by Sam Sykes
She couldn’t have been out long. Kwar hadn’t hit her that hard. But when she had awoken, the familiar dunes that had marked the campsite had been gone. The scrubgrass steadily dissipated. The vast western desert opened up before them.
And any trace of Lenk had vanished.
She should have been more worried for him, Kataria knew. Maybe Kwar had cut his throat. Maybe he was on their trail—though, considering the conversation they’d had, that had seemed less likely.
But as they had ridden on, her thoughts had been for the woman before her.
Why?
Why had she done this? Why had she struck her? Why was she not looking back when Kataria let out muffled cries into her gag? Why was she ignoring her struggles and her protests? Why was she taking her west?
When her muscles had worn out from fighting her bonds, when her voice had gone dry behind her gag, only then had Kataria used the Howling. And when she’d reached out with it, when she’d sought the hidden language of their people, Kwar had met her only with darkness.
Kataria emptied herself into the Howling: a long shrill whine, a snarl of fury, a demanding roar. But each sound was smothered beneath blackness, silenced without an answer. No matter how hard she reached, how loud she cried, Kwar would not answer her.
Only when pale dawn rose, when Kwar looked back just as Kataria looked up, only when their eyes met for one ragged breath…
Only then did she hear Kwar’s Howling.
A long, mournful sound filled her. A sorrowful song was cast out into empty air for several breaths.
And then went silent.
Shicts rarely gathered in great numbers.
The Twelve Tribes had each staked out a piece of land and populated it exclusively, warring with the various other occupants of that realm, but they did so only in loose-knit qithbands that wandered wide across those expanses.
The tribes themselves congregated only for mating or for war. The former was a somber affair, the bands usually meeting only for as long as it took to breed and trade before going their separate ways.
But gathering for war was something much more festive. Qithbands from all over would arrive, lured by promises of wealth, carnage, and glory. These gatherings were often marked with celebrations and shows of strength, with young warriors and hunters competing against each other to prove their bravery.
Kataria had seen a few in her day, before she had left the Silesrian to follow Lenk.
But she had never seen anything like what sprawled before her now in the valley below.
Hundreds of tents dotted the valley, rising up around thousands of bonfires. The air was bristling with excitement, war cries and songs of bravery carried on the smoke pouring into the sky upon trails of cinders.
The khoshicts gathered in numbers immense, far greater than she had ever seen. Some gathered in clusters, painting tattoos upon each other’s dark flesh, braiding feathers of red and black into their hair, carving shields, sharpening blades, and fletching countless arrows. Many more were up and active, though: leaping over open fires and roaring at each other’s bravery, engaging in mock battles with blunted blades, shooting arrows at targets, or simply looking to the sky and letting out loud, enthusiastic shrieks.
This can’t all be just for one war, Kataria thought. Too big to go raiding a village. But still not enough to attack Cier’Djaal. She looked around the sprawling gathering. What are they planning?
Even if she hadn’t worn her confusion plain on her face, it was easy enough to mark her as an outsider. Khoshicts looked up curiously at her pale skin and blond hair. Curiosity became scorn as whispers were traded. They turned away, muttering that word under their breath as they did.
“Kou’loho.”
More than a few looked as though they wanted to do more. They rose, picked up blades, approached Kataria. Their fury was worn plain on their faces, restrained violence quivering in their muscles.
And each time they did, Kwar would step before her and say nothing. She would simply look at them. They recoiled, eyes wide and white beneath their war paint. Their ears folded against their heads and they slunk back to their tents.
Before she could dwell on this, her attentions were seized by the only other shict who looked as out of place as she did.
In the center of their path, like a rock rising from the sand, stood Thua. Taller and burlier than the other warriors, he wore a severe frown at stark odds with their jubilation. He ignored their offers of fights, sosha, and songs as he stalked forward, eyes locked on his sister and ears rigid as hers.
Their ears quivered for a moment, flickering like insect antennae as they communicated in the Howling. But Thua’s face twisted in anger and soon the Howling no longer seemed enough.
“What would Father say?” he said suddenly. “What would he say, Kwar, if he saw you now?” His eyes flitted over Kataria. “She’s another shict and you… you…” He drew in a deep breath, held it. “I know you’re scared. I know you get like this when—”
“Father wouldn’t say anything about that,” Kwar interrupted harshly. “Father wouldn’t say anything. He would crawl back to his tent, puff on his pipe, and wonder how he could appease the humans. He would give them more of our land, more of our lives. The Kho Khun is here to actually see something done.”
“I know what the Kho Khun is here for,” Thua snapped. “I know what Shekune is planning. She would take us into a war that would see every shict in this desert dead and rotting in the sun! Everything that Father worked for—”
“Which part, Thua?” Kwar’s voice went cold. “Which part of his work? The part where he put us in the humans’ ghetto? The part where he had us stop hunting and living like shicts? The part where he let Mother die?” Her eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Or the part where he stole my brother from me?”
There were many ways in which Thua was different from other shicts. He was too tall, too burly to look much like the clever, agile heroes of shictish lore. But when he cringed from Kwar’s words, he looked too fragile to be here among the warriors. Or perhaps Kwar simply knew exactly what to say to make tears form at the corners of his eyes.
He wiped them away before anyone but Kwar and Kataria could see.
“I am going back to Shicttown,” he said. “Whatever you think of Father, he still holds as much sway as the Kho Khun. He will have something to say about this.” He looked at Kwar intently, eyes quivering. “Kwar, he would want you to come with me.”
Thua’s ears rose, quivered. Kwar’s ears trembled in response and then slowly lowered, her face following as a frown sunk her features. The quivering of her ears seeped into her entire body as she held back something sharp and painful.
She shut her eyes. She shook her head. Thua’s frown echoed her own before he slowly turned around, walked into the shadows cast between bonfires, and disappeared.
In his wake were the echoes of his Howling, sounds he had carelessly left behind for anyone to hear. The throngs of warriors, deep in the excitement of impending carnage, didn’t seem to notice them. But Kataria could hear them. And though she didn’t understand their meaning, she could hear a singular sound: long, loud, and lonely.
Like what she had heard from Kwar last night.
She turned to her captor, who met her with a look that said, Don’t say anything.
Whether that was a command or a desperate plea, Kataria did not know. Kataria did not want to know. And so when Kwar gestured with her chin to command her to move, Kataria did, not daring to look back at Kwar’s face.
Shekune.
This was the word that had echoed through her head.
When they had arrived at the Gathering in the morning. When Kataria had been marched in, dizzy from heat and sleeplessness. When she had been thrown to her knees before a pair of sandaled feet and two hundred eyes had looked upon her, bound and gagged and pale.
She had heard the name of their leader.
Shekune.
She who had led a hundred raids against a hu
ndred human villages and killed a hundred humans each time. She who had slain the tulwar of three generations, killing them again each time their Tul sent them back. She who had felled a dragonman in one blow.
Shekune.
Without mercy. Without fear. Without sorrow.
Shekune.
The Spear.
She knew all this, for the khoshicts were telling her. The Howling spoke of all her victories, all her stories, all her kills. All in a single name.
And that name bore Kataria’s head low. Breathless behind her gag, she could only kneel and hear the litany of charges against her: abandoning the shictish way, turning her back on her kinsmen…
Being among humans.
She did not so much as raise her head as Kwar listed off every word.
Kwar, whose warmth she could still feel on her skin.
Kwar, whose scent still lingered in her nostrils.
Kwar, whose voice still hung in her ears with those words.
I love you.
She had heard the sentence passed down as an echo. She had not denied the label “kou’loho.” She had not resisted when they took her away, nor struggled when they took her to the tent at the edge of camp and bound her to the pole.
She had not done anything but open her ears and listen for Kwar.
And she had heard nothing.
Shekune’s name meant “spear,” and the leader of the Kho Khun stood like one.
She was no longer young, but far from old, and wrinkles weathered her face at the edges of her eyes and the corners of a mouth used to being set in a hard frown. But the harsh angles of her jaw and nose were still strong. Her body was still lean beneath the furs and leathers she wore, the muscles of her arms apparent as she crossed them over her chest. And though gray had begun to streak her raven-black hair, it was all but unnoticeable against the riot of feathers she wore in her braids. Red feathers. Black feathers.
War feathers, Kataria noted as she was marched in to join the assembly. Red for short war. Black for long war. One for each grudge she carries. She tried counting, but was discouraged by the sheer number.
Other khoshicts glanced up as she took a seat in the great circle they formed, and indiscreetly scooted away but did not protest. The laws of Kho Khun were as old as any tribe could recall and they allowed the presence of every shict, even disgraced ones.
Kataria was less interested in her kinsmen’s obvious distaste and more interested in why a Kho Khun had been called in the first place.
This was even rarer than a gathering of great numbers; shicts barely ever ceded command of their tribes to others. A Kho Khun was precisely that: the formation of a confederacy of tribal leaders with a clear commander. Kataria noted the two ancient-looking shicts sitting behind Shekune: one grandfather, one grandmother. The former wearing a mantle of pale yellow, the latter one of black and white. Day chieftain and night chieftain. These were the elders elected to guide and advise the chieftain.
Kho Khuns were never called unless the need was dire. Independent as they were, shicts rarely felt comfortable giving authority to any one person. And with the consent of the elders, the Kho Khun had granted Shekune supreme authority.
And she wore it as if she had been born with it.
“Riffid is not a weak goddess,” she spoke suddenly. The assembled’s ears went upright, intent on every word. “Not like the coddling gods of humans. Not like the Tul, which vomits its people back onto the earth for us to skewer. Riffid gives few gifts.” Shekune held up a single finger. “And only one life.
“We live as we must. The land provides and the land takes. So we provide and take, as well. We war when we must, we raid when we must. We are given children sometimes, family sometimes. But then it is over, by age or cold or blade, and we go back to the Dark Forest to join Riffid once more.”
She let this sink in. The khoshicts were rapt, leaning forward to listen better.
“Every shict life is precious,” Shekune continued. “Because every shict life is earned. It is taken from the hostile land, it is won at the tip of an arrowhead, it is born screaming in the night. Every shict earns their right to stand on this ground. Nothing is given.
“But it is not so for the other races.” Venom crept into her voice, acid dripping off the tip of a spear. “The tulwar die and return, thinking nothing of death and having no appreciation for life. And the humans… well, they merely breed. They have so much, taken from our hands, and all they needed to do to receive it?”
She sneered. “They merely fucked.”
A rumble of approving anger emerged from the shicts. The Howling went alive, the roar of their unspoken anger so vast it made Kataria’s ears curl.
“They fucked,” Shekune repeated. “They rolled like rats and they drove us out of our homes through sheer numbers. We ceded land to them, losing it where they had numbers, living with them where they didn’t.” She looked over the crowd, her eyes settling on Kwar. “I see members of the Eighth Tribe here.” She nodded. “Your elder, Sai-Thuwan, is wise. Shicttown is home to many and I will speak no ill of him. But you are here because you know that there is a difference between a home to shicts and a shictish home.”
The roar of approval grew, accompanied by blades beaten on shields and bows raised into the air. Shekune raised her hands for quiet.
“Many of you expressed doubt when a Kho Khun was called. But you accepted my leadership because you knew what I did.” She pointed skyward. “Riffid gives few gifts. But we have received one today.”
She held out her hand expectantly. From the crowd a khoshict emerged carrying a spear that seemed less weapon and more monster. Its shaft was thick and notched a hundred times. Its head was jagged and cruelly barbed, designed for dirty deaths and prolonged suffering. She took it in one powerful hand and pointed it west toward Cier’Djaal.
“Over the dunes there lies the human city,” Shekune said. “We have heard its strife. The humans’ greed tears it apart. They bleed each other in the street like swine and grind each other underfoot like so much meat. Not content with the land they have taken from us, the suffering they have heaped upon us, they now turn on each other.”
She grinned. Her teeth were broad and sharp. Her eyes and spear glinted as one.
“And I say this is a gift,” she said. “Riffid has shown us that the humans are ready to be toppled. Their disease ready to be cured!”
The shicts broke into a resounding roar. Shekune threw her arms out, drinking it in. She no longer called for quiet, but roared to be heard over them.
“We have tested ourselves against the tulwar and found their warriors inept and left their villages burning!” she cried out. The shicts cheered wildly, loosing whoops of approval. “They cower in their shit-stained shacks and tremble at every shadow! This desert shall soon be ours, wiped clean of them!”
The roaring grew blood-hungry, drunk on the promise of violence. They wore their rage on their tongues, their victory in their eyes, and the deep hatred of their sorrow in the Howling.
And Kwar’s was loudest of all.
“The tulwar shall die!” Shekune roared. “The vulgore shall die! The dragonmen, the couthi and the humans shall DIE!” The blood-hunger was at its apex now, many shicts standing and shrieking. “Cier’Djaal will burn! This desert will be wiped clean and this land will be earned.” She held her spear aloft. “For the shicts!”
Their roar was deafening. Their Howling was thunder. The noise was choking, a sea in which any other sound drowned.
“NO!”
That being the case, Kataria was surprised anyone heard her at all.
And yet someone had. In the massive crowd, Shekune’s eyes, alive with fire, found her. Her ears flattened against the sides of her head, she bared her teeth at the pale interloper. And, one by one, the other khoshicts followed her gaze and fell silent as they scowled at Kataria.
She could feel their stares like a blade bearing down upon her. All their rage, all their despair, was now focused squarely on
her. And she found herself choked by it, unable to speak.
“Ah,” Shekune said. “The kou’loho speaks.” She sneered. “I wonder who invited you. But you are not welcome here.” She glanced to two nearby aides. “Take our wayward sister back to her tent.”
Two young warriors advanced toward Kataria, only to pause at the sound of another voice rising high.
“She has the right!”
Kwar’s voice. In her ears, in her head, at her side. The khoshict stood trembling beneath Shekune’s gaze, but she did not back down.
“She is not just a kou’loho,” Kwar said. “She’s one of us.” She looked around. “She’s a shict. She has the right to speak.”
Ears quivered as murmurs were exchanged. Shekune narrowed her eyes, but looked behind her, to the day chieftain and the night chieftain. The latter nodded approval first. The former a moment later.
“Speak, then, kou’loho,” Shekune grunted.
“My name is Kataria,” Kataria growled back. “I am from the Sixth Tribe, led by Rokuda.”
“I have heard of him.”
“And he has heard of you,” Kataria replied. “Shekune’s bravery is as legendary as her wars against the humans. And this one you want to wage will be legendary, too.” She narrowed her eyes. “Because it will kill every shict here.”
Shekune’s audible scoff was echoed by the growls of the crowd. Kataria gritted her teeth, continued.
“It’s true that the humans don’t consider us a threat,” she said. “Mothers tell their children stories of shicts to make them behave. Old men trade tales in taverns. But to them we are ghosts. Things that might threaten them, but will never kill them.” She pointed at Shekune. “If you bring war to them, Shekune, if you kill them, they will know you are real.”
“And?” Shekune sneered. “Should they not fear us?”
“They won’t fear you, they’ll wage war on you,” Kataria snapped back. “There are only twelve tribes of shicts. How many belong to those of the desert, the Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth?” She looked around. “I’ve seen the camp. There are many here.