Mahimata

by Rati Mehrotra

Ria reappeared beside them, her face tense. “They are on the other side,” she whispered. “Two with guns, just as we were told. They are focused on the others right now. Five are on the ground, including one gun, and the rest halfway up the dune.”

  “Good,” said Chintil. “Kyra, Rustan, and I will take the ones on top, if you and Elder Ghasil deal with the ones on the ground.” She turned to Ghasil. “Do you agree?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” said Ghasil, stroking his mustache and showing his teeth.

  Kyra and Rustan followed Chintil up the dune, their feet sinking into the soft sand. It was a difficult climb, made more so by their boots, and at last Kyra indicated that they should stop, and she removed her boots. Rustan followed suit. Chintil shook her head, but she took hers off too. The going was much easier after that. The sand felt soft and warm on Kyra’s bare feet. It was almost peaceful.

  Then all hell broke loose on the other side of the dune. Two ear-shattering shots rang out in quick succession. “Come on!” shouted Chintil. She raced up the remaining slope and disappeared on the other side. Kyra’s heart pounded as she and Rustan followed, cresting the slope and sliding down until they spied their would-be attackers.

  Three men lay on the ground, bleeding from grievous chest and throat wounds. The two with guns had taken cover, fleeing along the side of the dune. The remaining seven were halfway up the slope, aiming down at Ghasil. Ria, thankfully, was not visible. One of the men with a gun fired and a bullet threw up dust near Ghasil’s feet.

  Rustan swore under his breath. “Trust him not to wait for us,” he muttered before letting fly his katari. It buried itself in the armed man’s back, and the desert fell mercifully silent.

  Kyra aimed her katari at one of the archers and struck him on the neck. She called her blade to return, urgent, as the men below twisted around and beheld them, their faces contorted in anger and fear.

  Then Chintil was upon them with a roar, her blade dancing in the sun’s last rays, slashing throats and ripping chests. Three men fell before her, stunned looks on their dying faces.

  The remaining two—one archer and another armed with a lance—dropped their weapons and scrabbled to get away, but Kyra and Rustan were faster. They tackled one each, falling into the dance of Empty Hands. Kyra punched her target on his chin, hearing the satisfying crack of a breaking jaw, and Rustan kicked his on the head, knocking him out.

  “Stop!” screamed a man from below. “Or I’ll kill him.”

  Chintil, Rustan, and Kyra froze. The man with the second gun had sneaked up behind Ghasil and now held the barrel of his gun to the elder’s head.

  “Why doesn’t he use the Inner Speech?” whispered Chintil.

  “Enjoying himself too much,” said Rustan, a touch disapprovingly.

  Indeed, Ghasil was grinning, his teeth shining white in his dark brown face, reminding Kyra of a wolf. He summoned the Inner Speech, and the face of the man behind him went slack. Then, unmistakably, the hand holding the gun turned so it was aimed at his own face.

  Kyra began to turn away in horror, but at that very moment, the gun fired with a deafening roar, and the man’s face flew apart in bits of flesh and teeth and blood.

  Ria reappeared next to Ghasil. She looked as sick as Kyra felt. Even Ghasil appeared surprised as he beheld the remains of what had once been the head of a man.

  “We will have to ensure all these weapons are collected and destroyed,” said Chintil grimly. “Kai Tau has brought a disease into our world, and it will not be easy eradicating it.”

  Kyra knew what Chintil meant. Even if they isolated the kalashiks and destroyed all the imitation guns, they would still need to seek out and modify the minds of those who had worked to forge these weapons. This was dangerous knowledge that could not be allowed to spread.

  Ria had stabbed the one remaining guard, so all twelve men were now dead or incapacitated. Under Chintil’s directions, they kicked the weapons into a heap and covered them with sand. Kyra picked up a small round metal ball and examined it. It was still hot to the touch. Chintil peered over her shoulder.

  “Their bullets are crude,” said the Mistress of Hatha-kala. “Not like the kalashiks. But they can still injure someone almost as badly.”

  “Good thing they only fire once before they must be reloaded,” said Kyra.

  Chintil indicated the dead man lying nearby, his shattered face an abomination. “Once is enough,” she said. “The poor fool. Guns will turn on those who wield them.”

  “Elder, next time we would appreciate your waiting for us,” said Rustan to the Master of Mental Arts.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” protested Ghasil. “It was this young Markswoman. Utterly bloodthirsty,” he added in admiring tones, and Ria reddened, looking annoyed.

  Kyra knew that Ria was too disciplined to act in haste. Whatever she may have said was cut off, though, because horse hooves signaled that the rest of their company was close by.

  Ria and Rustan backtracked to fetch their horses, and Kyra, Chintil, and Ghasil went ahead to meet their little army. Kyra felt a glow of pride as she beheld them, Marksmen and Markswomen riding together with clansfolk, as one people with one aim.

  The horses came to a halt in front of them, and Chintil explained briefly to the Maji-khan and Navroz what had transpired, and how the guns seemed to work.

  Navroz frowned. “I don’t like this. They have warning of our arrival now and will be well prepared. How do we defend ourselves from bullets?”

  “By letting me go first,” said Kyra. “If Elder Ghasil will ride behind me, I will be able to protect him, and we should be able to mentally incapacitate those who hold guns.”

  Chintil shook her head. “There are five thousand fighters—far too many for us to bind with the Inner Speech. And you are needed to lead the attack into the heart of Kai Tau’s camp. We must trust our shields and take our chances. Once we’re close enough to use our blades and our voices, we will prevail.”

  Kyra was loath to let her friends and teachers ride into danger, but she knew the elder was right. “We are but two miles from Jethwa,” she said. “Perhaps the healers can make camp here?”

  Navroz agreed, and together with Elena, Nineth, Akassa, and a couple of apprentices from Khur, she set down her supplies, well away from the bodies that littered the desert floor. Two of the Marksmen checked the bodies and buried the dead ones under mounds of sand as best they could. Others dragged the few who still lived to where the healers had set up their station. Inner Speech would ensure their compliance when they woke.

  They did not build a fire, but used a small, smokeless lamp. Elena arrayed bunches of roots and herbs around the lamp, and a sweet, familiar smell stole into the air.

  “Time to go,” said the Maji-khan.

  Kyra went to Elena and Nineth, and they wrapped their arms around each other in a fierce embrace. “Come back,” said Elena. “Promise us.”

  “I promise,” said Kyra, but the words stuck in her throat, and she wondered if she would ever see them again.

  Chapter 42

  The Battle of the Thar

  They approached Jethwa as the sun was sinking below the horizon. Far in the distance, gray-brown shapes blurred the line between desert and sky. Kyra couldn’t make out what they were in the fading light, but she could guess. Barkav pulled out a small cylinder from his robe and peered through it. A scope? Kyra watched him, agog. At last he passed it to her, his mouth set in a grim line. She looked through it with one eye, closing the other with a hand, as she had seen him do.

  A line of camels curved north to south, as far as she could see through the scope. Atop each camel was a warrior, some of them armed with the long, dark barrels she had seen in the hands of the two guards a mile back. Her gut clenched. There were so many of them. How could they possibly defeat such a huge army? She passed the scope to Chintil and said, “Their first circle of defense?”

  Chintil looked through the scope before answering. “Spears, bows, and guns. We cannot ven
ture too close to them. Our horses are well trained, but a few might shy at the sight and smell of camels. We will keep to our original plan and lead two forces north and south to flank them.” She passed the scope to Rustan.

  “You will be spread very thin,” Kyra pointed out.

  “And you, Mahimata, will be smashing into them,” said Chintil. She leaned sideways and, to Kyra’s surprise, hugged her. Kyra hugged her back, overcome. The Mistress of Hathakala had never embraced her before. Then Kyra realized her teacher may well be riding to her death, and a lump rose in her throat. “We will defeat Kai Tau,” she said fiercely.

  The Maji-khan smiled a terrible smile. “Of course we will. Lead the way, Mahimata. I am anxious to get started.”

  They divided into the three prearranged groups. Chintil and Mumuksu led the biggest contingent south, and Ghasil and Felda led a slightly smaller one north. The smallest group stayed with Kyra and Rustan.

  “Stay back until I give the word,” Ghasil told Kyra and the Maji-khan. “We will unhinge them with the Inner Speech, soften them up for you a bit.”

  Then they were off. Up ahead, a bugle sounded the alarm. Their movements had been spotted. The Maji-khan looked through his scope. “One minute to engagement,” he reported in a calm voice.

  Rustan squeezed Kyra’s hand, his face tense. “I’ll be right beside you,” he said.

  “Behind me,” she corrected. “You will stay five horse lengths behind me.” Not that it would make any difference if a bullet found its way into his heart. Kyra resolutely pushed that thought away.

  Shots rang out in the distance, echoing in the flat land. “Their line wavers, but it still holds,” said the Maji-khan. “They are well trained.”

  “What about our side?” said Kyra, anxious. “Anyone down?”

  “I cannot tell,” said Barkav. He put the scope away. “It is almost time. Prepare yourselves.”

  Kyra took a deep breath. She turned and addressed the Markswomen and Marksmen clustered behind her. “You know your positions; hold to them, no matter what. Above all, do not try to overtake me. I am the only one impervious to bullets of any kind.”

  “Your head is unprotected,” said Ria. “Should you not have at least worn a helmet like us?”

  “I have something much more appropriate,” said Kyra. She reached for the mask of Kali, which she had tied behind her, and unwrapped it. The Markswomen gasped in recognition as she brought it up to her face. The Marksmen and clansfolk stared, uncomprehending, at the terrible visage of Kali in her warrior aspect.

  “I gave myself to the Goddess when I joined the Order of Kali,” said Kyra. “But today, the Goddess gives herself to me.” She donned the fearsome mask, tying it securely behind her head.

  The first time she had worn the mask during her initiation, she had not felt any different. But this time, a jolt of awareness ran through her, as if someone watched her from a great distance with rising interest—as Kyra herself might look at an ant trying to climb onto her lap, holding out a crumb as an offering.

  The faces before her changed to alarm, confusion, and fear. Even Rustan was looking at her as if he had never seen her before in his life. “Kyra?” he whispered. “Where are you?”

  “Here,” said Kyra, in a voice she did not fully recognize as her own. “And I am going to lead you to the bloodiest, most glorious battle of all your lives. Come, children. It is time to prove yourselves worthy of your blades.”

  She wheeled Rinna around. In a small part of her mind—the one untouched by the Goddess—Ghasil’s warning sounded. Ride now.

  “Go, Rinna!” shouted Kyra, and the mare snorted and set off across the sandy plain at a full gallop. Behind her, she sensed Rustan alongside the Maji-khan, five horse lengths behind, as she had instructed. Behind them, in a tight V, fanned out the rest of her small company, flanked by the clan warriors.

  Live long and die well, she thought to them.

  Then the enemy was in sight, and the first bullets whistled above her head. Kyra laughed, possessed by a strength and a confidence she had never felt before.

  Part of it was the blessing of the Goddess and the indestructibility of her armor, but it was more than that. It was as if her whole life had been leading up to this moment, this fierce charge against the evil that beset her world. Blood would flow today.

  The camelry was in some disarray, but their lines still held. Those who had guns reloaded them. Others nocked arrows or held spears in readiness, their faces fearful but determined. The blast of Inner Speech from Ghasil and the others must have affected them enough to inspire fear and doubt, but not much more. As Kyra had suspected, the Orders were spread far too thin to make a decisive or bloodless end to the battle. She could no longer sense the first two forces; they must have flowed past the northern and southern flanks, taking care to stay out of accurate gun range. Unless there was a kalashik somewhere in the outer ranks. A kalashik knew the heart of its master, just the way a katari did.

  A Tau warrior called out a command, and a forest of arrows flew toward them.

  “Shields up,” shouted the Maji-khan.

  Kyra didn’t have a shield—she did not need one. The arrows flew past her, one close enough that she felt the breeze of its passing. Behind her, others were not so fortunate. Several arrows clanged against the shields of the company, and there was a muffled cry as one found its way into flesh.

  Noor Sialbi. Kyra’s mind sought her out. She was injured but she still rode, her wounded leg gripping her horse, her thoughts fierce. She would hold. Kyra released her breath and focused on the enemy ahead. She did not know how deep the lines ran. She knew only that she must destroy them.

  Hold the Inner Speech until we are closer, thought Kyra to them all, and it was hard, so hard to hold back when arrows rained down on them, but it was the right thing to do.

  At last, as the men readied their guns on their shoulders for a second shot, Kyra thought: Now.

  They blasted the men with the Inner Speech, their combined voices a wave of silent command that rolled over the enemy lines, tearing through their mental defenses like paper:

  DROP YOUR WEAPONS.

  FLEE.

  FORGET WHO YOU ARE.

  The simplest commands were the most effective, especially when voices joined together to amplify them. And it had the desired effect. Men dropped their weapons and clutched their heads. Dozens dismounted and ran away, across the twilit desert, as if demons were after them. Still more fled on camelback, opening up a space for Kyra and her followers to plow through. Some of the camels bolted even though their riders tried to stop them. They were not as well trained or used to combat as the horses the Orders were using.

  Not all of Kai Tau’s soldiers were equally affected, of course. And the Marksmen and Markswomen could not keep up this level of mental pressure without it impacting their own abilities. As Kyra approached the gap, a man aimed his gun at her, his face split in a snarl.

  Kyra’s katari was out without her even giving a thought to it. She spun it toward the man, and it buried itself in his unprotected throat. He slid off his camel, the gun falling from his hand. Other blades flew past her, finding similar targets.

  Now the enemy was truly in disarray. Kyra called her blade back, and as it landed in her outstretched palm, she arrived at the chaos of the outermost line and galloped through it. Far in the distance, to the left and the right, she sensed the faint echo of the Inner Speech from Ghasil, Chintil, and the others as it broke down the enemy’s resolve, driving them inward or causing them to flee.

  But she had no thoughts to spare for them right now. Behind the camelry was a second line, men and women on horseback, armed with spears and fire lances. But it was not their primitive weapons that made Kyra’s blood run cold. Her gaze went to a man clad in black, camouflaged so he almost blended in with the oncoming night, and to the long, smooth barrel held trained in his hand. Kalashik. She could smell the cold evil that emanated from it.

  Stay back, she ordered the rest
. They had their hands full containing the hundreds of fighters around them anyway. She could see, from her mind’s eye, Rustan driving a spear into a man who had tried to shoot at them with a fire lance. Beside him, the Maji-khan roared in savage delight as he plucked a man from his saddle and broke his neck, before throwing him aside like a rag doll. Behind them, Noor Sialbi smashed her shield into the face of a man who had grabbed her injured leg. Ria Farad stood in her stirrups, barely visible on her horse, throwing her katari with deadly accuracy and calling it back with far greater speed than any of them. Kyra’s heart swelled with pride and love for them all. They were her people and she would protect them.

  Then she roared, “Victory to Kali,” and the voice that emerged was not her own, but amplified through the mask, as if the Goddess herself spoke from the heavens. The second line stumbled back; horses reared in fright, toppling riders.

  But the man with the kalashik was unmoved. Perhaps he had been held in the grip of his weapon for too long, and it had eaten his mind. He fired, and the bullet shot toward her heart.

  “Keep going, Rinna!” said Kyra, and she closed her eyes. You cannot hurt me, she thought.

  A small clang against her armor and a punch, as of someone kicking her in the chest, followed by another and another in quick succession. Kyra gasped and opened her eyes. The bullets could not pierce her shield, but they did hurt. Time to put this kalashik out of action. She flung her blade at the man in black. It penetrated his face shield, splitting his skull in half. He fell back in slow motion, the kalashik slipping from his fingers.

  Other fighters tried to pick up the kalashik from the ground, but Kyra felled them with the Inner Speech. She bent down sideways from her horse and, counting on the kalishium armor to protect her, grabbed the gun with her bare hand. She slipped it into the bag slung across her saddle, her heart thudding. No dark voices came to her. As she had hoped, the weapons could not harm her while she wore kalishium.

  The death of the kalashik-bearer and the loss of his weapon unnerved the fighters around them. Kyra and her company were through the second line in a matter of moments. It was pitch-dark now save for the fires that dotted the landscape, most started by the fire lances. Not too far distant, a cluster of tents burned, flames licking the sky. Kyra smiled grimly. When this was over, there wouldn’t be much of Jethwa left to salvage.