be afraid to make his weapons sharp. Now, if you will excuse me, I have my men to attend to. Make sure Dravi sleeps well, hm?”

Rastaban listened to the angry words and wondered if Shruti would send him away. But she couldn’t send him away unless she was a witch, and best he could tell, she was only a woman.

“Mother, does Father not love me anymore?” a boy asked. Dravi.

“He will always love you.”

Treasure Above All

Rastaban found a nest of furs close by, and he wriggled into it to lay down and be warm, safe.

“Is Dravi not good enough for you? Your own son?” the woman demanded. She sounded angry.

“Shruti, Dravi is a good boy, but you spoil him. My son must be a general in my stead, a warrior,” General Rami said. “You will not let him hunt or fight with the other boys, so I found a boy who will hunt and fight so Dravi will not be in danger.”

“But Dravi is your son. You must treasure him above all.”

Not Your Own

Dravi eyed Rastaban warily. “Will I have to share my food with him?”

“He will earn food of his own when you two play games,” General Rami said.

The woman stared down at Rastaban. “Will I have to care for him? As my own?”


“He’s not your own,” General Rami said, “and he will care for himself. Won’t you, Rastaban?”

Rastaban didn’t like the way Dravi was staring at him. But he nodded. “I will. Teach me, and I will take care of myself.”

General Rami looked pleased. “Good. Find a place to sleep. We will wake you at dawn.”

Playmate for Dravi

One woman pushed to the front of the crowd. Some women were crying, for their husbands had not come home, and other women were admiring the treasures their husbands had brought back for them.

The woman had a boy at her side, one a year or so older than Rastaban.

“Rami, welcome home.” Her smile was warm, and for a moment she reminded Rastaban of mother, but then she saw him, and her face turned cold. “What’s this?”

“I found a boy in the village. A playmate for Dravi.” General Rami smiled. “His name is Rastaban, and he is strong.”

Share in the Spoils

General Rami’s camp was far, far away from the village. Twice Rastaban fell asleep to the rhythmic pounding of hooves, and twice when he awoke the horses were still running. The third time he opened his eyes, he could see, in the distance, the glow of campfires, a cluster of tents and people moving.

A cheer rose up when General Rami called out, and soon they were riding into the middle of the camp. Men and women clustered on all sides to cheer for the general, to share in the spoils the soldiers had brought back.

Rastaban wanted some food.

General Rami

The man clapped Rastaban on the shoulder. “He’ll make a good soldier. Come along, boy. What’s your name?”

“Rastaban.”

“I am General Rami. You shall be my son.”

“Sir, you already have a son.”

“And my wife has given me no others.”

“You could have more than one wife, sir.”

“I will take this boy. He is strong.” General Rami rose up. Rastaban saw he had a sword gleaming at his hip. “Round up the men. Our time here is done.”

The soldiers nodded and hurried to do his bidding. To Rastaban, General Rami said.

“You shall ride with me.”

Not Even Crying

“Would you like to come with us, child?” The man ruffled Rastaban’s hair the same way mother did.

“Come where?”

“To our camp,” the man said. “We have food and water and a fire.”

“I want my mother to wake up,” Rastaban said.

The man knelt down, sighed. “She can’t wake up. If you stay here with her, you’ll fall asleep just like her and never wake up.”

Rastaban glanced over his shoulder at his mother, then up at the man. “You have food?” His village hadn’t had food for days.

One of the soldiers snorted. “He’s not even crying.”

Not Waking Up

“Commander, I’ll kill him.” Another soldier stepped forward.

The man shook his head and wrenched the knife out of Rastaban’s hand easily. He was still smiling. “Don’t. This child has spirit. One of the few of this village who genuinely fought back. He’s what - five, six years old?”

“Six,” Rastaban said indignantly, still trying to squirm free. “Wake up my mother! I want you to wake her up right now!”

The man scanned the hut and then said, “Your mother’s not waking up, child.”

“Why?”

“She’s dead, brat,” another soldier said.

The man frowned. “You can’t say it like that.”

Then He Smiled

A noise outside the hut startled him, but he didn’t go back to the furs. He scooped up his mother’s fallen knife and clutched it with both hands, stared at the doorway, waiting. He edged back into the shadows, listening to the guttural voices of the enemy soldiers. A shadow fell across the doorway, and Rastaban felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest. He clutched the knife so tight his knuckles were white, and when the soldier stepped into the room, he lunged.

The soldier cried out and dodged, caught Rastaban by the collar. And then he smiled.

Blood Remembered

Rastaban remembered blood. He saw it in his dreams, the same dreams where he heard his mother’s screaming. Soldiers had overrun their camp in the middle of the night, and he’d done as his mother ordered, squirmed under a pile of furs and did his best not to breathe until the noise stopped. But the noise didn’t stop. It got quieter, and there was less screaming, and so he poked his head out from under the furs. Mother was covered with blood and hadn’t screamed in a while, so Rastaban crawled over to her and tried to wake her up.

Interlude 2

He stood on the mountain and stared down at the world, at two armies springing to life in river valleys. Women rallied and danced, swords high in the air as they spun in perfect precision. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the first clash, and it made him shiver.

The army in the Indus River valley was ragged with crooked lines, but the men there had spirit, and with the right leader would become fearsome indeed. He brushed a lock of colorless hair out of his eyes and smiled down at the armies with bright, momentarily- brown eyes.

She Had a Plan

Dakshana learned how to charm and flatter, lie and cheat, and she absorbed it all. And when she was done, Old Master took her back down the mountain with nothing but the clothes on her back, and it was time for her to put her training to use among the mortals. They met up with a band of traders heading for the summer steppes to trade with the mortals of other nations. It was Dakshana’s job to enter the clan and forge for herself an army of loyal followers. She had a plan - it would be an army of women.

They Didn't Sleep

Dakshana learned to dance, the proper way to tilt her head or cast her gaze or sway her hips so her audience would be distracted long enough for Old Master to slay a target. She learned to sew her own clothing and weave her own rope, to forge her own weapons and tools and how to improvise whatever she needed. Old Master made her learn the ways of armies, and they spent hours considering strategically placed stones in the snow until Dakshana could defeat Old Master with her army of rocks. They didn’t sleep and they only ate when necessary.

On the Rooftop of the World

On the rooftop of the world, Dakshana learned to fight with her bare hands, how to break a man’s arms in three places at once or snap his neck and render him lifeless in an instant. She learned to wield a sword, or two swords one in each hand. She earned accuracy with a dagger and a bow, finesse with a staff and a spear, the power behind a well-placed stone in a sling. She learned how to cook meals out of anything she could find, and she learned to make poisons and detect poisons in all her meals.

And She Learned to Sing

Kneeling on the frozen stone and dirt, Dakshana learned to write her name in a dozen different languages. She learned to read and speak tongues she thought she’d only heard in dreams. In a frozen pool of water she discovered her own face, the color of her eyes and hair and learned that, in same places, she would be called beautiful. In other places, with her bright yellow eyes and curly black hair, she would be called a witch. She learned to use the runes Chadstone had taught her, to summon a wind or rain. And she learned to sing.

Taught Everything

Dakshana was faster and stronger than any mortal human could claim to be, but Old Master was faster and stronger still. By the time they made it to the top of the mountain, she was ten times as strong as she’d been in the cave. She could spot handholds and footholds in an instant and leap up the face of a mountain like a beetle or a lizard. When she was on the rooftop of the world, Old Master trained her to be fast, as fleeting as the wind and as quick-twisting as a stream. Old Master taught everything.