The others in Ashallah’s company caught a whiff of it too. They drew their daggers and kilij swords. Ashallah’s blade remain sheathed though. Rather than arm herself, she motioned her scouts to gather around her. When they were close enough, she pointed to her eyes, and then outlined the whole of her hand with her finger. They nodded in understanding.
With her company in waiting, Ashallah sprinted ahead of her scouts toward the City of Copper. The ground they ran over lacked the soft grains of the desert. Dirt, packed and smooth to the touch, glided under their feet. With better footing, Ashallah ran faster and further, expanding the distance between her and her quickest underling. As the walls of Daasus came into view, she slowed to take cover under the overhang of a sandstone cliff. Her scouts came after the fact, panting.
Ashallah peeked around the sandstone. Not more than a hundred feet away, a sentry tower stood, carved from the cliff face. Its windows and arrow slits were unlit. Below the tower was one of the city’s gates. It appeared intact and secure.
I must get closer, Ashallah knew. I must.
Ashallah crept forward, her body always close to the cliffs. Her scouts made their moves to follow, but Ashallah motioned them back. She continued forward, her steps light yet purposeful until she was directly across from the tower. With the hinges toward her and the gate locked from the other side, Ashallah did not have a chance to peek in. Still, she suspected that if guards were inside, they would have seen her, or she would have heard a commotion from within. She assumed the same was true of the sentry tower before her.
Therefore, she made her move.
Ashallah raced to the tower and threw her slender body against the stone giant. With her back against its wall, her hands felt its face. Smooth it was in most parts, but grooves there were. Not many. Just enough.
She turned around and climbed. Her fingers dug into the cracks as she pulled herself up, finding the first arrow slit. She reached for it and waited. No sound from within. No sword removed from leather to cut her hand. No commands for reinforcements. No battle cries. Nothing.
Ashallah gave her scouts the signal. A single shake of her hand, her fingers pointing to the wall next to her. She did not bother to look over her shoulder to see if they would follow. For she knew they were watching her every move. She knew they would follow.
She continued upward, to the next arrow slit, and then the one above it. Her scouts gathered at the base of the tower, to lift each other up one by one. By then, Ashallah had pulled herself up and over the crenel to discover the top unmanned. She had expected at the very least a corpse to greet her. But there was none.
Only then did Ashallah unsheathe her blade. She approached the other side of the tower to take cover behind a merlon. From there, she scanned the city below. The streets were empty, the windows and doors of the homes below unlit. Some of the buildings laid charred, with a hint of soot or a mark of ash apparent even in the dark of night. Otherwise, Daasus showed every sign of abandonment.
Ashallah waited for the first of her scouts to ascend the tower. As they caught their breaths, she retreated to them.
“We can speak now,” Ashallah declared.
“What of our enemies?” one of her scouts asked.
“You tell me? You and your sisters here said you spotted the Tirkhan.”
“We did. We saw them. Patrolling this very tower.”
“Then where are they? Or their spoils? Their slain and butchered? This city looks as though it has been picked clean.”
“Yes, my commander, I agree.”
Ashallah scowled at her scout, who in response lowered her gaze. Her cohorts did likewise. Ashallah turned back to the city beyond the tower. Mud and stone buildings, along with the starlit sky that loomed above, were all that met her stare.
“Where are they?” she whispered, pensively.
***
The violet of dawn was upon them by the time they discovered the answer. Beyond the walls of Daasus, to the northeast, they found the Tirkhan. Encamped on a small rise of the sandy flats, where the Canyonlands parted in the wake of an ancient riverbed gone dry, was a modest force. Between four to five dozen tents stood, with three pavilions in the center. Sentries stood watch on raised platforms encircling the camp, and around the rope corral of cavalry camels. Other than that, the armed force of the encampment seemed light.
“I don’t like the look of this,” pronounced one of the scouts.
Ashallah fought the urge to nod. She dared not show a hint of doubt in front of her warriors, no matter how it plagued her. The whole of this is wrong, she told herself. Why would the Tirkhan clear the city, leaving it nearly spotless, only to set up camp outside its walls? Why not settle within?
Instead, the camp laid before them. Bare. Ripe for the taking.
“What is your command?” asked another scout.
Ashallah knew that question was on the mind of every one of her soldiers. She looked over her shoulder at the lot of them. In the predawn, the whites of their eyes stood out, as if glowing. As seasoned as many of them were, their stares fell upon Ashallah as those of children looking up to their mother.
They seek guidance, Ashallah thought. They crave leadership. In this, our hour of battle or flight. They need this.
“Bull and horn formation,” Ashallah announced. “I’ll lead the left flank. Stay low until I give the battle cry.” Ashallah turned to another scout. “Those companies behind us. Tell half of them to stand their ground. When the other half attacks, they are to watch the rear and fall into defensive formation. Understood?”
With a nod, the scout turned and raced back to the companies behind them. Ashallah glanced in that direction to find hints of them visible. Silhouettes and shadows hugged the walls and crevices. Many more remained completely out of sight. Just as they should have been.
Ashallah moved to her left. In quick succession, her warriors fell into line. The bulk of her warriors formed columns in the middle as the flanks thinned out from the center. Ashallah eyed those nearest to her. Slender they were, and toned. Some sported animal skins on their sheaths and leggings, adding to the image of a cheetah or lioness about to run down her prey. The look in their eyes – one of hunger for the hunt, anticipation of a kill – only confirmed Ashallah’s observation of them.
Ashallah herself felt the urge to charge the camp headfirst. Not yet, she told herself. Soon enough. First, we must stalk our prey.
Crouched, Ashallah moved forward. The left flank followed. The right mirrored their motions as the center remained back. Not until the flanks were halfway to the camp did the center start their quiet march.
Ashallah’s pace quickened. The sentries on the platforms still had not spotted them. For the night is ours. The truth echoed through her mind. Yes, the darkness, the black is our friend, the light our foe. Hide us, mother of the night. Hide us.
Ashallah did not doubt that the sentries’ vision had adjusted to the night. However, their eyesight, keen though it may have been, lacked the training of her midnight warriors. Even the least of her women could spot bodies lurking in the darkness toward an encampment. The sentries kept on with their watch, oblivious, their mood unfazed by the approaching horde.
Then one of the guards finally caught a glimpse. Ashallah saw him on the platform, beside a burning torch, as he raised his hand to point. She quickened her pace as the sentry ushered his brother-in-arms to scan the darkened landscape. Her strides further lengthened as the other sentry stepped backed and reached for his horn. Her thighs burned as she broke from formation to scale the rise, while the second sentry blew into his warhorn.
AaaaaaOOOOOAaaaaaa!
The horn blast reverberated through the camp. The sentry who blew the horn turned his back to the oncoming force. As did his fellow guard, for a moment. That was all Ashallah needed.
Her feet found the horizontal and diagonal posts of the platform with ease. The sentry who had pointed to the approaching horde heard her forceful steps on the pole supports. He reached
for his kilij. But he had turned his attention too late. His hand was still on his sword hilt when Ashallah’s dagger point slashed his throat. He grabbed his wound, a vain attempt to stop the new spring of blood, as he fell to his knees. His fellow sentry, with horn still in hand, stared aghast. His eyes were still wide and white when Ashallah plunged her dagger into the pit of his left arm. They remained open and frozen in place as she withdrew her blade and allowed her kill to collapse to the platform.
The head of her company’s bull formation had reached the camp by then, along with her flanks. Ashallah’s women made quick work of the sentries before descending on the rest of the camp. Male soldier after soldier emerged from their tents, frightened and confused. That fear and ignorance were soon displaced by absence – of thought, of consciousness, of life – as blades and blunt force met them. Men fell by the dozens. Midnight warriors snaked through the tent rows with calmness, seemingly at home under the cloak of darkness. As the women cut down their male prey, Ashallah climbed down from the sentry platform to march toward the three pavilions in the center.
Only two guards remained outside the pavilions, as the rest had joined the fight or fled. Ashallah headed straight for them, her pace undeterred. The guards dropped their ornamental halberds to draw their kilij swords. In kind, Ashallah sheathed her dagger and drew her two most prized knives – her pair of khukuri blades. Even in the low light of the predawn, they were a remarkable sight. Their blades curved inward, with the knife thickening in width just past the curve before gradually tapering to a sharp point. The handles were of ancient desert teak, a wood so rare that it often was traded pound-for-pound for rubies or emeralds. Ashallah had pulled the blades from the corpse of a general she had felled. Now, like so many times before, she was going to use them to make quick work of the two men before her.
The guard to her left was the first to move. He dashed forward, his kilij raised above his head. Ashallah would have smiled had she the time, for she saw her opening. She hopped toward the guard, leaned in and slashed at his gut, right between the bottom of his breastplate and the top of his belt. The cut was not deep, only an inch into the guard’s flesh, though it jarred the man. He stood for a moment, suspended by the sudden pain.
That pause allowed Ashallah the opportunity to take on the second guard. The other appeared more seasoned – as he held his blade close to his body, in a defensive stance, yet ready to thrust. In response, Ashallah struck out at his kilij with her blades, wanting to swipe it aside. The guard blocked her advances in kind. His steel met hers not once or twice but six times. Ashallah found his defense both admirable and frustrating, for she often killed her opponents within three strokes.
Then, from her left, came the other guard. His kilij came crashing down toward Ashallah. She deflected it and soon found herself engaging the two simultaneously.
Her response to both was a flurry of parries and slashes. Her steel rang against that of the two. Over and again, blades clanged. Although curved blades usually made for poor swordplay, Ashallah made good use of hers throughout the engagement. For their part, the guards made decent foes. That is until the one to her left blundered once more.
The guard overstepped when he parried, leaning forward a tad too much. With his balance off, Ashallah saw her chance. She swiped aside his kilij, took two long strides and slashed at his neck with her other blade. The cut – quick and precise – resulted in a river of scarlet. In that instant, Ashallah knew he was done.
Her victory was short-lived, as the other guard swung his kilij at her head. Ashallah sensed that he was hoping to catch her off guard, for his swing was forceful. With such momentum came error, for the man exposed nearly the whole of his right side. Ashallah rushed forward to plant the tip of her khukuri in the pit of his right arm. There her knife found an artery, the current to his life, for when she removed the blade red gushed forth. The man fell to his back, writhing in agony. Ashallah left the guard to it as she stepped over him to enter the center pavilion.
Inside, she found the three pavilions were but one, as hallways of framed canvas linked them together. Hot coals in braziers offered dim light, but Ashallah dared not to let her guard down. She stalked through each one of the pavilions as though she were traversing a den of vipers. Each of her steps was deliberate and sure-footed. Her khukuri blades were poised and ready to strike, even after she cleared each tent. Only when three of her midnight warriors arrived did Ashallah finally lower her blades.
“It’s a ruse,” Ashallah declared as she left. “Why else set up all these tents and leave these weak men to guard them.” She nudged one of the guards she had slain with the tip of her foot.
Thwayya approached, her leather breastplate splattered with blood. “The north end of the camp is clear.”
“You seem to have done well,” Ashallah commented.
“They say I am lucky in that way.”
“How many?”
“Only a few sentries were posted.”
Ashallah responded with a wry look. The whole of the situation did not sit well with her. Her warriors could see it on her face, in the way she brushed past them and toward one of the sentry platforms. There, Ashallah ascended to scan the darkness surrounding the camp.
This is all wrong, she thought. What army would pitch camp in a dry riverbed? The rainy season had not yet passed, and here a small storm could pour enough rain to wipe the camp from its rise. No, this is not right. None of it is.
Ashallah pondered what all of it meant as she stared up at the starless, black sky.
The sky, she thought. The sky... Oh, Jaha, no...
Ashallah looked over her shoulder to spot Thwayya and Badra back in the center of the camp. “Thwayya! Thwayya!”
“Ashallah, what? What is it?” Thwayya asked as she came running up to her.
“Sound the horn. Send our best runners to our companies. Pass the order along the line of them: retreat to the Daasus. No, to the Canyonlands and beyond. Retreat!”
“But, we hold the camp...”
“Do it!”
“Commander,” Badra began. “It’s too late.”
Both Thwayya and Badra paused. Ashallah quieted along with them so that she was able to hear what Badra had picked up moments earlier - screams.
War horns, their recognizable cries for some reason muffled, sounded the call to action. Commands shouted from officers drifted to Ashallah’s ears from the dry banks of the riverbed, not as hurried exchanges but as snippets, whispered. The only clear, loud noise that came through to Ashallah and the others were the cries of agony from their fellow women-in-arms.
Ashallah scanned the faces of her midnight warriors within the camp. Even her most seasoned warriors appeared panic-stricken. Fear and more fear pooled in the looks of their eyes, eyes which only moments before would have been considered those of the brave. Many began to step away from the riverbed, from the direction of Daasus, almost as if to desert not only their positions within the camp but their responsibilities as soldiers.
Knowing that her command was slipping away from her, Ashallah considered the only choice left.
“Yala Hasem!”
The ancient battle cry caught the attention of every woman in the camp. For two hundred years, it had been the rallying command for every midnight warrior battle where odds seemed insurmountable. It harked back to the days when Dyli had first expanded to the Ivory Shores, during which small outposts monitored the fringes of the empire. During one nighttime engagement with local insurgents, the midnight warriors found themselves cut off from reinforcements. Outnumbered ten-to-one by an army of male soldiers, the midnight warriors of the outpost outside of the village of Yala Hasem mounted a brazen early morning counterattack, one that resulted in their miraculous victory. In the years that followed the triumph, the veterans of the battle even went so far as to name their homes and hamlets after the village they fought to protect. Yala Hasem had even been the original name of Ashallah’s hometown until the later patriarchs of the growing ci
ty voted to shorten the moniker to one considered more masculine.
Ashallah’s throat nearly ruptured as she bellowed her command. Without so much as a pause, she jumped from the sentry platform onto the soft sand below. She rushed down the rise into the dry riverbed. Toward the muffled horn blasts and jarring screams she went, her pace increasing as if driven by the horrors of war that awaited her.
The pants and grunts behind her stirred her onward though. She glanced over her shoulder for but a moment to find her sisters-in-arms in tow. Their faces, dimly lit in the early morning, managed to express the brazen courage each one of them possessed, partly inspired by tradition but also motivated by a lust for battle.
Ashallah turned back to the dry riverbed that stretched ahead, a grin having crept on her lips. By Jaha, I love this, she told herself. I love it.
That adoration turned to caution as Ashallah caught sight of the edge of the engagement. Through what Ashallah could only describe as a haze - a curtain between her and her fellow warriors - she spotted her midnight warriors engaged with the enemy she had been searching for all along.
“Hold your breath!” Ashallah yelled as she turned back to her warriors. “Hold your breath! And close your eyes!”
Ashallah faced the haze before her. She sprinted toward it, took a deep breath and shut her eyes.
As if suddenly in a bog, Ashallah’s pace slowed, her legs weighed down by the ether. Her skin tingled, especially around her eyes, much as it had in dust storms of the past. The combination of agitation and resistance tempted Ashallah to open her eyes, to take a peak. Nevertheless, she fought on, her entire body exerting herself forward.
Then as quickly as the veil of haze had attacked her senses, it was gone. Her trudging morphed into running once again. Relieved, she opened her eyes. It could not have been a moment too soon, for before her face was the edge of a blade. Whether from a kilij, axe or spear Ashallah could not tell. She barely had a moment to bend her knees and dip beneath the cutting surface. The steel missed yet came so close and quick that it kissed her with a stroke of air.
Midnight Page 7
