Mahimata

by Rati Mehrotra

  Kyra reined in Rinna and wheeled her around to take a quick tally. Her eyes swept over her small but deadly group as they cantered up to her. Rustan was the first by her side, his eyes flashing with the light of battle. Noor had tied the wound in her leg with a scarf. None were missing—except the most formidable of them all.

  “Where is the Maji-khan?” asked Kyra, a cold fist opening in her chest.

  Ria jerked her head back. “In the middle of a knot of a hundred men, breaking necks and ruining minds.” Her tone was admiring, but a current of fear shot through Kyra.

  “Then we must extricate him,” she said, spurring Rinna back. “How could you leave him behind?”

  Rustan reached forward and gripped her arm, stopping her. “No. Kyra, we must move ahead. The Maji-khan can take care of himself. He has some of the clan warriors with him. He will keep Kai’s soldiers busy, and they will not follow us.”

  Behind them, Barkav roared in anger, and there were several screams of pain.

  “See what I mean?” Rustan released her. “He has bought us precious time. Do not waste it.”

  Kyra swallowed. “Fall into the wedge,” she cried. “And let us destroy their last defenses.”

  They followed her across the desert, their horses’ hooves thudding against the ground, kicking up sand that obscured them, so that they looked like a dark-moving cloud of fury.

  In the distance, Kyra could see nothing of note: no mounted warriors, no flaming pits, not even a sentry. There was nothing but darkness and silence. This absence set off alarm bells in her head.

  Be wary, Kyra thought to her group. There will be traps, this close to the heart of Tau command.

  “Watch out!” shouted Rustan. But his warning came too late. The ground seemed to rise up in front of Kyra. Rinna stumbled and fell, trapping Kyra beneath her body. Kyra bit back a scream as the weight of her horse threatened to crush her leg. A heavy metallic net fell on her face, blurring her vision.

  No. She freed her hands, pushing away the net, heedless of the barbs tearing the skin of her palms. At least the mask had protected her face. Wordlessly she soothed Rinna, who was terrified and hurt.

  Behind her, Kyra sensed many of her group similarly caught, although Rustan, she was relieved to see, had evaded the trap. He danced away on his horse and cantered back toward her, murder in his eyes.

  Dozens of fighters rose from the ground and rushed toward Rustan, throwing a net on his horse, forcing him to a stop. Rustan’s horse bucked and screamed as the metal tore its flesh.

  At last Kyra threw the net aside and faced her attackers as they bore down on her. She tried to summon the Inner Speech, but in the darkness and confusion of the moment, it refused to come. She sent her blade into the heart of one of the men rushing toward her, but it was not enough; she needed a hundred blades, and she needed to protect those who were down, unable to reach for their weapons. She grabbed the spears strapped to her back and crossed them in front of her, deflecting a lance, sending it spinning back into the midst of her attackers.

  And then she flowed into the Dance of Spears. Did not the Goddess herself kill demons with spear and sword? Kyra sent up a wordless prayer and fell upon her attackers with a hideous shriek that echoed across the desert and made them stumble back, hands over their ears, horror on their faces. The twin spears whirled before her, taking on a life of their own, piercing throats and spilling guts. A red mist came before her eyes. She could no longer see or think clearly. But she didn’t need to see or think. She could feel the strength and fury of the Goddess within her, and it drove her on, cutting down the men who had dared attack her company. She threw one of her spears, stabbed with the other, retrieved a sword from where it had fallen to the ground, recalled her katari back into her palm. She fought with whatever she had, and she didn’t miss once.

  Around her, the others rallied, freeing themselves and their horses from the nets, joining their blades and their voices to battle, until not a single foe was left standing.

  It’s all right, Kyra. Stop. Rustan’s voice penetrated the fog that had descended on her.

  Kyra came to a halt, and a sword fell from her hand. A wounded man crawled away from her, blubbering in fear and pain. She undid the mask and blinked at the scene of carnage before them. Sweat trickled down her face. She felt cold and sick and weak. There was a taste of ash in her mouth.

  The rest were staring at her as if they didn’t know who she was or where she had come from. “We need to keep going,” she said, putting as much strength as she could into her voice.

  “We cannot ride,” said Ria. Her face was bloodstained, and she had lost her helmet. “Most of the horses are too injured. They need to return to the healers.”

  “We cannot go back,” said Rustan. “We must leave them here, and trust that we will find them later.”

  “Not alone,” said Kyra. Her eyes sought four of the six remaining clan warriors. “Please stay with the horses and protect them as best you can.”

  “I doubt they will be targeted,” said Ria. “They are not a threat and will probably be ignored.”

  Kyra nodded and started walking, although it was hard; her legs trembled, as if they could no longer support her weight. As if she would crash to the ground and let the blackness swallow her.

  But not yet. Oh, not yet. Kai Tau waited for her at the end of this deadly dance.

  The others fell into place behind Kyra. She sensed at least three serious injuries. One of the Marksmen could barely walk, and Ria’s breath came short and ragged. But they would keep going until they died or she commanded them to stop.

  It happened without warning, a little later. One moment they were walking in silence punctuated by distant screams, and the next moment they were surrounded by armed men. Two kalashiks. Weakened by the battle, they had not sensed the approach of the dark weapons. Kyra barely had time to process the horror of it, when the guns began to speak. Bullets punched against her armor, making her stagger back.

  Behind Kyra everyone threw themselves on the ground. But the injured Marksman was not fast enough. A bullet tore into his face and he collapsed, soaked in blood. More bullets pierced the two remaining clan warriors, killing them instantly.

  “PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND LIE FACEDOWN WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD.”

  The powerful voice rolled across the dark plain and into Kyra’s skull. Although she knew the command was not directed at her, she was almost impelled to the ground herself. It was a voice that could not be ignored, that could only be obeyed without question.

  Before her eyes, the men who had come to kill her and her companions dropped their weapons and lay down. A few remained standing, struggling against the order, but Kyra could have told them it was no use. The voice repeated the command, even more strongly, and those who were still standing fell back, eyes rolling up in their skulls, the two kalashiks falling uselessly away.

  This was Mental Arts at its greatest. And in her heart, she knew who it was, even before he rode up to them and the starlight fell on his face. Older, more serious, harder than she remembered, but Shurik, all the same. Did she not know his voice, more intimately than she had ever wanted to? He had used that voice to compel her once.

  And he had used it now to save them.

  Shurik dismounted near the fallen Marksman and bent over to check him. But the Marksman was dead, would have died at once, like the two clan warriors beside him. Shurik’s face tightened with grief. He rose and went to Rustan, who embraced him.

  “Ishtul,” murmured Rustan.

  “I know,” said Shurik, his voice bleak. “I sensed it, but I was too far away, too late to help.”

  “So was I,” said Rustan, releasing him. “But today we avenge his death.” His gaze went to the fallen Marksman and darkened. “And Varun’s.”

  One by one, everyone picked themselves up off the ground. Shurik greeted the remaining Marksmen. Kyra checked her Markswomen; no one else appeared to have been hit by the bullets, a miracle in itself.


  At last, Shurik walked up to Kyra. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Shurik,” she said, and swallowed. “How?”

  “Later,” he said, his voice emotionless. “Let’s kill Kai Tau first.” He paused and glanced at the mask dangling from her hand, and added, “Interesting face,” sounding almost like the Shurik of old.

  Kyra held up the mask. “It represents the Goddess; it has power. And I’m going to need every bit of power I possess to defeat him today.”

  “I’m with you,” said Shurik, “with whatever I have to offer.” A flash of pain passed across his face. “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

  “I know,” said Kyra. “And I forgive you. Come, we have work to do.”

  A shot rang out, not too far from them. Worry crossed Ria’s face. “We’d better hurry,” she said.

  “In a moment,” said Kyra. She went to where the kalashiks lay, gleaming darkly beside their twitching handlers, and picked them up. She wrapped them in a discarded cloak and tied the bundle to her belt. One more burden, but it was not one she could allow anyone else to share.

  Shurik went among the twenty-odd men who lay facedown on the ground, reinforcing his command not to move or touch their weapons. When he returned, his face had taken on a ghostly pallor. Even for Shurik, this was too much. It was going to cost him. She could not rely on him to repeat this feat, or it may well kill him.

  Kyra cast an assessing look at her company. “Stay behind me in the wedge,” she commanded. “Shurik, you will be abreast with Rustan. Let’s go.”

  She set off across the desert, the sounds of fighting far distant and almost unreal. They were in the eye of a storm. All around them, shields clashed; men and women swore and screamed and died. But here was only a silence that waited for them, opening its mouth wider to welcome them in.

  Chapter 43

  Behind the Lines

  Nineth had wanted so badly to go with Kyra and the others into Jethwa. Instead she was stuck more than a mile away with Navroz, Akassa, Elena, and three young boys from the Order of Khur, who looked as if they should be home with their mothers. Navroz was explaining the basics of healing and first aid to them, while Elena was making herbal poultices in preparation for the wounded who were sure to come thick and fast when the fighting began.

  Nineth imagined Kyra fighting for her life, surrounded on all sides by the enemy, and her stomach clenched. If only she was a Markswoman and not a mere apprentice. If only she had earned the right to fight by Kyra’s side.

  But she would have had to kill someone to be initiated as a Markswoman. And Nineth had not been ready to do that—at least, not before today.

  Akassa touched her arm. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But Kyra did right, leaving us here. You never know, we might get attacked and have to defend Eldest and those little boys from murderous outlaws.”

  “Little boys!” said one of them, a boy called Darius, indignantly. “I’m almost fourteen.”

  Akassa rolled her eyes. “Could have fooled me,” she remarked. “I was going to ask where your milk bottle was.”

  “Enough,” said Navroz sharply. “I hear the galloping of horses. Akassa, Darius, check who it is. Nineth, conceal yourself and be ready with your blade.”

  There wasn’t really any good place to hide, but Nineth flattened herself against the rock wall, trusting the shadows that pooled beneath it. Her heart beat fast with excitement. Was this the attack that would give her a chance to prove herself?

  But it was only a dozen injured men and women and their poor horses, arrows stuck in their flanks, snorting and trembling in fear. Navroz was at their side in an instant, talking soothingly, finding the most severely wounded, and barking instructions to her temporary assistants.

  Nineth put aside her anxiety and got to work with the rest. This was important too. What they did here could mean the difference between life and death for so many. She cleaned wounds, applied salves, and did her best to reduce their pain through some mild Inner Speech. Elena took care of the horses; Akassa and the boys helped Navroz, fetching whatever she needed, boiling water, and grinding lilac leaves for fresh antiseptic.

  The injured men and women were from the Kushan clan, part of the force that had been led north by Ghasil.

  “It goes hard for us,” gasped a woman who had been speared in the leg and was in obvious pain, though she tried to control it. “The Khur elder is truly gifted, but his voice weakens. There are too many of the Tau vermin for us to hold back. We have been retreating for the last half hour. There are several among us who have fallen and will never rise again.”

  Nineth’s heart sank. Was Kyra in trouble too?

  “Never fear,” said Navroz in a strong, reassuring voice. “The Valavians will join the battle soon, and they will lend their strength to ours. Rest, child. You have done the best you could. Sleep.” The last command was spoken with a trace of the Inner Speech, and the woman’s eyes fluttered closed, and she relaxed at last.

  Nineth squared her shoulders. “You should let Akassa and me join them,” she said to Navroz. “Two more kataris will help.”

  “No,” said Navroz firmly. “I need you both here. Go boil some water. More wounded will arrive soon.”

  Nineth rose, seething. Boil water, indeed. Elena caught her gaze and grinned. Her face was flushed, and her eyes sparkled. She had dealt with all the wounded horses and was now supervising the apprentices from Khur. Elena was in her element. There was no other place she would rather be than here, the healing post. This was where she belonged.

  Nineth wondered if she could simply take one of the horses and sneak off. It wouldn’t be hard to do; they were all so busy, even Akassa. No one would bother trying to follow her.

  She waited until Navroz was bent over a man who seemed to be missing half his face, then snuck away, deeper into the shadows. She wasn’t exactly proud of what she was doing; she told herself she would only circle the perimeter of the cliff, make sure everything was all right, maybe take the horse for a wider circle. Of course, no telling what she might see once she was on horseback. It wouldn’t be her fault if something demanded her intervention and she had to gallop away.

  And so it was that when the assailants inched silently down the side of the dune, brandishing crossbows, swords, and spears, Nineth was the only one they did not see—and the only one who saw them. She was hidden by an overhang of the cliff, on the verge of slipping away, when she looked up and spied the dark shapes in the starlight creeping down the cliff.

  For a moment she was confused, but the next moment her confusion vanished, replaced by dread, and then with cold certainty, she knew what to do, and so did her blade. It was in her hand without her remembering she had unsheathed it. The leader of the pack halted halfway down the dune and aimed a barrel-shaped weapon at Eldest. Navroz should have sensed something amiss, but she was bent over the wounded man, too absorbed by the severity of the injury that required her care.

  Nineth had never thrown her katari at such an angle before, and she knew she wouldn’t get a second chance. She slid her forefinger down the hilt, drew back her arm, said a brief prayer to Kali, and threw, spinning the blade up the dune so it resembled a blue shooting star. The man grunted in surprise and pain as the blade buried itself in his side.

  It was enough. Navroz looked up in alarm and sprang to her feet. “Scattered defense!” she cried, and summoned the Inner Speech, felling two men before drawing her blade and flinging it into the attackers’ midst.

  “Scattered defense” was one of the code words of Hatha-kala, and it was an order to scatter as widely as possible while still retaining the ability to both protect oneself and others. Akassa and Elena instantly dropped their bandages and poultices and ran to opposite ends of the valley, melting into the shadows cast by the cliff walls. The Khur apprentices were quick to follow suit.

  Nineth tried to call her blade back, but it refused to budge. Arrows rained down into the valley, some of them piercing the al
ready wounded warriors who lay on the ground. Nineth swore and heaved herself up the cliffside, determined to get her blade back. She grabbed at the rocks and pulled herself up, thanking the Goddess she had regained some of her strength in the past few weeks.

  Above was darkness and confusion and screams of pain as kataris found their way unerringly into human flesh. One man blundered down the cliff directly in front of Nineth and almost slammed into her. She sidestepped him and delivered a hard kick to his ribs that sent him tumbling down the rocks with a most gratifying crunch of bone.

  Intent on the targets below, the men did not notice Nineth’s arrival until she was upon them. She delivered a backfist punch into the neck of the man nearest her, the one who held the metal barrel, and followed it with a knife-hand strike to his head. He crumpled without a sound, but Nineth barely had time to feel triumph or register the pain in her hand, when she was surrounded by three attackers. A man thrust his sword at her, and she stumbled back, narrowly avoiding its swinging blade, only to feel a sharp, shooting pain in her lower back. She had been stabbed. A man holding a dagger stood behind her. He raised it again, his face intent.

  Nineth fell to the ground in a feint. It was only half pretense; her body screamed in agony, and it was all she could do to stay conscious. As the men loomed over her, raising their swords to hack her to bits, she thought, Now would be a great time for you to return.

  Smoothly, the katari slid into her hand, as if it had always been there. As if it were she who had made the mistake of not noticing it. Thank you, she thought, and thrust the katari up into the chest of the dagger-holder. She rolled away, avoiding the thrust of the second man’s sword, and gripped the booted feet of the third, dragging him down.