S'aahiri

The frigid evening air of Tagaya struck S’aahiri and took her breath like a sparring pole to her chest. The hide hanging that kept the cold from T’aakshi’s home fell to the floor behind her, and she finally allowed the anger that had been boiling deep in the back of her mind to flood through her, filling her veins like the burning cold glacial waters all around them.

Mura had remained with Shi a little longer, for which S’aahiri was deeply grateful. She knew how broken Shi must have been feeling, the unearned guilt that must claw at him. She felt it too on her worst nights, even years removed from her mother’s disappearance.

Her friend would need as much companionship and support as she and Mura could provide. Mura was much better at this than her, always knowing when a joke or arm around the shoulder was the right thing. She would do her best, of course. Honour demanded nothing less. But there were other ways that S’aahiri could support her friend, ways more suited to her than Mura. First, though, she would need to stop past her own home.

She set off; her face set in a fierce scowl, stalking through the winding paths that led towards her home. Freshly frozen dirt crunched beneath her feet, and moonlight set a silver sheen across the village. The village was deathly silent, most folk already in their homes and preparing for another day of work in the biting cold, but in the distance, she could make out the faint sounds of cheer and laughter.

Those still out, mostly the hunters returned from the day’s hunt, would be drinking in celebration of their success. S’aahiri’s eyes narrowed at the thought, another wave of cold fury washing over her. Her pace quickened.

She didn’t live far, and in what felt like moments, she had cut between a pair of hide-covered shacks and arrived at her own. It was a modest size, rounded to match the rest and smothered in a patchwork of tattered skins several months past needing to be replaced. Caring for the place was really a two person task, and though she tried her damnest, their home was gradually slipping further and further into disrepair.

Stepping inside, she glanced around the main living area, basking for a moment in the firepit’s warmth before her eyes found her father. He lay a few feet back from the fire, face pressed against the dirt floor, passed out. The reek of stale ibi’ato filled the room. Her father brewed it himself from what he grew and shared with nobody. If the village found out he did this, the shame would be colossal. Food and drink were to be shared with everybody, not hoarded like a Southerner.

In years past, the sight of her father like this would have stoked her anger like nothing else. Now, her shoulders just sank as she took in, yet again, what he had become. S’aahiri stepped around him, pausing only to check he was still breathing, and stepped into her corner of their home, pulling the hide curtain around herself, creating a small space for her to change in privacy.

She emerged clad in her hunting gear, and breathed a sigh of relief. Her formal wear was loose and light, and gave plenty of freedom as she moved. Yet never was she more at ease than when wearing this. The familiar weight of the leather plates that protected her torso and thighs gave all the comfort she would ever need, and her right hand found its usual resting place atop the hilt of her mother’s simply carved bone dagger.

It was all the woman had left behind, besides what was in S’aahiri’s memories and today had been the first time in a long time she had left home without it. She had come back especially for it. The clothes were a comfort, but the blade would be necessary for what was to come.

She left as quietly as she had entered, her father not so much as stirred as she stepped past his prone form. S’aahiri breathed deep the crisp air outside, relishing the escape from the odour of old booze and sweat. She took a moment to savour it, before squaring her shoulders and setting off towards the faint laughter she had heard earlier.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Before, she had strode purposefully through the village to get what she needed from her home. Now that she had, her gait had become a distinct prowl. She still moved quickly, but now there was a smoothness to her, like a seal gliding through the depths, ready to twist and turn in any direction at a moment’s notice. The drinking tent was by far the largest structure in the village, and came into view faster than she had expected, and S’aahiri licked her drying lips, trying to relax her muscles as she approached. There was no guarantee her quarry was here, after all.

She slipped past a handful of folk drinking outside, nodding back at the few who acknowledged her as she did so, and ducked inside the tent. Inside, the sound of celebration hit her like a club. The shouting and laughter of what had to be at least two dozen men and women filled the space alongside the clinking of mugs and scraping chairs.

S’aahiri scanned the interior, looking for the face of her prey. Barrels lined the rear of the room, each containing alcohol brewed from any of the few things they could actually grow, and folk helped themselves to what they liked. They filled the centre of the room, clusters of people stood or sitting around tables that surrounded the large firepit in the very middle of the tent, sharing stories of the day’s hunt, or stories of hunts long since past, or even just the day’s gossip from the village itself.

A successful hunt turned the place as it was now, full of good cheer and humour as folk enjoyed the certainty that came with a healthy supply of food. This made her quarry exceptionally easy to spot.

T’aarak sat by himself, clutching a half-cup of something alcoholic. He swayed slightly in his seat, eyes not really focusing on everything. Folk pointedly had their backs to him, and as S’aahiri waited for him to move, she more than once caught another shooting him a disdainful glare. Was that because of what happened at the shrine, or had he caused trouble here, too?

It didn’t matter. He could have spent the rest of the day entertaining orphans for all S’aahiri cared. It would not ease the bitter anger feeding her muscles, nor would it change what she was here to do.

Finally, T’aarak stood. He staggered across the tent, knocking and bumping into what seemed like every person along the way to the door before stumbling through to the outside. S’aahiri followed, keeping a safe distance between herself and the older man. She didn’t think he would notice her even if she pulled up beside him, but it was better to be safe.

She let him bumble away from the tent, walking in an unsteady zigzag along the dirt path until he suddenly veered off of it, out of sight. S’aahiri frowned, breath caught in her throat. Had he seen her? It wasn’t possible, surely? She edged towards the tent he had wandered behind, being careful not the let herself cast a shadow against the hide lining it. A frustrated breath escaped her as her ears caught the tell-tale sound of trickling liquid and a contented sigh coming from the direction T’aarak had gone.

Still, he had taken himself off of the path, and out of sight. As long as she was quiet, this was perfect. The trickling stopped, only to be followed by the uneven crunch of T’aarak’s boots as he tried to make his way back to the path. She crouched on the balls of her feet, muscles taut. The crunch came closer, and S’aahiri held her breath, her left hand’s fingers curling around the hilt of her mother’s dagger.

T’aarak rounded the corner, and S’aahiri pounced. Her right elbow met the man’s face with all her bodyweight behind it, the sickening crunch of impact nearly muffling his pained grunt. He toppled back, falling into snow like a sack of beets. S’aahiri crouched beside him as he clutched at his nose, groaning.

His eyes found hers, and she watched as blind panic morphed into anger and immediately shifted back to fear as her dagger met his throat.

“Don’t speak,” she ground out, and he nodded in response, eyes wide and desperate.

S’aahiri grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him half-upright, keeping the blade tight to his neck. To his credit, T’aarak didn’t so much as flinch now that he was prepared for pain, even as wasted as he was.

“I’ll be brief. I don’t care what you think about T’aakshi and I don’t give a shit what you think happened on that hunt. It means less than nothing to me. But if you dare lay your hands on him, or anybody else I care about—”

She hauled him up by his hair and leant towards him, making her gaze as hard as iron.

“—I’ll take those hands from you. Do we understand each other, T’aarak?”

He nodded, glaring at her despite the dagger pressing into his throat.

“Good,” she said icily, dropping him back into the snow. “Go home, T’aarak. Sleep off the drink—it makes you act a fool, and you’re above that.”

S’aahiri didn’t wait for a response. She span on her heel and strode away towards her home, half-listening to make sure he did nothing even more foolish than he already had.

There would be consequences for what she had done. There always were. But those were tomorrow’s problems, and for now, she could sleep easy knowing that she had done right by her friend.