Sisters of the Storm_Triad

by Guy Estes

  It partly is your fault, and you damn well know it. All of these people would be peacefully going about their lives if you hadn’t been so squeamish. If you hadn’t been such a bloody coward.

  Why must I be saddled with this burden of choosing who lives and who dies, she blubbered in her mind. Why can I not just be left in peace?

  She remembered what Headmistress Rita had told her on the first day of school.

  “Aleena, you are a member of a very select group. You are one of the Chosen. From the day you could walk you have been teaching yourself the noble art of combat. This is the gift Tamura and Donya have bestowed upon you…”

  And you think the gods granted you this status so you could be a slave?

  The Instructress’s scoffing brought Aleena back to the miserable present. A quick, hot spurt of anger jetted through her belly. She tried to ignore it, but the reason she found the Instructress so irritating was because the Instructress was right, and Aleena knew it. She could feel that little piece of coal in her heart, being fanned by her surroundings to produce a small suggestion of heat, a spark of feeling that was intimately, darkly familiar: wrath. Hate. Outrage.

  Aleena tried her best to deny it, constantly reminding herself what her anger produced, but the inescapable truth thrust itself into her face. The feeling was too old an acquaintance, this tempest that had swirled within her throughout her entire life, bursting forth at the slightest provocation. That was exactly what she'd done that fateful night in Jac's tavern, but not even Aleena, owner of the gift and the temper, could have fathomed the true extent of the damage she was capable of. After that, she had assumed the tempest to have been calmed.

  And look at the results of that, the Instructress pointed out.

  Until the last few days Aleena hadn't thought it possible, but the first winds were beginning to stir within her, the clouds gathering and darkening. Watching the slavers reduce these people to mute, compliant ghosts, watching them take a what should have been expression of ultimate love and turn it into an act of ultimate brutality, and feeling those grimy hands caress her with all the tenderness and affection of a dog pawing a bone was like a bellows blowing on that little coal in her heart.

  It was on Aleena's seventeenth birthday that the spires of Akhbeer sprouted from the horizon like the shoots of some dark growth. It had been four monotonous months of travel, four months of seeing the horrors to which man could subject his brothers and sisters. Four months in which to learn the gravity of her mistakes and how to correct them. Aleena's spirit was presently at a crossroads. She had finally made up her mind that she would have no more part of the slave trade. One way or another she would get back home.

  The main question was how. She had no wish for further bloodshed. She wanted to be free of these monsters, but she did not want to kill to achieve that freedom. Another needle pricking her conscience was her desire to take the other slaves with her while knowing it was impossible. The only good thing she saw was the partial return of her old ally, anger. Aleena was not certain that she wanted her entire temper back, but a moderate dose of it would grant her the strength to realize her goal. With each outrage the slavers forced on their victims, Aleena felt the growing heat of her temper fanned. Her inability to do anything for the victims and her roaring guilt at her pristine condition fanned that little coal. Its glow had gone from a dull cherry red to a bright solar orange.

  The gates of Akhbeer opened to admit them, making Aleena feel like a truffle being swallowed by a hog. As they passed through the gates and into the city they were the subject of whistles and catcalls, some people coming up to the tattered wretches, poking and prodding them as if they were no more than sides of beef. Lorn shooed them away, speaking their own language with ease. Aleena liked nothing of them. They were a dark ugly people with a dark ugly language, and the fact that they bought and sold human beings was not an uplifting endorsement of their character. The bronze-skinned natives were particularly interested in Aleena and her neighbor, staring at them as if they were prized mares which, Aleena surmised, was exactly what they were. Growing tired of their prying stares, Aleena stared back at them, taking in their clothes of billowy robes and exotic head dresses which hung down the backs of their necks, curved swords on their hips. Most of the stares she received had gone from appraising and lustful to angry and hostile. She imagined what they thought about her.

  How dare this barbaric outlander girl think herself worthy of meeting a man's eyes!

  Aleena had read that this culture was very male dominated. Women were, at best, second class citizens, and usually not even that. Aleena's attitude still did not prevent the astonished gawking. The short swarthy men seemed to have difficulty believing that her hair was gold, rather than the ebony they were accustomed to, and her eyes of cobalt rather than obsidian. This emotional onslaught served as dry leaves and twigs sprinkled on the coal of her temper, which grew ever-brighter.

  The sun had been setting when they'd entered the city, and it was darkening rapidly as they pulled into a broad lot that was reserved for the sole use of the man-sellers, for slaves were a very lucrative business in this part of the world. It was in this open lot that their journey finally came to an end. Here they built their fires and settled in for the night. Aleena fell asleep still searching for a bloodless escape route.

  She was awakened after about three hours of sleep. The slavers were up and unusually active for this ungodly hour. Clearing the sleep from her eyes, Aleena studied the situation. The traders had built a huge central bonfire in addition to the smaller scattered ones, and a multitude of wineskins were in evidence. They had awakened all of the slaves except Aleena and her cart mate. Aleena watched for what felt like the millionth time as dusty fragments that resemble rat nests more than clothes were torn from bodies that no longer bothered to squirm. Those that did accomplished nothing more than arousing the slavers even more, reminding Aleena of sharks excited by the thrashings of wounded fish.

  Watching the sickening tableau again, Aleena felt an abrupt metamorphosis dawning inside herself, a feeling of liquid heat rushing through her. Her vision grew shaky and erratic as the torrent within made her head pound. It climaxed with the sensation of something breaking inside of her. Aleena swore that she actually heard it snap. A single coherent thought briefly flashed through her consciousness.

  By Nevawn’s claws, now this ends.

  Without even realizing it, Aleena's body had become as tense as a guy wire, and she began pulling on her chain. Feeling her muscles swell and dance urged her flaring emotions on, like a wild fire before a strong wind. She continued to pull, steadily increasing her force, taking rein of the energy she was radiating and focusing it on the monsters violating those doomed, wretched girls. Her face twitched and ticced and her eyes glared with a beaming, passionate thirst for justice. Her mouth was open, her teeth bared. Her gift and its accompanying instincts that she’d buried for so long were coming out once again. The slavers’ lust for carnal brutality drove Aleena’s lust for their blood. A sound, like a noisome insect, intruded upon the kindling of the coal of her anger. She became aware that it was the voice of her neighbor.

  "... are you doing? You cannot be serious. No man could break those chains, and even if it were possible, what would you accomplish?"

  Watch and learn, was Aleena's unspoken reply, but with the voicing of the other woman's doubts, Aleena's mind conjured up its own.

  You cannot do this, the meek Little Girl spoke up. You mustn't shed blood.

  Why not, the Instructress raged. They have no qualms about it. And they’re hardly innocent. They draw blood and dignity and every other trace of humanity from us for fun and profit. Why in the seven hells should I give a damn about their welfare? They build their lives upon the idea that we will not hurt them. They depend on us to be civilized. There is but one answer to force, and that is greater force.

  The images of sick men's fantasies seared Aleena's soul once more. Sights such as so
me filthy brute running his pasty tongue all over some girl's face while pumping furiously between her legs, or two traders taking someone's wife or mother at once, one from the front and one from behind, while forcing her husband or son to watch. Each sight further inflamed her heart until the glowing chunk of coal that had recently been fanned to life bloomed into an entire sun. Her survivor’s guilt transformed into flaming rage.

  She was acutely aware of her might flexing and bunching underneath her desert-tanned skin, and it felt good. But this gratifying sensation was tempered by something that held her in check. Aleena's inflamed spirit was vaguely aware of some annoyance that restrained her, and that added to the dry heap upon her coal. All she knew for certain was that her nightmare was about to end. She would wake herself by breaking free and smashing her captors into pulpy blobs that would make their comrades she'd slaughtered in Jac's seem a vast improvement, but that irritating little presence upon her wrists was still containing her fury. She was not aware of the steel manacles and iron chain. She knew only rage. She was beginning to work her will upon the devices that held her back. Slowly, inevitably, they were starting to give. Aleena was oblivious to the popping, saucer-like eyes of the woman next to her, who was awkwardly making a sign of

  protection around her restraints as she watched the iron link that bound Aleena's chain to the heavy steel plate in the wagon's side weaken and bend.

  The slavers brought a child out. The little girl had seen perhaps six summers. Lorn had acquired her shortly after they entered the city.

  "Come here, little darling," a slaver breathed. "It's time you learned what your master will expect of you."

  The slavers' revelry came to a smashing halt when they heard a high-pitched alien shriek that froze the very marrow of their bones. The slave traders whirled at the terrible sound, confused and scared, one of them fainting dead away. This blonde girl, who had been so complacent and cooperative the entire time they'd possessed her had, suddenly and without the slightest warning, exploded into some elemental force that was whirling twelve feet of iron chain in a figure eight pattern as if it were nothing more than a hemp rope.

  The slaver with the little girl had his jaw smashed into a bloody froth of pureed tissue and splintered bone, his teeth flying like dice. His head was whipped fully around, one distended eyeball staring out over his back, the other gone altogether. One slaver came at her swinging a sword, but it was instantly wrecked by the iron dervish, followed by his head.

  Aleena, through her righteous fury, was thoroughly enjoying herself. The satisfying feel of splintering bones and dashing brains warmed her blood, sent it rushing through her dilated veins. One slaver was running from her, towards a weapon or escape she did not know, nor did she care. He progressed all of five steps before the heavy links were wrapped around his neck and yanked him backwards, into the central bonfire. The flames consumed him as mercilessly as they would any other meat. He threw himself against Aleena's restraint, screaming like the roasting devil he was. Aleena held him there until his screams stopped. Her chain came free from his charred neck as two more slavers came at her. One took the sizzling iron squarely in the face. The other quickly closed the distance, his sword raised high. Aleena caught the descending blade on the links between her wrists, holding it up as she shot a kick into his cods. He lost his sword and doubled over. Aleena jammed her wrist chain into his throat and forced him back up. His eyes bulged as he tried to breathe around a crushed airway.

  "How do you fancy this fornication, you bastard?” she hissed through clenched teeth. Aleena did not relinquish her hold until his spinal column resembled a licorice stick and the other slavers were coming out of their drunken fogs. She had killed five. That left somewhere around forty-five more. Not even Aleena’s skill could prevail against so many. By the time she found the keys to her shackles the other slavers were becoming dangerously sober and the local night watchmen were responding to the commotion. As she freed herself, Aleena was painfully aware that she could do nothing for the others. If she did not move now, all of this would be wasted effort, not to mention what sort of punishment Lorn would devise for her. She tossed the keys to the nearest slave and dashed off into the darkened city, away from the sounds of the constables, and immediately began searching for a blacksmith’s shop where she could hole up and properly arm herself.

  * * *

  The ten-man night patrol studied the scene. A few slaves had managed to slip their bonds, a not uncommon occurrence in Akhbeer. Most had already been returned to their shackles, but not the one they wanted most. Out of all the escapes they had heard of or personally investigated, this one was by far the strangest. As the slave traders themselves told it, a young female captive somehow managed to snap her chain and slaughter five of her captors with it, her hands still manacled, before running off into the night. The patrol leader, a young but shrewd man, had his doubts upon hearing this tale, even when they showed him where the chain had been popped free from its mooring on the steel plate in the wagon. More likely than not, the young man surmised, the slavers had let her loose in their drunken stupor to "break her in" and she had managed to slip away from them. That theory was seriously undermined, however, when he saw the dead men, their bodies still warm. The patrol leader felt a chill wriggle down his spine.

  Rubbish, he thought. Those chains are built to withstand the fury of the strongest of men. No one could break them, let alone a single girl. Perhaps there was some sort of defect in the link.

  This warded off the chill that had taken hold. Shrugging his shoulders to further restore circulation, he addressed his men.

  "There are several slaves still missing, among them the one most important to us. She is described as an outlander girl, with blonde hair and grey eyes and as tall as a man, so it is not as though she will blend in with the local population. It is impossible for her to leave the city tonight." Akhbeer closed its gates every night. "But tomorrow will be a day of much bartering, and the gates will remain open from sunrise to sunset. The guards will be alerted to the situation, but there will be many people about tomorrow, so it is imperative that we apprehend her tonight. Start searching."

  As she hurried through the dark alleys, Aleena's thoughts mirrored the patrol leader's. Her general description was the exact opposite of the locals, right down to her clothes. She was still wearing the brown leggings and billowy white shirt and tan boots she'd worn four months ago at the moment of her capture.

  Her first priority was to arm herself. She wanted something better than her chain, which she'd kept. Now that her shackles were off she could grasp it in a number of ways, using it to trap and entangle as well as strike, but it had been too long since she’d held a sword, and a sword she would have. If she were to be recaptured she planned to give the bastards a memorable reception. Next, she must seek shelter, however temporary, and this included a disguise. Wearing some of the local robes would attract far less attention than the foreign garb she now wore. If she kept her movement about the city to a minimum and slouched when she stood, her height might go unnoticed as well.

  Surging through the vendor's stalls with the urgency of a starving animal, she located a clothing booth soon enough. Helping herself to a brown hooded robe, a pair of sandals, and a leather cord, she continued her search for a blacksmith's shop. It took a bit of time (far too much for her comfort) but after ducking a couple of night patrols she found that which she sought. Aleena sat on the shop floor, forcing herself to calm down. When her breathing once more neared normal, she inspected the unknown smith's wares. There were many fine examples of his craft, everyday tools in addition to weapons, but Aleena's educated eye came to rest on a beautiful scimitar. The horn handle was crowned by a brass cross guard with the characteristic crescent shape. Like all scimitars it was a single-handed weapon, the curved blade being just a tad wider at the tip where there was a foot-long second edge ground. The full edge ran along the outside curve. Aleena tested its heft, its feel, and was surprised
at how well-balanced it was. Most scimitars tended to be a bit blade heavy because they were intended for use from horseback, and the wielder wanted to be able to strike a good blow. If he missed, his horse would carry him away from his opponent, so he didn’t need to be able to recover from the missed swing instantly. This particular scimitar, however, was wonderfully balanced, its balance point being a mere foot down the blade from the cross guard. It swished with her experimental swings. She grabbed a piece of parchment and ran its edge along the sword’s edge. The paper was cleanly sliced.

  Judging the weapon to be of utmost quality, Aleena helped herself to the scabbard and left her chain. It would not cover the smith's monetary loss, but it would give him some good raw material to make new wares. Aleena vacated the shop to search for a nice dark niche in which to spend the next few hours deciding what to do.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Do you want to know who you are? Don't ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.” – Thomas Jefferson

  “Boldness governed by superior intellect is the mark of a hero.” – Carl von Clausewitz

  Aleena's greatest desire was to go home. Throughout the last four months a hundred varieties of fear, guilt, and shame had all feasted upon her heart. After all that she had been subjected to, Aleena had reached an inescapable conclusion: Rachel, Headmistress Rita, and her mother had all been right. She had resisted the slavers at Jac’s, and it had nearly broken her. When again faced with the same situation she had submitted, and had nearly been broken again. However, the guilt of people suffering the most heinous outrages imaginable because she had done nothing had been far worse than the guilt of killing men. Loathsome as killing was, at least the ones she’d killed deserved their fate. When she did nothing it was the innocent that paid.