Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  Ashallah glided over the tile floor down the hall. She craned her neck toward each door she encountered, passing five until she finally stopped.

  Snoring, she realized. Two people. Probably elders. Fast asleep.

  With her small blade in hand, she picked the heavy iron lock. It creaked for but a moment, after which Ashallah stopped to listen. The snoring behind the door went on. As did she.

  Ashallah entered the pitch of the flat. A poor home, Ashallah knew, by the drab look of the curtains that covered the windows in place of shutters. She nearly had a mind to leave and find another flat. However, as she was already inside, Ashallah decided to look around anyway.

  Where anyone else would have been blind, Ashallah could see. Others would have met the void of night, whereas a midnight warrior knew darkness as a friend.

  Ashallah’s eyes had adjusted instantly, for she moved through the flat with ease. Silhouettes, the dark against the darker, painted a flat of simple tastes. A water basin here. An end table there. Rolled prayer rugs in the corner.

  Then she saw it. Copper, perhaps brass. A flint and striker. Ashallah reached for the three.

  When the snoring stopped.

  Ashallah dove to the ground, her stomach flat against the tile. She waited and listened.

  In the next room, feet shuffled. Then halted. Ashallah’s hand rested on the collar of her kameez, ready to pull out her concealed blade.

  Ping. A splash, like a steady stream pouring into a dry well, met her ears. Ashallah breathed as the man in the rest room relieved himself in the chamber pot.

  She did not have to wait long before the chorus of snoring began again. Only a few breaths into the old man’s sleep and Ashallah was in the hall again, with an oil lamp and flint in hand.

  A few quick steps and the stairs were beneath her feet again. Five flights up and four turns later Ashallah found the rooftop, where the cold of night was still present. As was the clamor below. The sound of the outrage seemed to carry more from up high than it did on the street only moments before. Perhaps the mob grew, Ashallah pondered. If that was the case, then she knew she would need to make haste.

  The oil lamp, only large enough to fit within her hands, was but half full. With it in her grasp, Ashallah approached the edge of the roof to peer down. Below, the mob crowded under the awning of the store. The awning itself was no more than a large expanse of spun wool fabric, just thick enough to protect the store’s wares from the desert sun.

  Ashallah stared at the oil lamp to consider the possibilities. Time is short, she convinced herself. I need to act.

  She held the lamp over the edge. Ashallah walked a few steps as she tilted the lamp slightly until the oil inside trickled out. Only a few ounces remained as she pulled it close. She knelt, with striker and flint in hand, striking one against the other. Sparks flew, flashing brightly for a moment until fading. Finally, one landed in the open oil lamp.

  A blue tongue of flame rose from the scant fluid. Ashallah picked up the oil lamp to hold it before her face, admiring how sudden the metal in her hand began to heat.

  Ashallah held the lamp, a fire in its small basin, over the edge. Her fingers uncoiled from around it so that the flaming lamp fell to the awning.

  Shouts and screams followed. Ashallah laid on her back and closed her eyes. More yells and cries cut the air. She remained unmoved by them.

  “They should thank me,” she told herself aloud.

  Ashallah sat up to lean over the roof’s edge. The fire had caught on the awning. Its flames licked the side of the mud brick building, leaving soot in its wake. Ashallah wondered if the fire on the awning was enough to spread. Not that it mattered, for those below had made up their minds already. They had scattered. Dispersed. Just as Ashallah intended.

  Poor scared lambs, she thought as she rose to her feet. She sauntered over to the opposite end of the roof, where she noted that only four feet separated her from the roof next door. Ashallah did not bother to back up and run but simply hopped over as the cries beneath echoed. She pressed on to the staircase, past neighbors who rushed downstairs and outside with blankets and buckets of water. Unperturbed, she glided past the onlookers, those who stayed a safe distance from the heat as the able and the brave battled it together.

  Ashallah was nearly through the crowd when one of the frightened towards the back caught her attention. The eyes were unmistakable, as was the porcelain skin. Along with the hair. The straight, silken hair that she had envied her entire life. It flowed, stirred by a breeze, every strand free and visible.

  Ashallah closed in on the unsuspecting frightened one, whose gaze remained fixed on the fire. “Orzala?”

  Chapter 5

  “Let go of me! I mean it!”

  Her grip persisted.

  “Hands off!”

  Her fingers dug deeper.

  “Stop it!”

  She continued dragging the reluctant one forward.

  “Ashallah!”

  Orzala planted her feet in the middle of the street. She sunk to the ground, hoping that her sudden, dead weight would lessen her sister’s hold on her. Despite her resistance, Ashallah kept her hand clamped around Orzala’s arm.

  “Get up, you spoiled brat! I said get up!” Ashallah commanded.

  “No! You can’t make me.”

  Ashallah probably would have laughed at any other time. At her sister’s insolence. At her childlike innocence. But not with the rising sun close at hand. Within minutes, the city’s men would emerge. The sentries would open Yasem’s gates. The guards would begin their morning patrol and the merchants would load their carts. The time of men was near.

  “That’s it!”

  With one swoop, Ashallah slung her sister over her shoulder. Orzala kicked and protested yet Ashallah continued the rest of the five blocks back to their flat, not dropping her once. Even though she wanted to do so.

  Only when they reached the steps leading up to their flat did Ashallah set her down. “Go!” Ashallah insisted. “I’m not carrying your ungrateful hide up the stairs.”

  “Ungrateful?” Orzala exclaimed, nearly beside herself. “Me? For what?”

  Ashallah nearly came upon Orzala, forcing her sister to backpedal onto the stairs. “I saved you from that mob. That fire. That whole scene. Don’t you understand?”

  “You pulled me from a crowd of onlookers, where I was standing at a safe distance. I wasn’t in harm’s way.”

  “All because of a fire I started, to disperse the mob. To save you and the rest of those delusional women from those in black.”

  “The Shadya are my sisters,” Orzala stated as she planted her feet firmly, midway up the stairs. “They fight for a voice amongst the viziers, the merchants... and the imams.”

  “Is that so?” Ashallah jeered. “Those whores can command an audience with the holy men of the city?”

  “Don’t call them whores!” Orzala pouted. “They’re nothing like the women you frequent.”

  The quick air. The snap of skin against skin. The rush of blood to her hand. Ashallah’s slap was swift and powerful. Although her hand throbbed, she knew it hurt her sister much more than it pained her. However, Orzala did not raise a hand to her cheek as Ashallah thought she would. Nor did she cry, as her eyes remained free of tears. No glare followed nor an expression of contempt or malice. Just a blank stare from the brown eyes of innocence and idealism set in a cream-colored face.

  Ashallah watched as her sister turned and proceeded up the steps. Her black hair swayed as she ascended. Ashallah had seen this sight so many other times before. From the back, Orzala looked just as she did when she was twelve. Now, there was something different about her. A distinction Ashallah knew but could not put into words. Perhaps her gait was different, she considered, for her steps had more purpose. Or maybe her shoulders, which seemed higher, or her back, which appeared straighter. Where is the young sister I knew? Ashallah asked herself. Where is the girl I have known? Who is this woman before me?

  S
he wanted to ask these questions of her sister as she trailed her up the stairs. She longed to inquire about how she discovered the Shadya and ventured to her quarters. She desired to know what her sister was thinking.

  Rather, Ashallah kept her mouth shut. She had always been direct with her sister. Along with her mother. As well as all others. Except when it came to the feelings within. The dark crevices of one’s soul. Emotions. That territory was so foreign to Ashallah. She thought better of questioning her sister about such matters. For it required a sensitivity she lacked, one she did not want.

  Orzala kept ahead of Ashallah all the way up the stairs, down the hall and into their flat. Ashallah followed at a brisk pace, one that led her crashing into Orzala when she halted only a few steps beyond the doorway.

  “Orzala!” Ashallah yelled as she knocked into her. “What in the Five Doors of...”

  Ashallah caught the remainder of her words mid-sentence. In the receiving room, her mother sat on the ground, before a single oil lamp. Her makeup kit had spilled out onto the floor, with its various powders and creams strewed about. Around her were three women, each leaning against a different wall. Although the shutters of the flat were closed and the lamplight was faint, Ashallah knew the three that hid in the shadows. For they were her midnight warriors.

  Badra, the shortest of the three, leaned on the wall directly across from the door. Her eyes, even in low light, dazzled. Like sapphires, they dazzled. Too bad the rest of her was not as comely, Ashallah thought. Her face was rather square, as were her shoulders. With her hair cropped short, one could mistake Badra for a man by her backside alone. She had the mannerisms of a man too, as she dug her teeth into an apple she had helped herself to from their pantry, chewing loudly. I am shocked I did not hear her from down the hall, Ashallah thought.

  Thwayya, to her left, had more beauty than most. Or at least that would have been the case had the past three battles gone her way. She still bore the bruises on her right cheek and eye from their last battle. Accompanying that was a thick scar running from the left side of her jaw down her neck and to her collarbone, which had been shattered. That wound spoke of a hack from a broad blade that nearly took Thwayya’s life. Still, there she stood, having endured the battles of night thus far.

  Off to Ashallah’s right, the third warrior cleared her throat. Ashallah did not bother to look to her side. For she knew who was there: Vega.

  Vega sauntered over to Niyusha, her gaze fixed on Ashallah. “You’re late.”

  “I didn’t realize that I had a curfew.”

  “Not a curfew. A responsibility.”

  Ashallah sighed a little. She knew where this conversation was going. “What are the orders?” she asked obligatorily.

  “We march on the Tirkhan.”

  Ashallah nearly scoffed. “The last time the jinni spotted the Tirkhan they were more than three hundred miles from here.”

  “Not anymore,” Thwayya added. “The last flight of the jinni missed a band of Tirkhan in the Canyonlands.”

  To that news, Ashallah raised a brow. Another mistake by one of the Grand Sultan’s trusted jinn, she thought. They are becoming more frequent. Their errors are carrying heavier consequences.

  Vega reached for Niyusha’s hair to twirl a strand between her fingers. “Are we going to keep on jabbering? Or are we going to march?” Vega patted Niyusha on her head. Niyusha twitched a bit but dared not move much, for she saw that Vega’s other hand still rested on her sheathed dagger.

  Ashallah stepped up to Vega to grab her hand. Vega drew her dagger as Ashallah took out her hidden blade.

  Orzala screamed. Niyusha shot to her feet. “No!” she demanded and begged at once, a hand outstretched to each of them. Shocked, Ashallah stopped. As did Vega.

  Ashallah studied Badra and Thwayya. Both watched their midnight sisters with anticipation, shock painted across their faces, neither not knowing how to act. Badra held her apple before her chin, unsure of whether to continue eating. Thwayya turned from Vega to Ashallah, not sure whom to support or trust. Neither had their hands on their blade hilts. Because in all truth, who could they strike?

  Vega’s stare still held all the rage of a thousand fires. That was all the confirmation Ashallah needed. Tonight I command the army, she knew. The whole of Yasem’s midnight warriors.

  Ashallah placed her small blade within the hidden sheath of her kameez. She grabbed the apple from Badra’s hand, not waiting for any of the three as she made her way to the door, knowing they would follow her and finally leave her family in peace.

  “We march,” she declared, as three sets of footsteps faintly echoed behind her.

  Chapter 6

  The night breeze still held the heat of the day. As was common. Still, this one was different. For it had a scent. A sweet, smoky one.

  “We are close,” Ashallah whispered only to herself.

  She looked over her shoulder. Behind her were the silhouettes of two midnight warriors, hunched on the crest of a dune. One trudged on the sand as she headed south while the other remained still, no doubt scanning the terrain.

  They do not smell it, Ashallah knew. Only I do.

  A grin curled on her lips. Yes. Me alone.

  Ashallah rose from her knee to run down the dune and back to the other two scouts. She merely passed them, not bothering with words as they knew to follow. Soon the three of them were back amongst the forwardmost company. A few hand commands from Ashallah dispelled the messengers in all directions to gather the others.

  Little time passed before the bulk of her midnight warriors was behind her. All her captains, including Vega, encircled her. In their eagerness, they leaned close as Ashallah, whose words were but slight whispers that barely stirred the air, issued her commands. Her captains responded with silent nods and dispersed as quickly as they had gathered.

  Ashallah broke into a light run. Trailing her were a company of her midnight warriors – rough women used to a hardscrabble existence in the desert. Most were nomads, from tribes such the Renaika, Vedo-In, and Kitare. Others were simply offspring of beggars, having grown up outside the walls of Yasem, where their families often sold their flesh to anyone with a few coins to spare for pleasure. A few were even the Displaced – those women who had brought shame on their families, forever shunned by relatives and strangers alike.

  Ashallah’s flat in Yasem would have been considered a mansion by all of those who followed her. For most of them, that was reason enough to hate her. Ashallah, in truth, did not care. It did not matter if her company of soldiers despised or adored her. So long as they respected her.

  Like gazelles, Ashallah and her company traversed the dunes before them. Their feet silently patted the sand for but an instant, leaving faint prints in their wake. Over three sandhills they climbed. As they neared the top of the fourth crest, their pace finally slowed. Ashallah, bathed in sweat, breathed deeply, all the while remaining quiet as she scanned the landscape.

  The Canyonlands stretched before her as if Jaha himself had built a vast series of walls to section off this portion of the desert. Various shades of gray were layered one on top of the other, but Ashallah knew their tones were false, a product of the night. During the day, the sandstone cliffs shone with hues of violet, red, tan and burnt orange. Each color reflected brilliantly in the desert sun, but in darkness, they were subdued. That was just the way Ashallah liked it, for she preferred the state of all things as they were in the dark.

  ***

  A grin curled on Ashallah’s lips. This is too easy, she thought. She had anticipated searching the Canyonlands for days on end. However, her scouts, the swiftest of her elite, had returned from their run within an hour of her company entering the stone citadel of Jaha. Their scouting had been successful, and with it, their news was good: they had found the Tirkhan.

  The scouts led Ashallah and her company to the southwest edge of the Canyonlands. As they neared their destination, Ashallah considered their position. She knew from having studied maps
in years past that this was home to the Daasus, the City of Copper. Built over eight hundred years earlier, Daasus had started as a boomtown of a thousand vagrants looking to make a quick fortune. Few of the copper mines ran dry, so the original families who came to prospect grew rich not quickly but over time. With wealth came increased opportunity, as blacksmiths, carpenters, concubines, merchants and every artisan in between flocked to Daasus with dreams of a better life, to suck from the teats of those who came before.

  That was how Daasus flourished at its height. Centuries after its founding, the copper mines still produced, albeit not at the quotas it used to. Daasus’i settled into their routine. A few more of its entrepreneurial residents turned their ambitions outwards, focusing less on the miners’ families and more on the caravans that traversed the narrow corridors of the Canyons. By offering a temporary reprieve to those who needed it, Daasus made a name for itself as part mining town, part outpost.

  To many, Ashallah realized, that combination would sound idyllic. Especially to bandits and raiders. The Daasus’i, knowing the temptation of their settlement before the eyes of others, did not regard the threat of raiding lightly. They were careful when it came to their wealth. Even amongst known visitors, they remained on guard. Daasus had a reputation for having highly trained sentries and mercenaries, with guards sworn in to the service of the city for terms of five years or more. Many retired in Daasus and took wives or concubines, adding to the city’s reserves of guards. For all their precautions against the bandits and tribes of the Canyonlands and beyond, though, Daasus had one weakness in their defenses: no women. The Daasus’i were a stubbornly conservative people, and as such, the only soldiers they drafted were men. That was fine for defending against common thieves, Ashallah had to admit. Still, she knew they were nothing like her midnight warriors.

  The evidence of that soon became clear. A breeze wafted from the direction of the city. With it was an unmistakable stench. One of ash. Of rotting flesh. Of sweat. Of blood spilled. Of death.