Into Open Battle

The ranks the second day of marching were even more ragged than they were on the first as the men strained forward like dogs eager on the scent of fresh prey. These women had murdered their comrades, mocked their scouts, and played enough games. Despite the men’s contentions that they weren’t women at all but demons in the guise of women, Rastaban knew the truth - Shanka’s army was women, because the games they were playing were the same games women played when trying to encourage men to woo and pursue them, but Shanka only sought one pursuit - into open battle.

Mobilize

Rastaban was on his feet to meet all seven scouts as they dashed into camp. The leader flung himself at Rastaban’s feet, gasping for breath.

“What news?” Rastaban demanded.

The scout’s eyes were wide. “They’ve vanished, sir.”

“What?”

“We tracked them as far as the Steppes, and made camp, so we surrounded them and waited, watching in shifts. The next thing we knew, we were waking up and they were gone. Somehow - somehow they drugged our canteens, sir.” The scout ducked his head, trembling.


Rastaban’s hand went to his sword, but he wouldn’t draw it. He turned to Khouri. “Mobilize.”

Maybe A Little Longer

“It’s been seven days.” Rastaban stared into the flames and spun his dagger idly on one fingertip. “Seven days since the scouts have gone out. Where are they?”

“There’s every possibility they were spotted and killed,” Khouri said, voice low.

Rastaban took a deep breath. “Shanka wouldn’t just kill them - she’d send one back to taunt me.”

Rhajj blinked, surprised, but Khouri hummed thoughtfully. “You’re right,” he said. “What now?”

“We mobilize,” Rastaban said. “The men won’t be patient much longer.”

“Maybe a little longer,” Rhajj said.

Rastaban lifted his head. “What makes you say that?”

“The scouts. They’re back.”

Orders are Orders

“The men are impatient, sir,” Khouri said.

Rastaban swung his sword with vicious force, the blade singing through the air as he traced battle patterns against invisible enemies. “We wait for the scouts. We won’t mobilize until then, because we’d be walking into a trap.”

Rhajj looked confused. “A trap? But sir --”

“Orders are orders,” Rastaban said. “Get out there and get my men ready. This is going to be an ugly battle.”

Rhajj shook his head. “Sir, they’re just women --”

“Who killed over a hundred of our men without a thought.” Rastaban’s eyes flashed. “Get my men ready, lieutenant.”

Said It Before

"You did that on purpose." Shanka shook her head, amused at her master's antics.

"Maybe just a little."

"So this Voice...how did you meet him?"

"He found me after the first time I died." Old Master glanced over his shoulder. "Rastaban's scouts are swift. What's your plan?"

It was Shanka's turn to grin. "You taught me how to become invisible. We shall disappear on the wind."

"You're cruel. Did you know that?"

"You've said it before."

"You just need reminding every now and again."

Shanka's grin turned fierce. "It's not something I've ever endeavoured to forget. Lieutenants, to me!"

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.

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.

Mod Post

Finals for the next two weeks. Pretend I am dead.

Much to Learn

“We will pick a shorter name for you in time,” he said. “But perhaps it’s best if you keep that one for now - we will change it to suit the people we are among when the time comes.” He stood up.

Dakshana rose as well, reluctantly shedding the comfortable furs so she was standing in her plain shift. “When what time comes?”

“The time for change. Now come on - we have work to do. You’re stronger and faster now than you ever were as a mortal, but you clearly have much to learn. Up a mountain is best. Let’s go!”

Name Exchange

His brow furrowed, and he tapped his chin thoughtfully. “My name? I’ve used so many over the years that I cannot remember what I was called through mortality.” Then he grinned. “I shall just start with a new name. You may call me Old Master.”

“Old Master,” Dakshana echoed. It wasn’t a name so much as a title, but she’d been taught to respect her elders, and if that was what he wanted to be called, she would abide by it.


“What’s your name, then?”

“Dakshana.”

He mouthed her name silently to himself a few times. “That name’s too long.”

In The Meantime

He caught her wrist and wrenched, hard. She yelped and tried to squirm free, but then he had the knife and it was right at her throat, and she stopped breathing.

She gazed into his eyes and saw - shadows. The kind that had ringed the edges of Chadstone’s world. Her blood ran cold.

But then the old man sat back on his haunches and considered the knife. “Nope. You don’t know how to use one of these. We’ll start without weapons first, I think. In the meantime, eat up.”

Dakshana stared at him, confused. Finally she asked, “What’s your name?”

Immortal and Human

Dakshana felt something in her shift - and fall into place. She reached out and traced a fingertip across her thigh where the wound had been, but the skin there was flawless, untouched.

“It hurt,” she said. She was puzzled.

The old man looked at her a moment, then threw his head back and laughed, long and hard. “We’re immortal, but we’re not inhuman. We can still feel pain.”

“Oh.” Dakshana studied the knife intently, admiring the glitter of firelight off the metal.

“Do you know how to use one of those?” the old man asked.

Dakshana tried to stab him.

Watch the Close

“Earn the right? How?” Dakshana asked.

The old man held out the knife. “Trust me. And trust yourself.”

Dakshana stared at the shining metal blade. It wasn’t stone or obsidian like the elders used, but metal, like the knife Chadstone had.

“Do you trust me?”

She looked at him.

“Do you trust what you are?”

She took the knife from him, and stared at it a little longer. Then, quick as a snake striking, she drove the blade into her thigh. It hurt. It burned viciously, but she forced herself to pull the blade out. And watch the wound close.

Earn the Right

Dakshana paused. “I - but those shadows were -”

“An accident? A once-in-a-lifetime event? I assure you, child, they have been around for many lifetimes, more than I have lived.” The old man smiled. “With the power that shadow prince gave you, you could unlock the gates to worlds untold in order to shape this one.”

Dakshana sat back. “I - no. Even if I have this power, it was given to me as a trick. A fluke. I have no right to use it as you suggest.”

The old man hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re correct. Earn the right, child.”

All We Have

“How can we possibly change time?” Dakshana asked. “Time moves, even if we are as you say we are - immortal. It might move without us, and how could we possibly hope to change anything? Humans are humans. If you saw ten nations fall, was anything gained by it? Did humans learn anything?”

The old man leaned forward, brushed a curl off of her forehead. His touch was gentle. “Sweet child, you really are more fierce and bright than those foolish villagers ever knew. No wonder a prince of the shadow chose you. But who says humans are all we have?”

Change

Dakshana paused. “What sort of proposition?”

“Do you know how long this world has existed?”

“No.” She’d honestly never thought about it.

“Do you know how long it will continue to exist even after everyone you know has returned to mother earth?”

She hadn’t thought of that either.

“I don’t know, but I know this - in my time I have seen ten nations rise and fall, tribes and chiefs and petty warlords, and it has all been in vain. What if people like us, people who see time for what it is - what if we work together to change it?”

Proposition One

The soup tasted even more wonderful than it smelled. “But you have something to gain from being nice to me?”

“One should always be kind to one’s fellow beings whether or not one seeks gain,” the man said. “How is it?”

“It’s very good,” Dakshana admitted. She was still watching him with wary eyes. He looked old, and his voice creaked like winter winds, but the fire in his eyes was full of the vigor of youth.

“I’m glad my years of improving my cooking have finally paid off.” The man slid closer. “I have a proposition for you, actually.”

The Finer Things

“Soup?” Dakshana echoed. “If I’m immortal, do I need to eat?”

The man was already ladling something wonderful-smelling into a hollowed-out turtle shell. “No, but why waste the finer things in life if you can still enjoy them?” He handed her the bowl.

She accepted it from him and went to take a sip, then paused. “How do I know this isn’t poisoned?”

“Poison won’t kill you.”

“But it would hurt me.”

And another smile blossomed on the man’s face. “You have a very quick mind. It’s not poisoned. I have nothing to gain from hurting you, child.”

Then This is Not a Dream

Dakshana recoiled sharply. “No.” She shook her head. “No. This is just a dream. I collapsed and the Elders caught me and now I’m breathing in their noxious smoke and --”

The old man swung at her. Dakshana automatically brought an arm up to block. The impact of his wrist against hers jarred her all the way to the bone. She blinked at him in shock. She hadn’t thought so old a man could move so fast.

But he just smiled at her. “You have lovely reflexes. Did that hurt?”


“I -- yes.”

“Then this is not a dream. Have some soup.”

Closing Wounds

Dakshana pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Immortal?” He must have been mad.

His smile turned enigmatic, and she saw him reach for something at his belt. A knife. She recoiled sharply, one hand out to shield herself, ready with a rune. She could only watch in stark horror as he drew the blade across his forearm, drawing blood in a smooth line. He was mad.

“Sir - you’ll hurt yourself - let me -” A binding rune would help, wouldn’t it?

And then, before her eyes, the wound began to close.

He kept smiling. “You see? Immortal. Would you like to try?”

Another Immortal

Dakshana lay there, pinned by his gaze. “Who are you?”

“I’ve been alive so long I hardly remember my name,” he said. “He told me I’d find you.”

“He who?” Dakshana felt - lethargic. Hungry. Thirsty. But certainly not as if she’d been dead.

“Don’t know. Skittish fellow in white robes. Bleeding from a shoulder wound but didn’t seem much harmed for it. He said I wouldn’t be the only one of my kind for long - that I’d find another.”

“Another what?” Dakshana sensed he was a man to be feared, but he meant her no harm.

He smiled. “Another immortal.”

First Time Dying

“So that was your first time dying. Pretty dramatic, don’t you think?”

Dakshana opened her eyes.

She was - alive. Lying on a nest of furs. In a cave while a fire crackled in the background. But there was no hum of magic, and no otherworldly-beautiful boy gazing at her with broken-hearted eyes.

An old man huddled beside the fire. His hair was white, long, tied back neatly out of his wrinkled face. His smile might have seemed facile, but his black eyes were sharp, missed nothing.

He leaned over her and said, “You really did die, you know.”

Interlude 1

He stood over her and watched the blood pour out of her, stain the ground. Then he knelt and pressed cool fingers to her throat. She had to die all the way before he could know, so all he could do was watch and wait.

He ran a hand through hair bleached-white from the sun, colorless in a colorful world. The wounds at his shoulder - seven slashes, as from a seven-clawed beast - bled sluggishly. Gingerly he tugged his sleeve up to cover the wounds and waited for her to die. For one moment, his colorless eyes were blue.

Warm Welcome

The sun was high in the sky, bleaching the world white and free of shadows. The plains were dead, the grass scorched beneath her numb feet. She hadn’t seen the village over her shoulder in hours. She was finally free. Free to close her eyes and imagine a darkness that was warm and welcoming, without shadows and hissing eyes and a broken promise to love forever.

Or maybe it was the ground that was warm, and the darkness that closed over her when she could no longer stand. The hot stickiness of her own blood welcomed her, and she died.

Human and Frail

Dakshana had abandoned the fur cloak long ago, and her bare feet were raw, sore, from the walking, but she had to keep going. She could see the glow of the village fires on the hill over her shoulder; she had to walk until she couldn’t see them any longer. Why was she still walking? She’d deserved to die. She was weak and human, had been a mere doll in the web of ancient shadows, creatures without souls. One of them - the youngest, weakest, most foolish - had claimed he loved her.

But she was human and frail, a toy.

Human.

Get There First

It was the whispering that drove her from sleep. The chanting had stopped, and the elders were asleep on the floor around her. Her hand burned, but her mind was clear, and she knew there was only one answer. Chadstone had failed her, had tried to save her, but damned her to the cruelty of mortality. All it took was a whisper and a rune and the cords fell away, and then she had the crystal shard cradled in her palm as she crept across the floor.

The elders wanted to kill her. They would fail.

She’d get there first.

Close Your Eyes...

They wouldn’t let her have it. She didn’t know if it was days or weeks that they kept her here, only letting her up to wash and occasionally eat thin soup. But there was always smoke, always chanting, and the elders constantly telling her that she was tainted, that she was evil, and they had to cleanse her. The smoke made her coughing worse, and the wound on her hand refused to heal.

When she closed her eyes and surrendered to the darkness, she remembered Chadstone’s eyes, and his hands on her skin, and the way he whispered her name.

The Answer

One of the elders pointed a trembling hand. Someone had placed the crystal in a woven cage in the corner; it still gleamed.

“The thing is evil and will not be destroyed. Touching it will only taint you more,” the elder said.

Dakshana closed her eyes and remembered the swift lines on the crystal, how they twisted and turned and lived, and she remembered the pulse of a heartbeat against hers when she wore the crystal around her neck. The crystal was the answer.

“It’s not tainted,” she said. “What’s tainted is your selfishness and ignorance. Let me have it.”

Screaming In Your Sleep

“See? She is mad!” an elder crowed.

“Dakshana, stop this,” Minka said. She lowered her voice and whispered in Dakshana’s ear. “We told the elders we were merely lost in the woods, that the dire wolf killed the hunter who courted you. They believe you mad. You’ve been screaming in your sleep about shadows and other worlds, about Chadstone.”

Dakshana’s eyes blazed with fury. “They know I’m not mad - they just don’t want to admit what they’ve done. What did you do with his name?”

Minka’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Chadstone’s name. Where is it?”

“She means the crystal,” Srina said.

Possession

The world swayed, and then went black.

When Dakshana awoke, her hand burned with fierce pain, as if the wound was infected. She coughed. Her house was filled with smoke. She tried to scream - her house was on fire! But then she realized it was heavier smoke than fire, as if someone were burning herbs. Spices.

A holy fire. The damned elders were cleansing her.

Dakshana struggled to sit up, and two people immediately leapt on her, pressed her back down. Srina and Minka. Traitors. Dakshana thrashed.

“She is possessed by demon spirits!” one of the elders cried.

Dakshana shrieked.

Stay Back

Dakshana hadn’t realized the crystal cut her, was mingling rainbow-iridescent blood with her own. Her head was dizzy and she was feeling faint, and she began to sway on her feet. Minka took another step forward.

“You’re hurt. Let us help you -”

“Like you helped my parents?” Dakshana asked.

One of the elders frowned. “What about your parents?”

“You set them on fire!” Dakshana waved the crystal shard warningly. “You killed them because you were afraid of them because Ashoken lied to you! I know what you’ll do to me. Stay back.”

Minka shook her head. “Dakshana, you’re ill --”

All of Them

“Dakshana, please,” Minka said. She approached cautiously, hands held out, as if to placate a wild animal.

Dakshana brandished the crystal. “No. Stay back. I won’t let any of you touch me. You did this to me!” All of them had done it - Ashoken’s widow, the elders, letting him experiment with the shadow-beings, letting him kill her parents. And then they’d just stood by and watched her struggle to survive alone. If they’d watched, if they’d cared - she wouldn’t have been tainted with this magic, with the runes dancing up her spine, in her blood.

Her blood. Dripping. Dripping.

Thrice Dead

The elders stared at her, horrified. Some of the women and children were screaming and crying. They’d seen what she’d done, what magic she’d wrought. Minka and Srina broke from the crowd. Srina was crying and went to throw her arms around Dakshana, but - what if it was another trick.

Dakshana stepped back, bringing the crystal shard up like a knife. In the real world, it only gleamed dully, the runes dead, the name dead, the man - dead.

“Stay back!”

“Dakshana,” Minka began.

And then the elders spoke.

“She has been tainted! We must purify her!”

Dakshana shrieked, “Stay back!”