Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  That wasn’t true, but Sukh and his men didn’t need to know that. I smiled wider.

  “And a dead one of them is worth very good coin as our new yaara said, hm?” Vitham stirred in place.

  I settled myself and slowed my breathing. My heart pounded like a procession of drums and I told it to sit as steady and still as my body.

  Sukh gripped his sword in full now, doing all but pulling it free. “Yaara, would you like to know a secret?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “There is a Rakshasa here in this jungle. But he’s not one thing—no.” Sukh placed a hand to his chest before waving it at his men. “He’s us. We’re the monsters in the jungle.”

  I couldn’t force my smile to spread any wider. It’d have to be enough as it was.

  “You find this funny, yaara?”

  “I told you before, I’m not your friend. And I’ve seen Rakshasa before, and you’re no monsters in the jungle. But if you’d like to find one, look no further. I’ll be your beast.” I lifted a closed fist, turning it over and opening my palm, beckoning them. “Come. Take your coin.”

  Sukh spat at the ground. “You think you can fight all of us?” He looked to his men.

  “I think you’re a bunch of pissling bandits taking young women from their homes to sell off to other backwater villages where no one will ask too many questions. That’s what I think.” I didn’t bother getting to my feet despite his men rising at once. “I think that I’m going to kill you and fix the color of my clothing. The red is fading.”

  One of the men leaned to one side, putting a hand to his brow as he peered at my sword. “Are those little bells on the hilt?” He pursed his lips. “I’ve heard of a sword like that. The one that whistles.” The man worked his mouth without making a sound. “Seeth, the whistle-sword, the wind chime.”

  Every man’s hand now put pressure on their blades, tilting their scabbards up as they readied to draw.

  My sword had earned that name from other men, but it held another one close at heart—its true one.

  The only sounds came from the crackling of the fire. Silence had blanketed the camp and each man’s chest seemed as still as trees. It would take one movement to set them off.

  And I would have to be the one to make it.

  I reached overhead and grabbed hold of the sword the world knew as Windchime. They didn’t even let me draw before bursting into motion, blades pulled free and mouths open to loose rolling screams.

  I snapped my leg out, launching the bowl that had been resting on the tip of my foot. The wooden dish hurtled toward one of the men who’d pulled ahead of the rest in the charge. It struck his sternum, causing him to falter as he tried to bat the bowl away in futility. Everyone’s momentum slowed just enough as they tried to register what had happened. The pause gave me the time I needed to bolt to my feet, drawing my sword. The bells fastened to the hilt chimed, living up to the weapon’s given name.

  I didn’t wait for Sukh’s band to shake themselves straight. A scream left my mouth as I lunged toward the man who I’d struck with the bowl. The curved edge of my blade sank down faster than he could register, burying itself between the meat of his shoulder and neck. My bulk drove the strike far enough into him to assure me he’d left our world. I wrenched the weapon free as the remaining five inched back in minor hesitation.

  The bells chimed again. A thin gust of wind set them whistling. But they had been tied to another sword long ago for a different reason. The young boy who’d carried that weapon could barely use it properly, relying on his size and strength to bull through people. An old swordmaster thought to teach him better. When he realized the boy couldn’t take normal instructions well, he thought to teach him rhythm and footwork through music and song.

  It worked.

  I thought back to Gathum—my instructor—and songs and fluting tunes he’d played until I learned my way around the sword.

  The memory pulled me and I fell into it.

  It was as simple as that.

  Sing, sword—sing. Heed the whistle’s cries.

  Sing, sword—scream. Let them hear you across distant skies.

  I howled, leaping toward the next man. His weapon shook in his grip—eyes wide. He didn’t know what to do with me, shrieking my anger, silver sword flashing by. I twisted, putting the whole of my weight behind the length of the great curved blade. It took his head from his shoulders in a clean pass.

  Sing, sword—howl. Show them your silver toothed gleam.

  Sing, sword—sing! Meet them, edge to edge, let them hear your metal ring!

  I cast the sword into a wide arc, carving a furrow through another man’s chest. He reeled, dropping his scimitar as he pawed gingerly at the wound. The other three leapt to meet me in unison. They bared their teeth, screaming in a pale effort compared to my own. I remembered Gathum’s words and stepped back—smooth, fluid. The song and dance continued.

  His reed whistle played on in my head and led me through the long remembered steps. But I wanted to break from it and live up to my sword’s true name.

  Garjan.

  This was not a sword for a singer. For someone who stepped lightly. This was for someone who screamed their way into the thick of it, willing to take as many cuts as he dealt. A fitting thing for me. I leapt again, thinking of the song buried at the heart of me.

  Sing, Garjan—roar. Show them sword, show them something more!

  Roar, Garjan—roar!

  I screamed again. A thing of primal fury belonging to the things that stalk the jungle night. I showed Sukh and his men why the name Windchime had been falsely given no matter how many bells cried out as I swung. All other noises, the men’s protests and fear, jungle din, all drowned under the scream of my sword and I.

  It was not a Windchime that sang beautiful songs in war—no. Garjan gave voice to the tiger’s roar.

  I cleaved the man I’d wounded across the chest moments ago. A crazed light filled Vitham’s eyes as he rushed me, a hand open like he meant to grab me and bear me down. A snap from Garjan took the limb and left him falling to the ground in agony. Sukh stumbled back, trying to distance himself from me.

  And the remaining man stood torn in indecision. I saved him from having to make a choice the next instant, sending him off to meet his fallen brothers. Vitham spat a curse I didn’t hear. The only sounds to follow were those of chiming bells. Garjan’s roar quieted Vitham’s cries.

  Only Sukh remained. He threw his sword aside, scrambling to his knees. He locked his fingers together, pleading. “Please, yaara, please.”

  I ignored him, pulling free one of the bands along my wrists. Bending at the waist, I touched it to the weeping cavity along one of the men’s chest. The piece of cloth soaked up the red and I knew what Sukh would be thinking. He’d tumble through twisted tales of the Crimson Company. What bits now were true? Where were the lies? Were we really as monstrous as some stories said? Were we men at all? And there I saw my chance to spare my brothers a hunt and save myself in the process.

  “You were right, Sukh. So was the trader.” I sighed, shaking a few beads of blood from the band. “There is a monster in the jungle tonight.” I turned to face him, showing my teeth in the firelight. “And lentils and rice didn’t fill him much. Do you know what Rakshasa like to eat? I do. Or maybe I’m something else, Sukh.” I walked toward him, step by step, rolling my shoulders and adding sinuous grace to my movements.

  “Yaara…please.”

  “I told you, I’m not your friend. I’m something else. You know about the serpent men? The ones who can look like normal folk? They have a taste of blood and they live in jungles like these. Or what of warrior witch kings who steal young women for their own?” I looked back to the tent. “That’s what you have here, yes? Do I just take them from you now?” I crept closer, tumbling Garjan through my grip.

  He backpedaled on his knees. “Take, take. Please. Anything. Leave me be.”

  I leaned forward. “Why’s that, Sukh? What happens if I leave you be? What
will you tell people? Will you tell them Rakshasa spared you? Will you tell stories of something else?”

  “Anything, ya—anything.”

  One look into his eyes told me what I needed to know. This man couldn’t believe what had happened to his brother and friends. And with that, he needed something to believe that would make this easy to swallow. He’d take to heart anything and would twist it to make sense. I wasn’t a man, a runaway from the Crimson Company. I was a monster. The kind that could kill five bandits with ease, screaming like something out of stories as I did. I had a sword that gleamed in the night and whistled as it cut them down. It was longer than a man’s arm and curved like the tooth of a great and monstrous cat. A sword fitting a demon.

  Sukh would tell anyone who’d listen these things.

  “Run.” I brought Garjan overhead. “Run, Sukh. Run. I want you to remember tonight for the rest of your days. Tell them of the Rakshasa in the jungle. Tell them of serpent men and witch kings. Or monster cats from hell prowling the jungle for man meat. Tell them who and what did this. Run!” I lunged.

  Sukh scrambled on all fours, managing to get to his feet as he broke away from me. He didn’t look back once as he ran as hard as he could. It was the pace set by someone who wouldn’t stop until he found the safety of walls to hide behind.

  Good.

  I turned to face the tent, ripping free a sash tied around my waist. A few passes were enough to wipe the blood free from Garjan, staining the cloth a deeper, fresher red. I wound it back in place and sheathed my sword.

  The flap of the tent opened, the woman from earlier stepping out. She surveyed the scene and brought a hand to her mouth. “Who…what did this?” Her eyes went to the hilt of my sword. “We heard noises inside.”

  Another woman exited the tent almost as if drawn by the first’s words. She could have passed as the first woman’s sister, though slimmer around the face and body, she had eyes and a shape to her face that could have been pulled from the other woman perfectly.

  “What do you think happened?” I arched a brow, waiting to see what the woman would come up with.

  “I couldn’t hear the words, only the screams and sounds of fighting. I don’t know.” The first woman swallowed. “I don’t know if I care now that they’re all…” she trailed off, waving a hand at the bodies before turning away.

  “Not all. Sukh got away.” My words caused the two women to stiffen.

  “We should be away from here. I want to go home.” The first woman stared ahead through the jungle path.

  “And where is that?” I moved closer to the pair.

  The second woman raised a hand, pointing past where the first still stared. “Kahinae. The path to Kahinae.” She inclined her head to me, hand over her heart. “I am Pavti. This is Ashu, my friend.” Pavti nudged the woman who’d handed me my food earlier. “Our friend, Beena, is inside—sleeping. She is not well. Sukh and his men took us nights ago from our home.” Pavti looked down, a foot stirring the surface of jungle dirt as she picked her fingernails idly.

  That was all I needed to know and hear. “Then let’s get you home. Can Beena walk?”

  Pavti and Ashu shook their heads in unison.

  I grunted. “Then I’ll carry her.” I went into the tent, cradling the young woman, making good on my word.

  She couldn’t have been much younger than Pavti and Ashu, barely into her second decade of life. She wore a simple cotton dress and top to match. Their color reminded me of ground turmeric. She had a complexion of umber, skin beaded with sweat nearly everywhere I could see.

  I left the tent without a word, motioning with a tilt of my head for the women to follow me as I led the way. They talked all the while, whispering of the stories Baneet had warned me of, the things Sukh had promised me lurked in the jungles.

  I smiled, not bothering to tell them any better. They didn’t need to know. And in those days, I hardly thought the truth mattered.

  This is how legends come to be, bard. Someone stumbles along some nowhere place and does what no one else had bothered to do. And they remember him for it but only him. The little details, the truths, those get twisted and turned around until no one really remembers how he did all of what he had.

  If you listen to the stories, here’s what I did. I saved those women from fire breathing cannibals. I saved them from a Rakshasa. From a witch king who planned to steal their youth for his own. A coven of witches. I saved them from a pack of jungle cats, ethereal, and all from hell. No, a serpent that had taken the form of a man and hoped to seduce them. One story mentions a god, fallen low, bereft of his divinity, hoping to take what mortal pleasure he could now. But for all of that, for all the things history has gotten wrong, people remember that I saved those young women. And it’s only after that, that my previous deeds and bits of life began to interest people.

  So, if you want to look for the moment I began to become a legend, bard, look there, when I walked the path to nowhere.

  The path to Kahinae.

  R.R. Virdi is a two-time Dragon Award finalist and a Nebula Award finalist. He has worked in the automotive industry as a mechanic, retail, and in the custom gaming computer world. He’s an avid car nut with a special love for American classics.

  Find out more at rrvirdi.com.

  29

  Fries before Guys

  by Las McMaster

  This Hellcat drives a Hellcat…

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  Her face was starting to ache from all the scowling. Despite knowing she was probably giving herself some hardcore frown lines, she just couldn’t get the message from her furious brain to her face to tell it to ease up a bit.

  “I’m going to freakin’ kill him.” She growled, as she drummed her fingertips on the bar.

  “You know, I’ve heard that a lot over the twenty years I’ve stood back here. I’m going to come right out and tell you what I’ve told every other woman who has come through those doors before you. You might want to keep your voice down before it constitutes premeditation.”

  He winked at her and leaned his hands on the bar in front of him. “What can I get you?”

  Staring at him, she realized he seemed to be out of place, almost comically so. At first glance, he appeared lumberjack-esque in stature. He towered over her, if she had to guess she’d put him at around six and a half feet. He had wide shoulders, narrowed at the waist and his hands looked enormous splayed out across the cherry wood in front of her. He sported a copper-colored man-bun pulled back neatly on top of his head and his face was hidden behind the most unruly facial hair she’d ever seen.

  He’s kinda like a ginger Wildling from Game of Thrones.

  Cuter though.

  He wore a plaid shirt, had a cleaning cloth draped over his shoulder and his ice-blue eyes sparkled at her.

  Much cuter.

  “Some people are worth doing hard time for,” she grumbled, meeting his curious gaze. “I’m sorely tempted.”

  He continued to stare at her, silently waiting. She could tell he was fighting a losing battle against a smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth. Rolling her eyes, she dropped her head into her hands and groaned loudly, filling the silence. “I’ll take a vanilla McGillicuddy’s and coke, please.”

  “Straight to the liquor before noon. He musta done you wrong.”

  “UGH.” Was all the reply she could manage.

  Asshat couldn’t just leave well alone, could he? Couldn’t just accept ‘I’m with Johnny,’ could he? Noooooo…he had to hop a plane for no other reason than to surprise me at work! And for what? To ask me out…again…he knows I’m with Johnny. He knows I’m not interested in his…package…he knows…ugh. He knows I’ve slammed the door on us. I say: I’m with Johnny and Jeremy-freakin’-Lewis hops a plane to ask me out for dinner. What the actual hell? I’m going to beat him to death with his own hockey stick. I— I—

  Why are you so mad at him?

  Because he was out of line?

&nb
sp; Or because you’ve waited your whole damn life for a romantic gesture like that and, when it actually happened you were frozen in terror and bungled it?

  Because you know Johnny would never do something so romantic?

  Because you’re afraid you might actually want things with Jeremy to go further than once-and-done?

  She shook her head, trying to dislodge the rational thoughts creeping into her mind. She wanted to stay mad. She was comfortable with mad. Mad wasn’t messy or complicated. Mad was a comfort blanket she wrapped herself in to protect her from all the…feels that came with Jeremy Effing Lewis and his over-the-top romantic gestures.

  She’d skipped out on work before lunchtime and hung an unexpected u-turn on her way home. It was so bad that she skipped out on work. She needed a drink, and to spend the rest of the day trying to pull herself back together. She couldn’t think straight. Her mind was a blur of boy and her heart felt as though it had been run over by an eighteen-wheeler, backed up on and driven over once more for good measure.

  Chelsea: Blew off work. Sitting in a bar chatting to a ginger lumberjack.

  Lisa: New best friend. Who dis?

  Lisa: You…blew off work?

  Yes, because Jeremy Lewis showed up at my work last night and now my…what is it she says? My knickers are in a knot? She chuckled to herself, amused at her Irish friend’s colloquialisms. Her momentary lighter mood quickly soured as she was brought back to the now.

  How DARE he just show up like that? She seethed, clenching her jaw, and pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers. What a jerk! He knows I’m with Johnny and he still came! The freakin’ nerve. I’m definitely going to kill him.

  Her drink disappeared more quickly than she had intended and she was surprised to see the bartender pouring a refill before she even had a chance to look up from her empty glass.