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.”