Fight Like A Girl

by Juliet E. McKenna

  I knew I was getting close when living rats gave way to dead. Hundreds of them – thousands, hundreds of thousands and nothing left but their bones. They crunched underfoot and the tunnel became a door, and the door became a room like a cathedral. The walls soared up and curved into a dome, lost in the darkness, and I knew what I had found. Spaces for turbines, pumps, a place that once held water. The rats came to drink from it. The rats came to die from it.

  This is how they made their power, this place. This is all that’s left. The structure above ground has been reduced to rubble, the metal below stripped away. There are dirty marks on the walls where cutters have ripped through sheet steel, goggles left abandoned to rot. A set of wooden rollers here. Something yellow with a spiked, circular symbol on it. It collapses into splinters under my touch. There is sickness here, in the air. Decay. Danger. There is everything I need.

  The tunnels run beneath the whole of the city. Whoever built them is long gone, long dead, long dust, but they may as well have made them just for me. It’s the work of a night to collect what I need, dragging it through the tunnels as bombs thunder overhead. I can hear the officers laughing over their dinner, hear them discussing their plans, their schemes. They don’t expect to die. They have soldiers for that: men, women, children. They expect to grow fat and rich, sending their orders out from behind thick concrete walls.

  When the sickness comes, they’ll think it’s something they ate. When the headache and the fever come, they’ll assume it’s a virus and take themselves to the sick bay. And it will be too late, because by banishing me to the tunnels, they gave me what I needed to end this. I found their water supply. I found the old power plant. I found fuel rods still standing to attention, silent in the dark, like an army. My army.

  And they will do what neither Loyal nor Adverse have managed. They will end this war. You learn a lot about yourself when everything you loved is taken away, and you’re forced to crawl through tunnels.

  But most of all, you learn how hard you’ll fight.

  The Runaway Warrior

  Dolly Garland

  The temple bell thundered. Shivani was the first to roll out of her pallet. Her ebony hair, wavy from constant braiding, swept across her face. She tucked it behind her ears, and hurried out of the nearly empty dormitory; most of her fellow warriors were away performing the ritual to renew their strength and appease Kali with days of meditation, hunting and prayers. Shivani crossed the courtyard to the temple. The main doors were shut for the night, hiding the idol of Goddess Kali. On the steps outside, Heena still pulled the rope, ringing the bell.

  Seeing the High Priestess’ personal servant, Shivani realised the situation must be urgent, and increased her pace.

  “Heenaji.” She bowed respectfully.

  Heena stopped ringing the bell, adjusted the pallu of her white sari over her head. “The High Priestess will see you now,” she said.

  As they walked away, two other warriors approached the temple. Heena shook her head at them. “The goddess has chosen,” she said.

  The warriors bowed their heads and returned to their dormitory. Shivani followed Heena. This was the way things were done. The warriors did not choose the tasks. The tasks chose them.

  *

  The High Priestess’ chambers were behind the temple. Shivani had never entered them alone. Because traditions mattered. Too much, sometimes.

  She straightened her charcoal tunic, smoothed the creases of her dhoti, and stepped in.

  The chamber was bathed in soft candle light. The High Priestess, Nandita, sat cross-legged on the floor; a holy necklace of red beads in her right hand.

  Nandita was older than anyone Shivani knew, yet her thin grey hair was the only obvious sign of her age. She had been in the service of Kali since she was a young girl, and this lifetime of wielding the magic of the Goddess had left a powerful imprint. Her voice was soft, usually calm, but when she commanded, one heard the voice of Kali in her mouth.

  “Namaste, High Priestess,” Shivani said, pressing her hands together in respect.

  “I’ve received a message from Belapur. Apparently, demons have been attacking the town for months. The townspeople and the local guards were fighting them, but now the situation has worsened. They attack every night now, burning houses, even setting people on fire. They have taken all the valuables, and most of the children of the village. So many have died, the townspeople can’t perform proper funeral rites. They have to pile the bodies together and burn them.”

  “What about the zamindar? He must have guards.”

  “He’s in league with the demons, I’m told. They promised him power and riches beyond imagining.” The steel in Nandita’s tone – edged with the power of Kali – told Shivani what must happen to the zamindar. “The king has promised to send his men and assign a new zamindar. But until they arrive, the townspeople need our help.”

  Shivani waited. They were Kali’s servants, not rulers of men. They did not get involved in political problems. So there had to be more.

  “You have been chosen.”

  Shivani bowed. “On Kali’s command, High Priestess.”

  “The people of Belapur want to perform the Kali-Kavach yagna.”

  The Kali-Kavach yagna was an extremely demanding ritual that had to be performed from sunrise to sunrise for three consecutive days. If it succeeded, it would protect the town from harm. If it failed, it would invite the anger of the goddess. Only the bravest, or the most desperate, chose this ritual.

  “You must protect the town while the villagers complete the yagna.”

  “As you command, High Priestess.” Shivani felt a burst of excitement, and silently admonished herself for such an inappropriate reaction. But the past month had been tedious, staying within the temple boundaries, performing simple duties that left too much time for thinking. She was relieved to be given a task that required more of her.

  “With most of the warriors away, I cannot spare anyone else. You must do this alone,” Nandita said.

  Shivani bowed her head in compliance.

  “May Kali’s grace be with you.”

  Shivani touched the High Priestess’ feet for her blessings and withdrew.

  *

  Belapur was a broken shell of a once prosperous town. Every building was damaged. Debris lay everywhere. The townspeople gathered as Shivani rode her white mare into the square. Their faces were ashen, their clothes dirty. If the town was a shell, its residents seemed like ghosts. They looked at her clothes and weapons, and recognized Kali in her. Some pointed and grumbled; others called out greetings and welcome.

  The bodies had been cleared. Shivani breathed in the stench of the mass cremations; her nostrils flared at the rancid smell. She sat on her horse, staring down at mounds of ashes. Mixed in with the ash were fingers and bits of skulls, bones that hadn’t burned away.

  Tearing her eyes away from the horror of the bones, Shivani turned to the nearest villager, a stooped, elderly man. “Tell me sahib,” she said, “where does the zamindar live?”

  “At the end of the lane that goes past the temple, warrior.” He pointed behind her, “You can see his mansion from the road.”

  “Have you come to help us?” a woman asked. Her yellow sari was mud-streaked. The sleeve of her blouse was torn. Tresses of hair had come loose from her braid. Shivani stared at her, finding it impossible not to imagine what horrors she had seen each night. Did she have children? Did the demons have them now?

  “What’s your name?” Shivani asked.

  “Devika.”

  “Devikaji, I’m going to take care of the zamindar, and then I’m going to make sure you can complete the Kali-Kavach yagna without interruption.” Shivani touched the gold pendant around her neck. The pendant bore three eyes, for Kali’s omniscience. It hung on a black thread, and it was the most valuable thing she owned – her connection to the goddess.

  Devika nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. Others nodded too, but the old man stepped forward, waving h
is staff. “You? Alone? Where are the warriors?”

  “I’m a warrior.”

  “You may be Kali’s warrior, but you are one, and the demons are many.” He turned away from her, shaking, perhaps with fear as much as anger.

  Some people looked apprehensive, but no one tried to stop her as Shivani rode past them. The temple hadn’t escaped unscathed. Part of the spire had fallen off, leaving a stub of stone at the summit. Two steps led to the porch, forming a corridor between the cracked pillars and the main body of the temple where Goddess Durga’s idol sat, allowing people to perform the circumambulation ritual.

  By contrast, the zamindar’s mansion stood untouched. Even its expansive grounds were lush with greenery, though the fragrance of flowers did not disguise the lingering smells of death and destruction.

  As she approached, Shivani spotted an old man and a boy tending the garden. They looked wary. The old man’s eyes lingered on her clothing and weapons, recognizing her status, and he glanced towards the trees bordering the path leading to the mansion. Shivani followed his gaze, gave a quick nod, and continued on her way. She had travelled barely five feet when a trio of armed guards stepped out from behind the trees, blocking her path, and pointed their lances at her.

  “What’s your business?” the fattest of the guards demanded, eyeing her legs.

  “I’m here to kill the zamindar.”

  The fat guard laughed, and his companions joined in heartily. “Be gone, woman.”

  “Let me pass.” Shivani nudged her horse forward.

  The guards edged closer. One of them grabbed her horse’s reins.

  “You are under arrest,” he declared. He clutched her arm and tried to pull her down.

  Shivani wrapped her fingers around the pendant and felt the goddess rise within, as if stretching after a slumber. Kali’s power surged through her veins like adrenaline.

  Sliding her foot from the stirrup, she kicked the guard hard in the chest, throwing him backwards. She pulled a sword from the scabbard at her waist and the blade caught the fat guard in the neck as he stabbed at her with his lance, missing her by inches. He spat blood, and collapsed with an inhuman gargling sound.

  The guard she had kicked staggered to his feet. The two survivors advanced together, wary now. Shivani took a swing at the second guard, but his companion caught her left thigh with his lance. Shivani howled in pain, smacking him a ringing blow on the head with the hilt of her sword. He fell as if his legs had turned to water. The second guard dove forward, his lance aimed squarely at her horse. Shivani’s sword lunged out, and neatly pierced his heart. The third guard rose, stumbling, took one look at his friend twitching his last on Shivani’s blade, and fled, shouting for reinforcements.

  Shivani wiped her blade on her horse’s flank and slid it back into her scabbard. In almost the same, fluid movement, she grabbed her bow and an arrow from the quiver attached to her saddle, aimed, and fired. Her arrow drove into the guard’s back. He pitched forward on his face, and lay still.

  The boy in the garden cheered. The old man hushed him, pulling him away, out of sight amid the greenery.

  Shivani passed through the well-tended gardens, past verdant lawns and honeysuckle and ivy climbing up marble pillars. Everything here was healthy and beautiful, as if in mockery of the burned and violated town.

  The brass doors of the mansion stood closed. Shivani jumped off her horse, and hammered on the door with her sword hilt.

  A bald servant in blue livery opened the door, and scowled at her. “Sahib isn’t accepting visitors at the moment,” he said. “He’s waiting for his son to arrive.”

  As he moved to shut the door in her face, Shivani jammed her foot inside the frame, shoved him backwards and gestured with her sword. “Where is he?”

  The servant’s eyes bulged with fear. He stepped back, mouth agape, and pointed to a door at the end of the corridor, his eyes never leaving the blade in her hand.

  She found the zamindar, adorned with pearls and gold and gems over his rolls of fat. He looked up from his ledger with the surprise of someone unaccustomed to being interrupted, and scowled at Shivani as if she was something stuck to the sole of his bejewelled slippers. Before he could demand anything, or order her to leave, one neat slice of Shivani’s sword obeyed Kali’s command.

  The zamindar’s turbaned head rolled across the marble floor. His surprised eyes stared up at the ceiling.

  *

  At dawn, the Kali-Kavach yagna commenced in the town square. The last four priests of Belapur sat around the purifying fire. Except for the few men standing watch on the edge of town, everyone joined in the prayers, palms together, heads bowed.

  Shivani stayed close to the fire. The daylight hours passed without incident, but when dusk fell, the sentries blew their horns in warning. She heard the beating of wings. It sounded like the very air being torn into pieces. Or perhaps it was her nerves. The rhythm of the demons’ wings, disconcerting and heavy like muffled footfalls, seemed to increase the tempo of her heartbeat. A shadow loomed over the town, as a horde of demons flew across the eastern sky. The villagers shouted warnings to each other. Several men started shepherding the women and the few remaining children to the shelter of houses that were still standing, while others ran to protect their priests. Shivani saw the desire on their faces to run, to get away, but they stayed, clutching their odd assortments of weapons, and she felt a surge of pride for her race. For these humans who would stand against an enemy far stronger than them, and more brutal than they could ever be.

  The demons were bigger than the humans, uglier too, adorned with necklaces and rings of bones and teeth. Their demented laughter whirred through the air. Their foreheads were coated with ash. They hovered above the yagna fire, and over the townspeople.

  Fighting down her fear, Shivani focused on the goddess, touched her pendant. She felt the power filling her heart and mind, as the spirit of Kali consumed her, driving out fear, filling her with rage.

  She notched an arrow, readied herself.

  Then, she fought.

  Arrow after arrow flew from her bow, faster than any human eye could follow. Most of them hit their mark. Demons howled in pain as they plummeted to earth. Their companions screamed with rage. Shivani’s hands were sore from using the bow. Her arms ached and her tunic clung to her sweat-drenched skin. The rising dust from the mayhem all around her coated her throat. The yagna fire created a steady stream of smoke, and its smell, mingled with the dust clouds, stifled the air.

  The demons were relentless. They had noticed her, singled her out as the main threat. A stocky demon lashed out with a whip and pulled Shivani’s feet from under her. She crashed onto her back, and the bow slipped from her hand.

  The demon unsheathed his sword, ready to plunge it through her heart. Shivani rolled away. Jumped up, and whirled around, kicking him in the gut. Before he had a chance to recover she grabbed his hair, and elbowed him under the chin. She heard the crunch of breaking bones in his jaw at the impact.

  Instead of going down, the demon snarled in pain. His fist lashed out, punching her with such force that she staggered back, ears ringing.

  Shivani bellowed Kali’s name into the darkness beyond the fire. She lunged at the demon with her bare hands, clawed at his eyeballs with her nails. He howled in pain as Shivani ripped the inside of his eyelids. Kali’s rage swam through Shivani as blood dripped from the demon’s eyes and coursed down his cheeks. He pushed her away, blindly flinging his arms. A swipe caught her across the mouth. Shivani spat blood. She snatched up the demon’s own sword, and sliced his head clean off, watching it arc high to shatter on the ground near the fire.

  More demons were on the ground, attacking wildly, pillaging all around them without discrimination. The villagers had mostly abandoned their attempts to fight, instead intent on avoiding being maimed or killed as much as they were able. Several women had run out of the shelter to aid their husbands and sons. Their defiant screams, and their attempts to fight – brave,
but futile against the demons – added to the chaos.

  Shivani snatched up her bow and started shooting. It was difficult to see anything clearly through the smoke and dust. Difficult to distinguish the people she was supposed to protect from the demons. But she concentrated, let Kali guide her aim.

  Demon after demon fell.

  The priests continued chanting.

  Shivani’s arrows kept flying.

  She did not miss a single target. She did not let her arms fall until every single demon was dead.

  A hush descended from the empty sky, broken only by the sobs and grunts of the wounded and the wailing of the bereaved. Shivani stood poised, waiting for more demons to fall on the village, to finish what they had started. In that sudden quiet, the priests’ voices gained focus, growing louder, more forceful. Their chant had never broken, not under the fiercest assault, and Shivani felt a surge of pride.

  She remained on guard duty.

  Exhausted now.

  Waiting.

  *

  Just after sunrise, when Shivani thought it might be safe for her to rest a little, she heard the rattle of wheels. She turned to find a lone carriage approaching the square, preceded by four horse-guards in gold armour and helmets. She hastened down the road to block its path.

  The guards pulled up, and behind them, the carriage came to halt. “What is the meaning of this?” the guard captain demanded.

  “The Kali-Kavach yagna is in progress,” Shivani told him. “You cannot pass through the town.”

  “Get out of the way, woman. Do you know who this is?”

  “It could be the king himself, and I still wouldn’t let him disrupt the yagna,” Shivani said.

  “What’s going on?” A man stepped down from the carriage. He was young, on the cusp of middle age. His silk tunic stretched tight over his pot belly.

  “You cannot pass until the Kali-Kavach yagna is complete,” Shivani repeated.

  “My father rules this town.” The plump man spoke in a tone which implied there was no more to be said.