by Paul Kidd
”My Lord, how do you know? You-you can’t possibly know all that!”
“Keketál knows.”
Hupshu retrieved a metal knife from the dust and thrust through his belt.
“Where to now, Lord? Where have the shepherds gone?”
“Wattle Creek. Harïsh teach Keketál to shoot slings there. Beneath banks is cover place. Good place to hide.”
Armed with spear and woomera, the nobleman led the other villagers up into the air, and they disappeared with a blur of wings.
In the gully, silence reigned until the first demons drifted through the trees.
Deep in the shadows of Wattle Creek, the shepherds lay fearfully down to hide. Harïsh and Haripettii stayed on watch beneath the overhang while the other teenagers tended to Pachetta’s wounds. The eerie silence of the woods made their fur crawl with alarm. Harïsh anxiously scanned the wilderness of tangled leaves above her, hardly daring to let herself breathe.
There was a feeling; a crawling sense of something wrong. Twigs creaked in the breeze, and dead blackberry bushes rattled their old dry thorns. Harïsh gripped her sling and blinked out into the unknown.
Haripettii stiffened as he saw a stealthy something edging through the ferns. The boy leaned close to breathe into Harïsh’s ear.
“Look there, over by the tea tree. I think it’s a tail.”
He was right. Harïsh rose slowly up onto her haunches with her slingshot held out tight as the tip of a wet black nose slid cautiously around a tree. Harïsh immediately opened fire. The shot went wide, and her target gave a pathetic yelp and immediately fell into a blackberry bush.
Only one man in the world was that consistently unlucky.
“Help! No shoot! Is me! Is Keketál!
“Keketál!”
Harïsh joyously threw herself from cover and pulled at Keketál’s long tail. With a squawk he came free from the prickle bush and was smothered in her arms.
Six more village men rose into view; men with axes, sticks and knives. They were the most beautiful sight Harïsh had ever seen.
“Oh Keketál, I knew you’d come! I knew!”
There were tears on her cheeks. Keketál brushed them away and kissed her once again. Harïsh! His girl of gold. The nobleman grinned down at her and gave a waggle of his ears.
“Keketál makes lookings. He is clever! We find you quick. There is one person hurt with you, yes?”
“Pachetta has a broken wing. How did you guess?”
“Ha! Keketál does not guess, Keketál know! Keketál is clever!”
The other shepherds spilled out into the light as. Keketál’s men raced across the creek. Brothers and sisters hurtled themselves into each other’s arms. Keketál grinned and clutched Harïsh against his heart. He had escaped the hunt and found his girl; the demons were vulnerable after all.
The nobleman suddenly held out his hand to still the babbling villagers. The men and women shot puzzled glances towards Keketál; his caution seemed absurd. The bushes were still, and the enemy had gone - even the cicadas had suddenly ceased their song…
As one the villagers sank into the ferns. Keketál glared at a distant tree, slowly drawing out his captured throwing stick. Without even seeming to aim, the noble suddenly hurtled the stick into the sky.
The weapon whirred, curved around in a savage arc and sliced behind the tree. A black shape screeched and tumbled out from hiding. Keketál whirled, the alien woomera flipping forward as his spear flashed and struck. The black figure shrieked in agony, and dozens of savage demons immediately burst out from the trees.
“Fall back! Fall back and shoot!”
Keketál’s orders galvanised the villagers into action. The savages had sprung their ambush too soon, and the open gully gave the slingers a perfect field of fire. Shepherds scythed the bushes and drove the creatures back. Two demons fell, jerking like puppets as they clutched their broken skulls.
The savages reacted with blinding speed. Orders snapped out in their warbling tongue, and black demons melted instantly into cover. They tore through the dead ground behind the banks and furiously closed the range.
Spears flew; a young girl dragged herself across the stream with a shaft impaled clean through her thigh. Harïsh fired and blew apart a demon’s jaw as the remaining savages ripped into the village ranks.
The menfolk surged forward with their clubs and staves, buying Harïsh’s friends the time to escape. Keketál roared as he rammed a demon back across the stream. The savages’ armour shrugged off every blow. Still Harïsh and her shepherds tried to hover near the fight. Keketál sought his beloved’s eyes and bellowed out across the bloody stream.
“Harïsh, split the slingers left! Get onto the high ground!”
Villagers died beneath the dripping metal knives. The savages fought like madmen! One demon barely even grunted as a spear rammed through its chest, then stalked forward into battle like an impaled forest bug.
“Keketál, get down!”
The menfolk hurtled themselves flat, and the air hissed with slingstones. Demons staggered back and died.
“Up! Kill the bastards!”
The villagers rallied behind their chief. Captured spears plunged and bit; Hupshu screamed in rage and shoved his dao into a demon’s heart. He whirled and stabbed a second creature in the spine, and the savage arched in agony then pitched into the stream.
Suddenly there was no one left to fight. The last two demons fled off down the stream, one with a broken elbow and one with a spear impaled through its chest. Keketál staggered sideways to collapse against a corpse, while Hupshu fell to his knees and retched.
Bodies lay strew across the creek, blood swirling thich as syrup on the stones. Somewhere in the background a wounded woman cried; the sound hung strangely soft against the sudden deathly still.
Harïsh came to him, just as she always had whenever he needed love. Keketál’s eyes went blank as he gazed down at a horror he could barely understand.
“It’s Keketál’s fault. Keketál led them here.”
“No, my love. They would have come after us anyway. You saved us.”
Harïsh lifted up Keketál’s fine hands and washed them clean of blood. A village girl moaned as they dragged a spear from her leg. He should go and help. Keketál opened up his eyes and tried to think what to do.
“Harïsh, how many of us are still left?”
“Three men, seven shepherds. Five of them badly hurt. Three of them might-might die.” Harïsh slowly wove up to her feet. “I will see to them. I-I have to care for them…”
She turned to do her duty. Keketál still stared at the bobbing corpses in the stream.
“They should have slaughtered us. If they had attacked on the wing…”
“They did not hit us on the wing. You beat them, my love. You showed us how.”
“Next time they will come in by the air.”
“You’ll know what to do. You always know what to do.”
The girl staggered as she walked across the stones. Somewhere an injured shepherd tried to clear his bleeding lungs. Keketál slumped back against a tree and closed his eyes, trying to still the trembling of his hands.
He had known; the throwing stick, the silver knives and screaming skulls. Somehow he had already known…
Keketál hid his face inside his hands and felt his spirit weep.
Hush rippled through the warriors in a single breathless sigh. Something filled the air with a numbing spell of awe, and a thousand fighters sank reverently to their knees.
Footsteps echoed as Zhukora slowly paced between her worshippers. The ïsha swirled around her as she walked. Her armour shone and dripped with light, and highlights gleamed across her slender curves. Daimïru knelt before her in the dust and bared her dripping blade.
“Revered one, the village population has been liquidated. Their women lie dead, their menfolk fell before our ambush. The children were slain as we overran the river. All the target villages have now been totally destroyed. Your
orders have been fulfilled.”
In the houses little Ka wailed in dismay. Zhukora looked about the ghastly corpses draped across the village square and gave a smile.
“You have done well, all of you. No one could have asked more. Perform the rightful ceremonies. Free the spirits trapped inside the bodies. Give them the gift and ask forgiveness. We are not butchers. Though we have come as instruments of punishment, we shall act with mercy and respect.”
Zhukora gazed at the corpse of a beautiful teenage girl. Once she had once been blonde, vibrant and alive. How like Daimïru…
“A dreadful lesson. They have paid for their crimes; we have shown them the price of defiance. Now our will shall be done. We have secured the future of our people.
The Leader’s voice roise out to ring across her warriors.
“We claim these lands in the name of the united Kashran race! Bring your families. Let your children feast upon the fresh meat of the plains! We shall dig the yams and fish the rivers. We shall worship Rain and Wind and thank them for their bounty. The unholy waste of natural resources is at an end!”
Zhukora held them spellbound with her words. She stood before them, virginal and perfect; the custodian of the Kashran racial dream.
“No property! No priests, no elders, Kings and Queens. We will have our Dream! Our Dream of iron! Our Dream of living room and justice. If the plains creatures oppose us, they will pay the price in blood! We are the peoples of the alps - the chosen ones of Mother Rain! We shall take The Dream across the world and open out new limits to Kashran glory!”
The rainbow warriors screamed in adulation. Zhukora drew their faith around her like a cloak of streaming colours, bowing down her head as they screamed out the people’s will.
Zhukora swayed, utterly lost within a storm of love.
Two figures rose up to peer through the grass. A golden, fluffy tail waved high above the bushes, and a grey hand reached out to quickly snatch it back.
“Hisst. Get down! I told you to get down!”
“I want to see!”
“Get tushi down! Don’t stick it in Keketál’s face.”
Harïsh gave a ‘humph’ and waved her tail in his nose.
“Ha! So finally you notice it.”
“Notice it? You drive Keketál mad with it for weeks! How Keketál keep faith with your mother when all he thinks about iss jumping on your bones?”
“Why you lecherous old flea-bag!”
“Jiggle-rumped hussy!”
“Boor!”
“Brat!”
The bushes quivered as Keketál’s head popped up from cover.
“Prickly-fire and poison! Keketál knew he shouldn’t have let you come! Go back and look after hurted ones. Go back and be helping friends!”
“Now look, I’ve bound and stitched until I’m fed up to the gills! I want my Mama and Papa, I want my lazy brothers and I want my brat of a little sister! So you can go right on wasting time or you can let us get on with the job!”
Keketál wore a suit of demon armour that still dripped wet from the creek. He angrily folded up his arms and turned away.
“Pah! Always is a busy-body! Silly girl go home and tend to shep!”
“Sheep. For the thousandth time the bloody word is sheep!”
“I said Shep! What wrong with you? Is wax in ears?”
“I’ll give you whacks in the ears! Now shut-up and let me put this stupid gear on.”
Harïsh took her fears out on Keketál; if she had stopped to think, she would have gone stark raving mad. The girl jerked her armour into place. The helmet spilled down across her head and nearly smothered her.
“Well, how do I look?”
“Hmmph. Demons not waggle backside when they walk!”
“At least you finally have my backside on your mind. Perhaps you’re getting the idea after all.”
Her companion shook his head and trembled with frustration.
“Why did you come? Why? It is too dangerous for you.”
“Because I love you, you stupid man! I love you.”
The nobleman blinked as it dawned on him just what Harïsh was saying. The poor man’s jaw dropped open as everything sank home.
Harïsh saw his face and angrily flicked out her antennae. Her family had gone missing, her village stood in flames, and her only companion was a numbskull! She whirred up into the air and sped towards her home.
They flew on towards the village meadow, and Keketál waved the girl behind him as he wormed his way into the grass. She saw his wings turn stiff; for long moments the man simply sat and stared across the fields. Harïsh crawled curiously up beside him, her ears lifting as she gently placed a hand across his rear.
“Keketál? What is it? What do you…”
The girl turned her gaze across the meadow, and words simply froze inside her throat. She felt her face form into a vacuous smile as she stared at the murder of her entire universe.
They were all there, every man that she had ever known. Totasha the dye maker; Lasri the weaver’s boy, so proud to have been fighting fires beside his father. They were still together, lying side by side. Lord Ingatekh stared in outrage as a crow held aloft his gleaming eye. The bird swallowed down the juicy morsel and stropped its beak upon his lordship’s bloodstained fur.
Harïsh spread her wings and gently drifted through the sky, coming to rest beside a grey old figure in the grass. Harïsh reached out and absently stroked her father’s ruffled fur.
The field was black with frozen shapes. There would be thirty one of them; Harïsh had no need to count. Every one was here - all the missing menfolk of the village, all of them together in their deaths just as they had been in life. Harïsh had never known there was so much blood in all the world.
Keketál loomed beside her with his arm about her shoulders. Harïsh paid him no attention, staring at her father and her brothers in the grass. Her voice seemed strangely gay, as though she were lost inside a rosy dream.
“Mama’s dead of course. They’ve killed everything, haven’t they? We never even knew they existed, and yet they came and killed us all.”
The girl wove up to her feet.
“She’ll need me. I really ought to be with her. They’re my family, you see? You really have to understand us. What happens to my family, happens to me.
“I didn’t really want to die. I wanted to marry you. I could have been a good wife for you, you know. I wanted to bear your eggs and share your house. I was going to be the finest surgeon in the tribe! I’d have given you everything, every happiness my heart could find, and you’d have loved me in return.”
The girl slowly wandered out across the grass, letting Keketál’s hand slip from her grasp.
“I have to go. Do you understand? I simply have to go.”
Suddenly the girl gave a jerk and fell. Keketál caught her softly in his arms, the heavy throwing-stick tumbling from his grasp. He heaved the girl across his shoulder and bore her over to the trees.
“Keketál understands, my love, but Keketál iss family too. He iss family who loves you.”
“Rooshïkii, your report.”
The tiny warrior looked up to face her leader’s eyes. Rooshïkii’s voice rang with a supernatural calm.
“The unit was eliminated in combat. There were two survivors, the new officer and his second. Both survive because they are superior fighters. Their position was quite hopeless.”
“How? How did mere villagers beat back our elite?”
“Our attack was engaged by missile fire before it could close. Team seven attacked hand to hand, but the enemy combined firepower with melee action to beat them back. The key is to attack from the air at high speed. Slings cannot be fired on the wing. Our spears are the superior weapons for mobile fighting.”
Zhukora stroked her chin.
“Are all the enemy so dangerous?”
“No, Revered One. Only when motivated by powerful leaders. They lack our discipline and devotion. “
“This small
group - it had a powerful leader?”
“There is one dangerous officer amongst them. Without him the villagers would have been helpless. I would have taken him were I not bound by my orders.”
“Only at the cost of your own life.”
“If it serves you, then it is well spent.”
The little girl bent forward in a bow. Zhukora refreshed herself with tea from a common soldier’s kettle. She looked across her teacup at her smallest warrior.
“I am pleased that you obeyed your orders. You are far more use to our cause alive, Rooshïkii. I want you to organise our scouts and spies. You are to be our eyes and ears in the world.”
The young girl glanced up, her skull mask quivering in astonishment.
“Revered one! You do me too much honour!”
“Never. Ability must be recognised and nurtured. You are the clearest thinker of all my officers.”
Zhukora swigged down the last few drams of tea and set her cup aside.
“Go. Pick your own teams. Report to me as and when you see fit. Let no person doubt that Rooshïkii-Zha speaks with my authority.”
The officers bowed; Rooshïkii rose stiffly to her feet and disappeared amongst the busy crowds of warriors. Zhukora gave a sigh and let her cup be filled again.
“Daimïru, what’s next? Let’s get the business done.”