by Paul Kidd
~I have been shown my error. Now I have been able to purge myself. I am pure enough to do what must be done.~ Shadarii cradled Kïtashii hard against her breasts, her eyes staring off into the shadows of the forest. ~Perhaps in the end you will learn a lesson too. Even for you it cannot be too late.~
*What are you drivelling about now?*
Shadarii closed her eyes and felt Kïtashii’s fur beneath her hands. In her mind’s eye she saw Kotaru smiling down into her eyes.
~My time is almost done. There was but one last thing I had to learn. The students have taught the teacher. They have shown me that sacrifice is the highest form of love.~
Shadarii held Kïtashii and rocked the little dancer like a beloved, sleeping babe.
~So much loss. So much sadness. It’s almost over now. One final lesson to teach the world, and then my rest can come.~
~So let it be…~
***
“It is called an oita, Lord. A weapon used in sports by the Zebedii. We have sparred with such weapons for a thousand years. They are developed from the double-bladed oars of our canoes.”
The Zebedii nobleman passed the weapon into Keketál's hands, and the tall hunter twirled it in his palms as though he had used such a weapon all his life. Behind him, two thousand trainee warriors had gathered around to watch. Keketál's fighters looked grim and efficient in their new felt armour and wooden helms. Every angry youngster and rebelious nobleman in the scattered tribes had come to join Lord Keketál’s band. Chiefs had sent their sons. Potters and carpenters had left their quiet villages. They had come to learn the forgotten skills of war.
Outlandish Zebedii leaned upon their oitas and looked across the crowds. The Zebedii were savage creatures with bright dyed fur and stiffened crests of hair. Their chieftain snapped his fingers and brought his son running to his side.
“Saisan! Two fighters! Padded staves.”
“Sir!”
Two men immediately hurtled themselves up into the air. Before the plainsmen had time to blink the air resounded to an almighty crash. Oitas cracked like lightning, and one fighter tumbled to the ground. The survivor whirled down to land before the nobles. He snapped into a bow and waited to be dismissed while his Chief turned towards Lord Keketál.
“We can train your men in the use of oita. It is a fitting weapon for a war. The Zebedii tribe wishes to place its warriors under your command.”
Keketál’s eyes were so very wise and brown. He looked down at the creature from the marsh and carefully weighed his words.
“Why? Why follow Keketál?”
“We choose Keketál because he is a stranger.” The Chief’s oita pointed straight at Keketál. “This one is not of the plains. We have not clashed with him in council. There is no bad blood between us. He would fight alone, but welcomes aid. He asks, but does not beg. It is enough. The Zebedii have chosen.”
Keketál slowly switched his tail.
“The Zebedii lands are not our lands. Why do you need to join with us at all?”
“There is a saying: If you must fight with your enemy, do it in your neighbour’s yard.”
Keketál took the Chief’s oita in his hands. A white skull mask had been propped up on a stump nearby. The weapon scythed down to hack the mask in two. The hardwood blade clove deep into the stump. Keketál ripped the weapon free and gave a savage grin.
“Bring your men! Keketál accepts your warriors. Show Keketál’s people how to fight with oita! We split demon bitch in two and dance upon her bones!”
The Zebedii warriors howled for joy and tossed their weapons to the ground, then flung themselves into the ranks of Keketál’s astonished men. Suddenly the island rang with the sound of laughter. The men hooted and flung each other in the swamp, tumbling like brats as they tugged each other’s ears.
The Zebedii chieftain cracked the cap from a flask of Hupshu’s mead and tossed the bottle over to Keketál.
“Now we drink! We drink and tell many lies about our women! Tomorrow there is war. Today we shall drink beer!”
Keketál was suddenly tossed into the pond. The Zebedii chieftain stood on the banks and laughed until Hupshu tripped him in the mud. Keketál laughed and hurtled himself into the fun. Life suddenly seemed worth living. They could win - finally they could win! He had a wife, a life, a hope! Keketál could finally taste the future in his grasp.
Chapter Twenty Five
The air trembled to the beat of wings as the rainbow hordes began to march. They drove through a wilderness of burned villages and smoking fields, and from horizon to horizon their numbers blackened out the skies. Here and there a single figure dipped and wheeled against the storm. Their masks and costumes blazed with all the colours of a madman’s dreams.
Beside a stream Daimïru cracked into a salute, then looked briskly up into her leader’s eyes.
“Zhukora, scout flock seven has returned. They report the entire border district is deserted. We have eliminated no more villages. Our lead units are now striking nothing but empty huts and fields.”
Zhukora sat quietly in meditation beside a flowing stream, black hair streaming around her naked body like a sheen of night. She looked into Daimïru’s eyes and gave a smile.
“So the barbarians anticipated our invasion? Good, good. The prey does us honour at last. The great hunt shall be a challenge.
“What are our casualties?”
“Perhaps a hundred dead. We have hurt the enemy as badly. They are attempting shoot and flight tactics against us. Small groups of enemy fire at us with slings and then attempt to escape.” Daimïru’s spear glistened wet with blood, and the orgasmic afterglow of killing hung heavy in her eyes. “Their magic use can’t compete with ours. Our warriors’ jiteng training serves us well.”
“How did our casualties occur?”
“Some sling hits. One team was destroyed in its entirety in hand to hand. Rooshïkii has given us a positive ID; it is the officer who attacked our group at River-Bend. ‘Keketál the Stranger’. A dangerous man, motivated and intelligent.”
Zhukora closed her eyes and reassumed her position of meditation.
The enemy skirmishers were trying to buy time for their army to form. Zhukora read their intent and gave a smile; she fully intended the enemy army to complete formation. She wanted them gathered into one killing ground where they could fall before her spears.
“Tell me more about this Keketákl.”
“He is an outlander, but we have no information as to his original origin. A good fighter. He has a trained band of two thousand warriors; the only battle-trained force the plains people possess.”
“Are they skilled?”
“Very. Trained for close combat. Armoured and highly motivated.”
“They lack the iron will of our Skull-Wing warriors. We shall easily overmatch them with our elite.”
Zhukora’s plan of battle had been brilliantly conceived. The gargantuan tasks of preparing food, creating maps and scouting the enemy forces each had to be defined and invented. Zhukora’s people pursued their art with a fanaticism that would have terrified their ancestors.
No arguments, no division; there was only a single driving sense of mission. One race, one will, one destiny. The Dream had finally gone to war.
A hundred Kashra ringed the trees of a sacred grove, and the air rang to a chaos of arguments and screams. Speakers danced in outrage while priests hurtled abuse; the defence council of the Coalition had begun another typical day.
“It is the decision of this committee, and it will stand! A battle can only be won by the most careful deliberation. Hasty decisions…”
“Sheep-shit!”
“…Hasty decisions will bring disaster!”
A young nobleman tore at his ritual jewellry in rage.
“By merely running we fail to break their power! The Bitch-Queen’s armies must be faced and broken!”
“Which we will do only when we have made the most exquisite preparations!”
“We are being des
troyed! We must face the beast and kill it! Fleeing merely saps our will to fight!”
There was a chorus of agreement from the upper branches of the trees. After two days of debate, the defence council had achieved absolutely nothing.
Keketál sat on a log and watched the proceedings with contempt. Each idea brought before the house was bitterly contested; the tribes each sought to further their own ends. It was a chaos that would kill them all! Someone had to do something! Every minute brought the Bitch-Queen closer.
“Enough! Arguings go on long enough! Iss time to make decisions!”
Keketál leaned upon his blood-stained oita, and the other counselors all turned to stare.
“The army iss gathered! We must decide what to do with it. Iss just one little vote! Just make-a-do and let Keketál get back to work!”
A Speaker from Yukanii tribe rose up to his feet.
“My Lord, our levies are but barely trained! It’s still too soon to fight.”
“Then give them to me and I shall train them! Will you at least let Keketál do that?”
A chorus of Speakers immediately leapt to their feet.
“Never! We refuse to relinquish tribal control over our men!”
“Just to trainings them! To practice their skills!”
“We are civilised men! Do you imply that we are inferior to a flock of uncircumcised savages?”
Keketál snarled and made to speak again, but Hupshu raised and hand and held him back.
“Gentlemen, the savages are already on the move. We need an immediate plan. Now what are we to do?”
The room instantly boiled with activity; men shouted and stormed onto the floor.
“Are you all cowards? Why don’t we just attack?”
“I say we do as Lord Keketál suggests!”
“And I say my tribe will follow no nameless outlander!”
Speakers turned and stared as one furious old Kashra shook his fist at Keketál.
“Look at him! No family, no village, no past! How do we know he’s not one of them? He could be a spy planted to… urk!”
A Zebedii noble clamped his hands about the chieftain’s throat, then slapped the old man twice across the face and let him fall.
“Lord Keketál reaps in many demon heads. This morning he has taken three. Bring us three demon heads and earn the right to speak against him.”
A new man flung a hand towards Keketál.
“I say he should lead us! I say we vote Lord Keketál President of the Confederation!”
“And I say never!” A nobleman flung his words towards the clouds. “This is no dictatorship! The committee…”
“Sit down!”
“…The committee has a sacred trust to our people! No tyranny!”
“No tyranny!”
“Order! Order!”
A master healer clambered high onto a branch and held out his tattooed hands.
“I propose a motion. Dictatorship or freedom? Should we create a tyrant in emulation of the savages, or will we operate by democracy? Those in favour of dictatorship?”
Staves rose - far too few. The Zebedii sat watching Keketál, and when he raised his weapon, the Zebedii followed suit.
Less than half the committee voted in favour. Damn! The healer twirled his tail in triumph.
“It is decided! Freedom! The committee can act as a joint command upon the battlefield. Decisions will be made by vote.”
The healer gave a self satisfied smile.
“How can we lose? After all, we are all reasonable men…”
The river gleamed in the moonlight like a strip of tempered steel. A black horde spilled down through the shadows and shot out across the water. Zhukora’s naked figure stood proud above the river bend and watched her children swarm forward through the night.
The enemy had gathered themselves together for the killing blow. They had conscripted the weavers and the shepherd boys and had told themselves that they had an army.
Zhukora had reacted with blinding speed. A third of her army was spilling out into the night. Daimïru would take them on a wide sweep about the enemy flank; the hammer to Zhukora’s anvil. Zhukora looked upon her world and found it good.
“Follow down the river to conceal your ïsha trails. There is a faultline in the earth five swoops down stream. Follow the path of ïsha disturbance. Leave no sign of your passing.
“I want two scout groups forward. Rooshïkii, take the van. Deal with any enemy contact immediately. There must be no survivors to report our move. In the morning you will have simply disappeared.”
“Yes Leader!”
The young scout chief cracked her wings out in a bow and then flung herself into the night.
From the cliffs above the river, Shadarii’s pilgrims watched the demons pass. Mrrimïmei stared at the Skull-Wings and let her face twist up with hate.
“An army. Zhukora’s out to rule the world, and we let it happen! We followed that mewling healer instead of staying to fight!” The woman ran a hand across her empty womb and spat. “Do you see what they’ve brought us to, these creatures with their visions and their missions! Power serves only power. Between Shadarii and her sister they will enslave a world!”
Totoru winced and turned away. Kefaru looked up in Mrrimïmei in bewilderment.
“Enslave? No! Shadarii never enslaved anyone. She loves us!”
Mrrimïmei jammed her spear into the ground.
“Zhukora thrives on death. Shadarii vampirises love! They both need us to feed upon.
“They try to shape the world to match their own twisted visions. Our world is dying. We can only be free when we have rid ourselves of Shadarii and her sister.”
There was silence beneath the trees as the other Wrens slowly looked away. Totoru fearfully reached out to touch his fiancé, but Mrrimïmei turned her back and shoved the man aside.
Far down in the water, great yellow eyes swam up through the depts and watch the surging waves of warriors cross the riverbanks. Silver scales gleamed - great whiskers stirred in currents deeper than the waters and older than mere time. Grandfather Catfish puffed his gills in thought, then turned and swam silently downstream, swimming steadily towards the final meeting.
***
The autumn mornings were always sharp and cold. Dew lay across the grass to sparkle in the light as a magpie warbled joyous welcome to the dawn. Far overhead an ibis wheeled and slid across the trees. The world shone bright, the day grew sharp, the skies were wide and blue.
Across the open hilltops the Confederation army seethed like a vast swarm of ants. A hundred thousand men were arranged in a vast amorphous mass. Only one group showed any sense of order; Keketál’s tiny warband hung far back in the rear along with the outlandish Zebedii.
Keketál’s men stood at their posts in watchful silence. They were The Guard; the picked men of four divergent tribes. Though a mere two thousand strong, each one of them had fought hard to win his place. They came because a man had given them a sense of pride and purpose.
Lord Keketál the River’s Gift stood eating pickled onions from a jar. Captain Hupshu moved carefully downwind, much to the amusement of his men. Keketál munched on as though he had not a worry in the world. He paced amiably up and down the steady lines of his beloved Guard, crunching onions between his fine white teeth.
Suddenly Keketál froze. The nearest guardsman was watching him, his eyes hopefully following Keketál’s fingers as they dipped into the jar. The leader looked at his onions and gave a guilty blush.
“Uh, you like one? Iss good! Good onions. Iss wife making them! Delicious, yes?”
The warrior greedily accepted a dripping onion from the jar, then quickly passed the jug back down the line. Men swiftly dunked their fists and stuffed their faces with Keketál’s breakfast.
Keketál looked irritably down into the empty jug, then shot a hurt look at the troops. They smirked around their stolen onions and winked merrily at their chief. The leader fixed a beady eye upon his men, promisin
g dire consequences in the evening.
From further down the hill there came a sudden sound of laughter, where a group of female slingers had tied bells to Harïsh’s tail. Moving awkwardly in her fine new armour, Harïsh inspected their handiwork. It seemed to please her. She saw Keketál grinning at her and flipped up her tail to show her rear.
Since returning from the forest, Harïsh had changed; something had happened in there, something so wonderful that Harïsh simply didn’t have the words to tell. Her husband looked at her and wondered at the sparkle in her eye.
Harïsh had gathered up three hundred shepherd girls and had formed the “Maiden Guard”. The womenfolk were more than welcome; they trained as long and hard as any of Keketál’s male warriors. What was more, those girls could shoot. Dear Rain but they could use those slings! Unlike the conscripts from the villages, these girls were true artists. They were the pride of the Confederation Guard.
They needed something to be proud of. Keketál looked out across the army and felt his spirits droop. The conscripts were poorly lead and badly frightened. Even from a distance Keketál could hear their officers still arguing about precedence. The men bore slings and farming implements, wooden forks and threshing flails. There were wheezing ancient men and pre-pubescent boys. The mighty army of the Confederation! Keketál’s heart sank as he felt disaster lurking in the sky.