Learn Of Yours

Before Andrev could call after Kana and protest that he didn’t know the song, Rastaban appeared at his side.

“I saw you watching me earlier.” Rastaban’s tone was easy, casual.

Andrev swallowed hard. “You were working. I was distracted. I apologize.”

“No need to apologize, lad.” Rastaban grinned. “Our kind should stick together, hm?” And he opened his fist, showed the shining silver coin that spun in midair over his palm.

“What do you mean ‘our kind’?” Andrev asked warily.

“Oh, I don’t have horns like you have, but I have magic of my own. You should learn of yours."

Playing the Piper

“Will you play the pipes for my dance?” Kana asked.

Andrev looked up from where he’d been weaving nets to snare pheasants. “Pardon?” And his heart stopped in his chest.

Kana was dressed in a dazzling array of silks. Silver and gold glittered in her hair, and someone had lined her eyes with kohl. She looked like the Sky Goddess from the stories Andrev had heard as a child.

“The pipes. For my dance. Will you play?”

Andrev tried to make himself nod. Before he could respond, something shiny caught Kana’s eye, and she thanked him before she dashed away.

Knowing Who Knows

One of the tools lying on the ground flew into Rastaban’s outstretched hand as he reached for it.


Andrev blinked. But then he saw it again, saw Rastaban hold an empty hand toward his tools on the ground, saw wooden pegs leap onto his open palm.

Rastaban had magic. He used his hands to fasten the pegs into place, to help the other man hoist the frame, but when the frame began to falter, Andrev was sure he saw more of Rastaban’s magic keeping it in place.

Partway through the job, Rastaban smiled at Andrev.

Rastaban knew that Andrev knew.

Maybe a Trick

Kana’s words lingered in the back of Andrev’s mind. One day, when the women told him he had hunted enough for the week, he sat on the edge of the wanderer camp, making delicate wooden whistles for the children, and he saw Rastaban helping one of the other men build a tent frame for the upcoming Wanderer feast. Every year the Wanderers danced for the tribes.

Andrev had always been banished from the show.

This year would be his first chance to see it.

And then maybe it was his eyes playing a trick on him, but he saw it.

Mod Post

Over the weekend I had the plague. And I have a terribly important (read: makes or breaks a law student, which means it's not important to anyone else but those involved) trial competition coming up, so updates will be...sparse. But should hopefully pick up after the madness has ceased.

Until then...happy imaginings.

Just A Hunter

“Watch him sometime,” Kana said, gazing across the flames to where Rastaban was wooing some of the Wanderer women. “He can do things no other man can.” Then she glanced at him slyly out of the corner of her eye. “Can you do magic?”

Andrev shook his head roughly, let his hair fall into his eyes. “No. I’m just a hunter.”

“A hunter who always knows where there is food and can catch fish with his bare hands.”

“No one wishes to speak to me - I have time to practice,” Andrev said.

Kana brushed his hair out of his eyes.

Would Call a Curse

“You know Rastaban does magic?” Kana sat down beside Andrev at the fire where he was finishing supper.

He’d had a good run of hunting earlier that day, and the Wanderers seemed to be pleased with whatever he brought back.

“Many of your clan know sleight-of-hand,” Andrev said. It seemed Kana was content to be sane for once. He’d take it where he could get it.

“Rastaban knows better magic than that,” Kana said. “You should ask him and see. Our Clan loves magic.”

Andrev wondered if she knew what she called magic others would call a curse.

Rastaban's Words

Rastaban’s words ricocheted through Andrev’s skull, and he blinked rapidly.

“Pardon, sir?”

Rastaban’s smile turned puzzled. “You do play the pipes, don’t you? Of course, Kana lies to me all the time, so you don’t have to perform if you don’t want to --”

Andrev swallowed hard. He didn’t dare ask to hear those words again. He tried to will his feet to move, to carry him away to safety, but then children were clamoring around him, begging him to carve toy whistles and other charms.

“Brother, brother, please?” they piped up, dancing in eager circles around him.

Andrev smiled. “Yes.”

One Of Us

Andrev paused. His heart stuttered in his chest. Rastaban stood with some of the other Wanderer Elders, probably discussing what magical performance they would put on for the midsummer feast.

“Pardon?” Andrev asked.

Rastaban looked at him, puzzled. “The feast tonight. You haven’t been to one yet. You absolutely must come.”

Andrev shifted his spear from hand to hand. “Sir, I don’t think I --”

Rastaban grinned. “I understand - there’s a maiden in the main camp, isn’t there?”

Andrev shook his head quickly. “No, but --”

“Then come to our feast! You’re one of us. I hear you play the pipes well.”

The Feasts

There were glorious feasts almost every night in the main camp. Andrev avoided them, sitting on the edges of the firelight learning from the reindeer and other animals he tended for the night.

Andrev had heard of the feasts in the Wanderer camp, but he’d never thought to attend one. Kana was with the women, helping them skin and prepare the antelope they’d caught. When he passed, she smiled at him.

He couldn’t help but attempt to smile faintly in return. He would sleep under the stars and away from the humans tonight.

But Rastaban called out. “Andrev! Join us!”

One Barb

Andrev felt blood drip from his palms onto the grass. He wanted to say that Kana was no distraction for any man, but Kir was smirking at him knowingly, and Andrev knew better than to protest. Anything he said would turn into a weapon on Kir’s lips when Kir threw his words back at him.

Andrev settled on one barb. “Perhaps she could teach you to hunt.” And he started off toward the sunrise where he knew the antelopes were.

A few moments later, Kana fell into step beside him. She said, “Thank you.”


A butterfly fluttered in her hair.

A Very Fine Distraction

Kana giggled and nodded. “Very cute!”

She danced around Kir, skirts swirling, and Andrev was sure he’d drawn blood with how tightly his hands were curled into fists. Kir looked Kana up and down with obvious appreciation, and Andrev could hardly fault Kir for it. Despite her mad giggling and being easily distractible, Kana was very lovely.

Then Kana caught sight of a butterfly, and she dashed after it.

“She’s quite mad,” Kir said.

“Yes.”

“But lovely.” Kir tapped his chin thoughtfully, and Andrev saw he was wearing several trinkets. “She would make a very fine distraction, would she not?”

Just Like a Baby Bird

Kana’s eyes lit up, and Andrev’s hands curled into fists. Of course she would find Kir attractive, just like every other girl roaming this camp. One year Andrev really would leave the humans and live on his own with the animals. Animals had horns too.

Kir smirked, ran an appreciative gaze over Kana.

She waved her knife in some approximation of a greeting. “Awww, it’s Andrev’s little friend! Isn’t he cute? Just like a baby bird!” She circled Kir, cooing and attempting to pet his hair.

Kir’s smirk vanished. Then he attempted to reassert some confidence.

“You think I’m cute?”

At The Rate You're Going

Andrev flinched. No one in his tribe had asked that, not like they’d been asking Kir, but then no one would ever ask him. It was understood by all that the boy who was called a gift from the gods was too cursed to take a wife.

“No,” he said shortly.

Kana smiled brightly, oblivious to his discomfort with the subject. “Don’t worry - one will find you. After all, you are the mightiest hunter.” She peered into the distance. “What sort of animals will we find, do you think?”

“None, at the rate you’re going. Hunting with a girl, Andrev?”

She Was Mad; He Was Cursed

“What is that supposed to mean?” Andrev asked. But he could sense a decent crop of small antelopes toward the east, and he started walking.


Kana trotted beside him. “Rastaban only asks for the best hunter each year. You are the best of everyone.”

“Everyone?” Andrev echoed, voice laced with heavy skepticism.

Kana flung an arm wide to indicate the entirety of the summer camp and almost stabbed Andrev with her knife. “Everyone. You are the best of them all. You’re special.”

He shook his head. She was mad.

He was cursed.

“Have you chosen a maiden yet?” Kana asked.

Of Course

The girls in Andrev’s tribe didn’t know how to hunt at all. Maybe because The Wanderers had no hunters of their own, everyone knew how to hunt a little. It didn’t seem like a bad idea until a girl like Kana was allowed to hunt a knife.

Mid-hunt she’d probably get distracted by a butterfly and accidentally cut off her own hand or something equally horrible.

“Which way?” she asked.

“What makes you think I know?”

She tilted her head to the side and studied him, like a curious bird. “You hunt for us. Of course you would know.”

Certainly

They summoned Andrev before dawn, pressed a heavy spear into his hands and pushed him toward the edge of camp. Andrev wasn’t even sure when his pallet of furs had been moved into the Wanderer camp, but suddenly he was standing at the edge of the camp, half-awake and searching the air for the whisper-voices of animals that no one else seemed to hear.

“Take Kana with you,” Rastaban said.

Andrev blinked. Kana held a long knife and grinned like an eager kitten. Andrev was quite sure she was mad.


“Can you hunt?” he asked.

She nodded. “Certainly.”

Not People

Andrev was floored. No one was horrified by how he looked. His grip on his spear tightened. Then, he said, carefully,

“You’ve seen people...like me...before?”

“Not people,” the little boy said.

Andrev swallowed hard, bowed his head to let his hair cover his face one more.

“They’re very special, whoever they are,” the woman said kindly. “If you are as good a hunter as they say, then you must be one of them.”

“Don’t hide,” Kana said brightly. “You’re so pretty!” She ducked down and tried to peer into his eyes. “Smile, pretty boy!”

Andrev closed his eyes.

Who You Are

One curious child took a swipe at Andrev’s face, and he jerked back, but he was too late - the damage was done. He froze, naked under the Wanderers’ questing gazes, as his hair was shoved back to reveal his shame, his disgrace, the mark of his demonic nature.

The little child who’d shamed him blinked his wide eyes, and then he spoke. “Oooh! He has five horns! That’s way better than three.”

And then his mother shushed him. “Show more respect for the lovely hunter we’ve found.” She smiled at Andrev. “Those Dolgan don’t know who you are, do they?”

Wanderer Camp

The Wanderer camp was alive with sight and sound, girls wearing brightly-colored dresses twirling and tumbling in the grass, boys balancing spears on their noses and using staffs to vault themselves through the air. A child danced around Andrev’s feet, playing merry music on a wooden pipe.

Rastaban swept into the camp, and everyone cheered.

“This is Andrev, our loyal hunter for the season.”

The people cheered again. Andrev cringed at the wall of sound that hit him, but then they were all surrounding him, shouting hellos and reaching out to pat him on the shoulder, touch his hair.

Come With Us

“I hunt,” Andrev said warily.

Rastaban seemed oblivious to the way Andrev was doing his best to radiate hostility; the reindeer noticed and began stamping their hooves and snorting.

Rastaban clapped Andrev on the shoulder. “We’re glad we found you. Come along and meet the rest of the Wanderers.” And Rastaban spun on his heel.

Kana laughed sweetly and rose up in one smooth, graceful motion. Then she offered a hand to Andrev. “Come with us?”

Andrev pushed himself to his feet, careful not to touch her. “Go on, then.”

She smiled at him and turned, skipped across the grass.

Mod Post

So I decided to simplify the tagging system (since, upon reflection, some characters are going to go through a lot more lives than others) and now there are, quite simply, tags by name and/or interlude notices. Maybe at a later date when I'm feeling ambitious I'll tag things so people can find individual lives, but in the meantime, simplicity is best. Or so I'm told.

Usually

“I’m Andrev.” He shook Rastaban’s proffered hand. The Wanderers came to the Market every year to perform - music, acrobatics, sleight-of-hand - and though they were well-loved by the children, they were scorned by the adults. After a while, Andrev understood why, but that had never stopped him liking them.

Rastaban’s smile brightened. “Just the man we’re looking for - your chief Savva said you’re an excellent hunter.”

The Wanderers lived off the work of others, as it were, and every year they commissioned hunters from the tribes. Usually it was something of an honor to hunt for them. Usually.

The Wanderers

Andrev blinked, suspicious, when Kana smiled at him.

“Your reindeer love you. You take good care of them,” she said.

“Thanks,” Andrev said. She could tell that by looking at them? Something about the cheerful light in her eyes was...off. Was she mad?

She reached out. “Let me see your eyes.” She went to push his hair out of his face.

He recoiled.

“Kana, don’t run off.” A man trotted toward them, smiling apologetically. “Don’t worry - she’s harmless.”

“I’m sure,” Andrev said.

The man offered a hand. “I’m Rastaban of the Wanderers.”

Andrev’s eyes widened. The Wanderers were here.

Kana

Andrev was on his feet in an instant, ducking his head to hide his horns, and there she was, a girl.

She was kneeling beside one of the reindeer and petting its nose, laughing delightedly. Andrev could only stare, confused, when she smiled at him. She was lovely, unlike any girl he had ever seen, with dark skin and curly dark hair and eyes the color of fire.

How had she sneaked up him like that? Andrev knew better than to let anyone get the drop on him.

“What are you doing here?” Andrev asked warily.

Someone called out, “Kana!”

Always Tired

One of the reindeer nosed at his shoulder while he sat, sharpening his spearheads.

Andrev lifted his head, made a wordless sound of questioning. Something akin to motherly concern drifted over him, and Andrev shook his head. He wasn’t upset or lonely; he was tired. Always tired.

He glanced over his shoulder and watched the camp bustle with life and activity, set in a rhythm different from his own. No one was paying attention to him, so he lifted his head and shook his hair out of his eyes.

And then he heard laughter.

A girl’s laughter.

Right beside him.

Every Woman a Mother

Andrev led the reindeer to his chosen spot along the edge of the riverbank. He wouldn’t have to tether them; they listened to him and would obediently graze nearby while he pitched his tent.

He made quick work of his lean-to, a patchwork of furs and skins. His bed was another pallet of furs he’d collected over the years, more from his own hunting and scavenging than Savva knew; the women had never wanted to give him clothes or blankets despite the shaman’s insistence that every woman was mother to the boy who was a gift from the gods.

Summer Plains

It took another four days to reach the summer plains, but once the massive encampment came into sight on the horizon, Andrev felt hope soar. He could take the reindeer to the edge of everything, just by the river, and hide for all three months. As long as he brought his share of food back to the tribe, he could roam free and study the animals, trees, plants how he chose.

Savva didn’t look twice at Andrev to dispatch him to set the reindeer for grazing; Savva cared about the massive market built in the midst of all the tribes.

Savva's Son

The tribe caught up with Kir and the other hunters mid-morning the next day. Most of them wore shiny new trinkets and exchanged sly grins. Andrev walked at the rear of the caravan, driving the reindeer.

“Kir, you positively glitter with jewelry,” Savva called out, proud of his son.

Kir tossed his head and preened. “There are many lovely girls in our sister-tribes.”

Andrev resisted the urge to make a low remark that there were many people in Kir’s own tribe who’d gone without food the night before. But everyone was pleased for Kir; he was Savva’s son.

Shelter from the Midnight Wind

The matrons of the tribe looked up, surprised, when Andrev set down a rack of fresh, unconscious but still-living fish for gutting and cleaning.

“Where are Kir and the others?” one woman asked.

“Fetching trinkets from girls,” Andrev said. “The nearest tribe is half a day’s journey. Expect Kir and the others home tomorrow.”

The women exchanged looks; they knew that Andrev would never receive a trinket from a girl. Andrev shouldered his spear and headed toward the edge of camp where he’d made his own bed for the night. The reindeer would shelter him from the midnight wind.

When They Think I Can't Hear

Kir wanted him to be ashamed of what he was. Andrev had spent his whole life being ashamed. Sometimes, he was so ashamed that he became angry.

“They only say that because I hunt so well,” he said coolly. “But when they think I can’t hear they call me the spawn of a demon. Too bad I don’t have demon powers.” And he lifted his head, deliberately shook his hair out of his eyes.


The girl couldn’t even scream.

Andrev handed Kir his spear. “I’ll be at the river getting fresh fish for the women. See you back at camp.”

Not Quick Enough

The exchange of trinkets - bracelets, necklaces - was the first step in courting. Kir usually received the most trinkets, but he still had yet to take a girl to wife. Andrev lingered at the rear of the pack, spear in hand. The river wasn’t far - he could slink off, catch some live fish, and return to Savva’s camp.

Only he wasn’t quick enough.

One lovely girl with hair like the midnight sky and skin the color of warm earth smiled at him, toying with her necklace. “This one is new, Kir.”

Kir’s smile turned cruel. “He’s a gift from the gods.”

Their Girls

The best thing about spring was that it meant the big migration - along the river, toward the summer plains. The summer plains meant crowds and crowds of people where it would be easy for Andrev to blend into the shadows and go about his tasks unnoticed. He liked seeing the other animals the other tribes brought, hearing about the places where they roamed most of the year.

But this year he was a hunter. That meant running ahead and scouting, bringing back food. That meant meeting other tribes and trying to court their girls.

He always made their girls scream.

Fishing

“I know your secret,” Kir said as he and Andrev stood side-by-side in the river, armed with spears.

“Oh?” Andrev asked.

“You’re half demon. That’s why you hunt so well,” Kir said.

“Maybe I’m a gift from the gods, destined to bring this tribe to greatness,” Andrev said dryly. He set his spear on the riverbank and reached into the clear water, hands poised.

Kir gaped. “What are you doing?”

Andrev closed his eyes, waited, listening for the tiny heartbeat, the frantic animal thoughts. And then he opened his eyes and closed his hands over a live fish.

What To Believe

That night, around the fire, Andrev sat away from the others as he always did, gnawing on his share of the antelope meat and steadily avoiding everyone’s gazes. He could hear the men and women whispering.

“Perhaps he really is a gift from the gods,” one of the women whispered. “If we’d had him hunt for us before, we never would have wanted for food.”

“I don’t trust him,” another woman said. “He might try to poison us.”

Andrev dared to glance at Kir where he sat with Savva and the other hunters. Now no one knew what to believe.

Aren't I?

Andrev strode into the camp and laid the antelope carcass at Savva’s feet. Savva stared.

Kir, who had leveled the butt of his spear at Andrev as if to strike him, almost dropped his spear.

“Will this please the women?” Andrev asked, voice low. He kept his head down, let his hair obscure his features.

“I - where did you find it?”

Andrev couldn’t keep the bitter, sardonic twist out of his voice. “Apparently the gods favor our tribe, my chief.”

“You killed it yourself?” Kir asked.

In reply, Andrev leveled the bloody spear at him. “I’m a hunter, aren’t I?”

Before He Threw

He walked toward the trees, toward the place where he knew the antelope went to drink every morning. Most days, he did his best to ignore the chatter of the animals around him, hyperaware of the fact that others could not hear what he heard. But he knew when rabbits nested underfoot, when a falcon soared overhead, when a fox was protecting new cubs in her den.

He came across an antelope and her young, and he lifted his spear. It should have been to heavy for him, but he wasn’t like the other boys.

He apologized before he threw.

Opposites

Andrev murmured a soft farewell to the reindeer and rose to his feet, crossed the camp, kept his head bowed so his long hair obscured his face.

Savva handed him a spear. “It is almost daybreak. Go with Kir and the others. Come back with something big and fat to please the women, yes?”

Andrev took the spear in one hand, tested its weight. It was heavier than most, designed for an experienced hunter.

Kir started for the edge of camp. “This way, Andrev.” He spoke as if he addressed a dog.

Andrev turned and walked in the opposite direction.

He Will Hunt

Andrev heard the tribe council whispering, wondering what to do with the cursed child.

“He will never marry, never learn a trade - no one would trade with a demon,” Savva said.

“Perhaps,” his son Kir said, “he will hunt. Look at him - he is weak and frail. A large animal would kill him easily.”

Andrev pretended he heard nothing and continued feeding the reindeer. Kir was his own age, professed to be a loving step-sibling, but his cruelty was blatant, if ignored by the elders.

Savva called out. “Andrev, come over here and take a spear, hunt with Kir.”

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.

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.