Date: June 26, 2000
Place: Road to Masada
Cast: Aker (Karakas & attackers), Anubis (general @emits), Grace (Mahmoun & Isham), Shahar
Scene: The Shakir of Khalida is returning to Masada, but her caravan is attacked on the way by Varati rebels.

Day in, day out. The weather's been nice but there's only so much field, field, forest, stream, field, field, sheep, field, horses, field, field, stream, field, swamp, field, field that one can take. A welcome break was afforded by the dazzling and impressive form of the mountain that was Lycenae; it rises above the bend of the River Polaris in an ominous, majestic cone. Proof of Khalid's might. But now the mountain is behind the backs of Shahar's caravan. They have crossed over from Avalon into Varati territory.

The Agni-Haidar have gotten... more alert in the days past. They do not speak of anything to anyone -- that is their way -- but something is up.

Upon a stallion of exquisite breeding, long-limbed and quick, his coat of pristine, unrelieved ebon, sits the former Pasha of Haven and the present Shakir of Khalida. She rides with ease, preferring the openness of the saddle to the closed-in boredom of the coach, and her attire has been modified to silwar and a flowing jacket, with a blousy white tunic below, to facilitate the straddled position that would be impossible in a sari and choli. Still colorful and dignified, festooned in orange and red, she steers her horse between the collection of Khalida guards and the two Agni-Haidar and lets her thoughts keep her silent. 'Tis best that way.

Mahmoun rides alongside the caravan, narrowed eyes scanning the countryside. The scar that slashes down across his face and over one eye is livid red, pulsing with the sense of imminence -- but what it is that looms just beyond the sight of Time is uncertain. His seat is ginger, not from any fault of muscle or of skill, but because he normally eschews riding horseback, regarding the beasts with a disgust that borders on antipathy.

At his side, his Right Hand -- the man that never leaves him even in the heat of battle, Isham ibn Javas ibn Nandin ibn Rashid ibn Adar (and Atar forbid that one forgets a single generation of his name). Isham's strangely cherubic expression does not reach the hard, onyx chips of his eyes as he watches the road counter to Mahmoun. Together, they are a formidable pair. Together, they would die for each other. Together, they would die for their Shakir.

As the sun's power begins to wane, the shadows stretch and writhe across the rocky terrain that the Caravan has begun to move so unevenly across. There is an utter stillness that is emphasized by the heavy pall of heat that hammers at the mortals below with unmitigated fury. A plume of dust rises up in the wake of the Caravan, an accusing finger that stabs down from the heavens to mark it out for all who watches.

Twelve men watch from the either side of an eroded valley along which the trail meanders. Karakas lifts a hand in silent signal of readiness to those who wait with him, a mirror rises behind to flash a beacon to the far side to alert the compatriots that their target had been sighted. Starless eyes turn to squint through the distance with unveiled expectation that widens the Varati's lips in an unholy grin.

The jingle of bit and stamp of hoof is no different than it has been for mile, upon mile, upon mile already. And yet something about it alerts the guard. Or perhaps it is just that they are already teetering on the knife's edge of paranoia. Mahmoun checks his sidling mount with a jerk of the reins and a muttered curse while Isham glances over at his partner with a deceptively mild expression. The two exchange a significant stare and then return to glaring at the road, the land around it, the sky, the dust, and just about anything else that looks as if it might possibly move.

Chin raises, the gentle breeze buffeting a translucent wrap about Shahar's head and features, more for protection against the sun than for any sake of modesty. Her eyes, those feline creations of gold and green, train briefly on the black-garbed Agni-Haidar before finding the horizon again. In their hands, she is safe, and her heart rests easily.

Isham, restless but not showing it, rises in his stirrups to stare down the road ahead with that idiot grin plastered on his jovial face. His eyes do not reflect the expression, glittering with some inward and dire thought. Still nothing. And yet... perhaps that is the problem. The smile fades and is replaced with a frown as he settles back into the saddle and then brings his mare closer to Mahmoun's restless mount to comment low and urgent to the man.

Mahmoun, already ready to leap off and attack his horse simply for something to do, looks positively fierce at whatever it is that Isham has chosen to relate to him. In turn, he twists in the saddle, sending the gelding into a side-stepping prance so that he might stare back down the trail to the south.

Nothing. Nothing at all. When merchants should be passing, considering the season. Smiling Isham scowls while dour Mahmoun's face lights up with an unholy, fierce grin. Something is wrong.

Sinews tighten incrementally with each foot the caravan comes. Closer and closer. Not daring to breathe for fear of giving away his position, the tense metal wire that is Karakas seems read to snap beneath that galling pressure of waiting. But then it happens. The Caravan has come full into the longish valley, its decal so tantalizingly close. A flick of his finger and two of his men begin to circle around the edge of the hills so as to have access to the flank of the enemy. As do the men on the other side. Dark eyes scythe through the entourage that accompanies Shahar and are brought up short by the sight of two Agni-Haidar. Perhaps they were not expected, or more likely, the reality of death incarnate rarely matches the dreams that surround plans. A deep breath is taken and then Karakas holds up two fingers and mimes to the three archers. They are to concentrate their fire on the deadly duo.

Not oblivious to the warning that the Agni-Haidar sense something is amiss -- or perhaps out of ennui pray that something is amiss -- Shahar slows her black stallion and studies them, then follows their line of vision toward the south. She, like the others, sees nothing, and with an idle shrug she twists around once more in the saddle. The departure of her gifts for clairvoyance, or rather their severely subdued state, disallows any precognition that something may be amiss, so she focusses on the ride and tries not to be bored.

As Shahar slows, so do the pair of Agni-Haidar. Isham hardly needs the signal from Mahmoun to shift, bringing his mare in dancing steps around to Shahar's other side so that the two flank her, eyes outwards on the hills. A barked order from Mahmoun, sounding like two rocks scraped together to make the most horrific, rasping voice possible, does not ask but orders for a scout to be sent ahead. Like mirrors of each other, the Agni-Haidar move forward slowly, hands flexing upon the leather-wrapped hilts of their weapons.

Still, they wait, Karakas' knuckles glaring whitely from the grip that fixates itself on his sword. And then on the other side of the valley he catches a motion to the edge of his vision that yanks his head up just in time to see gravelly avalanche of pebbles descend the side of the hill and mark out the presence of the ambushers.

The Varati who was so careless as to catalyze the miniature rockslide gasps in startlement as a sword plunges into his back. The price for such a mistake.

Even as his death-rattle sounds its awful chord, he is tossed down the slope to draw eyes for the fraction of a moment needed for the arrows to be loosed. The air practically seethes with the silent curses that the stolid Karakas holds in as he watches the first volley descend upon the Agni-Haidar; darkly feathered needles that float high before descending with deadly suddenness. They are well aimed but care is especially taken so that they avoid the target of this kidnaping. They error on the side of caution.

A horse screams first, the descent of arrows silent until the distinctive percussion of each pointed blade thudding into flesh echos through the gully. Even battle training won't keep an animal from crying out as arrows pierce its dark hide. Mahmoun's gelding begins to topple even as its rider sprouts several arrows from thigh and shoulder. He dives from the saddle, his swifter fall than the gelding means the beast takes most of the rest, leaving him staggering for balance with an arrow in the thigh, shoulder and one quivering from the breast of his armor.

Isham was not so lucky. Not only does his mare go down without the sound, but the Agni-Haidar was not so fast as Mahmoun to leap from her back. The horse traps his ankle beneath her weight, drawing a scream from the man that the four arrows in his body did not. He writhes and shoves at the dead weight of his mount, desperately trying to free his sword at the same time.

Holy Father of us all... Shahar's stallion rears at the nearby splash of blood and the anguish of the other steeds, and she herself mutters an epithet while looking for cover. Any cover will do. Departing the immediate protection of her guards is not the most logical nor wise of reactions, however, so she wrests her stallion into obedience and angles herself toward the laden cart that bears her goods. Some modicum of protection may be thus provided, and there she wishes to remain, away from the feathered death of those arrows.

Then it comes. The charge. Thunder without lightning. The earth trembling beneath the force of a heavy shod hooves pounding the unoffending earth with the ire of descending destruction. Now that there is no need for secrecy, a hellish war cry echoes from the myriad throats of the converging attackers to assault the ears while finely edged steel bites into skin and bone.

From two sides they descend. A crashing tsunami of flesh and metal and madness. Entropy given terrible life for mere moments. They don't number many, but the sheer ferocity and suddenness of their coming gives those few numbers a colossal stature.

The metallic tang of blood fills the air as the first guard who rushes to the defense is separated from his head. Karakas watched this all from above and it is Isham that he searches out, the siren call of the warrior's painful screams leading him closer. With a casualness that seems incongruous among the heated battle around him, he dismounts from his horse and raises his sword to deliver the death blow.

It is not the end that a warrior would desire, to die without even being able to raise a sword in battle. But with both leg and blade trapped beneath the half-ton of cooling horseflesh, it looks to the casual eye as if Isham's fate is already ordained.

But Agni-Haidar are not trained to bow to the inevitable. Even as the sword rises, a knife flashes in his hand and the man surges forward despite his pinned leg with arm outstretched. Blade sharp enough to cut the wind, the knife glints in the fading light as it dives point first towards Karakas' knee.

Not far away, Mahmoun raises his sword to meet the oncoming wave of battle, his mouth twisted into a rictus of a grin, teeth bared like that of a mad animal denying its fate. The first horse falls to his blade and the sword rises red to kiss its rider with the taste of death even as the Agni-Haidar whirls to face the next as if it were nothing more than a dance at a summer fete. The arrow slows him, however, blood dripping from his leg and elbow and bubbling at his lips. He meets the next with more effort -- and still more come.

She is hardly a wilting flower, this Lioness of Khalida, and she has before witnessed vile executions by order of Khalid: men torn to shreds by wyverns, beheaded in the courtyard, whipped and tortured and healed to suffer again. Thus, flinging away the inhibitive veil, Shahar plucks from her waist a glimmering, gold-handled knife that she carries because, well, one must carve meat and cheese and bread when traveling. The curved blade is all she bears, of course, and as much decoration as anything else, for why should she have to protect herself? But the need has arisen to do just that, and thus the Lioness steadies herself, commands the shudra to remain on the cart, and places her back to one of the wheels. If she is to die, she shall not do so quietly.

The move is not unexpected, but still, it catches Karakas off guard. He had never believed that any could move with such blinding speed. Pain explodes at the point of the wound and then spirals through his body as the knee buckles under his weight and breath is pulled in between clenched teeth in a harshly birthed whimper. Eyes blink away the tickle of sweat and tears, chest rising and falling as attempts to block off the searing agony of the well-aimed steel.

A look passes between the men then. An exchange of knowledge and the understanding of what is to come. For death is a mistress that each has danced with many a time, but it is only now that Isham will be taken to her bed. The blade raises and sparkles in the afternoon sun before it descends to drink of the dark ichor that results from the death blow.

Weeping blood from knee and blade, the leader of the kidnappers awkwardly remounts and turns to scan the progress. Three men now dance their horses out of the reach of Mahmoun, while the rest are locked in life and death struggles with the guards, though as time passes the guards' numbers seem to slowly dwindle. Pleased with the progress of the battle, he turns his steed towards where he thinks Shahar might shelter: the wagons, his riding hampered by the fact he cannot use one leg. In a realm of blurring motion, the languid amble of his horse makes him seem to move in slow motion as he stalks his prey.

He is the wind of death, hardly more than an extension of his blade as it flickers through the air, spraying droplets of blood in every direction. Mahmoun is not stupid. He leaves the men for the horses, neatly hamstringing two and dealing with the first's rider in a sudden whirl of motion that confuses the eye. He turns to the last mounted man, gathering himself for the attack. It is just enough time for the forgotten third to creep in behind. Even as Mahmoun slays the mounted warrior, the last of the three brings his sword overhead and plunges its point into the back of the Agni-Haidar's armor.

A look of surprise steals over the furious warrior's face as he staggers a few steps and then stumbles to his knees. He fights it to the end, but even Mahmoun cannot deny the hand of Death. He topples slowly to the ground, spilling the last of his lifeblood into the trampled dirt.

The shudra are, to a person, terrified. Shahar cannot fault them: she is gritting her teeth against panic, for battle is not her milieu, but she is of the blood of the God-King, and as she once explained to Cassius Augustin, she therefore does not cower. As her guards are butchered, even the brave Agni-Haidar dispatched, she pales, takes as fierce as stance as she may, and offers her prayers to Khalid Atar, the Neverending Fire. Death wings about the entourage, bearing away the souls of the brave men who were to protect her, and if she joins them she shall do so with a clean conscience. "Stay behind me," is all she can advise to the servants, two of whom are scattering out of fear, the other crouching in the wagons, robbed of motion by their terror.

The triumphant cry that is raised with the death of the last Agni-Haidar pulls Karakas' attention once more and elicits a grim smile of satisfaction. His voice raising above the ring of steel and the pleading voices of the dead and dying, he calls for two of his men to accompany him while they move to enclose the wagon. Tarnished voice roughens the air, as the leader playfully taunts, "Come out, little bird. We have business with you. That was the last of your precious lions. They are dead and skinned. The Queen of this unruly pride shall not meet that fate, but it will not go easy on you should you resist." Words made ragged by heavy breathing, they still manage to make themselves clear.

Small grins sharpen the lips of each man to Karakas' side. One then cries out upon seeing the splendid horse the woman was riding; three sets of eyes then turn to pick out the gathering that Shahar so bravely protects. In the distance, the last of the guards falls beneath a well-aimed blow to join the litter of bodies that water the earth with their life.

They are surrounded. Guards are fallen, littered in pieces about what remains of her party, and the blood of the brave Agni-Haidar soils the area with scarlet gore. What can Shahar do but surrender? Yet... what is more repulsive to her than to offer herself without a fight? She is no warrior, but she is Varati, and thus her veins are filled with the spirit of flame and ferocity. Over her shoulder, to the remaining servants, she whispers, "They come for me. I will try to protect you as best I may; return to Haven that the Amir-al shall know of this act."

Hand upon the flank of her stallion, the other raised with blade in hand, Shahar answers most boldly, "You son of a rutting desert dog, you shall not have me, or another life, without feeling the sting of death, and forever damned will be your soul by the burning anger of the Amir-al."

For a lengthy moment, Karakas eyes the woman with a slim grin straightening his lips, and then with a negligent flip of his voice, he commands the men who have gathered at his back. "Kill everybody but the brave lioness. If she continues to resist, you may use her for your pleasure. Such are the spoils of war, are they not? Be sure that she can get a good view of the carnage she brings on her household while you're at it. Double her pleasure."

A dry, raucous laugh float towards the sky as he signals for a man to approach him. This man is not dressed like the others. He carries a weapon, but not with the intimate knowledge that the others do so. With great respect, he approaches the leader of the raiders and places his hand upon the injured knee. With that touch, the wound begins to knit itself, while one of his men moves forward to slaughter the horse with a savage slice to the neck that sends the beast toppling with a final snort. Revealing the group behind.

The choice of the devil, it is called: to die quickly or to die slowly. Such does Shahar equate to the decision before her, to save the shudra who may well be butchered in any event, or to fight and, perhaps, perish rather than being taken. The talk of rape has no special or noticeable effect on her, but the clinical accuracy of the blow that murders her stallion -- a gift for her journey -- does bleed color from her countenance, as does the threat against those she tries to protect. "Let them run," she offers in return, tightly past those gritted teeth, "and once they are away I will submit. But not before." By the Divine Flame, there are so many... she has to look this way and that to guard against any angle of attack.

Karakas allows a shrug to ripple his jerkin, pausing to for a slosh of water to fill his mouth and cleanse the stink of death and sweat from his brow. "We will let them go." He motions to the men to back off a good distance as he says to the woman who was the cause of all this debauchery of carnage. "Tell them they may go."

He tosses his pregnant waterskin in the direction of the cringing servants. "There is a bit of drink for them. To stiffen those willowy spines. It is a hot, dry road ahead of them." The meandering complacency of his voice suddenly congeals into hardened steel as shards of dark obsidian center those ruddy features. "Now submit. Down with your weapon."

In the distance comes the squeal of unoiled wagon wheels making its way over the uneven pathway that leads through the valley. It seems that shall be the modest transportation for the great woman the rest of the way.

Ah, he is the leader, he the one she must assault to teach them a lesson that will accompany them, and perhaps her, into the next life. "Not until they are well away," Shahar insists, knife still gleamingly upheld in the brutality of the sun. No fear will she show this man, this murderous insect who has presumed to prey upon her: he shall feel the bite of the Khalida, and the promise of such is in her feline stare.

Karakas flecks the air with his foamy chuckle, that is soon followed by more rough-trodden words. "Do you not trust me? Fine. When they are well away." Yet even as he says this, his eyes search out a man who stands a goodly distance behind the woman and off to one side. A silent signal that is acknowledged with a nod of the fellow's head. The leader feels that one man should be enough to finish the job.

Around the horn of the hill, the man silently leads his horse. Moving out of sight. Leaving the rest of the congregation of blood-splattered men to center their attention on this single woman that holds so many of they at bay. They could take her, but they would rather it be done without bloodshed. Enough of their group has died this day.

The sun has now begun to edge behind the western hillock, the reddish light of dusk mingling with the drying blood till it seems that the whole valley was washed in the sticky results of battle. Karakas dismounts from his seat, sword dangling from deceptively lazy fingers. The calm before the storm.

"What is it you desire of me, candala rutter of pigs and goats?" Shahar asks, ignoring the time-honored belief that one should not anger or insult another who holds sway over you... and assuredly her life is in this man Karakas' hands. She is buying time, time for word to be taken to Khalid, time for someone to flee, time for her to remain alive. Her knife is raised again, brandished with purpose, and the keen hone to its edge sparks in a flash of sunlight. "When the Amir-al hears of this, he will bring hell upon your heads and melt your eyes with the flames of his fingers. You will scream for death that shall not come. If you go now, perhaps he shall find mercy for you." Ha. Hardly.

Lips part in a show of teeth that has little benign value to it. "You try my patience. I have no need to explain myself to a woman. I tire of these words. Drop your weapons and take her. You will be healed and remembered should you be injured."

In a glitter of muted metal, the men allow swords to fall by the side and then prepare themselves to take her. With a wave of his hands, four men encircle Shahar. Karakas hovers on the periphery.

Two men charge her at once, the third remaining back so not as to obstruct the others. Keeping wary eyes upon that dangerous steel tooth that seeks to taste the flush of parted skin. If she concentrates on one, the other should surely grab her.

Karakas leans against his horse and reaches into a saddlebag to retrieve a bit of dried meat, which he idly chews upon with the unnerving quiet that is belied by the fierce fire that engenders his onyx gaze.

Yes, the one shall surely regret his role in this, because her steel shall flash toward his eyes and rip without fear, without regret. Diseased animals deserve to be dispatched, and where she aimed is toward the softest flesh. She yanks free the blade and turns toward the second, uncertain of his proximity, ready to defend herself with a plunged shock of steel into his cheek. No, she intends to make them suffer, to show them that those of her Clan do not bow before a foul wind. But her time, alas, is quite limited... as are her options.

She could perhaps have managed with only two to fend off, but a third makes it a near impossibility. As the first screams in bright agony, the third quickly moves to take his place just as she turns to face the second. He moves with startling alacrity. A hand descends upon her wrists, fingertips digging into that tendon that commands the fingers. Forcing them to open. His other arm twines about her shoulder like a clinging vine, hand tangling with her hair to pull back painfully. Trying to put her in a half-nelson while his other hand struggles to separate her fingers from the deadly burden of her knife. At his feet come the dying whimpers of his comrade, dutifully ignored as he concentrates on bringing the woman to heel.

The healer dances on the edges of the conflict, wishing to help the injured man, but not willing yet to sacrifice his precious hide for it. All the while, Karakas continues his sedate chewing, but the tightening of his eyes at the death of another of his men is eloquent expression of his stoic displeasure.

A cry of pain blossoms forth at the cruel twist of her arm, at the abuse to her wrist, but the sound transforms to a growl while Shahar flails about to break free of the arresting grip. Feet, elbows, hands reach for anything than can break her grip, and her legs, long and muscled things, kick at the air and whatever they may contact. "You will die for this, heathen dog-loving son of a whore!" swears the Lioness, striving to elbow her captor in the ribs. No, she is not going down without more struggle.

Once she has begun to flail so wildly, it is over. Two more men descend to grip a kicking ankle. Her elbows do find their target time and again, but these are ribs that are well padded with muscle, atop which rests leather armor. They have recently faced flashing steel; falling fists do not quite have the same immediacy.

With a twist of his hand, the assailant snaps the woman's wrist in an effortless motion of desiccated bone. Without the bones to support the weapon, it becomes so much useless metal in her grip. Soon afterwards, she is borne under by the sheer mass of heavily muscled men that press in on her in suffocating darkness.

Those not occupied with wrestling this fierce woman to the ground begin the process of slaughtering lambs. Screams begin to fill the growing dusk. Those Shudra who were slowest in leaving die first, the death of the day mingling with the death of man.

"Hear those screams? Those are your shudra. Had you yielded, They would have lived." Anger now invades the usual evenness of Karakas' tone.

"No...!" Shahar's anguish is not from the pain in her wrist, which is not insignificant, but from the cruelty of Karakas' words. In her heart, she knows they were doomed, but guilt sings through her veins like a dirge nonetheless. "Let them go; they are of no threat to you. What beast are you that would slay an unarmed servant? Let them go." Her demands are muffled beneath the press of sweaty maleness, for even with three atop her she will struggle until utterly subdued or exhausted.

The phlegmatic man now burns with the inner coals of anger that are stoked by this woman's cries. "You fool. They would run for Atesh-Gah and bring the fire and the wrath." Sooner than he wished for it, at least. "I am almost tempted to let them have their way with you, but they will have to settle for the women of your household. It is necessary you understand." Indeed, it seems that some of those distant screams that sound their ominous knell last longer than mere death would account for, but in the end merciful silence does reign.

A speck of color, unseen by the warriors, winks momentarily against a sere hilltop before it tops the ridge and slips out of sight, hurrying to bring word of this tragedy to the walls of Atesh-Gah. Cords are found and Shahar is bound like some freshly-made kill before being gagged and tossed into the wagon. A tarp is used to cover her, and then the bump and creak of motion signifies that they are moving, But to where? Darkness does not tell.

Kassa... Oh, the loss of the woman, the manner in which she perished, gives

Shahar more grief than ever could be expressed, for the one woman with her is the one whose suffering and death was the closing to the violence. Beneath the oppressive tarp that will soon mercifully keep away the chill of nighttime, her eyes close and tears are squeezed out. Not from fear for herself, for the reality of her situation and its limited options shall soon exist, but from the realization that many have suffered and died for her, among them a woman she embraced with her heart, an oddity between kshatri and shudra. Thus, Shahar can do naught but lie in the wagon, trussed like a gamebird, and pray.

If only the words will come.

FIN  

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