Sleeping Outside Camp

The answer was messy hair. If Andrev ducked away from the shearer’s knife for long enough and let his hair grow, let it tumble into his eyes, no one could see the horns. They could pretend they didn’t know what he hid, pretend they had forgotten what he really was.

The other boys picked on him when the adults weren’t watching; tripped him up as he walked, flung stones, tried to dunk him in the river. He learned not to fight back, but he learned to get away.

He learned, over time, that it wasn’t so bad, sleeping outside camp.

Talking Back

People disliked Andrev, but he disliked them right back, so he didn’t mind eating alone on the edge of the firelight or sleeping curled up with the deer who pulled the sleds across the Steppes. The deer liked him - he fed them, watered them and pulled burrs out of their pelts when they walked through prickly brambles.

Sometimes, when other people weren’t around, the deer talked to him, told him when a storm was coming or when they were going the wrong way, that they usually headed a little more easterly.

Sometimes, when other people weren’t around, Andrev talked back.

Only a Child

Andrev had known the story for as long he knew what knowing was: they found him in a cave, abandoned by his dead mother’s side. Some whispered that his father was a demon, but never when he could hear. They’d smile weakly at him and tell him he was a gift from the gods, and they were all blessed to have him.

He knew he wasn’t blessed - he was cursed. The five tiny bony bumps on his forehead were a curse. He was the son of a horned demon, and they were afraid of him.

But he was only child.

Interlude 5

Rain turned his colorless hair into moonlight-white. Lightning flashed in the sky, sharp slashes of energy reflected in the momentary pitch-black of his eyes.

The mother’s cries pierced above the ominous veil of thunder, and he had to strain to hear the voice of her child. The third wound in his shoulder began to tingle and itch when he heard the first lusty cry of infant life.

He sensed it, moments later, when the mother’s life flickered, then faded, as if swept away in the driving wind. In the distance, a caravan approached. They would find the child.

First Demonstration

“Where’s Old Master?” Rastaban asked.

“He’s gone.”

“As in dead?”

“As in doing necessary work.” Shanka hoisted her pack. “We have to go.”

“Where? Why?”

“You don’t want it to be just the three of us forever, do you?”

Rastaban leered. “If it were just the two of us --”

“We have a fourth to summon.” Shanka faced him squarely. “Now, it’s been long enough that people have forgotten Shanka’s army. You’ll have to pretend you’re in charge. Consider this your first demonstration of your tactical skills.”

“So you have to call me Master?”

“Hardly. Although you will call me Kana.”

Infiltrate and Retrieve

“I spoke to my colorless friend,” Old Master said.

Shanka stirred the pot of stew idly with a stick. “And?”

Old Master tossed a map at her. “You won’t have to go far.”

“This one’s next?”

“He didn’t say. Just pointed it out.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Infiltrate and retrieve, of course.”

Shanka nodded.

Old Master caught her gaze. “You know what you’ll have to do.”

“Yes.”

“The legends of Shanka’s Women have faded.”

“I know.”

“He’s going to enjoy this too much.”

“I won’t let it get to his head.”

“Good.” Old Master stood up. “I’ll be on my way.”

Completion

“If you pass this final test,” Old Master said, “you will have completed your training.”

Rastaban grinned at Shanka and settled into a fighting stance. “Completion, here I come.”

Shanka bowed. Old Master gave the signal, and before Rastaban knew what was what, she was on him, driving a fist into his ribs. He spun away before she could throw him, and then they fought, blow for blow. He chased her up a tree, across a river, down the side of a mountain and through a valley.

When he finally caught her in a kill hold, she’d caught him too.

Acting Lessons

He slid closer to her, leaned down so his breath tickled her ear as he spoke. “Maybe I just wanted some time with you alone.”

A knife blade slid cleanly between his ribs. His breath hitched, but he couldn’t breathe. He was choking. He could feel --

Shanka let go of the knife and stepped back, let him fall. He lay there in the darkness and stared up at her. Her expression didn’t waver. “Let’s see how well you act. I’ll fetch the package and meet you back at Old Master’s.”

Rastaban felt his vision go gray, but she was gone.

Become the Same

“Old Master said you wanted to come with me.” Shanka tugged the folds of her cloak closer. They stood at the edge of the crowd around the bonfire.

“I’ve been training like this for over a year. I’m as capable as you are.” Rastaban lifted his head defiantly.

“If you say so.” Shanka turned and studied the crowd.

In this entire year, Rastaban hadn’t seen a single instance of Kana in her, none of her sweetness or gentleness. It was as if Kana had never existed. Shanka was a soulless soldier and nothing more.

Rastaban refused to become the same.

Trying to Survive

“Where’s Shanka?”

“Focus, young man,” Old Master said, gesturing at the smattering of black and white stones in the dirt.

Rastaban sighed and turned his attention back to the game. Every time he was sure he’d learned all the rules, Old Master would surprise him with something new. He placed a finger on a white stone, surveyed the ‘battlefield’, moved the stone, sighed when Old Master locked it into place with a smooth swoop of a black stone.

“What am I trying to do again?”


“Survive,” Old Master said. He was grinning.

Rastaban groaned. “Why can’t I go with Shanka?”

Catch Up

“You want me to what?”

“Beat me to the top of the mountain,” Shanka said.

Rastaban craned his neck, peered up through the flurries of snow. The peak of the mountain was beyond his view, lancing high into the winter-white sky.

“What did you call this again?”


“The rooftop of the world,” Shanka said. “The locals call her Sagarmatha, goddess of the sky.” She wore only a simple shift and seemed unconcerned with the frigid air.

“So I have to climb this?”

Shanka started forward. “Faster than me.”

“You’ve been doing this longer.”

“You have time to catch up.”

Makes Perfect

Rastaban stood in the mouth of the cave, shivering, dripping wet.

“I can’t do it - you’re faster than me!”

Shanka crossed her arms over her chest. “Because I practiced.” She pointed. “Make a fire and dry yourself off.” She stepped around him and shrugged off the makeshift raincoat of leaves she’d fashioned earlier. “You’d better be at my side before the moon reaches the Sky Hunter’s Belt.” And she sped into the rain.

Rastaban, dripping wet again, found Shanka standing beneath and outcropping of rock, completely dry despite the torrents from the sky.

“How can you run between raindrops?”

“Practice.”

As I Taught Her

Rastaban eyed Old Master and Shanka speculatively.

“So...basically, I can’t die, and you want me to come with you and do...what?”

“I shall teach you as I taught her.” Old Master nodded at Shanka. “You will learn warfare and subterfuge, politics and languages, things you’ve never learned before.”

“I already understand warfare,” Rastaban said.

Shanka’s smile was dangerously serene. “Your sense of war changes when you take into account the fact that you cannot die.”

“Why would you teach me these things and trust that I won’t kill you once you finish?” Rastaban crossed his arms and smirked.

Lack of Permanence

Old Master sighed. “Be gentle with him, Dakshana. He’s not as strong as you are yet.”

Shanka released Rastaban and stepped back.

Old Master smiled gently at him. “I know this is a lot to process, lad, but we have work to do, and you have much to learn. Understand that you can die, and you will die many times, but your death will not be permanent. You will just sleep as long as it takes to heal, and then wake up. You will not grow old, and you will never grow ill. However, everyone you know will pass on.”

At Least, Not Permanently

“You were a general,” Shanka said. “Between the three of us, you’re the least experienced. Now you’re just a grunt until you earn your place.”

Rastaban lunged at her. “How dare you speak such to me, you insolent woman --”

Her hand closed over his throat, and she squeezed. Fire raced through his limbs, and he struggled to breathe.

“You’d think, after the war you just fought, you’d know better than to insult me on the basis of womanhood,” Shanka said, her tone disturbingly casual. She rolled her eyes. “Stop squirming - lack of air won’t kill you. At least, not permanently.”

A While Yet

Rastaban stared at her. “How old are you?”

“Older than I look.” Shanka seemed uncaring of his shock. “Which way?”

Old Master patted down his pack, drew out a folded piece of hide. “I have a map.”

“What did your colourless friend say?” Shanka leaned over to check the map.

“It’ll be a while yet before the next one comes along,” Old Master said. “We have time to get this one all trained up and ready to help with the cause.”

Rastaban threw his hands up. “Wait just a moment - train me? What cause? I’m a soldier and a general.”

Madness and Reality

“I have to get back to my men, make sure they’re all right.” Rastaban pushed himself to his feet cautiously, and was surprised to realize that he felt perfectly fine.

Shanka shook her head. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly a week. They’ve all headed back to their own villages; the war is over.”

“Khouri and Rhajj --”

“Think you’re dead,” Shanka said. “I let them check your corpse.”

Rastaban’s stomach roiled at the word corpse. “This is madness.”

“This is reality.” Shanka shouldered her pack, handed another to Old Master. “And I wasn’t joking when I said I knew your mother.”

A Favour

Shanka shrugged, sheath her sword. “Then we’re the same kind of monster, we three.”

Rastaban shook his head, and then he remembered the wound at his throat. He reached up and touched the stickiness of dried blood again, and he knew what had happened.

“No.” He shook his head. “Impossible. I’d have noticed if I were one of the unkillable!”

“It doesn’t quite work like that,” Old Master said. “You have to completely die once to realize your full potential. The lass did you a favour.”

Shanka was ignoring the conversation and packing provisions into a sack of animal hide.

Monster

Horror ricocheted down Rastaban’s spine when he saw Shanka standing in the corner, holding her sword.

“I am Shanka and he is Old Master,” she said.

Rastaban closed his eyes. “I’m dead, and this is hell.”

“Open your eyes and watch. I’m only going to do this once,” Shanka said.

“It’s important, lad,” the old man said.


Rastaban opened one eye. Shanka drove a her blade into her own hand. She flinched only slightly, then held out her hand. As Rastaban watched, the wound closed.

Rastaban sat bolt upright. “I knew I’d shot you!” Then he recoiled. “You’re a monster.”

Not Anymore

Rastaban blinked slowly, trying to clear the haze from his vision. An old man with white hair and a white beard - Vishnu? Shiva? Rama?

“I thought I was dead,” he said.

The old man smiled. “You were. But you’re not anymore. In fact, it’s probably going to be a while before you’re dead again.” He offered a hand. “In the meantime, we should probably get you some clean clothes.”

Rastaban lifted a hand to his throat. It was sticky with drying blood, but - there was no wound. Then he realized precisely what the old man had said. “Who is ‘we’?”

Join Us

Rastaban was sure that he was dead. Whenever he even thought about trying to move, echoes of the firebrand at his throat from where Shanka had cut him shot through his body like hot sparks. But he was definitely dead. If he managed to open his eyes, he’d be greeted with the afterlife. He’d see Rami and his mother and the soldiers he’d fought with over the years. There would be food and drink, music and dancing.

Or there’d be an old man leaning on the shaft of a spear, peering at him.

“So good of you to join us.”

Worth It

“What did you do with the troops?” Old Master asked.

“I turned command over to Malia. She’s leading them home. Feigned a little shame and tears so she left me alone.” Shanka stared down at Rastaban’s body. He hadn’t moved since she’d slit his throat, and she’d checked his pulse, but he was still firmly dead.

Old Master arched and eyebrow. “You don’t have to feign shame, you know. In fact, you ought to feel some shame. You led those women into a trap.”

Shanka slewed him a glance. “I know what I did. You’d better hope he’s worth it.”

Interlude 4

He stood on a slender outcropping on the face of a sheer drop, overlooking the valley. The sheer number of dead made something twist in his gut. That so many of them were women made it all the worse. But watching her in all her battle glory made the fractured pieces in his soul want to sing, a discordant ballad of longing and love.

Pain lanced through his shoulder, and he looked down, checked the wounds there. Another had healed; five more to go. His colorless eyes flashed brown momentarily, and then he stepped off the edge and into nothing.

Warm, Sticky, Sweet

Shanka gazed down at the valley, at the scattered bodies of men and women alike. She’d never wanted it to come to this. She’d spent years building and training an army, creating a new life. And now it had to end.

She’d much rather have killed Rastaban in his sleep.

“You’re so stubborn,” she said.

Battle exploded across the valley. Dying screams and clashing metal rang toward the sky.

Rastaban writhed, and Shanka saw him straining, reaching for his sword.

Not strong enough, Shanka thought, and drew the blade across his throat. Warm life spilled across her hands, sticky, sweet.

Fight On

“I’d applaud your general for all he’s taught you,” Shanka said, and her voice rang across the valley. “Unfortunately, the one thing he never learned was how to take care of himself, and a soldier who cannot keep himself alive has no business telling others how to do the same.”

Rastaban thrashed, humiliated and furious, but Shanka’s grip was immovable.

“Lay down your weapons, or your leader dies.”

Rastaban closed his eyes. This was his demise, then. At the hands of a woman. And then fire burned in his veins once more. He yelled. “Fight on! Fight for your honor!”

Good Of You To Listen

Shanka threw her head back and shrieked.

Rastaban shuddered, disoriented. Shanka was strong and fast and - he squirmed, tried to crane his head. Her grip was immovable. He squirmed some more, and then he saw - the wound on her arm where he’d struck her was gone.

What was she?

Shanka shook him like he was a disobedient cub and let loose with another shriek, a volley of words he couldn’t understand.

Fire exploded across the valley floor. Burning arrows. Rastaban heard them zip through the sky.

Then slowly, inexplicably, the cacophony of battle ceased.

“So good of you to listen.”

Too Fast

“I do have lovely hands,” Shanka said. She struck.

Rastaban stepped back, fists up to guard, but she was fast. Too fast. Inhumanly fast. She closed the distance between them in the moment between two breaths, and then she planted a fist in his gut.

Rastaban staggered back, winded and struck with the sudden urge to retch. Shanka caught him by the shoulders, and then she swept his leg out from under him. Rastaban’s world went head over heels and he was on his knees on the ground, Shanka’s arm locked across his throat and a blade tickling his pulse.

Like A Real Soldier

“Might makes right,” he said, and struck.

Shanka was fast. She dodged, but his blow landed true, caught her across the upper arm in the gap between her armor and bracers. She shrieked in fury and stepped back.

“You cut me!”

“I could do worse,” Rastaban said.

Shanka’s eyes flashed. “You can try.”

He smirked. “I will.”

Shanka set down her sword and her knife and stepped back, curled her hands into fists. “Then fight me like a real soldier.”

Rastaban paused. Then he set his sword down. “I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you, my lovely warrior.”

Just As Fast

“Your women are dying,” Rastaban said.

Shanka spun, slashed at his ribs.

He dodged, struck back, but she sidestepped neatly.

“So are your men.”

“By the time this night is done, your army will be gone.” Rastaban lunged and caught her across the ribs, but her armor took most of the blow. “Shouldn’t you be leading them?”

Shanka switched her sword to one hand, drew her knife with the other. “Only because your men fight on vengeance and lies. My women fight for their nation.”

Rastaban was surprised she was that strong, but he was just as fast as her.

Never Looked More Beautiful

“What are you waiting for?” Rastaban asked.

Rhajj drew his sword and led the second wave down the hill.

Khouri signalled the archers for another volley. Rastaban drew his sword and waited. The last of Shanka’s phalanx fell beneath the second wave of men, but Rastaban was unsurprised when she emerged from the slaughter with a severed head in one hand and murder in her eyes.

Her hair was wet with blood and her armor was stained with gore, but she’d never looked more beautiful.

She flung the head aside and lunged at him.

He blocked her strike and laughed.