Siban sat on the outskirts of a ruined battlefield, wondering how many people he had killed since the day the knots inside him had been undone. He removed his large, embroidered headdress, which was fashioned in the shape of a leopard, and placed it on the ground beside him. There were still some fires burning, but a light rain had begun, washing the blood from the grass and dousing the flames.
The metallic odor of blood tinged the wind as it mixed with freshly-slicked mud. Smoke rose from bodies that had been set alight, and Siban noticed that the smoke smelled like piss. He caught the scent of burning flesh and fabric, pungent as rotting venison on a spit. When he was a new hunter, the smell had been enough to make him vomit, but now it barely even made his eyes water.
There were still some screams ringing. Some of his hunters were walking among the fallen enemy, looting them for anything valuable and killing any who had survived. Siban never took part in this part of the butchery. There was no honor in killing a man while he was on the ground.
Siban sighed and leaned back, watching the soft rain pelt his face. He could scarcely remember what it was like to be young, to not have all the aches and pains of age. Now he needed someone to help him onto his horse, and though his headdress hid it while he was in battle, his hair had begun to thin.
Some of his hunters were carrying their dead away. Siban recognized a few of the bodies as they were carried past. Many were new hunters — trained by Siban himself — and they never got a chance to become old and tired of war.
A figure approached Siban from the crowd. Torgan was taller than Siban, but his head was entirely clean shaven. His armor was worn and fraying in many places, but he still refused to get a new set made for him. He sat next to Siban, tossing his sword to the ground next to Siban’s own blade.
“You froze,” he said. “Up on the hill. What happened?”
“Maybe I got scared, Torgan.”
“Siban, I know you better than that. The Leopard of Asjare does not get scared. Tell me the truth.”
“I killed a girl. No older than fifteen. She was probably forced to fight.”
“She would have killed you, given the chance,” Torgan said. His voice was deadpan and almost lazy; they’ve had this conversation so many times before.
“Yes, but she didn’t. I did. Does that make it better?”
“Nonetheless,” he said. “Catching the Omnu while they were on the hill was masterwork, Siban. You saved lives today.”
“I didn’t do much,” Siban said. He shook his head, as if he wished that it was true.
“You led the charge. I saw how the hunters looked at you. We wouldn’t have won without you leading us.”
Siban was about to answer, but they were approached by a young woman, who dismounted from her horse and gave them a crisp salute. Naren had always reminded Siban of a falcon, with her sharp features and piercing gaze.“Siban, we’ve secured the river. No more Omnu hunters on either side,” she said. “My hunters managed to cut them off as they tried to flank us.”
“Well done,” Siban said. “Though I only recall asking you to reinforce the right flank’s ascent.”
“I saw their force beginning to split, so I made a judgement call.”
Siban laughed. “No need for humility, Naren. You did well. Were there any casualties?”
Naren’s face fell. “Three. Usun, Mide, and Bukha. They were good hunters.”
“May Gaeon ride with them.”
“If there’s nothing else, I should go help out the medical corps. Bor probably has his head buried in a surgery, so they’ll need some supervision.”
She didn’t even wait for him to respond. Within a moment, she was gone.
“You were right about her,” Torgan said. The rain pattered down around them, but the smell of blood still lingered. “She’s one of the good ones.”
“She’ll be a better master of hunters than I’ve been.”
“The tribe still has not accepted her.”
“I know that. But I have faith in her.”
“Nevertheless, better than the Leopard of Asjare? That will be a difficult feat.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got too much blood on my hands, Torgan. I was a warrior, but that’s not what the tribe needs. They need a leader.”
“Why are you saying this, today of all days?”
“I’m tired, Torgan. How many times have we fought together? Two hundred? Three hundred? How many souls will I have to answer for when I pass into the wind?”
“All the same, you don’t get to choose what battles we fight, Siban.”
—
Siban got off his horse, cradling his arm. He looked around and found his practice sword, which Naren had knocked out of his hand just a few moments before.
“Good one,” he said, approaching her. “Though you could’ve aimed a little lower. If only so my arm won’t sting as much.”
“The hero of the Battle of the Empty Hills is complaining about a sore arm?”
“I’m not as young as I used to be, Naren. Maybe it’s time for the younger generation to show some respect.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve still got a few good years in you. Or rather, a few more years of me beating you.”
“I’m sure your father would be proud. Slapping around his old friend like a tree in a storm. What will you do next?”
“Don’t tempt me. Maybe I’ll take you down in a wrestling match.”
“He might have enjoyed that. He couldn’t beat me at swords, but barehanded, he was always better.”
He laughed, and when he looked at Naren, he realized how much he missed her father.
“They wouldn’t let me go with them,” Naren said.
“What?” Siban looked up, and he saw that Naren’s firm posture had faded away.
“The hunters I led during the raid. They went for a hunt today. I heard it was something about training, but they didn’t let me know. Imagine that, their lead hunter had no idea what they were doing.”
“What were their names? I’ll knock some sense into them.”
“That doesn’t matter, Siban!” she snapped. “They still see me as different, even after all these years. I get it, I’m from the Omnu camps, but I’ve lived my entire life here. Don’t they get it?”
Siban ran his hand through his hair. “Naren, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s about your father.”
“What does he have to do with it?”
“He wasn’t just one of the Omnu hunters. He was the master of hunters, one of their best warriors in the early years of the war. His name was Nayaga, but after a while…they started to call him the Butcher.”
Naren nodded slowly. “And?”
“He was…he killed so many of us. Raided our camps. Drove us to the brink of defeat.”
“I thought you said he was your best friend.”
“He was. We trained together, faced the world together. But he changed. During the war, I mean, and it all happened after I had to flee the Omnu camps, so I don’t know what happened. I don’t think I ever will.”
Naren was quiet for a long time. “He didn’t die from a riding accident, did he?”
Siban shook his head.
“What happened to him?”
“Naren, I don’t think now is the best time.”
“Tell me!” she said. He met her eyes, and he was surprised to see enough fire in them to burn down the entire Steppe. Then her gaze softened, and he saw that there were tears on her cheeks. “Please. No lies this time.”
Siban hesitated, took a deep breath, and then he told her.
—
“I never thought I’d find you here,” Siban said, facing his best friend in a field of blood.
Nayaga turned around, removing his sword from the chest of one of Siban’s hunters. He grinned and spread his arms, like he was greeting an old friend. “What did you expect? That we’d manage to avoid each other?”
“I thought that you were different, Nayaga. Different from them.” He gestured at the Omnu hunters, who were busy retreating across the hills, emptying their hideout after a decisive Asjare raid. Siban’s hunters pursued them, arrows trained on undefended backs, swords pointed at unhorsed hunters.
“What is it they call you now? The Leopard of Asjare? A title inscribed with blood. Maybe you’re the one I was wrong about.”
Siban didn’t wait for a reply. His sword came flashing, not a practice sword anymore, and twilight’s fading rays danced off the polished metal. Nayaga’s sword came to meet his, and Siban felt his former friend resist his strike like a tree standing against a storm.
Nayaga stepped to the side and lunged forward, and Siban caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were like tiny pinpricks of firelight, burning with no regard for what came after, and the sword came flying in front of him. Siban dodged the blow, and he saw the blood drip from a wound from Nayaga’s temple.
Nayaga stumbled for a moment, the savagery of his lunge getting the better of him. And Siban saw his chance. His hand went before him, sinking a clenched fist into Nayaga’s gut. Nayaga gasped for breath, and the look Siban got from his eyes was no longer fear, but wide-eyed betrayal. Siban paid no attention and before Nayaga could recover, he slammed his own sword into Nayaga’s chest. There was a sickening crunch as the blade sank deep between the ribs and rent apart flesh. A piercing scream rang out across the hills.
Nayaga’s eyes widened, but otherwise, his face remained neutral. He fell to his knees, Siban’s sword still buried in his chest.
“Don’t know what I was playing at. You were always better at swordplay,” he gasped.
Siban knelt beside his friend, clasping his hand, but he could already feel Nayaga’s strength begin to fail. His palms dripped with blood and no matter what he did, he couldn’t wipe it away. He caught the smell of blood and he had to choke back some vomit.
“Saenor’s scales,” Siban muttered. “Let me call the medical corps. They can still save you.”
“And then what? Live the rest of my life in chains? Leave it be, Siban. It’s done.”
“But there must be something I can do.”
Nayaga hesitated a moment, eyes full of worry. “I have a daughter. Back in the camps. I want you to take care of her. Can you do that for me?”
Siban didn’t have a chance to respond. His friend’s grip grew slack, and it was like a knot came loose inside of Siban’s chest. Something came loose, and then it felt like everything inside was crashing down.
—
He shook his head, but he could not escape the sound of his sword burrowing into Nayaga’s chest and the scream that followed after. To this day, he couldn’t be sure if it was his scream or Nayaga’s.
Naren fell to her knees, and Siban couldn’t blame her.
“That’s why it’s so hard for them to accept you,” Siban said. Then he tightened his fists. “And that’s why I can never forgive them for what they made me do.”
Then Naren got to her feet and wiped the tears from her face. “Okay.” She went back to her horse and began preparing the saddle.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” Siban asked. “Aren’t you angry with me?”
“Why would I be? You said it yourself, right? You didn’t have a choice.”
“I don’t understand.”
Naren turned to face him. “The man you talked about…he wasn’t my father. I thought he was for a while, but he never was. You are. And this tribe is my tribe, whether or not they accept me. It doesn’t matter where I came from. I thought that you of all people would understand that.”
“But then you should be angry with the chief. Or the hunters. Or Nayaga. Just…someone.”
She shrugged. “I guess that’s the difference between you and me. You keep the pain knotted so close to your heart thinking that it’ll save you. But believe me, Siban, it won’t. So, I’m done letting it suffocate me.”
Before he could answer, horns blared in the distance. His eyes grew wide from fear, and from the way Naren’s posture slackened, he could tell that she took its meaning.
“Two blasts,” he said. “A raid.”
Naren closed her eyes, and Siban knew that she was listening for the sound of hooves. He waited a few moments, then she opened her eyes. “Bad. Very bad. A thousand, maybe more, not counting outriders. Looks like the attack from two weeks ago was just a diversion.”
“We’re spread too thin, as is. And we’re not ready for another battle.”
The screams grew louder in Siban’s ears, and for a moment, they were all he could hear. He pictured himself charging into battle again, blanketing the soil with the blood of his enemies. The thought made his limbs seize up, almost making him fall to his knees.
“I can’t,” he said. “The camp is lost. Come with me, Naren. We have our horses. We can ride until we reach Harnda territory. We can find refuge there.”
But she was already shaking her head. “No. I won’t leave them. And neither should you.”
“I made a promise to your father, Naren. Let me keep that promise.”
“Fight with me, then. We can do it together.”
“They aren’t even your people. Why do you still care about them and Chief Hulegu’s pointless war?”
“Like I said, they’re my people. And this is my war.”
“I can’t fight another battle for them, Naren.”
“Then I was wrong about you, too. You really are just a warrior,” she said, mounting her horse.
Siban looked around him, his eyes settling on the leopard headdress on the ground beside them. He grabbed it and raised it to his chest. His hands would not stop shaking, and as he looked into the leopard’s eyes, he had the sudden, jarring realization that this would be the last battle the Leopard would ever fight.
—
The people of Asjare gathered in a large tent that seemed to rise into the sky. At their center was a stone slab with a lifeless body on top. The tent was crowded with solemn figures; all chieftains from neighboring herding camps were present, and some Harnda chiefs had decided to attend as well.
The body on the stone slab was clad in the traditional armor of the master of hunters, and its face was obscured by a large, leopard-shaped headdress.
The ceremony continued as any nomad funeral would, except the rites were said by Torgan, the new master of hunters, instead of the head priest. The proper words were said, the body was burned, and the Leopard of Asjare passed into the wind.
The tent cleared out quickly once the funeral rites ended. Many of those gathered had their own people to grieve — sons, daughters, fathers, mothers — and the Leopard’s was only one in a long string of losses to befall the tribe.
Only Torgan and a single hooded figure, who knelt in front of the slab, remained to watch as the last embers faded.
“Does anyone know?” the figure said.
“No. I made sure that no one else was allowed to examine the body.”
“And what about Naren?”
“They think that she fled to the Harnda camps.”
“Good,” the figure said, finally removing the hood.
“Was it worth it? Was her life worth yours?” Torgan asked, looking Siban in the eye. He could see the pain in his friend’s eyes, but he still could not find it in himself to forgive.
“If they found out that a daughter of Omnu died in the place of the Leopard of Asjare, the camp would fall apart. It had to be done.”
“I don’t care about all that, Siban. You let her die.”
“You were right about one thing. The hunters needed the Leopard, or we would’ve lost. They didn’t need me; they needed a symbol.”
“Now they have a martyr.”
“I didn’t think it would turn out like this. I thought that she would live, that she could fight in my place until I was allowed to retire.”
“You don’t choose the battles we fight, Siban,” Torgan said.
“I know,” he said, staring into the ashes, wishing that he could let go of the pain. But it didn’t matter anymore. Another knot came loose again, and Siban felt himself come crashing down.
