Fourteen
Malka’s boots were caked with dust from her journey. Her clothing was stained and frayed from the effects of many nights spent in the elements. The shoulder bag – and its cargo – remained securely slung over her shoulder. As she trudged onward, ascending the short, craggy rise ahead of her, the Thag’s face bore a quality of tired stoicism.
Liza followed behind her. In her quadrupedal form, she delicately picked her way through the scrub brush and volcanic stone that comprised the terrain immediately ahead of them. Every so often, she would pause momentarily to turn her gaze skyward, sniffing the air in a disinterested manner. Her black coat remained immaculate.
Since their escape from the Urumi ambush in San Francisco, the two had moved generally southward. This had not only been to take advantage of the relatively warmer winter afforded them by doing so. Also, as Liza had informed Malka, the mountain range to the east would be easier to cross should they choose to head in that direction. The Thag had no idea how her traveling companion knew this and she didn’t ask.
It had been weeks since they’d had that discussion; at first, their focus had been mostly on flight. The two had moved from the increasingly gentle slopes surrounding the northern California city into a verdant flatland.
Fortunately, despite their lack of money, or any means of transport aside from their feet, their surroundings had meant that food wasn’t a problem. The region they had entered was replete with farms; the two had simply appropriated what they needed from the fields at first, taking citrus fruits or other nuts and vegetables as they desired. In such cases where nothing was to be found in the open, owing to the time of year, they had liberated supplies from the root cellars of agricultural enterprises. Still, they had refrained from stealing any horses. Both were concerned that if they took that course of action, it would lead to an all-out manhunt for them. With the diamond in her possession, Malka and Liza had agreed it best to keep a lower profile.
At night, they had slept under the stars of those fields and orchards, often in chilling rain. More than once, they had been challenged by an angered farmer or one of their retainees, accused of trespassing on private land. These instances had proved little more than minor annoyances to Malka. Usually, she was able to take them down easily with her sash. Or, if they had possessed firearms, Liza was able to use the element of surprise by changing form at will to attack them from behind. It peeved Malka that she had needed to rely on her traveling companion’s help, even in these cases.
The two passed the time almost totally in silence. As if by some unspoken agreement, it was broken only when one of them had practical or useful information to communicate. Eventually, the farms fell away. They turned eastward; after fording a short pass, they reached more arid, desertlike terrain dotted with the occasional low-lying bush or succulent.
With the lack of farms, or more generally of population, Malka had been able to use her dagger and sash to slay various forms of rodentia for sustenance. Liza, who usually retained her feline form, had taken to killing and eating birds that she captured. It had been enough to survive. But, without any shelter, Malka felt the elements beginning to wear on her.
Now, two mountain ranges stretched out on either side of the wide, barren valley in which Malka found herself. Each of their upper sections was capped with snow, which tapered off into a relatively monochromatic tan that characterized the high altitude desert before her. Coming from a tropical environment, the dark-skinned girl was not especially used to the lower temperature – which hovered just above freezing – dressed only in a loose-fitting shirt and trousers. Worse, the direction of the canyon had herded them into a northeasterly direction.
As Malka ascended the short rise, the view in front of her made a majestic scene. But, she knew that she would need to find some provisions before long. She looked back at Liza, who had stopped to sniff the air again, with envy. With her form-changing abilities, their circumstances didn’t seem to be affecting her in the least.
Malka was negotiating her way down the rise’s opposite slope when she heard something unexpected: a horse’s whinny followed by a scream and the muttering of men. The native of the subcontinent moved down the hill silently, angling slightly leftward toward the far side of the large boulder from which she heard the sounds. To her right, a salt flat spread out before her.
The Thag approached the cover of the reddish boulder that was many times her size and listened.
“I’m takin’ the horses. And any money ya got,” she heard one voice say.
“You can’t. We can’t survive out here.” It was the voice of an older man. “Look, you can take what money we’ve got left,” he paused, and Malka heard the sound of pockets being ruffled through, “but we need to keep the horses. We’ll die otherwise.”
“Then I’ll save you the trouble of trying to tell the sheriff up in Independence,” came the other, oddly accented voice.
“Wait, please! Why are you doing this?” This time it was a younger voice. Although clearly frightened, it carried notes of accusation.
“’Cause we can, boy,” she heard one of the attackers reply. Shots rang out followed by the sound of bodies falling to the ground shortly thereafter.
Upon hearing this, Malka crouched, removing her sash from her left pocket and affixing the brass knob to the holding loop on its far end. Her right hand went to the dagger she kept sheathed in her boot. Yet, it was at this point that she stopped, realizing something: if she went through with her attack, she saw no way that she could avoid having to kill. Before, she had either been confined to the camp, or had found reason to avoid killing, during the couple of ambushes in which she had participated.
Still, as she analyzed her situation, she could not see any other option that didn’t involve her sneaking away without any supplies. Malka briefly considered merely knocking them unconscious, as was her usual habit. But, she rejected it. With two and possibly more targets, it would be difficult for her to take all of them down using only her sash; the dagger’s nature was such that if it were used to completely remove an opponent from tactical consideration, it usually did so permanently. Even if she did manage to take them out nonlethally, she supposed that, considering she and Liza had made it this far on foot, it was likely that at least one of them would make it to a settlement. Possibly, they could accuse her of the holdup and the deaths of the two she had just heard scream.
No. This is the only way, she told herself. At the same time, Malka felt no small amount of apprehension. Would she be able to do it? In truth, she did not know. But, she attempted to reassure herself. She would do what was expected of a Thag in service to Shakti. If that was from whence her motives came, then she knew that she should feel no such trepidation. And yet, the sense of unease regarding what she was about to do remained.
Steeling herself against it, Malka tensed, ready to strike. Then, the Thag felt something pull on her shoulder. The disciple of the Thag’s leader flicked her head quickly in its direction, her mind made up to do what she must – and live with the consequences.
***
Malka sat on the ground, exhausted. The now fourteen-year-old propped her back up against the curving wall of Mira’s hut. It had been a particularly grueling day of training with Husain. Starting over ten hours ago, he had been attempting to train her ears to distinguish among hundreds of different sounds and to pinpoint their direction exactly. That way, she would be able to strike a target that she could not actually see.
It was mentally exhausting work; to the blue-eyed youth it seemed as if she were progressing at a glacial pace. Yet, her Master assured her that she actually was making remarkable advancements.
Later in the day, their lessons had moved to matters of combat technique. Though Malka’s fighting speed, as Husain often observed, was one of her greatest advantages, it left her with a raw power, which she sometimes struggled to control. This was a particular problem as she practiced launching attacks with her sash by leaping at her target, often
meaning that she was prone to losing her balance as she landed. Multiple failed attempts to stick her landing today had left her body feeling battered.
Malka closed her eyes momentarily and sighed when she saw Zaima walking up the path that led past the hut, against which she lay. Husain’s protégée just wanted to eat something and go to sleep. Yet, it appeared that she would have to endure another encounter with her contemporary.
Husain had counseled years ago that Malka’s catching Zaima spying on her lessons would be sufficiently humiliating for her to accord the captured initiate more respect. The opposite seemed to have happened. Easily the most skilled in her age group in the martial arts of the Thags after Malka, the camp native clearly had her own ideas of who was more worthy of the Sect Master’s tutelage; she took every opportunity to remind Malka of that opinion.
Not wishing to stray from the orders Husain had set, regarding being provoked to violence against the camp’s residents, Malka had little choice but to simply put up with Zaima’s insulting manner.
The dark-haired, brown-eyed Thag, who was dressed in a dark green, heavily embroidered kameez, probably taken from one of her depredations, approached Malka and opened her mouth.
“Malka, you do not look well at all,” she observed with an air of mock concern.
“I’m tired,” Malka responded simply, directing her gaze away.
“Yes, you have certainly looked better. If this is the state in which the Master’s trainings leave you, maybe you should talk to him about…,” she paused for a moment, “lowering the standards he should expect from you. He’ll understand, I think. After all, you are an outsider. He should not expect as much from you as he does from us. Maybe that is why he gives you all of this extra attention. He knows you will need it if you are ever to be able to fight alongside us.”
“I am not an outsider. I’ve lived here since I was very young; we have had this discussion before. The Master is not giving me extra training because he thinks I am any less capable. Both of us know that the case is quite the opposite.” The two had had essentially the same argument many times over the past few years. Malka knew where this was going. As she sat on the ground, she felt some mild surprise as she realized that what usually came next still unsettled her. What was more, Zaima seemed to know that it struck a nerve.
“Really? He thinks you are one of us? Hah! Then why do you not go on raiding parties with us? Why do you not live the life of a Thag? We’re basically the same age. I’ve been going for at least the last three dry seasons and I have loved it! Have you brought back even one trophy?”
Malka rolled her eyes and then parted her lips to respond. But Zaima interrupted her again before she could speak.
“Wait, that’s right. You can’t. And why? Because our Master doesn’t trust you. Because he knows you are an outsider who will betray us. Could that be why you aren’t allowed to quest for Shakti? It’s no secret why half of the village keeps you at arm’s length.”
The last part was hard to deny. Although some, such as Mira, had come to take Malka and her place in the village in stride, others remained slightly mistrustful of her.
Could it be that, maybe, there is some truth to what she says? Malka wondered, as she usually did at this point in the argument. She tried to push the thought away. Yet, it now occurred to Malka that Zaima seemed to regard her lethal duties to the Black Goddess with a bit too much zeal. Tired and in no mood to be diplomatic, she told her so.
Instead of placing Zaima on the defensive, she harrumphed and offered a disappointed, smug smile.
“You don’t even want to go, do you?” Zaima accused her, shaking her head. “You don’t believe that what we do is righteous. After all these seasons, despite all your protests, you’re still a traitor.” She snorted in disgust. “And this is the person who Husain thinks is the village’s brightest hope for the future. I wonder how he will react when I tell him of your attitude.”
The girl in the green vestment turned with a sanctimonious air toward the village’s rough center where Husain’s hut lay. Then, she hesitated for a second, tossing back over her shoulder.
“You can stop pretending, Malka. You are not one of us. I know you never will be.”
Zaima took her leave. Malka felt herself grow increasingly unsettled. Since becoming Husain’s protégée, she’d looked forward to the day when he would finally announce that she had earned his trust sufficiently to be allowed to leave. Yet, she had given little thought to the fact that, when she did so, she would be expected to take part in the Sect’s depredations. It was one of those raids that had killed the rest of the caravan she had been a part of and brought her – narrowly avoiding death at the hands of the Thags herself – to their camp. With most of her days given to honing her martial talents, Malka tried to give as little thought as possible to what they most often would be used for. Now, she felt a creeping dread that Zaima may have been right: both about her identity and her Master’s reaction. Had all of her efforts to earn the trust and respect of those in the village been in vain?
Malka heard Mira call from inside the hut. Evening meal was ready. But, she didn’t move. Instead, the blue-eyed girl simply rested her head back against the dwelling and looked up at the darkening sky. She didn’t know exactly how long she had stayed like that before Husain’s face eclipsed her field of vision. Far from displaying anger, his features were serene as per usual.
“Zaima just paid me a very interesting visit. Apparently, you are a traitor who despises the Goddess and still thinks of leaving.” There was a wry edge to his voice.
Malka got up to face him. “She accused me of being a traitor. I never said anything about trying to escape.”
“I see. As I surmised, there are two different accounts of your altercation. This is far from the first time that Zaima has attempted to provoke you. But, this is the first that she has come directly to me, afterwards. Tell me, what was different about this time?”
“I’m tired. I snapped.”
A hint of a smile briefly crossed the Master’s features.
“Well, at least you did not attack her like before. What did you say?”
“That she seemed to enjoy the violence that goes with the raids too much. She questioned my loyalties and said I could never be one of the Sect.”
Husain nodded as he listened to his pupil.
“Did you say this because you believe that our actions are not justified by our faith in Shakti?”
“No,” Malka responded, trying to sound more sure of her convictions than she felt. After a second, she looked at the ground. Her Master’s question sent her mind churning through questions she had tried not to even think, she now realized, for fear that if she voiced them it would lead others to question her loyalty, due to her origin outside of the camp.
“Something is bothering you, Malka,” the Thag’s leader said at length.
“No. Yes. I...I do not know.” Her first response was made out of pure instinct, not wanting to admit to doubts she had kept pushed to the back of her mind ever since her trainings had begun. Then, she decided that it was useless to attempt to hide them from the very perceptive leader in front of her. She would have to face her trepidations eventually, if she were ever allowed to leave the village.
“Tell me, what exactly is it?” The Master’s tone was flat. Malka found it hard to judge how he would react to the questions she was about to ask. Even though she spoke English with her Master, Malka lowered her voice, as if not wanting anyone else around her to hear.
“I’m not saying that I don’t believe in the purpose of the Sect of the Thags. But, it’s just, why does placing only stolen items in her shrine glorify Shakti? And even then, why do we have to acquire these objects in such a violent way? It does not make any sense. Couldn’t we acquire them through some other means, like trade? Wouldn’t that be safer for us? Why do we have to go about it by eradicating entire caravans? It seems as if we are being asked to kill for no reason.”
Husain nodded aga
in, his expression remained neutral. He turned and said: “Walk with me.”
Malka followed her Master to the far edge of the depression in which the camp was situated, where the clearing rose to meet the forest that surrounded it. He did not speak again until they were standing at the forest’s edge facing away from the camp. It was now dark. A full moon cast the entire settlement behind them in a kind of flat light.
“Malka, in all of your time in our camp, how many of us have you seen who truly enjoyed carrying out their duty to the Goddess?”
Malka mulled over the question for a moment before answering.
“Well, Zaima. But sometimes I get the feeling that she thinks it is all a game, like she wants to be a hero from one of those stories in the books I read when you go out on raids. Other than that, no one seems to revel in it, exactly. To them, it is as though it were just a part of life.”
“Yes, Malka,” Husain confirmed. “And that is why, I suspect, that you would not have asked these questions had you been born in the camp.” Malka felt her heart sinking at her Master’s last statement. Again, her eyes went to the ground. She backed up a step.
Husain shook his head. “I merely state a fact. The circumstances of your arrival in the camp have meant that your life has unfolded differently than for all those around you. It is natural that you should question the way in which we live, die and yes, even kill, when most would not think to.
“You know the story of how our Sect came to worship that Black Goddess?” he asked.
“Of course,” Malka told him. One night, years ago, Mira had told her the story. She briefly recalled its contents: many seasons ago, Shakti had appeared to a group of rural thieves, threatening to tear itself apart over how to divide their spoils. She commanded them to unite under Husain’s ancestor and quest for Her, by bringing back valuable artifacts to display in Her name. Only through doing so, She revealed, could they gain protection from Her enemies, the Urumi, an already hated force in the parts the thieves inhabited. The Goddess had told them to develop the techniques of the sash so as to better disguise their identities from unsuspecting targets. And, never to let a soul escape, that they may warn others of the Sect’s existence. To cement their arrangement, She emblazoned the first Master’s wrist with the symbol of an ax – the Sign of Aghasi – as a mark of his ability and authority. Eager to have divine sanction for their actions, the thieves had agreed eagerly; Shakti’s commandments endowed them with a common purpose, which over time became almost synonymous with the identity of a Thag.
Outcast: Keepers of the Stone Book One (An Historical Epic Fantasy Adventure) Page 12
