Midnight

by Joshua Rutherford

  “You ventured into the unknown, into battle,” Darya stated. “You had no experience in what you were tasked to do. Yet you emerged.”

  “I did.”

  “Victorious.”

  “Yes.”

  “And up until recently, you were the leader of your sisters-in-arms. You commanded midnight warriors.”

  “That is true...”

  “Yet your doubt remains. Why?”

  “In battle, I had the benefit of knowing that even with defeat, all would not be lost. If I was injured, or even killed, the fight would go on. Even if all my sisters fell in battle, another unit would be sent. There was never any conflict or battle I fought in where that was not a possibility.

  “Until now. If this mission fails, because of me, if I am unable to perform, to read... Who will replace us? Who will avenge my family? Everything I have lost? And you...”

  Ashallah stopped. Her speech came to an abrupt halt. She stood.

  “Ashallah...”

  “Never mind. Forget my worries.”

  She turned to walk away. From Darya. From her foolish thoughts. She took a few steps toward the edge of the roof, expecting to jump across to the next building.

  Oooooooohaaaaaaa!

  The horn blast jarred the bones in Ashallah’s body. She reached to cover her ears, but before she could do so, the sound broke.

  “What in the Five Doors...”

  The noise erupted again. This interval Ashallah had time to reach for her ears, as the pitch of the horn dropped, the blast elongating.

  Rahim burst out of the door and onto the roof. “Quickly.”

  He turned and descended. The Firstborne followed fast on his heels. As did the Tirkhan. Along with Darya.

  Ashallah’s legs pumped to catch up. She advanced until she was halfway between Rahim and Darya, wanting not to lose either. The whole of them wove between buildings and through alleys, their efforts garnering no attention, for all others moved in the same direction with the same urgency.

  Rahim, leading the charge, finally slowed. The rest, including Ashallah, came to a stop beside him.

  Amassed before them stood scores of people, from all nations and tribes. The whole of the square teemed with faces from a thousand lands. Black, tan and white. Some with noses and ears pierced. Others with painted faces. Still others wearing masks, while all the women bore veils.

  All directed their focus towards the arena, a mighty structure housed within walls five stories high. The doors, of heavy antique cedar, remained closed before the crowd. Before the doors, five rows of soldiers five men deep remained at attention, further barring them from entering. Many of the crowd kept a respectable distance from the armed guards. However, those towards the front hurled insults and jeers, nearly all of which Ashallah could hear.

  “You vipers! Let us in!”

  “My sister is in there... she did no wrong!”

  “Is this the Sultan’s justice? To punish wives and mothers? Sisters and daughters?”

  “Release them! Release them!”

  The last chant caught on with the rest of the crowd. Soon the chorus engulfed the whole of the mass, who beat their fists in the air with every other word.

  The soldiers before the gate shared a glance or two with each other. Many tightened the grips on their spears and braced their shields closer to their bodies. The crowd, sensing their unease, edged closer to their lines.

  “Release them! Release them! Release...”

  The first lines of the crowds fell. Suddenly and without warning. From Ashallah’s vantage point, she could not tell why or how. She scanned the whole of her surroundings for but a moment. Her eyes narrowed like those of a hawk.

  Then she found it. The slightest glint of metal, peeking out from one of the slits of the arena. In the neighboring slit, she spotted another, as she did in the slit beside that. In fact, from every opening of the arena, from the second story to the top, she caught sight of arrowheads.

  The whole mass, which only moments before seemed on the verge of a riot, calmed. In shock and awe, they looked down or craned their heads to catch glimpses of their fallen comrades. Those not dead, with breath still in their bodies, cried out to Jaha for mercy.

  In answer to their prayers, the arrowheads delivered.

  From the second story came the first wave. From the third came the second fusillade. And so on until the last wave of arrows descended from the top tier. The masses closest to the walls endured the brunt of the assault. In lines they fell. With hands outstretched or grasping their throats. Their cries in mid-scream with mouths left agape. Eyes, staring into the sky, waiting for the angels of salvation that never came.

  The untouched survivors fell back on each other as they turned to run. Again, the front endured the worst, with young trampling on old. The stampeded scarcely had time to build momentum when a sole shrill pierced the crowd.

  “Look!”

  Somehow forgetting their plight, a handful in the mass turned their gazes upward. They froze in the sandals. Almost instantly, others followed suit, including Ashallah.

  Snow. That was the first thought to cross her mind. The second? Not again.

  A blizzard of ash rose from within the arena. Flakes of the deceased, black and gray, floated over the top wall to waft their way down amongst the crowd. Like feathers, the ash took their time to land. Their leisurely pace ushered a sense of calm and silence amongst the crowd, one that Ashallah did not think would end until a familiar call beckoned from afar.

  “Ohhhhh... Jaaaaaahaaaaaa! Hear us!”

  The flakes of falling ash seemed to shift in response. Those in the mob, with their insolence shattered, looked over their shoulders towards the minaret of the nearest temple, one of many that stood sentry over the entire city. Then, en masse, those who had jeered only moments before sank to their knees and bowed in the direction of the Royal Palace.

  Ashallah stared as a sea of abayas, hijabs, and shoras laid out before her. The ash continued to fall, to land on the backs of the crowd, as if to mark them for death. In shock, in horror, she looked on at the grandest act of submission she had ever witnessed. Even in Yasem, when the call from the minaret came, the citizens had the decency to gather their mats and pray with some dignity. Rilah, by comparison, was different by far.

  “Ashallah!” Darya beckoned with a harsh whisper. “Kneel and bow!”

  Ashallah heard her. However, the words did not resonate. For something had garnered her attention.

  At the top of the highest wall of the arena, above the crowd, stood a solitary figure. Taller than any person, man or woman, she had ever seen. Silhouetted by the afternoon sun, it loomed over the bowed backs of those below, tilting its head in an act of supremacy and judgment.

  Ashallah thought better of questioning what the creature was. Because she knew. The wisps of black smoke that spiraled told her the truth. As did the gold script on the beast’s body, which pulsed and glowed.

  Ashallah considered the possibilities as her eyes glared at the beast. Is he the one? she asked herself. Who did the bidding of the vizier? Who answers to the Grand Sultan and his minions? Who responds to the horn blast like some rabid dog? Ashallah fists flexed and coiled at the thought of the jinni’s victims. Those like her sister. Or her ommah.

  Hands grabbed Ashallah by the shoulders. Another set pressed against her waist. Still another pulled at her leg. She fought all of them off, not caring why or who had touched her.

  “Ashallah!”

  Ashallah looked down. On her knees, staring back at her, was Darya. Her hands on her leg. Her eyes and all the rest of her distraught.

  Ashallah looked around.

  “Five Doors...”

  A cardinal sin, she thought. I committed it. All my years of training. For naught. For I have forgotten my surroundings. I did nothing to conceal my exposure. I failed to blend. I am not midnight.

  Save her comrades who rose to subdue her, Ashallah realized that she had remained the only one in the square
on her feet. The rest, as sheep reacting to a master’s call, had bowed in submission towards the Royal Palace to pray.

  Ashallah’s apparent act of defiance had not escaped observation. Several of the devout immediately around her had tilted their heads to peek at her. Ashallah could see the whites of their eyes. Their massive disapproval. Their silent fear for what was to come, the unknown punishment.

  For Ashallah, the threat of wrath was far from unknown. In her fragile state- exposed to so many – her senses had heightened. She knew the soldiers’ stares were upon her. Their nocked arrows had her in their sights, with the glint of their arrowheads in her peripheral vision. She could smell the excreted perspiration of those around her, their sweat a product of their nervousness and fear. Nor was the absence of sound lost on her. She imagined that such a moment was what it felt like to be hunted, to be prey.

  All the while, the jinni stared down at her. His power subdued, he remained a creature in waiting, his only restraint the command of a vizier or the Grand Sultan himself.

  The moment to act had passed. Ashallah could only hope against hope that chaos would save them.

  “Caleb!” she said. “In the storm, you protected...”

  Her words stopped with the loosing of a bowstring. Its vibration - so subtle as to be lost in the wind on any other day – sang a death song. One that screamed a melody of finality in Ashallah’s ear.

  Then, as suddenly as it had struck her ears, so did another sound. A clank, much like that of a pebble hitting a window.

  Ashallah turned - to find an arrow falling to the ground - as three others flew in her direction. She twisted on the balls of her feet, ready to flee, until the arrows struck an invisible barrier. Like their predecessors, they clanked and bounced back before falling to the sand.

  She looked back to Caleb, whose hand extended to her and Darya. The other Firstborne did the same, thereby shielding their comrades.

  Caleb, ever stoic in times past, tilted his head to gaze upon his superior at the arena’s edge. His mask, which had been a wall to his feelings and emotions for so long, could not hide the fear in his voice.

  “Run...”

  The jinni stepped off from the arena’s edge. The five-story fall was but a hop for him, as his feet struck the ground and he steadied almost immediately. He extended his arms. With that one motion, the wisps of smoke that had gathered by and around his feet emerged and snaked forward. The lot of them descended upon the Firstborne, moving through their invisible shields uninhibited. The first struck Caleb, who clutched his gut as he recoiled.

  “No!” Darya screamed. She sprang forth to her feet, but Ashallah caught her in her arms to pull her back. Others in the mob struggled to their feet. They swirled around. They scurried. They ran. Into each other. Trampling one another.

  Caleb’s hermit mask fell from his face, revealing the pained expression Ashallah had seen in so many lesser warriors. Blood trickled from the sides of his mouth as his eyes turned wide.

  Ashallah felt a hard push at her back. “Take her!” Rahim urged. “Go!”

  With one arm around Darya’s shoulder, Ashallah hurried through the mob. Several ran into her, a few nearly driving her to the ground. Somehow she kept her balance, as did Darya, as they edged their way from the arena square.

  Before turning a corner, Ashallah glanced back at Caleb. Having fallen to his knees, he was the last of the Firstborne not sprawled on the ground. She saw him raise his hand once more. With what was perhaps his last bit of energy, he stretched out his palm towards the coils of smoke. As though blown back by a sudden gust, they shot back. They retreated almost to the jinni’s reach.

  The jinni watched as the smoke ebbed back to him. With purposeful resolve, he shifted his focus from the black mist at his feet to his torso and the length of his arms. The script on his body burned with a fire from within. His chest heaved as he breathed in and out, over and again. The smoke stretched forward with each exhale and retracted with each inhale. The script glowed brighter with each breath out and dimmed with each breath in. Then, on the third breath, his chest stopped heaving. The columns of smoke flanking the jinni hung in the air, motionless.

  Darya looked over her shoulder, her gaze matching Ashallah’s. “Caleb...”

  The black mist shot forward. As did flame. They consumed Caleb. His skin ignited. He opened his mouth to scream but the roar of the fire deafened his cries. As it did to all of those in its wake.

  “No!” Darya shouted. She reached out over Ashallah’s shoulders. Ashallah, with all her strength, lifted her and turned the corner just as the firestorm shot past. Rahim beckoned them forward.

  “You must take her,” Rahim demanded.

  “Where?” Ashallah asked.

  “Anywhere you can hide.”

  “But Rahim...” Darya protested.

  “You must protect yourself,” Rahim insisted as he shook his sister by the shoulders. “You are the only one of us left with the power to defeat the Sultan. Your dreamscapes are the key. You must fight on. I will do everything I can to buy you time.”

  Darya opened her mouth, however, Rahim would have none of it. He pushed her into Ashallah’s arms, and with that, he was gone. His strides, long and swift, brought him back to the edge of the square. There, the fire had retreated briefly. He stripped the shora from his head and the cloak from his shoulders. Bare-chested, with the turquoise stripes of his torso in full view for all to see, he stepped out from the behind the cover of the building.

  Ashallah looked to Darya, who was too afraid to scream or move. With no other choice, Ashallah bent down to hoist her over her shoulder. She turned into an alleyway and disappeared from the chaos.

  The path swerved and turned in all manner of directions. Through it all, Ashallah saw the anguished and frightened faces of many as they passed one residence after another. She heard the shouts of many more, along with the footsteps of the panicked and the shut doors and shutters of the scared. Most of the sounds struck her ears as unintelligible garble or noise, except for a few choice words and phrases.

  “Soldiers!”

  “They’re coming for us...”

  “Hide, you damn fools! Hide!”

  The last she took to heart. She quickened her pace to turn another corner, only to meet a wall where she had hoped for another path.

  At her pause, Darya arched her back and hopped down from her shoulder. She looked to the ground, in shame. “I failed.”

  “What?!” Ashallah asked, distracted by her search for a clear escape.

  “I should have seen this happen. In my dreamscapes.”

  “There is no time for hindsight now. We need to focus on the present.”

  “But Rahim...”

  “Can take care of himself.” Ashallah grabbed Darya by the shoulders. “Now listen. I need your help. If there is any way you, your dreamscapes, can help us? Can they?”

  Darya replied not with words but with a solemn stare, one that carried neither hope nor promise. Ashallah felt the urge to yell her name. That is until Darya suddenly closed her eyes and reached for the sides of Ashallah’s head. The moment was brief, almost insignificant, except for the fact that a sudden sense of calm washed over Ashallah.

  With that, Darya opened her eyes. “I know what to do,” she pronounced. “Follow me.”

  Darya took her hand and led her back down the alleyway. Window after window and door after door were shut. Ahead, the echoes of soldiers’ footsteps on the brick-lined alleyway taunted them, growing louder as ran.

  “We’re going in the wrong direction,” Ashallah insisted.

  “No, we aren’t. I know the way.”

  Ashallah wanted to believe her, but the sight of two columns of soldiers before them stirred uncertainty within. She looked to Darya and her lips parted, on the verge of voicing her skepticism, when Darya reached for the handle of one of the residences. To Ashallah’s surprise, it was unlocked. Darya pulled Ashallah inside before slamming the door shut.

  Within, ta
bles of varying lengths and heights lined both sides of a cluttered hallway. On the walls hung tools.

  “This is a carpenter’s home.”

  “Part of one,” Darya replied. “Here, give me a hand.”

  Ashallah helped Darya with a long table of heavy wood. No sooner had they buttressed the door with it than the thumps of soldiers’ staff and fists beat from the other side.

  “Now, this way. Come,” motioned Darya.

  The two weaved through furniture and wood, through a receiving room and kitchen. From there, a back door opened to a staircase, one that wrapped in circles five stories up to a flat rooftop.

  “Which way?” Ashallah asked as she surveyed the surroundings.

  “Down!” Darya shouted as she pulled her to the roof.

  Ashallah felt the whisk of air by her ear. She knelt to the roof, cursing herself in that briefest of moments.

  “An arrow! At my backside! Stupid! Stupid!”

  She looked over her shoulder to find a janissary, fifty feet from her, nocking his bow. The muscles in her legs tensed as she turned on the balls of her feet, ready to rush him.

  “No, he’s too far,” Darya warned.

  “I can kill him.”

  “He’s not alone. There are others. Run...”

  Darya pulled on Ashallah before rising to her feet. Another arrow – from an unknown source – shot past her, missing her by inches.

  “Darya!” Ashallah shouted after her, having forgotten her assailant. She rose to chase after her, fully aware she was abandoning her aggression and now on the defensive. A second arrow shot past her, followed by a third and fourth. After each one, Ashallah changed course, her progress over the rooftops a series of fractured, diagonal sprints.

  Darya’s actions were much the same. Somehow, for one not a warrior, they were agile and deft. Ashallah marveled as she ducked and leaped, always at the right moment. Arrows flew by, finding wood and clay but not the intended targets of flesh. Soon, two long rooftops stood between her and Ashallah, and with them the clotheslines, baskets and other obstacles.

  Not wanting to lose Darya altogether, Ashallah made one, straight dash for her position. A slew of arrows followed in her wake, sending the air around her abuzz. Ashallah crouched and jumped in response, knowing that fortune as much as skill would be her aid at that moment.