Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  Falling to her knees, Ashallah looked up to her assailant. With skin the color of polished ebony, her newfound enemy stood out against the background of the predawn sky. A member of one of the southern Tirkhan tribes, Ashallah determined, a few shades darker than their northern cousins but no less dangerous.

  The blade that had just missed her head still moved in an upswing arc when Ashallah’s blades responded. The one in her left hand braced against the Tirkhan steel, while the one in her right found the meaty flesh of her enemy’s calf. A scream with the force of a small gale pounded Ashallah’s ears until she sliced both her khukuri blades across the warrior’s throat.

  Silence fell upon Ashallah for but a moment, as did the fresh corpse she had just created. She stepped aside to allow it to collapse. Before it had a chance to thump to the ground, Ashallah surveyed the battlefield.

  Columns of Tirkhan tribeswomen - ranging from the ebony women of the south to the blue-eyed, pale females of the north - were finishing what was left of the rearmost companies. Dozens of Ashallah’s midnight sisters laid strewn, their bodies turned to canvases blotted by blood and sand. Some of the less disciplined Tirkhan had even hacked off appendages rather than going for the kill, allowing their victims to wallow and bleed out in agony. The latter sight stirred Ashallah to her core. Had she been green and inexperienced, she may have vomited.

  Those days had long since passed. At that precise moment, she was not sickened. She was angry.

  The Tirkhan took notice of their new guest with a response of derision and contempt. Ashallah suspected her own look matched theirs. As her enemies sauntered forward to meet their new foe, Ashallah wiped her khukuri blades on the corpse she had laid.

  “Aaaahhh... it burns...”

  Ashallah glanced over her shoulder to find Badra’s sour face emerging from the haze. The rest of her squat figure followed in kind. Badra parted her eyes briefly before closing them again as she raised her hands.

  “Do not rub them!” Ashallah commanded, even as she watched Badra defy her. “And fall into line. All of you!”

  Badra at least had the good sense to do that much, as did the other midnight warriors that emerged. Some even showed discipline by choosing not to wipe their eyes.

  Good, Ashallah considered as she crossed her khukuri before her chest. We may be able to finish this one.

  The Tirkhan before her formed their lines. They stood ready not more than fifty feet from Ashallah’s gathering force, their captains walking the length of their ranks. Ashallah studied them, matching their intensity while hiding her confusion. Why are they not attacking? she asked herself. Their columns could have struck down our warriors minutes ago.

  Ashallah turned to the veil of haze that continued to loom behind them. She knew the answer lied at the source of that storm, for she had seen its power displayed before. Within lied the specter that created it, the being capable of deciding their fates.

  Then it appeared. From nothing. A jinni.

  Like a fire started and extinguished at once, from a sudden blaze enveloped in wisps of smoke stood a figure. Straight and lean, a whole head taller than Ashallah. Skin the color of ash. Script written on his arms, chest, and neck, the lettering glowing, as though lit from burning embers encased within flesh. The eyes were equally hypnotic, with irises like sapphires staring upon Ashallah and her warriors.

  Those with lesser experience gripped the hilts of their blades or took a step or two back, in anticipation of a retreat. Ashallah knew the circumstances warranted a withdrawal. She also recalled her orders. Lastly, she reminded herself of the consequences of returning to Yasem without a victory.

  Ashallah extended her foot. Warily, she took a step. She paused to study the jinni. He remained statuesque. Only his eyes burned with life, a life so powerful it could conquer – or impose – death.

  She stepped forward again. Again. Still, the jinni stood. Knowing she could not move away, Ashallah continued her advance, realizing that with every stride a few more of her women followed her lead.

  Halfway between the enemy line and her own, a captain finally approached the jinni. The jinni, for his part, continued looking ahead as the Tirkhan woman searched his torso and appendages. Ashallah’s gaze remained firm on the captain. She is reading, Ashallah told herself. She is looking for something. A particular word. A phrase. The key to a command?

  The captain leaned in toward the jinni. Her lips parted. A few words, inaudible to Ashallah and the rest, escaped her mouth. Then she hurried back to her battle line, a wry look across her face, reflecting a tinge of anxiety and anticipation.

  The script on the jinni’s body began to glow like embers stoked by a breeze. As the lettering radiated soft light, the jinni looked down to his hands, which he opened and closed over and again.

  Then came the first scream.

  From behind Ashallah, it rang. Horrific it was. Desperate. Hopeless. Ashallah swung around to find the veil of haze they had passed through growing darker. The thin mist, which only minutes before had been a gray fog, now stood as a wall of black smoke. Somehow, it had no flames at its base nor did it rise to thin near the heavens. The veil, some twenty feet tall, moved upon the line of her midnight warriors. Slowly in some areas, surprisingly fast in others, its pace random. Her warriors edged back, most in time to avoid the tongues of smoke from touching their bodies. Others were less fortunate. The smoke and haze lashed out at them, striking an arm or torso, to ignite their skin instantaneously. The wounded wailed and cried as the fire ate at their flesh and bones. The pleas for Jaha’s mercy continued until the flames consumed their throats and mouths, before smoldering upon what remained of their faces.

  The jinni continued to curl of his fingers. He clenched his fists. He marched forward, his steps as deliberate as a general’s, his eyes as bold and determined as an executioner.

  Behind him, the Tirkhan women chanted. Their words started as whispers, then grew in volume as the jinni stepped forward. As their voices grew louder, the jinni’s pace quickened, his hands curling and opening with greater speed. By the time the jinni broke into a light run, Ashallah was able to hear the Tirkhan’s chants. Even though her understanding of the foreign dialect was rusty, she picked out the bulk of their commands.

  “Master the smoke... Stoke the embers... Grow the fire... Consume! Consume!”

  The commands fed the jinni’s resolve. The script on his body burned red. The tongues of smoke he controlled now whipped at Ashallah’s women like a squall, picking and tossing her warriors with ease. Ashallah, knowing that retreat through the curtain of black haze was impossible, held her khukuri knives before her.

  This is it, she realized. My glorious death. In the heat of battle. I will die. I will join my fallen sisters; I will stand before one of the Five Doors of Hell.

  Ashallah peered over her shoulder to spot her sisters-in-arms. Some stood firm, their feet square and with eyes defiant in the face of death. Many more were scared, their bodies quaking, resolved to retreat if it were not for the curtain of death behind them.

  They need more discipline, Ashallah realized. They need to remember their code.

  “All of you,” Ashallah commanded. “Recite your vows! Recite your vows! Now!”

  Some began to murmur; others merely mouthed the words. In response to their shameful display, Ashallah started the chorus. “We are sisters, born in a land of men.”

  Ashallah peered over her shoulder. A few of her fellow warriors began to join her.

  “In the light of day, we are merely women. We wear our veils. We bow our heads.”

  More voices from her ranks accompanied her.

  “But when darkness falls, we have no reservations. We strap on our blades. We shed our veils.”

  Behind her, the chorus grew.

  “We become the night. Hidden. Fearsome. We take on the cause of our land, defending it when the power of men fails.

  “I am a child of a sunless sky. A soldier of darkness. I train. I fight. I emerge from batt
le victorious. I am the eclipse to the sun of my enemies. The shadow cast upon them. I am midnight.”

  The last line, meant to inspire courage in women during battle, seemed to have stoked the vicious veil behind them. It advanced on her rear lines, consuming many. Those who survived only did so by trampling over their fellow sisters, who screamed as the fog came over them.

  Ashallah hung her head. Pity, she thought. They were going to die anyway. Why could they not do so with some honor? In the heat of battle, with blade in hand, by a woman’s touch. Not by some creature’s magic from Hell.

  The jinni was nearly upon him. Ashallah, the closest to the man-beast, could see the white of his eyes, the stark blue of his irises. She readied her blades as she stood in a defensive posture, knowing that neither would do much to protect her. Still, she reasoned, I must do my part. I must die a warrior.

  With only yards between her and her foe, Ashallah screamed, “Yala Hasem!”

  Suddenly, the jinni stopped.

  Ashallah, bewildered, lowered her khukuri blades a bit. She looked behind her. Her warriors, also dumbfounded, stared back at Ashallah and each other. Meanwhile, the wall of black smoke receded, having lost the height of its ferocity.

  The jinni twisted his torso to glance behind him. The Tirkhan, who moments before had been emboldened and confident, stood in shock. The captain who had approached the jinni shouted at him and pointed at the line of Ashallah’s warriors. The jinni, though, did not move but only glared at her. The Tirkhan captain then broke rank and marched toward the jinni, withdrawing her kilij to point the tip at the beast.

  The jinni eyed the script on his forearms. Ashallah saw it clearly from where she stood. With each word of the captain’s command, the beautifully etched lettering glowed one by one. However, the last few breaths did not resonate. The script on the jinni’s forearms – carved in a different hand, one that was crude and with haste – remained unlit from within, dark.

  The captain yelled her command once more, her voice laced with rage.

  The jinni looked over his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes. He bared his teeth, gleaming white razors, not unlike those of a desert tiger or grassland leopard.

  Then he charged.

  Ashallah could not believe her eyes. His gait was smooth and swift, like a flash flood through a valley. His strides were strong and powerful, with each length of his leg covering not feet but yards. The script on his body burned, threatening to consume him, as he pounced upon his enemy.

  The Tirkhan captain backed away from the beast. Her efforts in vain, the jinni crashed down on top of her, his hands around her neck before her back hit the ground. Her flesh was aflame, her screams lost in the roar of a fire, as her sisters-in-arms watched.

  Within moments, all that was left of the Tirkhan captain was ash in the jinni’s hands. He rose to his feet, his stare transfixed on his fingers, before he raised his head to stare at the rest of the Tirkhan. The women before him gripped their weapons and deepened their stances as they focused on the jinni.

  From behind, a curtain of black smoke rose. Instantly, heat and light consumed the Tirkhan in the rear, turning their bodies into torches.

  Needing no further provocation, Ashallah raised her khukuri toward the pre-dawn sky. She yelled. From her lungs erupted a guttural, primitive cry.

  Like a whitecap, she led her wave of warriors toward the Tirkhan. In response, knowing that retreat was impossible, the Tirkhan raced to meet them. The approach of the enemy – the anticipation of the kill – sent Ashallah’s heart fluttering. So many, so many, she considered. Who will be first?

  A fair-skinned Tirkhan, wielding a two-handed kilij sword, roared before her as if in answer to her question. Ashallah raised her khukuri blades to meet the kilij, which threatened to come down upon her in one overhead stroke. The broad, massive sword jarred the bones from her hands to her shoulders, but Ashallah’s grip on her knives remained firm enough to deflect the kilij. The fair-skinned swung at Ashallah again, the sword cutting horizontally. Ashallah ducked. Steel, emanating the cool of night, swiftly passed over the back of her neck. Ashallah thought of continuing the dance until her adversary tired. However, too many waited to meet their fate at her hands. So with her fair-skinned enemy having lost momentum – and with her right leg exposed and unprotected – Ashallah dove at her with both khukuris extended. The tips found the sun-dried leather on her leg, then the tightened muscle underneath, as if cutting through a camel steak. The fair-skinned one screamed a cry so piercing it could have broken down all the Five Doors of Hell. Ashallah suffered the horrific sound, fighting the urge to cover her ears, to slice at her neck. One stroke and the yell quieted. The fair-skinned, with mouth still agape, reached for the scarlet line that bled anew on her neck. She fell to her knees, her eyelids tired, as Ashallah passed her to deliver a similar fate to many more.

  The rest that Ashallah fought ranged in experience from the novice to the skilled, with the latter being few in her encounters. With each, Ashallah dedicated the appropriate amount of effort and time. As fighters, the neophytes were barely passable. They were less like warriors and more like amateur maidens at play with sticks. Ashallah had only enough patience to give them a stroke or two before delivering death. The slightly more seasoned, those with at least something of a combat background, proved interesting. They showed maturity in battle while still exhibiting a beginner’s passion for the blade. Such foes deserved at least five strokes, Ashallah had decided, but little more. The veterans, however, remained Ashallah’s favorite. They were the ones who honestly believed they stood a chance against her khukuri blades. All were cautious in their own right, although some cast that pretense aside for brash optimism and recklessness due to their advanced skill levels. Such combatants met Ashallah’s firm blade strokes with those of their own, and in doing so revealed their many years of honing their talents. Some were impressive, Ashallah had to admit, such the ebony Tirkhan with the teakwood spear or the bronze-toned warrior with the throwing axes. Those encounters left Ashallah with sweat on her brow and little else. No cuts. No wounds. Just a body before her feet after each engagement, a victory like the countless others.

  For all her mounting success on the field of battle, Ashallah’s focus remained distracted, as she kept peripheral watch on the jinni. The man-beast, after incinerating the Tirkhan captain, rose to march to the rear of the Tirkhan lines. The warriors, nor the weapons they brandished, did nothing to stir fear in him. For their part, most of the Tirkhan parted to allow him to pass. Some, whether out of fear or foolishness, took a stab or strike at the jinni. Their blades broke on his skin, as they would have on a boulder or piece of ore, while the jinni only had to raise a finger in their direction to send a wisp of smoke and flame to engulf the assailant. This went on until the jinni reached the wall of ashen smoke and dust that stood behind the Tirkhan lines. There, he stood tall, as the vertical cloud crept forward. With his hands extended, the ashen wall enveloped him. It was then that the tongues of smoke and flame increased their assault on the rear of the Tirkhan lines as if empowered by their master. As Ashallah fought on, she heard the screams of agony, the cries to Jaha from the Tirkhan increase.

  Only when her midnight warriors had cut down the last of the Tirkhan was Ashallah able to turn her full attention to the jinni and his vertical wall of smoke and flame. By then, the tongues had receded to the cloudy mass, which began to shrink towards the jinni. The smoke disappeared into the script that covered his body, stoking the glow of the letters so that they burned white. The jinni - with his eyes closed, his head tilted upward, and his arms raised to the sky - appeared rejuvenated.

  When the last wisps of the ashen cloud had entered him, the jinni opened his eyes to look upon the battlefield. Ashallah, the closest soldier to him, glanced around to see what he saw: the pre-dawn desert landscape scarred by drying blood and rotting flesh, along with warriors tired and wounded from fighting. The script on his body burned brightly as the jinni silently surveyed the scene.r />
  Ashallah studied the jinni as he looked upon it all. Had she mistaken the man-beast for a person, she would have sworn that she saw a very human emotion in his eyes: pity.

  The jinni, whether disgusted with the sight or drawn away by some otherworldly force, turned to the rise behind him. He broke out into a sprint no man or woman could ever hope to match. Nevertheless, Ashallah found herself trying. She chased after him, her legs pumping wildly. The jinni extended the gap between her and him, but Ashallah still had him in her sights to see the script on his body burn white. The light from the etched writing on his skin glowed so vividly that Ashallah finally slowed to shield her eyes. By then, the jinni had quickened his pace even further, to reach the crest of the rise. The lettering on his body exploded in a flash of white surrounded by wisps of black, as the jinni shot into the sky like a meteor reentering the heavens.

  Ashallah ascended the hill, continuing in the footprints of the jinni. Then, beneath her, she felt the prints crack. She looked down at the soles of her sandals to find shards of thin glass, remnants of the heat from the jinni’s wake. She turned to the sky again, to find the sliver of the rising sun on the horizon and the silhouette of the man-beast racing towards it.

  “Rilah,” Ashallah whispered to herself. “It heads to Rilah.”

  Chapter 7

  I hate this.

  The sun was up. All of her sisters-in-arms wore veils. Not due to their adoration for tradition, which all of them despised. They did so as an act of caution, for Yasem was close enough that any male commander could come riding up and catch them unawares.

  The cloth across her face stank of sweat and salt. It had become damp, from hours spent digging. Followed by words of respect. More digging. Cries and lamentations from the newest midnight warriors. More digging.

  The hot air kicked up wildly now and then, giving Ashallah pause as she shielded her eyes. In moments such as those, she straightened and breathed deep, the view from her vantage point reminding her why she was doing all this work.