Brutal Women: The Short Stuff

by Kameron Hurley

  Nalah stared back. They looked away. From their speech and clothing, she guessed that they were from Khairi, outside the southernmost edge of the desert wall - new officials, new men of words and water. They were young. Everyone seemed to be getting younger but her and Hanife and Tarik.

  Hanife stood just to the left of his throne, a carved slab of gray rock pressed up against the far end of the room. He had gained more weight in her absence. The flesh of his face was paler than she remembered, dusty brown instead of dark onyx. His brows made one clean line above his eyes, and he left his hair unbraided, let it grow long and thick. He dressed in a silver robe tied with gold and blue tassels.

  Hanife gestured at her, and the murmuring officials ceased.

  “We need to speak,” he said. He waved away the group of men and moved toward Nalah.

  Gahiji came up behind her. A half-dozen members of Hanife’s white-robed honor guard, with steel swords at their hips, moved from their places at the back of the room to follow.

  “It has been some time,” Hanife said as he walked beside her down the corridor. His walk remained the same; a strong, purposeful stride that spoke of a body used to physical power.

  “It has,” she agreed. They stepped into a low doorway, down a cool hallway.

  “You were successful with the traitor, then,” Hanife said.

  She did not answer him. It didn’t sound like a question.

  Gahiji opened up the door to the king’s chambers. He searched the room, returned, and nodded to Hanife.

  “Come, woman,” Hanife said.

  Nalah strode through the door, ducked to enter, and settled onto one of the benches along the wall. Thick rugs lined the floor and the benches. A rectangular patch of dusky light streamed in from the opening at the center of the ceiling. A second door led off into his sleeping chambers. Here, a silver tray of grapes, oranges, dates, and figs sat on a low wooden table at the center of the room next to a flagon of wine and two silver cups.

  Hanife offered her refreshments. She shook her head.

  “You were never one for words,” he said.

  No, she thought, you were always the one for words.

  “Was the head delivered to you?” she asked.

  “Yes, just after you arrived. Are you certain you don’t want something to drink?”

  She shook her head, and he poured himself a glass of wine. He settled onto the bench next to her, robe trailing across the floor, and she caught the familiar scent of him above the reek of pomade: fermented wine and stale sweat.

  “You have another assignment for my fighters?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I request two weeks of city leave.”

  Hanife touched a soft finger to the edge of his glass. “Have you seen your son?”

  “We spoke when I arrived,” she said.

  “Did he speak of my son?”

  Nalah saw pale gray eyes leaking warm tears. She felt her fingers tangled in soft black hair that stank of desert and ladies.

  “They were close friends,” she said.

  The wrong words. Again.

  “You still kill with the dull blade?” he asked.

  “Only traitors, as I’ve done from the beginning. The dull blade for traitors, sharp steel for kin, and the sand for those who have always been enemies.”

  “You sound as if you’ve grown weary.” His dark eyes were expressionless, the face softer than she remembered, but this was the same man she fought and sworn her life to, the man who brought the nomads into the cities, the man who wanted to bring the world to heel.

  “No,” Nalah said. “I’m a woman. I was born to this.”

  He sipped his wine. “Not all women remain so. I have known women who become ladies.”

  “I’m not a breeder. Or a slave.”

  Hanife took a lazy breath through his nose. “You’ve been away from the cities for some time, Nalah. I’ve been thinking about what I promised you, in the beginning. I promised you peace. A haven from blood and sand. Now I look around at the cities I’ve created, at the safety they provide to those within.

  “There was a time when women were necessary as fighters. Only a woman can walk without fear across the red desert. But, there have always been the others. The private and public ladies, and they are good for the care of children, the weaving and baking, the necessities of the city and -” he pressed two fingers to his lips. “I don’t believe the distinction is necessary any longer. The world is changing. Women, too, can remain safe within these walls, walls that keep the sand at bay. The men here will protect you, comfort you. It is the peace I promised.”

  “What? You’re saying you want me and the desert women to become -” she almost choked on the word, and it came out harsh, biting, a curse, “ladies.”

  “Perhaps not you, Nalah. No, not while you can train men to fight without bleeding on the sand. But look at this vision; see it as I see it. Women able to live in peace, to stay within the home and see their children grow strong and healthy.” A thin smile settled across Hanife’s face. “I must admit, women like you are... unpredictable.”

  You know nothing of me, she thought, but she remembered the other things he had done, collecting nomads into the cities, imposing law, order on a people who fought with their fists and teeth on a desert sea that fed on their blood. I am no one’s slave, she thought. No one’s but Hanife’s. He has these walls. This power.

  And I helped give it to him. I brought it on myself.

  “What is my task?” she said.

  “You know it,” he said. “Your boy left the city just hours ago with a handful of others. Kesi’s friends. They’re moving south. I want the boys finished.”

  “I bore one child. Women don’t bear children outside the walls, but I chose not to kill him in the womb or feed him to the sand.”

  “And I made it possible for you to keep him. If not for me, you would have fallen out of training, become a public lady. Eshe was my ward and my son’s playmate. Do you think I have no heart?”

  No, she thought, but you don’t carry your son’s blood beneath your fingernails. She nodded. “We leave in three days, then.”

  “No.”

  “My fighters need rest and water.”

  Hanife smiled. “You leave tomorrow, woman, after your fighters are fed. I want you to find these ones sooner than the last. I can’t afford to lose your force for another three months.”

  Nalah sucked in a small, slow breath. “Tomorrow, then,” she said.

  Shani waited for her in the cool room, her naked form stretched out on the covered bench at the back of chamber, green tunic tossed over her narrow hips. Her eyes were closed, and she breathed softly, black braids falling across her brown shoulders. Nalah stood in the door a moment, appreciating the softness of her face, the innocence of sleep.

  But Shani had grown up in the desert, and woke before Nalah had time to sear her image into memory. Shani pulled a blade from beneath the tunic, narrowed her eyes at the doorway.

  “We leave tomorrow,” Nalah said.

  “Who are we after?”

  “Kesi’s followers.”

  Shani sat up. “Eshe. Nalah--”

  “Shush. I’m sick of men and words.”

  Nalah undressed. She curled up next to Shani, wrapped her arms around the woman’s slender form. Took comfort in her warmth. Did not sleep.

  Her dreams would be full of dead boys.

  An hour before dawn, Nalah listened to Tarik and his ladies begin again. Nalah pulled away from Shani, dressed, and went out into the hall. She pushed through the curtain and into Tarik’s room to find a big-breasted lady astride Tarik, her mouth open, fingers digging into his torso. Another lady, smaller, paler than the first, watched from her position on the floor, naked form glistening in the low light of the last lit brazier. The lady on the floor looked back at Nalah.

  “Finish,” Nalah said.

  Tarik, hands gripping the lady’s thighs, looked over at her. He swore. “Nalah-”


  “Finish. I need you to get the fighters ready. We move at dawn.”

  Tarik groaned, pushed the lady off him.

  The lady obeyed, shot Nalah a vicious stare. “Who are you to interrupt, woman?”

  “Far more than you, lady,” Nalah said. “Move, Tarik.”

  “Where are we going?” he said. He sat up and searched for his clothes. The lady on the floor offered him his tunic.

  “Traitors,” Nalah said.

  “More babies?” He pulled his tunic away from the lady on the floor.

  “Eshe,” Nalah said.

  “Fuck.” Tarik pulled away from the lady on the bed. Both ladies were looking at Nalah now. Nalah saw the cosmetics on their faces, smeared and garish in the low light.

  The one on the bed looked to the one on the floor. “She’s just a woman,” said the lady on the bed. “Good for nothing but blood and sand.”

  Nalah would have spit at her, but Tarik was dressed now and moving to the door. Nalah looked back, once, at the ladies searching for their clothes, their hair long and unbraided across smooth, dark shoulders.

  Tarik swore at her again in the hallway.

  They moved out through the gates, a ragged, dirty band of warriors, underfed and battle-weary. Full morning found the tattered group of fighters following tracks in the sand, clear tracks that no one had bothered trying to cover up. They trekked across the desert for three days, one step behind the boys.

  Nalah swore beneath her breath. Eshe knew better than this. She had taught him better.

  Tarik pulled the green hood of his burnous up to keep the sun off. She saw him toy with the sharp blade strapped across his chest.

  They were nearing the Jafari holdfast, the last stronghold before a nine-day trek across the sand that led to the next source of water.

  She told Tarik to send out a fast runner.

  Shani came back with news that Jafari Holdfast was indeed just ahead, a small holdfast built up between two jutting pillars of stone. The patron of the holdfast was loyal to Hanife. Nalah had never known him to refuse her entrance. Eshe would have known better than to seek refuge there. Yet when they arrived at the hold at dawn, the tracks they followed ended at the gate.

  Nalah told little Heru to take a force out around the back and guard the rear escape. Nalah took the bulk of her force to the gates. The hold was carved from the stone pillars and filled in with mud-brick. Nalah requested entrance. The watchers at the walls swung open the gates.

  Nalah kept Tarik at her left, told Shani to keep the rest of the force outside, brought a dozen fighters into the courtyard behind her.

  A thin man walked across the stone of the yard to meet her. He was old, older than Gahiji, his hair gone to white.

  “What event heralds this pleasure?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for a group of young people,” Nalah said. “A boy named Eshe, and friends of Kesi, the king’s youngest son.”

  The man looked behind him to one of the towers of stone. He sighed. “They arrived yesterday. This way.”

  Nalah was numb. She gestured to Tarik.

  Tarik motioned a group of three to come up behind them. The others stayed in the yard to keep watch at the gate.

  Nalah followed the old man up a flight of stone steps, up and up into one of the pillars that flanked his hold.

  The man came to the top of the steps and gestured to a circular room carved into the gray stone. The room smelled of sweat and dust and leather. A rectangular window cast early morning light across the smoke-gray room. A table of stone stood at the center of the chamber. Eight low stools of polished wood and leather surrounded the table, and sitting upon them were a handful of boys, no older than her son, their dark hair braided back from their faces. They dressed in robes the color of sand.

  Eshe stood at the window, and turned his thin body to face her.

  “These are the boys?” the old man asked.

  Nalah did not trust her voice. She nodded.

  “Yes,” the man murmured. “Yes, well...” He looked at Eshe, then back at Nalah. “You tell Hanife I’m a king’s man.”

  Eshe spit at him. The hold owner pushed past Tarik and the three fighters, scurried back down the stairwell.

  Nalah stood very still.

  “He sent you after us,” Eshe said. His voice was low.

  She wanted to chastise him, to scream at him, to weep. Instead she looked at his boyish face and saw more boys’ faces; saw gray eyes and dark hair, saw a face scarred in rotten wounds, saw the sand swallow them all.

  The only words she could think of were, “I didn’t want you to be part of this.”

  Eshe shrugged, but she saw a slight tremor in his jaw. “You took them all with you, taught them to fight. But you left me in the hold.”

  His face now, she saw his face mutilated, the blistered flesh peeling off his arms. She felt her fingers grip his hair, jerk back his head.

  “That isn’t what you want,” she said.

  The other boys looked from her to Eshe with wide eyes. The younger boys fidgeted, watched the fighters standing in the doorway, the only exit.

  “I know what I am,” Eshe said. “I know what I want. Gahiji’s taught me so much, and Kesi’s ideas... There’s a whole world out there, beyond the desert, toward the sea. Don’t you understand what the world could be? Hanife’s blind.”

  She heard another voice as he spoke, a voice that had promised her a better world, a richer life, a world of free women and an end to death and blood and sand. Hanife had been young and fiery then, his passion contagious, his visions vivid. Nalah had slaughtered hundreds for him, for the vision; slaughtered hundreds and then a hundred more. She gave her body, her life, her husband, to the vision, and found only more blood and death and sand. She was a free woman - free to do whatever Hanife told her to do.

  “I wish things were different,” she said.

  Eshe’s shoulders slumped. “I wish you weren’t blind.”

  Nalah glanced over at Tarik.

  “Finish it,” he said.

  She pulled the dull blade from the sheath at her chest, took the cold hilt into her palm.

  “Mama,” Eshe said. He reached out his hand to her.

  She remembered what the boy had said, then, the boy she buried in the sand.

  “Tell my mama,” he had said, “Tell my mama how I died.”

  “Leave me with my boy,” she said.

  Tarik raised a brow. “Nalah?”

  “You take care of the others. This is my boy. Leave me with him. Burn the others.”

  Tarik gestured to the three fighters at his back. They herded the boys to the stairs, and the boys started to cry out, their shrill voices echoing in the stairwell. Tarik went to the stair, turned back to look at her.

  “I trust your judgment,” he said.

  “You always have.”

  He gave a curt nod and padded down the steps.

  Her boy took a deep breath, stood outlined in the hazy sunlight streaming through the window. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Mama, I didn’t want -”

  “You didn’t cover your tracks.”

  “We were moving fast.”

  Nalah strode to the window, faced her boy. She gazed out behind him, over the ragged stone that made up the pillar. Her eyes moved back to her boy.

  Eshe tugged at the collar of his robe, loosened it around the neck. “Just be quick,” he said.

  She held out the knife. She saw Kesi’s blood there, still stained beneath her fingernails, and she stared at her boy, this squalling child she’d birthed at the edge of the Warrior’s Road, the road that led east, to the sea. She had wrapped him in a green robe and walked four miles, staying a step ahead of the hissing sand that smelled her blood and mistook it for his. When she told the boy to shush, he quieted, and remained so until she stepped into Hanife’s walled camp. The wave of hissing gray sand at her back had broken around the walls, howled in fury and lashed back across the red sea of the dunes.

  “I taught you to cover yo
ur tracks,” she said. “I taught you how to fight. Now you bare your throat at me.”

  “You’re my mother.”

  She gazed out the window and thought, yes, I’m you’re mother, less a woman than some, more a lady than most. Hanife couldn’t kill his own son. He charged her with that, blooded her hands. She obeyed him without question, obeyed all those men who believed they knew her place. She did their dirty work, and her reward was a lifetime of slavery.

  She tossed up the knife, caught it by the blade, thrust the hilt toward Eshe. “I also taught you how to climb.” She gestured to the window, the rocky pillar of stone outside it. “Can you climb that without getting blooded?”

  Nalah descended the steps. Tarik waited at the bottom, a bulging leather sack in his hand, drops of blood spattered across his face.

  “Here’s the one that looked most like Eshe,” he said. “After four days across the sand, Hanife won’t know any different.”

  She wet her fingers and wiped the blood from Tarik’s brow. She took the sack from him and moved out into the courtyard, ordered the fighters back outside.

  She gestured to Shani, and Shani grabbed up a pack and two full pouches of water, sprinted out across the sand to the other side of the hold, to the sandy soil at the base of the stone pillar.

  They had already set the bodies on fire. Oily smoke stained the sky. The old man watched from the top of the walls.

  “You expressed our appreciation?” she asked Tarik.

  “He’s happy enough to get Hanife’s favor. And happy we didn’t stake them out and leave them for the sand to gnaw on after dark.”

  The sun was rising, high and hot in the hazy red sky. “Back to Hanife, then,” she said.

  “You’re a dead woman, you know,” he said. “Hanife’ll find out. Eshe’ll come back, bring those wet people here to quell and conquer.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “We’re all dead women anyway.”

  Eshe would not come back. He would leave her behind, leave Hanife and his vision. Eshe would walk to the edge of the sea, feed her blade to the sea, and the sea would eat all of this sand and sorrow.