By Ashley Naron
It was late in the afternoon. She’d been sitting and sunning herself, but the sun was not shining as strongly as it could be, the breeze was cooler than she would have liked, and her bones hurt. She was getting old. One of the pups – her daughter’s second youngest son, she assumed (who could keep track?) – scampered up yipping about something his sister had done. She growled and clacked her jaws at him, and he skipped away. She thought about chasing him down and biting him, but thought better of it. Such things were beneath her dignity.
Her dignity, ha. Not so old, yet. She laughed a bit to herself. Not so old as to be complained at by a pup. Did she appear so weak? Was she a leader, or not? She had more important things to do than referee a fight between the young – they should sort it out for themselves. They were nearly old enough to begin training for war anyway.
The smell of blood and death wafted through her nostrils. Such a sweet smell, and so welcome – but just a memory of days past.
Yes, the war. She did need to attend to business. Using her scythe for support, she lifted herself from the ground and made to head back inside. She had reports to consider. With the blockade, they were running short on supplies. Her people were not starving – not yet – but soon enough it might become a more pressing concern.
Her grey jowls shifted into a snarl; a thin string of drool dripped from her jaws.
And besides, she did not want to die cowering with an empty belly and aching bones. She longed to die with her enemy’s blood filling her guts, their life spilling out onto cold ground. She longed to do battle. Longed to snatch the lives from the bodies of those invaders. Longed to teach them an important lesson – not to fuck with her world. Rage began creeping its way up her spine – the red-hot sting of it welcome in sore muscles. She let out a cackle and forced it away.
But she was old, and she had to lead her people to battle. She had learned that sometimes leading meant doing what was best in the long run, and not what felt best right now. Death dealing could wait for the opportune moment; she needed to consider the rations more presently. She stretched, her muscles pulled taut, and her aches receded. She scratched at one notched ear with her bad paw, and yawned wide, showing a fearsome mouth with only a few missing teeth. To business, then.
The first wail sounded loud and long as she reached the doorway. She froze. Her heart hammered. She had seen and felt and known and delivered enough death that she knew grief when she heard it. She turned, and ran towards the sound.
“But the enemy hasn’t made it this far, yet!” She knew that – the reports on their movements came in not even one day ago.
“We hid this site for a reason! We needed to breed more warriors! They can’t know where we are!” She knew that – she’d been the one to select the location.
“My oldest is guarding! They could not slip by her so easily!” She remembered the first time she saw Fisi laughing in battle – remembered how proud she was as she saw her firstborn daughter cleave an enemy’s head from his neck like she was born to it.
And she was born to it, like her mother before her.
The first of her people she saw fall that day was a child. She dropped her weapon – the first time in her life that she had done so without thinking – and knelt next to it’s small body. She rolled him over and saw that it was one of hers – the young pup. Was it a grandson or a great grandson? She struggled to remember. She could not think what he was called. But she knew those spots, as surely as she knew all of them.
She knelt on the cool ground, and cradled him. He was still warm. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth, his eyes, his ears. So much blood – his fur was wet with it. She had seen that before, yes. Tasted it. Reveled in it. But there was no wound! No reason for this death! It was a waste! He stared sightlessly upward, his unblinking eyes reflecting her visage.
A thud, to her left. She turned in time to see another child fall – this one a bit older; this one a girl. The pup thrashed on the ground, clawing at her own throat, heels kicking the red earth, eyes bugging out of her sockets.
“It looks like she’s drowning,” Shujaa thought.
She lunged for the living child, paws digging in her pockets, hoping that she had though to bring any supplies with her. Please, let her have anything on her that could stop this!
She did not have anything that could have stopped this.
More wailing, more thuds, the sounds of panic, fear, chaos. Music to her on the battlefield, but not here. Not for her people. Not like this. There was nothing worthy in this.
She felt bile rise in the back of her throat. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Was she going to be sick? Was her constitution going to fail her like this – now? She had laughed when they cut her mate down in front of her, cackled when they robbed her of her first son, ripped the throats from their warriors when they dared to threaten her village. She would not heave her guts over a few dead pups!
No. She tasted blood bubbling at the back of her throat. Her breath began to run short. She gagged, spit – blood on red, red earth.
Not like this, not like this. She had never been afraid to take the long walk, but not like this. She had prayed to die in battle – and not like this. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and her paw came away red. She inhaled deeply – and her lungs burned. She looked towards the sky, and suddenly found it hazy.
The air did not smell right. It was not right!
And then, she knew. She knew what the elves had done. What retribution they had wrought. She laughed – her war-cry filled the air – something in her twisted and turned and burned. And it was pain. Oh Gods, it was pain. More pain than the time a pinky’s sword sliced through her leg – more pain than losing her right ear. More pain than all the wounds and all the aches she’d accumulated over her long life. She never imagined being in so much pain.
She crawled her way over to the pup as it continued to kick and thrash. The girl tried to reach for her, though the muscle spasms made the gesture impossible. Shujaa felt her own muscles beginning to twitch, but continued onwards. She coughed wetly, felt more blood in her mouth and on her tongue. She reached the pup, and brought it into her arms.
“It will only hurt for a moment more.”
She covered the child’s eyes, and drug her dagger across the pup’s throat. The blood splattered her face, and it was warm. The child kicked once more, and lay still. Would that she could do it for all of them, but she did not think she had the strength to move further. Knew she did not. Her body contorted without her say-so, and she drew in on herself. The dagger dropped from her grip.
While she could, she prayed. To Goddamas, to Echpen, to Grim, to Regality, to Relanegi. And, to Armadel. Let each one of her people’s deaths be a sacrifice. For each one of them that dies, let ten, or twenty, or a thousand of those fucking elves die in response. Let them be avenged.
“Please, avenge us.”
But she could not pray for long. The pain overtook even her. Black and red crept across her vision, the smell and the taste of her own blood overwhelmed her senses, and her mind became consumed by pain.
She laughed. Blood-tears sprang from her eyes, ran down her face, and the cackling poured with it from between her gristle-soaked lips. It did not stop until her soul lifted free.
(Written by Ashley Naron)