A Whisper of Wings

by Paul Kidd

  ~You have met this “Starshine” before.~

  *Of course. Starshine is my sister…*

  A sister! Zhukora stood, letting sunlight caress aganst her naked fur.

  ~Can she be beaten by physical force?~

  *Destroy her minions and you shall have destroyed her power.*

  Zhukora looked about the field and saw a mighty army waiting patiently for her word. The battlefield had been transformed into a vast, majestic work of art. The colours of death splashed the earth with wild abandon; blood and organs shone like burnished jewels beneath the sun. Zhukora looked upon her work and gave a smile.

  Beside her feet there lay a single corpse - a barbarian with wings of gleaming white. A Ka wailed inside the prison of its skull, desperately trying to escape. Zhukora stared down into the corpse’s eyes. There, in the midst of mounds of dead, the queen of demons gave a merry laugh.

  White ranks of skulls waited for her sacred word. Zhukora threw out her arms to her beloved warriors and felt their worship coursing through her heart.

  “Open your eyes, my love. Open your eyes and see a miracle! I bring my faithful ones a gift. A gift of life and death!”

  Daimïru gazed up at her Leader with great thirsting eyes. Zhukora hacked down into the corpse with her dao, then held the barbarian’s severed head dangling by its hair. The creature’s Ka thrashed in fear. Zhukora’s power blazed as she held the shrieking creature in her grasp; with a blast of light she sealed the spirit in its cell.

  Zhukora grinned and tossed the grisly object to Daimïru, who caught the thing and gasped as power flooded through her soul. The imprisoned Ka had become a well of ïsha. Daimïru screamed and sucked a vast draft of energy, then lashed out and felt a fist of ïsha blast into a tree. The girl turned to the warriors and shrieked in victory.

  Warriors leapt to their feet and roared. A forest of knives rose overhead as Zhukora opened up her arms.

  “Go! Take the heads of dead barbarians. Bring me your trophies and I shall give you power!”

  Men flung themselves in frenzy at the carrion. Zhukora clasped Daimïru hard against her breast and gazed at her people’s joy.

  “South! South, my children! We go towards their villages and fields. Man, woman and child, we shall destroy them! Every creature slain gives us more power! We shall wipe these creatures from the earth and climb to heights undreamed of.”

  With a savage scream the army raged up into the air. The knives dripped with blood as Zhukora’s Dream raved on towards its destiny.

  ***

  In the cool hours of the evening, the only sounds came from the cawing of the crows. Throughout the quiet valley, all lay hushed and still. The shadows lengthened about the still mounds of the dead while Shadarii knelt and wept in agony.

  The Silent Lady cried for a world gone mad; where her tears fell, small white flowers bloomed.

  They had found the field of corpses in the early afternoon. All around the hillside the pilgrims staggered through the blood; the bodies lay layers deep in fantastic drifts and mounds. Shadarii rocked back and forth in horror as she felt her soul turn numb.

  Not a single plainsman’s body still retained its head.

  ~These are my people. This is my crime! I waited too long. Zhukora has done a crime I can never wash away!~

  Starshine looked through Shadarii’s eyes and spared no pity for the dead.

  *Waste no time on sorrow. Think of the revenge that thou shalt take! The enemy shall pay for this in blood…*

  ~Be silent! You make me sick!~

  The wind changed direction and Shadarii retched.

  Tingtraka suddenly gave a gasp and dove into the brambles, then emerged dragging at an injured man.

  “Shadarii! Shadarii look! I’ve found someone! They’re still alive!”

  It was a young man dressed in blue. Tingtraka ripped him from the brambles and rolled him over on the ground. With a sob of fear she ripped a bloody spear from his ribs. The fallen warrior seemed to slump closer into death; Tingtraka roared and flung her arms around him. Shadarii watched in silence as the ïsha flowed. Power poured in from the flowers, grass and trees, and Tingtraka hurtled it down into her patient, shaping it into a titanic healing spell. Lady Zareema sheltered her eyes and yelled out in alarm.

  “Revered One, should we help her?”

  Shadarii waved the other pilgrims back and watched Tingtraka work. For the first time in untold ages, Shadarii felt a thrill of joy.

  The injured warrior began to breathe more deeply, then stirred and fell into a healing sleep. Tingtraka traced the sharp lines of his face, her hands trembling as she breathed the warm scent of his fur.

  “Oh Shadarii, he’s beautiful! Who could want to hurt him? He’s no warrior. He’s not even a hunter! Look, there’s not a callous on his hands.”

  The girl cradled her patient’s head deep in her lap. Shadarii left Tingtraka to her patient and wandered out into the sun.

  Shadarii’s pilgrims trudged aimlessly through rows and rows of butchered dead. Kïtashii swayed back and forth in grief, keening brokenly as she gazed at the feasting crows. Shadarii held Kïtashii’s hand and slowly bent her head in prayer.

  The pilgrims watched as the valley trembled with her power, and a dense carpet of flowers spread across the fields. Shadarii covered up the carnage with a cloak of brilliant green; the only shroud the dead would ever know.

  It was done. Shadarii reached down and folded Kïtashii against her breast. All around them fields of daisies bloomed against the evening sky.

  ***

  The army sprawled out in the darkness like an exhausted beast; even the wounded lacked the energy to scream. Village women walked through the lines of men, too terrified to meet the victim’s eyes. For such a vast array of men, the night seemed as silent as a grave.

  Over everything, there drifted the soft call of a small clay flute. Keketál sat before his maps and let his music soar.

  Scouts and officers knelt beside his feet. Harïsh stumbled through the tent flaps and sat at her husband’s feet. She wiped her face and smeared fresh blood through her fur.

  “The casualty estimate you ordered can’t be done. There was no survey of how many men we had when we began. We can’t even guess how many have died.”

  Pachetta let Lord Looshii unwind a bandage from her thigh.

  “How many men do we have now?”

  “Fifty thousand? Something like that. I think we lost about seventy thousand men.”

  “Half of those might be deserters.”

  Harïsh shrugged and tried to wipe her hands.

  “Maybe.”

  Harïsh leaned against Keketál’s legs, then looked up at her husband with desolated eyes.

  “We’ve lost Hupshu when he routed their left wing. Someone saw him fall. Speared.”

  The music stopped; Keketál quietly put his flute away.

  “Kill sheep from the local herds. Requisition all the livestock you can find. All warriors must be fed meat. Have each unit throw away their farming tools. From now on we’ll use clubs and slings.”

  Keketál carefully spread out his maps. He drew a line across the hills and thumped his fist down in the dust.

  “We leave before the dawn. There is an ïsha current along the rock face of the next valley. We ride it down into the swamp. We rest, we pray, and then we fight again.”

  “She will follow. We cannot hide our trail.”

  “Yes. She will follow. She will come pouring down the rivers hungry for our blood.” Keketál carefully pulled his gauntlets. “But the swamps have been our home for many weeks. It is our chance to ambush her; one solid blow, and the demons will be destroyed.”

  The man reached down to draw a circle on the map.

  “Here. We stop her here tomorrow noon.”

  ***

  The little teacher danced across an open field as dawn spread through the skies. She danced as though it were the last dance of her life, flinging herself into her art with wild elation. Bare feet kis
sed across the flowers while bright wings swirled and flashed beneath the sun.

  It was the sacred dance of parting; the dance of fond farewell.

  Kïtashii stared as though it were the last sight she would ever see on earth. Tingtraka edged closer through the trees, gazing at the dance without comprehending what she saw. There was a strange feeling upon the ïsha; something fragile, something sad. The huntress looked up at Shadarii and felt her spirit fill with dread.

  “Kïtashii, what is it? What’s going on?”

  “It’s a dance, Tingtraka. A very special dance. Something only you and I are meant to see.”

  Tingtraka sank down to Kïtashii’s side.

  “Somethin’s wrong with Shadarii, isn’t it? She’s been this way ever since she broke the fever.”

  “Yes. It’s almost time, you see. Almost time. Shadarii hasn’t told me, but I know.”

  A chill of dread slowly pierced Tingtraka’s heart.

  “Time for what, Kïtashii?”

  “I can’t tell you. You’d try to stop it, you see. But we can’t stop it. The price would be more mountains of dead. I told her I would never fail her, and so I never shall.”

  Kïtashii’s eyes were hidden down beneath her hair. Tingtraka knelt beside her and reached out to softly touch Kïtashii’s face.

  “Y-you’re crying!”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. Just watch the dance with me. Watch her and remember.”

  Tingtraka took the little girl into her arms. Kïtashii clawed Tingtraka’s fur and trembled.

  “I’m s-sorry! She wanted me to be happy! Now I-I’m spoiling everything!”

  Out on the field, Shadarii saw her precious friends and felt her spirits fail. The two of them were torturing themselves with grief.

  It was silly to be sad. Life is brief; too brief to waste it upon mourning.

  Death is only terrible if we fear it, my loves. To learn that small lesson is to find the heart of wisdom.

  The little teacher opened out her arms. Kïtashii sobbed and tried to push aside her tears as she staggered up onto her feet and held Tingtraka’s hands.

  “C-Can you dance, Tingtraka?”

  “Dance? No. I never learned…”

  “Come. We’ll teach you. I want to. I-I need to laugh for just a little while.”

  The two girls rose and left aside their clothes. Shadarii laughed and drew them up into her joy, and soon they were swirling dizzily at her side. In the face of love their fear of death had finally lost its power.

  Shadarii cooked her pilgrims breakfast beneath an old red river gum. The tree trunk was rough and streaked with black. Little beads of sap clung against the limbs like tiny jewels. Shadarii snapped off a piece of gum and popped it in her mouth as she carefully turned fat wood grubs in the ashes.

  One by one her followers were awakening. Little Zareemii sat cross legged in the dust and watched breakfast in fascination. His mother Zareemah stared at the frying bugs and looked a little ill; thankfully there was also other food.

  The delicious smell of toasting meat set the pilgrims’ tails a-wag. Tingtraka’s plainsman patient edged closer to the fire, his nostrils quivering as his empty stomach growled. He slyly snuck out a hand to steal piece of seedcake, Shadarii caused a treebranch to smack his tail. The poor man gave a yip and scuttled back into Tingtraka’s arms. The Teacher saw them hold each other’s hands and gave a smile.

  Sitting mats had been laid out in an intimate little circle, and Shadarii led each person to their place in turn. Mrrimïmei cringed back from the Teacher’s touch, but Shadarii persisted in giving her a prime position in the shade. To each follower she gave a kiss, as though passing every one of them a single lasting memory.

  Kïtashii cried; she wiped her eyes upon her hair and stared down at the dirt.

  Shadarii sat quietly and looked out at her beloved friends, breaking bread to pass around the circle. For the first time in months, Shadarii ate and shared in their fellowship. Once everyone was served, Shadarii placed a scroll into Kïtashii’s lap.

  Kïtashii gazed down at the scroll and slowly blinked her silver eyes.

  “There-There are words here. A message to share with you.” Kïtashii began to unroll the paperbark. “We will share one last lesson together.”

  Last? Pilgrims looked at one another in confusion. Kïtashii swallowed and avoided Tingtraka’s gaze. The little girl carefully began to read Shadarii’s scroll.

  “Wind bless us. Rain soothe us. We meet in love and harmony in the name of blessed peace.

  My friends, my beloved travellers, I have never had a voice to share with you as I have always wished. Perhaps that is why these picture words have always been so precious to me. In a small way, I can now speak to you, my fellow pilgrims.

  I have loved you all, my precious ones. Each and every one of you. Our joining has been a time of utter magic. Time shall not fade us. Death shall not separate us, for the bonds of love outlast the fragile little bonds of life.

  “My words shall never fade as long as you remember them. To you I pass my burden and my joy. I ask that you teach others all that you have learned.”

  Kïtashii’s voice caught. The little student wiped her eyes with her hair.

  “Hear then a lesson. Hear the thoughts of Shadarii-Zha, daughter of the Rain.

  Long ago I tried to fight for love. I caused death and destruction, and in the end all my suffering was for naught. The Sacred Mother took me above my agony and set me upon the path of teaching. To light my way, she provided me with a single riddle:

  Why do we fight?

  I believe I have found my answer. We do not often fight for hate. Instead, we fight for love.

  In our minds, love excuses even the unthinkable. When I fought, I did it all for love of my Kotaru. The forest people now murder for love of Zhukora. It is love that has led the world into this pain! Love so wild and senseless that it twists the mind. A passion so intense that it becomes a sickness.

  To love one thing to the detriment of all others is a terrible thing. Because it is love, we deceive ourselves into thinking that it must be good.

  Only wisdom can unmask this self deception; by examining love we can discover whether it is true and good.

  This is our task; the sacred mission given us by Mother Rain. Plant wisdom, and there we shall grow true love.”

  Kïtashii looked up into Shadarii’s eyes and let the scroll fall slowly to her lap.

  “Remember. Always know that I have loved each and every one of you with all my heart. I shall care for you and be with you as long as wonder shines inside your souls.

  Peace be upon you, my loves. Peace and happiness forevermore.”

  Shadarii gently placed a heavy book beside the little girl. The Book of offerings: The thoughts and deeds of Shadarii-Zha. The Teacher passed the book to its new keeper and kissed the tears from Kïtashii’s cheeks.

  Shadarii looked around the circle and smiled into the pilgrims’ eyes. Beneath the tree, there dwelled a special kind of magic. Friends and laughter, words and wisdom, and a certainty that men could shape their fate with love.

  Shadarii looked upon her final dawn and was content.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  “Attack wave, dive!”

  ïsha shields tore down across the cave as Keketál’s men burst out of cover and ripped into the savages. A thousand Guardsmen overwhelmed Zhukora’s forward scouts; bodies wove and creatures ducked. Leaves exploded as Keketál dove through the trees. He slashed out with his oita and split a demon’s wing, sending the savage tumbling through a tree to splinter on the ground.

  “Onwards! Follow them! KILL!”

  The alpine scout teams turned and fled, with the plainsmen following hard behind. They rolled over the skirmishers and crashed full tilt into Zhukora’s vanguard, smashing through the savages in a screaming wave of blood.

  Keketál roared and led his Guard through a storm of carnage. Savages fell before them in their hundreds. Bones splintered, armour split; sti
ll The Guard hacked onwards as they chased behind the shrieking foe.

  The black-bitch’s army instantly deployed. Hunting teams flicked out to flank Keketál’s tiny force, engulfing the Confederation Guards. Savages and Plainsmen fought with merciless fury. The wounded were butchered as they fell, fangs bit and daggers tore while the ïsha raged with untold power.

  Deep inside the fight, Keketál snapped out orders to his teams. The decoy charge had been too dangerous to entrust to anybody else. The timing had to be exact; the demons must be driven into fury and then drawn on into the swamps.

  Ahead of Keketál the melee swirled in a dense black cloud of shapes. Fantastic costumes boiled through the trees to claw the Guardsmen from the sky. Keketál dodged past a spear, slapped an enemy into a tree and broke its neck. The nobleman grinned as his men smacked into a new wave of demons and drove the creatures back.

  The air suddenly lifted up and smashed Keketál aside. A wild shape shot by, insane laughter ripping through the air. The savage held aloft a severed head and screamed with hate, then sucked power from his trophy and hurtled an ïsha bolt. A guardsman fell as the explosion tore his wings to shreds.

  Savages raced inverted high above the trees, blasting a path into the Confederation ranks. The headhunters laughed as their magic ripped the living into death. Severed heads stared out at the world, lips moving slowly as they spoke out in their unholy dreams…

  Keketál fought for breath, then had his musicians sound out the recall.

  “Retreat! Fall back by squadrons! Keep your teams! Keep your teams!”