Unfazed

“That doesn’t look good,” Khouri remarked. A single phalanx of Shanka’s women broke through Rastaban’s ranks and were forging their way slowly up the hill.

“It doesn’t look too bad either,” Rastaban said, and signaled for the archers to fire.

By the time the women made it up the hill, they’d lost over half their numbers to archers, but Shanka was leading the charge, blood-smeared sword flashing in the moonlight.

Rastaban squinted. Her shoulder was bleeding, and it looked as though she’d been struck by an arrow, but she seemed unfazed by the pain.

She headed right for him.

Bare Hands

Rastaban’s men were up in the hills lining the valley, she knew that already. That he’d had archers waiting in the trees as the first wave came forward was startling. His army hadn’t been that large before, and Shanka’s scouts had watched the village for days and days on end.

But they hadn’t watched nights.

The women reacted smoothly to the archers. Shanka was distantly pleased, but that didn’t matter. She needed some way to get a troop of women up the hill, attack the archers and whoever was left.

She was going to kill Rastaban with her bare hands.

To Win

Shanka cursed and ducked when the arrows flew, but she wasn’t fast enough. She knelt down behind a wall of shields and checked the wound. It wasn’t in deep, but it was in deep enough that it wouldn’t close as quickly as she liked, and she was liable to pass out from blood loss.

She had a battle to win. One great heave, and the flesh tore, burned, sent her nerves screeching warnings in her brain, but then she wrenched the arrowhead out, and she flung it aside. Blood streamed down her shoulder, and she had to switch sword hands.

Dogs of War

Rastaban stood atop the hill and watched the front ranks go down in a serried frenzy of flame and blades, but he had others watching, waiting for that moment when Shanka thought she had regained control.

Her women were good, and soon they’d formed ranks shaped like triangles that thrust jaggedly into his ranks. They had their shields up and they positively bristled with spears, but that wasn’t enough.

Rastaban gave the signal, and the air sang with arrows.

Shanka’s front rank fell, but the second and third ranks snapped their shields into place.

His men dogpiled onto the formations.

Crowd Search

Shanka’s women reacted instinctively, using their torches as weapons, a mark of their excellent training, but the men had a distinct advantage, and unless one entire flank of them stumbled, the women would be surrounded. Shanka thrust her torch at a man, winced at the stench of burning flesh, and drew her sword. Malia and the other lieutenants shrieked for the women to fall into formation, but the men were circling tighter and tighter, and Shanka could see her ranks start to crumble. She thrust her other torch at another man and drew her sword.


Then she searched the crowd.

Raining Men

It was a trick as old as time - or so Old Master liked to say - to give each of her fighters two torches and have them hold both aloft, burning bright into the night and turning a small army into a tidal wave of destruction. Shanka didn’t care if the lights gave away their coming, because the fear would wreck any semblance of military organization Rastaban’s farmers could hope to achieve.

They advanced into the valley, relentless and unstoppable. The first village surrendered without question, and Shanka ordered her women on.

And then armed men rained down into the valley.

The Meaning of Waiting

Rastaban knelt in the trees, surrounded by a hundred of his best and brightest soldiers. He knew he had to trust that Khouri and Rhajj were competent commanders, that they’d trained the men well, but when he first saw those torches go up at the mouth of the valley, he felt his heart crawl into his throat. Shanka hadn’t had that many women when they’d last fought; his men had cut down a good number of them before Shanka had called her women to retreat.

Maybe she’d had these women laying in wait. Rastaban would show her what waiting meant.

Fires of Hell

Something about Old Master’s guileless smile and light tone was unnerving, but he had not given her cause to genuinely distrust him yet despite his general penchant for trickery.

“General.” Malia snapped off a sharp salute. “The entire valley is asleep. The scouts have returned from the villages.”

Shanka tugged on her breastplate. “Then we march. The first village will be for prisoners - keep only the strong and useful men. Destroy the rest.”

Malia saluted again. Two scouts knelt beside her, working feverishly to light a blaze. The army was marching, and they were coming with the fires of hell.

All The Work

“Are you ready?” Old Master asked. He leaned against the wall of the cave, cleaning his fingernails with the obsidian blade of a dagger.

“My women are fine warriors. We spent a long time raising a generation of the best fighters in the world,” Shanka said. She stood at the mouth of the valley and gazed down at the place Rastaban had called home for most of his life. Her scouts were out now, confirming that the men were asleep in their villages like the boring farmers they had become.

“You did all the work, not me,” Old Master said.

The Invisibility Game

Khouri and Rhajj grinned fiercely. Both saluted and hurried to obey their orders. Rastaban turned to the boy he’d been teaching.

“Go gather the women and the elderly and tell them to remain calm, to continue working as usual. The men are going to war.” Rastaban turned and headed for his tent. He scooped up his weapons and his armor. Then he rounded up the rest of his men from the village and headed up into the hills. If Shanka wanted to play the invisibility game, Rastaban was going to play.

And he was going to play it much better.

Hardly Any Consolation

“It’s been three months.” Malia drove her knife into the dirt beside the map Shanka had drawn. “What are we waiting for?”

“Our agreement was that they stayed out of our lands, and they have,” Shanka began.

“They broke that agreement,” Malia said. “That they decided to abide by it after is hardly any consolation for the women they killed or the fact that they’ve been robbing and killing our people.”

Shanka glanced over her shoulder at Old Master, who was feigning sleep in the corner of the tent.

She rose to her feet. “Fine. Tomorrow we march to war.”

Preparing

“Do you really think you ought to be antagonizing her like that?” Khouri asked, watching as Shanka rode away.

“If she’s angry enough, she’ll be rash in the midst of battle,” Rastaban said. “How are the men?”

“It’s daylight,” Khouri said. “Hunting amiably. What else?”

“Good. How are the weapons coming along?” Rastaban turned and headed back toward the village.

Khouri fell into step beside him. “Each man will have a spear, a sword, and a good knife.”

“I want archers as well.” Rastaban paused and studied the bustling action in the village below. “We have to win this war.”

As I Look

“You knew my mother?” Rastaban asked.

“She was an excellent warrior,” Shanka said shortly. “Apparently you inherited more than her handsome face.” She turned and reached for her horse’s tether. “I’ll be watching you.”

Rastaban stayed her hand. “All I remember was that my mother died.”

“Fighting honorably to defend her land, as opposed to ceaselessly harassing other nations for stores she was too lazy to work for,” Shanka said. “She’d have been sad to see you a warrior, and even sadder to see you reduced to this.”

“How did you know her?”

“I’m not as young as I look.”

Do Me Good

The kiss was two seconds of bliss before Shanka planted the hilt of her dagger in his sternum and shoved. Hard.

Rastaban staggered back, one hand pressed to his chest, eyes wide. She was strong. And she looked angry, more angry than Rastaban had ever seen someone look, which was impressive, given how often Shruti had glared at him when he was a child.

“I’d kill you now if it would do me any good, but it wouldn’t.” Shanka sheathed her dagger and sword, drew herself up proudly. “It would do me much good, however, to kill you very slowly.”

Nice to Think About

“Again, I say, I have a hideous soul,” Shanka said. “I was never the lovely Kana you knew.”

“That’s too bad,” Rastaban said, “because I really did enjoy Kana.” He stepped closer, uncaring of the blade of her dagger. “She had such a lovely mouth.”

That lovely mouth pressed into a thin, angry line. “Even now, after so many of your men have been killed by my women, that’s all you can think about?”

Rastaban said, “That’s not all I can think about. But it certainly is nice to think about.” He leaned down and covered her mouth with his.

A Child Then

Shanka leveled her dagger at him. “Then you’re a fool.”

“A fool who was in love with a beautiful woman.” He stepped closer.

“A beautiful face is a matter of opinion,” Shanka said, “but a hideous soul is, I think, fairly obvious.”

Rastaban arched an eyebrow. “What happened to the lovely Kana who fed chickens and did laundry and smiled in the sun?”

“What happened to Reshma’s son, who chased dogs in the village and cried whenever his mother went to war?”

“You keep speaking of my mother as if you knew her, but you were a child yourself then.”

Only Me

“Your villages must be growing hungry,” Rastaban said, “given how long you’ve lingered in these hills and watched us hunt and fish all day.”

Shanka was on her feet in an instant, sword and dagger drawn. Rastaban stepped back, raised his hands to show he was unarmed.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re planning,” she said.

“What am I planning? I didn’t realize I was planning anything.” Rastaban’s smile was guileless, almost sweet.

Shanka glared. “I can be more patient than time itself. When your army comes, we’ll be ready.”

Rastaban arched an eyebrow. “And if it’s only me?”

The Plague

In the moonlight, swords flashed like a sea of stars. The men moved in smooth unison through the sword drills: a butterfly sweep, a block, a crescent. Rastaban stood on the hill above the river, Khouri and Rhajj by his side, and watched his army with glowing pride.

“Shanka’s harpies will never know what hit them,” he said.

Rhajj coughed. “We had to, er, compromise on some of the details to convince some of them to join us, but they are more than willing to help us drive back the plague of upstart women.”

“They are a plague all right.”

Up To Something

“Who says they’re hiding?” Malia asked. She nodded in the direction of the hunter who’d come to stand beside Rastaban, chiding him for bothering the women. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s his lieutenant. He hasn’t done anything but hunt for days.”

“Rastaban’s definitely up to something. Send the scouts further into the valley. Rendezvous in seven days.” Shanka slithered back through the grass and to her horse. She rode back toward camp, mulling over what she’d seen. If Old Master was right, then Rastaban was secretly plotting something. If Old Master was wrong, Shanka was in for a long haul.

Frustration

“You look frustrated,” Malia remarked blithely. She and Shanka lay on their bellies in the tall grass, watching Rastaban annoy the women of his village mid-chore as he tried to charm them.

“He’s just doing nothing,” Shanka replied. She remained utterly still, studying the scene with narrowed eyes. “This isn’t the Rastaban we know, the fierce general whose pride is as fiery as his lust. He wouldn’t lay down and play dead.”

“From what we’ve seen, he seems more than willing to just lay down,” Malia said.

Shanka gritted her teeth. “Where are the rest of his men hiding?”

Her Turn

“Status?” Rastaban asked.

Rhajj yelped and went to draw his sword.

Khouri had heard his commander’s horse arrive and turned, calm. “We’ve recruited at least ten thousand men from villages throughout the valley. They’re willing to take up arms and join us in battle.” He grinned. “A few of them are looking forward to taking such fierce women captive.”

Rastaban shook his head. “Don’t count on taking them captive - they won’t take prisoners, and neither shall we.”

“Should we rally the men?” Rhajj asked.

“Tell them to stay where they are. We’ll come to them. It’s her turn to wait.”

One Way to Look At It

“Any news on your quarry?” Old Master sharpened his cimeter absently.

“Rastaban’s army has vanished,” Shanka said.

“Really? How?”

“Based on what the scouts have told me, they lost too many men and disbanded.” Shanka knelt to sharpen her own sword.

“Sounds like you disbelieve your own scouts.” Old Master’s tone was smug.

“I’m patient,” Shanka said. “And if he really has disbanded, then we can take the Indus River Valley as we’ve always wanted.” A smile played across her lips. “I’m sure the daughters of Maya and Kali will make wondrous warriors.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

What To Do

It was ingenious, the way the women did it, blended right back into village life while they made ready their weapons of war. Unless Rastaban knew each soldier by face, he’d never be able to tell precisely how big her army was. Blending right back in was a matter of solidarity, as well. The soldiers would always have a place to hide.

Invaders would never expect it when they stormed a village and it was already bristling with soldiers.

Rastaban hovered on the edges of the village, watching and waiting. And then he knew, clear as day, what to do.

Do It Better

Rastaban sent Khouri and Rhajj ahead to spread the news, set ablaze the fires of war in the hearts of the men back home. He stayed behind for a few days, meditating in the silence of a battlefield of defeat. Then he mounted his horse and set off.

If there was anything he’d learned from General Rami, it was to learn, and he’d seen what Shanka’s army was capable of. Whatever the women do, the men could do it better.

And by the gods, when he got his hands on Shanka, he’d show her how he could do it better.

What Now

“Do you think we did well?” Malia asked.

They stood on the edges of the plain, watching Rastaban’s men bury their comrades.

“I think we woke a sleeping dragon,” Shanka said.

“What now?” Malia asked.

Shanka glanced over her shoulder at Old Master, dressed as a foot soldier and lurking silently. “Now we wait and let him gather more troops, and then we finish them for good.”

“We just wait?” Malia arched an eyebrow.

“No. Back to the villages - we need iron for swords and spears.”

Malia brandished her sword and held it high, and the women prepared to march.

Many

“We’ve buried all of our dead, sir,” Rhajj said.

Rastaban stood overlooking the battlefield, blood-spattered grass and strewn with enemy bodies. Rastaban wanted to behead them and display them on pikes around his camp, but he couldn’t afford to delay.

“Gather the rest of the men. We’re marching back to the valley.”

Rhajj nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Khouri stepped up beside them. “So that’s it? Where will we find food?”

“We will take our spoils from those she-demons,” Rastaban said. “But first, we must rally more troops.”

“More, sir?”

Rastaban sheathed his sword. “As many as we can get.”

General Duties

Rastaban lunged to strike again, but Shanka vanished into the ranks of his men, cutting a swathe of destruction as she went. Rastaban wanted to scream at her, call her a coward, but she was a general, and it wasn’t her job to trade blows with him - it was her job to ensure her army killed, as efficiently and quickly as possible.

By the time her army was done, only a third of Rastaban’s men were still alive, and a good quarter of them were severely wounded. Khouri was sporting fresh bandages when he came to stand beside his general.

Same Kind

Rastaban lunged at her and swung. She side-stepped nimbly and brought her sword up for a swift thrust. He blocked, but her blow jarred his arm. She was stronger than she looked.

“You said one week,” Rastaban snarled.

Shanka’s smile was Kana-sweet. “I gave you more than a week - you should be grateful.”

“Grateful that my men are dying?” Rastaban swung.

Shanka blocked. “They had three extra days to dig themselves graves.”

Rastaban closed distance with a swift leap, locked hilts with Shanka. “You’re a monster.”

Her grin was battle-fierce. “I am, but you’re the same kind.”

Inside

Rastaban swore and lunged for his sword. To the woman, he said, “Stay here!” And then he dashed out of his tent.

Shanka’s women had surrounded his camp. His guards were dead, and Rhajj and Khouri were yelling, trying to organize the men into some semblance of formation to defend the center.

Some of the women were carrying away the food and water, and Rastaban scooped up his shield, plunged into the thick of the fray to fight them off.

“Where the hell did they come from?” he yelled at Khouri.

“Inside,” a woman said.


Rastaban turned.

Shanka drew her sword.

You Should

Khouri showed the woman - staggering, cloaked - into the tent, and then at Rastaban’s look he steered Rhajj out.

“What message from the People back home?”

She sank to her knees at his feet, breathing light and shallow, clearly weak.

Rastaban leaned over her, concerned. “Do you need water? Food?”

She said nothing, and he saw her hands were trembling. Rastaban turned and reached for the tent flap to call for fruit and water, and a hand closed around his ankle.

“Wait.”

Rastaban froze. Something in her voice was...off. “What?”

She said, “You should get your sword.”

Screams erupted outside.

Messenger From the People

“They said one week.” Khouri stood just inside Rastaban’s tent, watching the general pace circles. “It’s been ten days. The men are getting restless. Again.”

“I know,” Rastaban said. “Don’t tell me things I know. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Rhajj poked his head into the tent. “Sir, it’s a messenger from the People.”

Rastaban turned. “What?”

“The women. They sent a messenger. From the valley. She has been walking for days to speak to you.” Rhajj glanced over his shoulder, then asked, “Shall I send her in?”

Rastaban nodded. “Of course.” The women back home needed food - soon.