“Ommah! Ommah!”
Ashallah stormed out of her mother’s room back into the receiving area.
“Where are you?”
She knew her cries and questions were useless. She had been back in Yasem for hours and had yet to see her mother or her sister. They were absent from the flat in the early morning when Ashallah had returned, with neither in bed as she would have expected. A quick visit to every common spot they frequented – the well, bakery, bazaar and city gates – proved fruitless. Inquiries with their friends only stoked Ashallah’s concerns, for every woman questioned responded that it had been at least a full day since they saw either. Therefore, in the heat of the afternoon, Ashallah decided to return to their flat, hoping against hope that they would be back. Upon entering, only silence greeted her calls – and with no idea of her family’s whereabouts – a real sense of concern began to creep into Ashallah’s mind.
Were they taken? Kidnapped? Harmed? Killed?
She looked down to Shaheen and the two men beside him, all three fresh corpses.
“Too bad you didn’t say anything useful. You may have lived.”
Shaheen had been waiting for Ashallah when she returned home for the second time that day. His presence was hardly a surprise for her. Even from down the hall, she could sense his odor. Pungent. Stale. Like musty leather britches left in a corner, unwashed, with years of sweat in their folds and grooves. Shaheen frequently visited flats to extort money and favors from Yasem’s lesser classes, especially young, undisciplined women. It had been a while since he had done so at Ashallah’s building, a decision urged on by the khukuri blades she waved in his face repeatedly as a warning.
As Ashallah drew closer to her home, she heard the shuffle of two others within. The two moved methodically, yet did not pick up their feet much. Men, she gathered. Lacking the nimble precision even her greenest midnight sisters knew. Ashallah drew her khukuri blades as she pushed open the door to her flat.
Inside, Shaheen stood with his thumbs in his belt loops, as though he had been expecting Ashallah. “Welcome,” he said through his brown-stained teeth.
“You most certainly are not. What are you doing here?”
“Tssk, tssk. That is no way to greet your commander.” Shaheen looked past Ashallah into the hallway behind her. “Have you seen your sister?”
“I have not. Not that it’s any concern of yours.”
“Oh, but it is. It concerns me greatly when the kin of those under my command are accused of treason.”
“What in the Five Doors of Hell are you talking about?”
“The Shadya. Your sister has been seen in their company.”
“As have many others.”
“But your sister . . .”
“Is to be left alone!”
“I understand. She is your sister. But your threats toward me will not save her. The Shadya – and whatever demands they hope to fulfill – will be stopped. That is not my will. That command comes straight from the Court of the Grand Sultan.”
Ashallah’s heart, for all its ferocity, sank a bit upon hearing that. For she knew that directives for the Court were ironclad. “You lie,” was all she managed to muster in reply.
“Ha! I may spare the truth time from time. But even a fool like me knows never to lie about the Court.”
“Leave. Now.”
“Do not forget your duties due to your anger. I am your commander.”
“And I your midnight warrior. With rights. And this is no way to encroach on my space.”
“Encroach. A big word for such a pretty thing.”
“You know the Law. Warriors are not to associate outside of their missions or details. Especially when it comes to men and women.”
“That is more of a suggestion than a rule. One broken at times. Look at the Sultan Ilyas and his wife, the Sultana Malika. They fought in battle and later laid together.”
Ashallah’s attention turned to the male soldier leaving her room. Crumpled in his hands were a few of her kameez shirts. She glanced past him to see that he had ransacked her room.
“Are you courting me?” Ashallah asked as she pointed the tip of her khukuri at Shaheen.
“Hardly. I’m not interested in marriage. Just in what’s between your legs.”
Ashallah ground her teeth as she marched toward Shaheen, her blade extended. She thought she saw him take a step back . . .
A soft blow on her cheek gave her pause. It was not the strength of the hit that stopped Ashallah. Even as a green soldier-in-training she could withstand such a hit. No, it was something else that cut off her momentum, which made her sway and lose balance before falling to one knee.
“That’s better,” Shaheen grinned through his stained teeth.
On the ground, Ashallah saw the fragments of a thin clay shell, covered in yellow and scarlet dust. The second one, she told herself. The other soldier I had heard from outside but did not see. With her fingertips, she reached for the dust, as if to confirm what she already knew. So fine it was, having been ground by hand. From the berries of desert blue sage and wild white mustard. She rubbed the concoction between her fingers, watching the yellow and scarlet particles float from her skin. It is the mixture of ground sage and mustard that gives it its bright colors, she recalled from her training. The colors of desert poison, which when inhaled, stun and even paralyze their victims.
I should have seen him in the shadows, Ashallah chastised herself. I am a better warrior than this.
Even as her extremities went numb, she felt the grasp of Shaheen’s soldiers around her arms. Like a babe, they hoisted her from the ground as she remained limp. Her feet dragged, numb to the floor beneath, as she was pulled to the table by the pantry. With a thud, her face hit the table, which laid covered with her kameez shirts and shawls.
“Do you know how hard it is to command midnight warriors?” Shaheen asked. “Well, for all the difficulties of my job, I’ve learned it is so much easier when women like you learn to submit.”
Ashallah, although immobilized, still felt the tip of a knife pressed to the small of her back. For a second, she thought her end near, until she heard it cutting through her vest.
“You will learn to respect me,” Shaheen said as he turned his knife to her trousers. With a few precise cuts, her pants fell to the floor. Ashallah seethed with anger at what she anticipated to happen next.
I will not let this happen. I am a warrior. I am midnight.
Ashallah made an effort to move her hand. Only her index finger twitched thought.
I am of the night. I am stronger than this.
Another effort. Two fingers moved.
Ashallah heard another pair of trousers fall to the floor. Then she felt the hot, musty breath of Shaheen at her ear.
“You will respect me. Then, you will respect my men. One. Then the other. And me again. And again. Until you can respect us no more.”
His breath was as foul as rotting flesh. She felt the tip of his fingers as he ran them up the back of her thighs, towards her rear.
This ends now.
Her will, being the strongest part of her, was enough. It curled her fingers around the nearest kameez, pulling it close. It drew the hidden blade from the collar. With one swell of determination, she swung around on her back, her arm gliding through the air so that her blade tip found Shaheen’s neck.
Her body tingled at the sight of her commander grabbing his throat as blood gushed from his wound. Her training – years of which had taught her to forego debilitating injury and ignore her physical inhibitions – allowed her to stand on her own feet, despite the numbness in her limbs.
The two soldiers stood there agape as Shaheen fell back. The distraction was enough of an opportunity for Ashallah. She rushed to the man on her right. Her small, thin blade found the meat above his collarbone. He responded with a hasty push. Ashallah, despite her weakened state, stepped aside to divert his momentum and reach for the soldier’s dirk. With another clean motion, she planted the man’s own blade in him, this time just below his torso where the lip of his breastplate ended. The soldier keeled over as his comrade came to his senses to charge Ashallah.
By then the best instincts of Ashallah had returned to her. In the moment of the soldier’s charge, she surveyed the room to conclude a handful of options. The first would be to grab the fallen soldier’s kilij, which dangled from the sheath on his left side. A fair weapon in open battle, she knew, but hardly the weapon of choice in close quarters. The second option was to grab Shaheen’s dagger, an ornamental piece strapped to his belt. The jewels and polished silver on the hilt deterred Ashallah though, for she did not know how such a treasure would handle against the armor and muscle of her opponent. Many other choices there were. The thin blade, by then bloody, in her fallen victim. Or his dirk. Too many choices, she thought. Ah, hell.
Choosing none, Ashallah raced to the last foe. Her right foot met the cap of his left knee. A quick snap and the soldier sank, his lungs expelling a scream that shook the beads of sweat on her brow. Still, her focus remained, as she reached out toward his head to take it in her hands. In her grip, she twisted until she heard a definitive crack and felt the head in her hands grow heavy, as the soldier’s body slumped to the floor.
Ashallah flexed her fingers before tightening them into a fist. She put her worry and anxiety out of her thoughts. She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes, to envelope her senses in solitude and darkness, as she reminded herself who she was.
I am a child of a sunless sky, she recollected. A soldier of darkness. I train. I fight. I emerge from battle victorious. I am the eclipse to the sun of my enemies. The shadow cast upon them. I am midnight.
Ashallah marched into her room. She pushed her bed aside. Kneeling, she ran her fingers over the tiles before finding the loose one she was seeking. Lifting it, she found the sack she kept packed for times like these.
The wind was soon beneath Ashallah’s feet as she leaped over alleys and side streets. She passed many a woman, who stared on as she raced past. Ordinarily, had it been any other mission, Ashallah would have chosen to be more discreet. This was no occasion to sacrifice time for cloak-and-dagger tactics, however. Speed was of the essence. Before long, her first stop was within sight.
A quick breeze stirred the kafan sheets. Ashallah slipped between the sacred linens, careful not to disturb them as they flapped in the wind. Although far from spiritual, Ashallah trod on the rooftop of the preparation house, knowing that what she was about to do was sacrilegious.
Ashallah opened the rooftop door to climb down the four flights of steps into the cellar. As it was midday, she knew the building would be empty, for the smell of the deceased was never worse than it was at that time. Ashallah herself was no stranger to decay. Often the rot she experienced was within the minutes or hours after battle. What she whiffed in the stairwell – that stagnant, acrid stench that violated her nose and eyes – was almost too much to bear. Though she did.
To her surprise, she was not the only one.
As she neared the basement, Ashallah heard the echo of others. A few were hushed, possibly out of respect for the dead, while a singular voice wailed and lamented. The woman pled to Jaha, one whose tone was all too familiar.
“Ommah . . .”
Ashallah jumped down the steps two at a time until the basement door was before her. She burst through it to find her mother in the presence of three kafan sisters. The kafan sisters were garbed in sky blue, the color of the Doors of Heaven, while her ommah was dressed in a sad array of gray tones. Niyusha’s face was streaked with lines, absent of all makeup. So many more wrinkles on my mother - Ashallah thought - many more than when I had left her. Ashallah parted her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word, her ommah fell into her arms, sobbing. Ashallah’s shoulder was soon wet with tears.
“What happened?” Ashallah asked.
“She . . . is . . . gone.”
“Orzala . . . Ommah, where? Where did she go?”
“I looked everywhere.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“In the bazaar. She was talking . . . with two women . . . dressed in black and indigo . . .”
Ashallah shut her eyes. “The Shadya. They took her?” She opened them, looking off to the side to avoid staring at her mother’s.
“I don’t know. I saw her from afar. As I approached, the city guards swarmed in around Orzala and the other women. Another line of guards kept the crowds from stepping too close. I could see that they detained some of the women, but not all. I can’t be sure if she escaped or was captured.”
“Very well,” Ashallah said as she leaned in to kiss her mother on the forehead. “Stay here.”
With that directive, her ommah became frantic. “Where are you going?”
Ashallah withdrew three silver coins from her sack, giving one to each of the kafan sisters. “Watch over her,” she told them as if directing her own warriors. She turned back to her ommah. “I’m going to continue my search. Don’t worry. I’ll be back with Orzala soon.”
Ashallah turned to leave, but her ommah reached out to grab her arm.
“Asha . . .”
“You’ve told me to be careful a hundred-thousand times. I know.”
“It’s not that – you and your sister – you . . .”
Ashallah paused. She had seen her mother emotional before. Angry at her daughters’ insolence. Worried after weeks apart. Somehow, this was different.
“Ommah, what is it?”
“You must watch over your other half. For I am not long of this world.”
“What? Are you sick?”
“No, my body is fine. But something is going to happen. I can feel it.”
Niyusha’s fingers, wrapped around her forearm, began to radiate heat. Not the warmth of another person. This sensation had a deeper feeling, a unique one, as though something was trying to pass from one being to another. Although just a second in time, it left an impression on Ashallah, one that stirred her memory, arousing nostalgia for when she and Orzala were younger and would do everything together.
As the moment passed, Ashallah stared down at her mother’s hand. Every line and wrinkle spoke of thousands of days of washing, cooking and caring for her and her sister. She recalled when her ommah could carry the two of them, one in each arm, as they traversed the midnight market in their first years. She was so strong back then, and a true beauty to behold, even as she worked day and night to support them. No small task, given that unmarried women - even widows - were relegated to the most demeaning of jobs, such as washerwomen for brothels or preparation assistants for the Kafan Sisters.
“Ommah, if there is something you need to tell me, please, tell me.”
Niyusha raised her fingers to Ashallah’s cheek, to brush it gently. “I only need to tell you that you and your sister are the stars of my night sky.”
At that, her ommah smiled. Ashallah, not one for emotion, allowed herself to return the gesture in kind.
“I am old. A hag ranting nonsense. You are still so young, thank Jaha. Go, find your sister.”
“I will find her. No matter what. I promise.”
Ashallah marched out, wishing that she believed herself. Her mother’s attempt to confide in her had shaken her spirit. Never before had she seen her ommah so raw and pure, much like a young girl who has learned a hard truth about the world for the very first time.
As she walked, Ashallah considered the implications of her sister conspiring with the Shadya. If Orzala were in their presence and then captured, she would meet one of two fates. The first would be the tame one, which would see her sent to the women’s prison quarters on the far side of the city, in the cells carved in the bluff walls. But the second option – the one Ashallah feared – would see her detained by the male guards of the city back at their quarters, where many a woman would enter only to find rape or death their only paths to escape.
Ashallah’s steps were never more sure-footed than they were that afternoon. As the sun dipped to the horizon and the city cooled, beads of sweat ran like rivers down her skin. Ashallah’s niqab clung to her face as breezes kissed her. At her pace, only minutes separated Ashallah from the city guards’ barracks. Minutes that were days to Ashallah. All the serenity and patience she had had as a warrior dissipated with each flash of a thought of what her male counterparts could be doing to Orzala.
The guards at the barrack doors were half-drunk. Ashallah brushed past them easily and was inside before they even had a chance to turn and watch her enter. The hall of the barracks was empty of men, with only their bronze and iron shells – breastplates, shields, helmets – in their place. Ashallah pressed on, through the kitchen, past the storeroom, and into the central yard. While crossing the wide-open space, she could feel the stares of the guards on the two stout towers above, men who no doubt wondered why a midnight warrior was in their presence. Out of the corner of her eye, she even thought she caught a glimpse of a crossbowman loading a bolt. No matter though. Ashallah was back in the shadows again as she entered the holding cells.
Unguarded, a stairway led down to the catacombs, which now served to house the criminal elements of Yasem. Divided into sections, the labyrinth of stone stretched out under the whole of the city. The grouping of cells closest to the barracks were set aside for the newest detainees, specifically males. As Ashallah and every woman in Yasem knew, the guards would often forego the women’s cells on the other side of the city and drop off their prisoners at their own. The official reasons varied from issues of proximity to those of overcrowding. The stories that left the cells, though, spoke of a different truth, one of horror that Ashallah hoped she would never encounter.
The noises from around the corner confirmed her suspicions. Raucous laughter. Calls from male guards drunk on wine and power. Along with screams. As well as cries. From women.
Ashallah raced onward, the glow of the torches ahead leading her way. She drew her khukuri blades in anticipation. As the corridor grew brighter, her pace slowed. Her strides lengthened as she hopped from tile to tile. Her sandals – of worn camel skin and soft leather – guided her feet, which struck the ground with the faintest of sounds. The corridor, which curved to the left, allowed Ashallah to glimpse into the prison holding area.
From the relative safety of the shadows, she watched as a collection of seven guards passed wineskins to one another. A large cell beyond them held a few dozen women. One of them, her clothes in tatters, clutched her breasts with one hand as she gripped her mangled leg with her other. Only inches away a jackal, tethered to an iron ring on the wall, bared his teeth. The woman flinched as the beast nipped at her ankle.
“Push her again! Push her again!” yelled one of the guards.
“No, wait to see if he breaks the chain,” chimed another. “Its links are nearly rusted all the way through.”
“Push!”
“Wait!”
“Push!”
On and on the chants went. Ashallah, her anger stoked with each holler and raucous laugh, set down her sack. As the noises echoed through the corridor, she sheathed her khukuri blades. She opened her sack to find her wares: a belt of throwing knives, a sack of smoke pellets, a vial of fire powder, a satchel of ground peppercorn. Last of all, at the bottom of the sack, were her prized possessions – bronze greaves and arm bracers.
Ashallah fitted herself with all that she brought. Her moves were slow and deliberate, even as the jackal broke free from the iron ring to attack the woman on the floor. She laced her greaves as roars went up from the drunken crowd of guards. She flexed her muscles as she slid on her bracers, to make sure that they were not too tight, even as the dying victim screamed for Jaha’s mercy. She fought the urge to charge the guards; she resisted it with all her might. For she knew that a few among them were still sober, that not all were inebriated.
Patience, she insisted to herself. The prisoner on the ground was dead long before you arrived. Had the jackal not finished her, she would have bled out. Patience, warrior. You cannot grant her mercy anyhow. Still, you can kill her tormenters. You can – and will –avenge. At the right moment. Just as midnight comes when the sun has set, you will wreck hell on the damned that laugh before you.
The guard on his knees before her winced. His neck muscles tightened with anticipation, as the blade at his throat edged deeper into his skin, sending droplets down to his chest. Ashallah’s hand brushed against the stubble under his chin. She sneered in disgust.
The echo of armor –scales clanking on one another – enticed Ashallah to lift her gaze. Beyond the three bloody guards, faint torchlight danced on the catacomb walls. Shadows stretched before her. Soon soldiers with torches appeared. Three at first. Then five. Followed by another six.
She imagined the soldier at her mercy grinning at the sight of such reinforcements. Whether he was or not mattered not to Ashallah. She dug her blade’s edge deeper into his skin. Under the pressure of her khukuri, he grimaced.
“You can’t escape!”
Ashallah’s focus turned to the newly arrived unit, where from among the fold a guard emerged. Judging from the rows of black armor scales that stretched across his chest, Ashallah took him for a commander.
“Drop your weapons,” he demanded as he stepped to the front of the guards.
“I’ll slit his throat. I swear it!” Ashallah retorted.
“I believe you. There is no need for that.”
“Step away!”
“I can’t do that. You must surrender.”
“So your dogs can tear me to shreds!”
The commander looked to his guards, where he found averted eyes and sideways glances. “An unfortunate consequence of poor discipline. My men and their captains should know better. Their transgressions will be dealt with. But so must yours.”
“Really? Mine? You and your soldiers lock women away for no good reason. For months, years even.”
“The women we arrest and hold violate the Law.”
“Your law.”
“Jaha’s Law! From He who makes the rules we must obey. From He who made us.” The commander beat his fist against the scaled breast armor. His subordinates did likewise.
To that, Ashallah ground her teeth. She knew every word she muttered was a waste of her breath. A woman’s wisdom was but a fool’s idea to their minds.
The echo of their fists beating against their armor echoed hollowly behind Ashallah. She realized that such a sound could only mean one thing: a dead end. She suspected that the male warriors before her had no idea; otherwise, they would be so much smugger in their encroachment upon her. No, the darkness that lurked at her rear still held their confidence at bay. For how much longer, though, Ashallah could not say.
With her words having no sway on the men, Ashallah’s hand tightened, as if affirming her intentions. Her left hand – with her fingers firmly in the guard’s coarse hair – pulled his head back as her right hand edged her khukuri into the man’s neck to draw three trickles of blood. The guard at her mercy rose to his feet. Ashallah remained behind him, pushing him forward as the two inched along the wall.
“Back! Back now!” she yelled.
At first, the guards and soldiers did not oblige. A flick of the hand by their commander changed their resolve. They retreated from Ashallah and her captive as they made their way past.
If I can make it back to the main corridor, she thought. The way would be open to me. I will be able to slink into the shadows. Their advantage of numbers would be lost. As in night, I would dominate in the darkness. If only . . .
The commander parted from his retreating guards to approach Ashallah. Ashallah responded by digging the edge of her khukuri deeper into the skin of her captive, who winced as blood dripped down his neck.
“I told you . . .” she started.
“I know, I know. Still, you must realize that this is your last chance. Surrender now and maybe at least a handful of my men will have mercy on you before you stand trial.”
“Stay back!”
“You will not escape.”
“My khukuri says otherwise.”
“As you wish.” The commander bowed his head as he stepped away. He was amongst the other guards before he made the most unexpected of moves: he turned his back toward her.
Ashallah’s grip loosened, to the point where she nearly dropped her khukuri. Her shock deepened as the guards around the commander fell in line behind him, albeit with less gravitas. Together, they retreated to the holding area.
The patter of droplets on the dirt drew Ashallah’s attention near. She looked at the ground to find the liquid close to her. Very close. It was then she noticed her captive quivering.
“Dear Jaha! You coward!”
The guard, who on the street above would have been mistaken for a man of power, replied like anything but one. “Please . . . surrender . . .”
“Piss yourself all you want. You won’t get any sympathy from me.”
“They’ll kill us both!”
“Then I’ll . . .”
Ashallah felt the captive tear away from her. With her khukuri firmly in her suddenly blood-soaked hand, she knew that the guard had cut his throat deeply in the process. He stumbled on, away from Ashallah, who just stood and watched. Something was unsettling about his behavior, a new set of fear that transcended whatever affect her khukuri had had on him until then.
“Please . . .” the man cried through gurgles of his blood. “Don’t release them! Let me into the holding area. Or an empty cell. Please!
Release them? The words reverberated through Ashallah’s mind as echoes reverberating from stonewalls. They repeated over and again as she hurried backward and turned to run down the main corridor, away from the light of the holding area. Soon the darkness was around her, along with the desperate words of the dying man at the other end.
“Wait . . . don’t . . .”
His wails followed.
Ashallah, for all her curiosity, fought the urge to look over her shoulder. She suspected his culprits, even though she knew of them only in legends and half-drunk stories. For all her years of fighting, she had never seen her newfound foes. Only those who had worked or visited the catacombs – the lesser type of soldiers and guards relegated to watch duty – had heard or even seen their presence. Turquoise they were called. Sons and daughters of both jinn and the unfortunate women they impregnated. Monsters.
As the wails of her former captive ceased, so Ashallah’s pace quickened. The clap of feet on stone behind sparked her onward still for she knew the speed of the turquoise was not to be taken lightly. Their growls soon came within earshot, each one louder than the one before. Ashallah pressed on, her legs aching as she pumped them furiously. Still, the turquoise gained ground.
The tunnels ahead laid enveloped in pitch, speckled with bursts of sunlight from the grates on the streets above. Had time been more of an ally, Ashallah could have afforded pause to figure out how to ascend the thirty or so feet to the neighborhoods of Yasem. The stones, some dry while others wet from discarded water and waste, reminded her that was not her luxury. For they echoed both her steps and the turquoise.
Closer, she realized. They draw closer.
The sparse light from the grates soon became less frequent. I am leaving the heart of the city, she told herself, as both her legs and her heart raced. Even the stones took on a different sense, feeling brittle beneath her feet, and carrying an odd stench, one of decay. Of suffering.
More cells, Ashallah thought. Another holding area. Where am I?
Even more than before, the paths and tunnels curved in a dizzying array. Each turn led to a weaving cavern of stones that offered no light, only darkness and the faint hope that they would continue rather than end. Some even seemed to circle round and again, so that Ashallah felt she was backtracking, drawing closer to the turquoise rather than further away.
Then she saw it. Finally. A beacon of hope. A lone sconce on the wall ahead. Lit.
One of the turquoise in her wake hollered with a voice so boisterous Ashallah thought her ears would burst. She rushed to the sconce, fighting through the burn in her thighs, the fatigue of her body. Upon reaching the thin flicker of light, she found another beyond. Followed by a second. When she reached the third, the path finally widened, with the tunnel ending before a dry riverbed.
Forty, maybe fifty feet, laid between her and the other side, where more sconces laid lit, and a row of tunnels beckoned her. A sandstone arch spanned the riverbed, a remnant of an underground aqueduct gone dry, a product of antiquity Yasem had long forgotten. With the growls and cries of the turquoise upon her ears, she hurried ahead, not caring what obstacles or foes she met on the opposing bank. Ashallah leapt into the bed. To her surprise, she found her first step met not by dry dirt but sludge. She lost her footing, head forward into the muck. She tucked her head to roll through it twice over, stopping in a crouched position on firmer ground. Only then did she look back, to gauge the distance she had come.
Then there they were. In the same tunnel from which she had emerged. One at first. Then two more. Finally, five in all. Turquoise. Two females and three males, from what Ashallah could venture to guess by examining the creatures in their rags and filth. Despite their grim appearance, Ashallah could discern that they were children of jinn. Their eyes burned as sapphires backlit, with a hue of blue that was far from comforting. Rather, to look upon it filled one with a sense of dread. Their skin, although covered in grime, displayed streaks and blots of turquoise, no doubt passed down from their paternal lineage. Then there was their script. Singular words and letters on some parts of their bodies. Two or three pairings on others. Hardly enough for phrases and sentences. Ashallah doubted that if one were to read the script aloud, the chants would hold enough power to subdue them.
The turquoise closest to Ashallah bared her teeth. Jagged razors they were, stained brown and green by years of decay. She leaned forward as if to jump forward.
In response, Ashallah rose slowly, her eyes never leaving the sapphire orbs of the beast.
Run.
The roar of a thousand midnight warriors was no match for that of the turquoise. Ashallah beat her feet on the packed sand of the dry river, ignoring any sense of exhaustion she had. The first roar was followed by a string of others, each more impactful than the one before. Columns of sand and dust fell to the ground. Ashallah snaked through them as best as she could and ignored the granules in her eyes when she could not. Through the stinging tears and grating particles in her eyes, she spotted the other side of the bank. If only I can make it, she thought. Only a little further.
The turquoise gained on Ashallah. One female – who had stood closest to Ashallah only a moment earlier – swiped at her legs. The meaty part of her hand caught Ashallah’s calf, sending her somersaulting forward once again. This time though, Ashallah drew her khukuri blades. The turned on her side, propped on her elbows and jumped to her feet in a defensive stance.
“Come on, you bitch!” Ashallah screamed.
She expected a wave of growls and cries to meet her, along with the teeth and blue-eyed scowls she had met shortly before. The five turquoise were indeed there. At a short distance. Fearsome yet somehow subdued. They stared forward, but not at Ashallah.
Ashallah looked over her shoulder, at the bank of the dry river, which stood feet away.
“Five Doors of Hell . . .” she murmured as she dropped her khukuris.175Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMHv7FgaPJ5
