The Last Daughter of Hyphae

Chapter 7

Arrows rained down onto the soldiers from multiple points on the cliffs; from dozens of other arrow-wielding girls like Atta hiding in the trees. They each had trained for this as soon as they could walk, knowing how to work together, and sense each other's next draw through years of practiced rhythm. It was an old strategy, its roots stretching as far back as the Hyphae who also had the power to synch their thoughts as well as their bodies. Or so the legend said. 

In this moment the ancient strategy worked as well as ever. Atta and the others wounded half the men just before their mounted warriors made impact. She smiled and shot three more arrows at the targets below as the fastest riders galloped toward sword-wielding soldiers, roped their necks with lariats and sped away, dragging the enemy bodies behind them. 

She clenched her jaw and blocked out the screams of the men being dragged to death. She had to. 

Behind the galloping women were the archers on horseback who shot arrows forward, backward, left and right, bending their bodies with impressive depth as they guided their charging animals with the slightest movement of their legs and feet. 

Zel led the best of her group's fighters, followed by Eser. They jumped off their horses and charged on foot with swords. They blocked enemy blows, kicked in abdomens, spun on heels and sliced through bodies. Zel threw a knife into the heart of one soldier. Eser stabbed another in the back before reaching forward to slit his open his throat.

Atta's chest squeezed tight. I should be down there, too. She clenched her jaw harder and shot arrow after arrow, feeling the tug of her grandmother's archery ring on her thumb with each release. Yes. Her fingers and arms surged with energy; her heart pounded as her eyes darted up and down the battlefield taking place in the narrow valley below. She aimed beautifully at her targets again and again. This is it.

With her senses and reflexes alive she caught the glimpse of a shadow overhead. Suspended in flight was a falcon, perfectly still. Its dark wings spread wide, the bird was close enough for Atta to see its yellow feet tucked into its white underbelly speckled with dark spots. She wondered why it was there. 

A familiar scream erupted from below.

There was Navena, Zel's sister, clutching her abdomen and falling to her knees. Atta quickly knocked and fired arrows at her assailant. 

She missed. 

Zel sprinted to the scene and thrust her sword into the soldier. 

The back of Atta's neck prickled. A wave of nausea came over her. Is Navena dead? 

Atta's chest tightened even more. She fumbled to ready more arrows but when she scanned the battleground she saw the fight was nearly over: dozens of enemy soldiers lay on the ground, either dead or bleeding; others had already fled on horseback in the other direction. Warriors from her village wandered the battlefield, binding any men who could be brought back to interrogate; finishing any men suffering fatal wounds already. 

A quick victory—almost too quick—and now there was nothing more for Atta to do. Zel picked up her sister's body, whistled for her horse and draped Navena on its shoulders. Then she looked up into the cliffs, searching for the kid who failed to watch her sister. 

Atta crouched, still as a stone. She struggled to breathe. Her face burned while her fingertips turned to ice. 

Zel hopped onto her horse with a loud "Haa!" and held her sister tight as they galloped back to the village as fast as the horse could run. 

"Swallow me into your depths," Atta whispered into the ground as she collapsed onto her left hip. The earth's coolness soaked into her bones. She stiffened and hugged her knees into her chest. She looked at her grandmother's archery ring and its intricate spiral carvings that encircled her thumb. They echoed her swirling stomach. She hugged her knees into her chest and folded her arms over her head.

Soft footsteps approached. "Oh. It's you," said a familiar young voice. "No wonder. Are you coming?" Atta looked up at Eser's younger cousin, Mik. "There are wounded and we need help."

"I'm not going."

"Atta!" shouted Mik and softly kicked Atta in the shoulder with her leather boot. "You are the worst," she spat and wandered down the path to lower ground. Atta looked up to watch her walk away with bow in hand, arrow belt swaying on her waist, coils of dark braids glistening in the midday sun. 

A promising young warrior Vasilka could be proud of.

She closed her eyes and faced the spring sun to feel its warmth. Soon she'll have to admit her failure, her disobedience, her absolute uselessness to everyone. Atta wondered how Ivet was doing, collecting her wild onions. How desperately Atta wished she was there with her. 

Atta dropped her left hand to the ground and clutched at the soft, cool mud. She closed her eyes tight against the hot tears welling inside them. She inhaled with a shudder, knowing she was about to cry. 

A vibration coursed through her left hand. She yanked her hand back and stared at her mud-covered fingers. 

She thought of Vasilka's soil-stained hands. 

The soft mud held the individual curves of her fingers. She bit her lip and placed them back into the ground. 

A frequency hit her fingertips again, softer this time, and traveled up her arm, her shoulder, her neck, her earlobe—

Sssssssssssshhhhhh

A hissing noise rang in her ears and Atta yanked her hand away again. The hissing stopped. She slid her fingers into the folds of mud again. 

Ssssssssshhhhhaaaa

Atta closed her eyes and turned her head. 

Sssshaaaaaaayyyyyy

Sssaaayyyyyyyyyyyy

Aaaaaaayyyyyyyyyy

Awayyy awayyy

AWAY!

Atta yanked her hand out of the mud again just as a sharp scent hit her nostrils, strong and stinging like a man who hadn't washed in days. 

Large, sweaty hands slid around her mouth and throat. Atta grabbed her belted knife and thrust it into his abdomen behind her. The man roared like a lion. She sped around to face him.

The man was larger than any Atta had ever seen, shoulders twice the width of Atta's with massive arms to match. His clothes were filthy; his face red and wind-worn, like he'd been travelling for weeks. "Come with me," he said, holding his wound and leaning against a rock. "Come now."

"No." Atta scanned the ground for her arrows. One lay against a gnarled cedar root. 

"Your people are gone. All of them. We sacked your village while your warriors were all here. Why do you think it was such an easy fight? You stupid villagers." He looked down at the dagger that stuck out of his rounded stomach, pulled it out and threw it into the trees. "And now we're finishing off your fighters."

The way he smiled and looked at her made Atta want to vomit. 

"You'll be worth a handsome sum in the City. I want you intact. Just come with me. Don't make me damage you."

"NO!" she screeched and lunged, plucked the arrow off the ground, jumped as high as she could and drove it into his eye socket before his massive arm could block her. He roared and covered his face with his hands. She snatched her bow from where she left it and fled down the rocky cliff pathway, hurrying toward her village.

She smelled burning. 

She ran through the trees, speeding past corners until she reached the flatland. The smell of fire grew stronger and more sickening. On the ground were hoof prints, footprints and wheel marks in the ground: Wagons. 

She cried out and raced faster to her village.