Perhaps All Colours

"So you really think he's the one?" Shanka asked.

Old Master nodded. "So the Voice tells me."

"You hear voices?"

"Just one. I see him, too. He told me I'd find you. When we're done with Rastaban, the Voice will tell us where the next one waits." Old Master shrugged.

"What does this 'voice' look like?"

"A man. With hair of moonlight and eyes of newly-broken dawn--"

Impossible. Shanka's hand went to the hilt of her sword.

But Old Master grinned and continued. "Or ordinary, human brown. His eyes have no colour at all, or perhaps are all colours."

(AN: confused about the Voice? Check the tags for "interlude" and maybe check the posts on either side of the interludes. Yay for back-dating entries.)

Who Do You Think?

“Sir, we found the guards. They’re unconscious but mostly unharmed,” Rhajj began.

Rastaban curled his hands into fists. A roar of fury coiled behind his breastbone, but he refused to give into his emotions. He had to keep his head clear, if only long enough to find Shanka and put her head on a pole.

“Wake the men and circle the camp with fresh guards. Send scouts to follow Shanka’s army north toward the steppes.”

“Shanka’s army?” Khouri echoed.

“Who do you think knocked out our guards, idiot? Go!”

Khouri snapped off a salute and ducked out of the tent.

No Man Yet

Malia and Shanka stood on a hill above Rastaban’s camp and watched the soldiers scurry about, panicked at finding their guards and scouts unconscious in a heap on the south side of the valley.

“We could crush them in a single battle,” Malia said.

“We’re being patient right now,” Shanka said.

“What’s your plan? Or is it his plan?” Neither Malia nor any of the other soldiers asked about one man - old, greying, too spry to be real - who travelled with the troops.

“My plan is amusement,” Shanka said, “and evaluation.”

“No man is worthy of you.”

“No man yet.”

Bested

Rastaban watched her walk away and felt furious with himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so helpless, either. He watched the line of soldiers he’d thought was his guards withdraw, and then he spun away, dashed back into camp.

“General,” Khouri said. “Where were you? The scouts said --”

“Get men around the perimeter and make sure none of our guards are dead,” Rastaban said. “And send the scouts to me.”

Khouri nodded, darted a worried glance at Rhajj, but both of them bowed and hurried to obey.

Rastaban wasn’t going to be bested by a woman.

Two of a Very Special Kind

Rastaban took a step back. “How do you know that?”

“My scouts are very good at what they do,” Shanka said. It was an implication, but not a real answer.

Rastaban studied her face, her dark skin and her uncanny golden eyes. He’d seen her before, he was sure of it - and not just on the steppes.

“Who are you?” Rastaban curled his hands into fists, felt his fingertips trace the sign against evil against his thigh.

Shanka stepped back, sheathed her knife, and tipped down her helm. “I’m two of a very special kind. For now. Keep your terms.”

Learned Them From You

Rastaban’s brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

Again with that velvet-soft laughter. “You didn’t realize it because you were a child, had never left your village, but --” She leaned in to whisper, so close her breath stirred his hair. “All those rumours you learned about the army of women - you didn’t hear them from your men. Your men learned them from you.” She stepped back, smirking, and Rastaban knew he must look utterly shocked. “After all, your mother taught you to respect the women who defended your nation.”

“My mother is dead,” Rastaban said flatly.

“Killed by the man you called father.”

Part Of It

“I understand your offer,” he said curtly, and moved to step back. Shanka let him, but she didn’t sheathe her knife.

“And your terms?”

“What are yours?” Rastaban asked.

“We will let you live if you stop warring on our nation.” Shanka kept her chin up, and her golden eyes glinted in the dying firelight.

Something in Rastaban stirred. She wasn’t - quite canny.

“What, precisely, is your nation?”

“You know it well,” Shanka said. “Your men have raided it for the past twenty years.” She tilted her head to one side. “But then, long ago, you were part of it.”

Even A Man

Rastaban cast a wild glance at the figures on the perimeters of the camp and saw them standing tall, bearing torches, armed - only they stood perfectly still, and they wore armor he didn’t recognize. Fury and helplessness curled in his veins. Had she killed more of his men?

“Terms, General.” The blade at his throat pressed down harder.

“And if I refuse to give any?”

“Then you and half of your army will be dead before the other half can wake.”

Rastaban stared down at that pretty face and marveled at her words. She was crueler than even a man.

Seeking Terms

Rastaban let his hand fall to his side and swallowed hard. “Of course. Forgive me. Your offer?”

“I come seeking terms,” she said. She kept the knife at his throat.

Rastaban’s eyes narrowed, and he glared down at her. Terms - no one had ever dared ask terms of him before. “You do?”

“I do. Tell me the terms of your surrender, and I will tell my women to leave your camp and return to the Steppes peacefully.”

Rastaban arched one eyebrow. “Your women are here?”

Shanka’s laughter was soft, like velvet. “Did you think those were your guards out there?”

A General First

“I thought,” Shanka said, “that it would be courteous, one general to another, to come speak to your directly about what I have to offer.”

Rastaban smiled. “I’m sure that whatever you have to offer is generous and enticing indeed.”

Her smile in reply was sultry, and Rastaban went to ease an arm around her waist. She was just as easily charmed as any other woman, then.

Except she had the blade of a dagger pressed to his throat before he could lay a hand on her. Her smile remained sultry, and she said,

“I am a general first, Rastaban.”

Any Other Woman

For one moment, Rastaban was struck by how beautiful Shanka was in the moonlight, the way a silvery halo glowed in her hair, and her smile was - gentle.

Rastaban’s grip on the hilt of his sword loosened, and he came to stand before her - over her, because she was small. He hadn’t realized how small she was, not with an army and dead men between them.

“You are bold,” he said, “to come this close to my camp.”

Shanka lifted her head and met his gaze, and if she were any other woman, he’d have leaned down for a kiss.

Starting Forward

Rastaban reached for his sword, ready to raise it above his head and call for his men, but her lips twitched into a different kind of smile, and she held up one finger, a universal signal for silence. And then she beckoned.

Rastaban hesitated. She was a general, more ruthless than any man he’d known, but she was still - a woman. And one thing Rastaban had learned, that Rami had never taught him, was how to master a woman. How to bend her completely to his will with just the right words, just the right touch.

So he started forward.

The General

Rastaban faltered, momentarily mesmerized by those eyes, eyes like a lynx’s or a long-toothed tiger’s, and then a figure rose up from the grass, soundless. She wore armor and carried a sword and her hair blew around her face in mystifying curls. Rastaban glanced over his shoulder, but his men were huddled around the central fires. Not one of them had seen her.

Rastaban realized he could see her face, that he recognized her, and realized that she’d made it past his outer perimeter of guards.

Her smile said she knew the very same thing.

She was the general.

Golden Eyes in the Grass

When Rastaban’s army was almost to their village in the valley, he called a halt. They’d taken inventory a few days ago, checked to see who’d died and who’d lost what in the scramble. Rastaban closed his eyes and took a deep breath, turned to face his men. He wasn’t sure how he would explain to the women that they’d lost a hundred of the outer rank and returned home without a single spoil to show for it.

And then he felt a tingling down his spine.

He spun, raised his spear, and poised to throw.

Golden eyes met his.

Open Season

Shanka sat in her tent, studying some of the maps she and Old Master had crafted over the years. Generous applications of animal oil had kept the things from fading, but it was probably time she made some new ones.

There was a rustling of fabric, and then Malia poked her head into the tent.

Shanka didn’t look up from the troop markers she’d set. “What news?”

“The bodies have been stripped and disposed. Armorers are working on upgrading and refitting the armor. Scouts are tracking Rastaban’s army.”

“Good.” Shanka smiled faintly. “Follow them. It’s open season on the men.”

Know What's Real

Rastaban and his men reached the halfway point between the borders of their own land and the first grasses of the steppes, and guards formed a nervous line around the camp that night. Rhajj, Khouri, and Rastaban gathered in Rastaban’s tent to confer by candle light.

“What the hell was that?” Khouri asked. “They just slaughtered our men.”

Rastaban considered the core of the candle. “If I had been her, I would have done the same.”

Rhajj cleared his throat nervously. “We all heard the tales,” he began.

“Tales do not matter,” Rastaban said. “We need to know what’s real.”

If You Say So

Shanka watched Rastaban and the men flee, then glanced at Malia, her lieutenant.

Malia snorted and tipped her helm back down, signalled for the women to begin moving the corpses, search them for useful weapons and armor.

“That was disappointing,” she said. “After all we’d heard about the grand General Rastaban.”

“He’ll be back,” Shanka said. “Continue.” She turned away, tipped her helm back down and headed for the edges of the field. A soldier fell into step beside her, and a man’s voice spoke from behind the anonymous helm.

Old Master. “He’s the one.”

“If you say so, Master.”

Taking It

Unfortunately, some of Rastaban’s men knew little valour and much foolhardy bravery. The outer ranks charged the women. Rastaban yelled for them to halt, withdraw, and his lieutenants plunged into the ranks to haul some men backward, but it was too late. Shanka’s women reacted immediately and surged in on the men like a crushing wave, cutting them down as easily as men cut fields of barley.

Of the men who would listen to Rastaban, most were trying to run. In any other men it would have seemed cowardice, but now it was the only choice, and Rastaban took it.

Better Part

Rastaban must have hesitated too long, because one of the women caught his men by the hair and yanked his head back, ready to slit his throat.

Shanka barked a command, and for the moment Rastaban’s men were still alive. She met his gaze, yellow eyes bold, and for a fleeting moment Rastaban saw shadows in her eyes. Then she leveled her sword at him and said,

“Choose. Or die.”

Rastaban sucked in a deep breath. Of all he’d learnt from Rami, this was hardly something he’d prepared for. He knew that retreat was sometimes the better part of valour.

Speaking of Women

“Then let the culling begin.” Shanka tipped her helm back down and signaled to her soldiers. The ranks of women advanced, weapons poised to kill.

Rastaban felt a thousand gazes on him, terrified but too proud to plead. “Wait!”

Shanka twitched her sword, and the women snapped back into battle lines as one. “You wish to turn back? We cannot keep all of your men as hostages, so we will kill the weak and keep the strong for work and breeding.”

Rastaban was shocked at her words. She spoke of his men...the same way his men spoke of women.

Turn Away

Rastaban could only stare in cold fury and horror at the women who surrounded his men.

“Who are you?” Khouri demanded.

“I am General Shanka, and this land is our home,” the woman said. Her hair was dark and pulled tightly back out of her face the way men wore it. Her sword was bright and slick with blood. “Turn away or face destruction.”

An army of women. Rastaban had heard stories as a child, rumors about wild women who rode like men and fought like beasts, but this woman was - small. Pretty.

“I will not turn back,” Rastaban said.

Kali's Wild Demons

Khouri and Rhajj sprang into action, ordering the men to draw weapons and fall into battle lines. The men on the outer ranks were dead.

What came next Rastaban couldn’t have imagined. An army sprang up out of the tall grass, clad in leather armor and bristling with spears and swords. They shrieked and yelled, Kali’s wild demons, and their weapons shone with his men’s blood.

“Where the hell did they come from?” Rastaban demanded. “Where are my scouts?”

One of the enemy soldiers tipped back her helmet, and Rastaban saw a woman with golden eyes. “Your scouts are dead.”

Exercise in Discipline

Rastaban walked at the head of the first column of men, Khouri and Rhajj flanking him as faithful lieutenants. The march to the Steppes was mostly an exercise in discipline, in keeping the men in line, teaching the captains and lieutenants how to communicate down lines. This army was bigger than any Rami had commanded, nearly a thousand men, and Rastaban felt relief flood his limbs when the tall, waving grass of the steppes blurred the horizon. Once central camp was established, they could begin party raids from there.

He didn’t hear the men scream until it was too late.

Time Has Come

“Form up!” Rastaban perched atop Nightmare, his warhorse, and waited for Khouri and Rhajj to glare the rest of the men into position. Rami had run his band of soldiers more like a band of thieves, but Rastaban liked discipline and order.

There was some shuffling, but eventually the men assembled themselves into neat ranks. The first few times they’d grumbled that Rami wouldn’t have ordered such nonsense, but no one had died in the five years since Rastaban had assumed command, and he had his men’s respect.

“Where to, General?” Khouri asked.

Rastaban grinned. “To the steppes, my friends.”

Interlude 3

One of the wounds in his shoulder had healed, and another was coming along slowly. He sat on the banks of the river and watched the army train and grow. One night when the army returned, it was without a general, and the village wailed for days. He tilted his head back and enjoyed the whisper of the wind through his colorless hair, and when he smiled, his eyes glinted brown again. The new general would be fantastic indeed. His time had come.

White robes billowed in the wind as he rose, and he set off for the next healing.

When The Time Comes

Rami’s expression went curiously blank.

Rastaban curled one hand around the shaft of his spear and waited.

Then Rami said, “I see.”

Rastaban tilted his head to one side, dark eyes starlit. “Did you think I’d forgotten?”

“No. I thought that perhaps you’d - understood.” Rami straightened up. “If the others learn the truth -”


“I’m sure they already know,” Rastaban said, “but then they know Dravi stole his first hunt from Rhajj and would have killed me in his sleep if he’d had the nerve, would have killed any boy who angered him. When the time comes, I will lead well.”

Fathers and Mothers

“Efficiently,” Rastaban said.

Rami nodded once, sharply, and gestured for his men to form up. “Bury the body. We will have the ceremony at dusk.”



The shaman began ordering the men around. Rastaban and Khouri followed Rami back to the fire in the middle of the camp.

“What you did was -”

“Necessary,” Rastaban said. “You taught me necessity, and he’d have led your army to slaughter in its first battle.”

Rami gazed into Rastaban’s eyes and sighed. “Where did I fail? I tried to be a father, and -”

“You are a good father,” Rastaban said. “Only I had no mother.”

No Human Hand

Rastaban spread his hands, expression guileless. “You heard the shaman. He died on his own.”

“Monster!” Shruti lunged at him.

Rastaban stood there, took her blows, for she was too breathless from sobbing to strike with much force.

“You killed my son!”

Rami placed a hand on her shoulder and drew her away gently, implacably. “Shruti, Dravi is gone, but Rastaban had no hand in it. No human had a hand in it.”

“He’s not human!” Shruti jabbed a finger in Rastaban’s direction.

Rami gestured, and some of the women circled Shruti, led her away.

Rami turned to Rastaban. “How?”

Always a Frail Boy

Shruti’s wail woke the entire camp. The women rushed to her side, and moments later the men, including Rami, followed. Khouri was the only one who turned to look at Rastaban.

“What happened?” one of the men asked, kneeling beside the body. “There’s no blood, no wound. He’s just -”

Shruti wailed again.

Rami’s expression was unreadable, but then he cast a glance at Rastaban as well, who stood with the other boys.

“He must have been ill,” a shaman said finally. “He was always a frail boy.”

Shruti lifted her tear-stained face and glared at Rastaban. “You did this!”

Seemingly Asleep

Shruti noticed Dravi’s absence first. When Rastaban rotated with Khouri and returned to camp, Shruti was already fretting, but Dravi had returned from the hunt with the other boys, and just like the other boys, he would be left to fend for himself. Khouri had met Rastaban’s gaze in the dimness of the cave, knew, but Rastaban had learned from Rami well. War wasn’t always about open fields and thousands of men - sometimes it was a single, small, decisive strike. And this was a battle won.

They found Dravi’s body three days later, curled up on his side, seemingly asleep.

Over

“You wouldn’t dare. I’m his son!”

“Everyone will know it was me,” Rastaban said, “but everyone will know that you deserved it.”

Dravi squirmed under the weight of Rastaban’s knee, but Rastaban was immovable. The icicle was so cold it burned his skin, and it was melting rapidly - he had to act quickly.

“You’d kill a man unarmed?” Dravi asked.

“You’re not a man, but I would,” Rastaban said. It was deliberate, wrenching Dravi by the hair so his head was turned properly, then driving the icicle into his ear. Dravi died before he could scream.

And it was over.

Blood and Legacy

Dravi snarled, “You are!” and lunged.

Rastaban locked an arm across Dravi’s throat and sank his weight into it. Dravi made a choking sound.

“If you really were Rami’s son,” Rastaban said, “you’d be willing to do what I’m about to do.”

“I’m his blood!” Dravi spat, heaving.

“And I’m his legacy,” Rastaban said. It was quick after that - a good sharp blow to the temple sent Dravi tumbling to the ground. Rastaban knew he couldn’t afford too much blood on his hands, so he kicked Dravi in the ribs to keep him down. Then he reached for an icicle.