Rashaka’s Justice

By
K. Karaki

Ten men knelt in the sand, arms tied behind them. Soldiers stood guard over them, some
on foot, and others on horseback. A group of horsemen rode up to the group. The head
rider dismounted and took off her plumed helmet, letting her flowing red hair fall in
ringlets to her waist. She was dressed in full chainmail, and wore two short swords at her
hips. But most prominent was the massive spear she carried. This she handed to the
soldier on her right while turning to the captain on her left, who saluted.

“Milady, we pursued the raiders as far north as the Noire Pass. We caught up with them
last night. These are the survivors.”

The woman walked down the line of captives until she came to the one on the end of the
line. She bent over and pushed up the filthy sleeve of his torn tunic to reveal a black
tattoo on his shoulder. It was the crude figure of a clawed hand.

“Bacthana eno Arcto-fhain?” she asked him. “Bear-Clan?”

The captive, startled to be addressed in his own tongue, only nodded.

“You are far from your homes,” she continued in the raider’s tongue. “You have come
against my people by night with fire and sword. What punishment should you receive?”

“Matrochi,” replied the raider, using the title meaning Queen or High Mother. “We
expect no other fate than the one given our brothers last night. Those who live by their
swords, as we do, perish on the swords of others. Such is Astarte’s will.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose slightly.

“Bravely spoken. But I am not Astarte that I should delight in the blood of men. Yonder
are your homes,” she said, pointing at the distant mountains. “They are yours.”

The captives all looked up, hope coming into their eyes for the first time.

“Go and tell your people of the fates of your fhain-brothers!”

She then took the jaw of the first captive in her hand.

“Listen, gnarr, and listen well: your life is mine, yes?”

The captive tribesman only gulped and nodded.

“It is mine to give and mine to take away, yes?”

“As the Matrochi says, it is true.”

“Then, by the gods, I give it to you, just as I took it from your brothers yesterday. But
you shall return to your homes with far more than a story to tell…”

With that, she whipped out a dagger with her free hand and slashed a deep line across the
tribesman’s forehead. Simultaneously, nine other soldiers did the same to the remaining
captives. Screams of agony filled the air as blood flowed freely down their faces. The
Lady strode down the line.

“Listen well, O wolves of the steppes! Your lives are mine, and I give them back to you.
You bear my mark upon your bodies, to show the tribes my justice and remind them of
my mercy. But hearken well: if any raider in my lands is found with my mark upon his
head, then on that day, I will take back what is mine! GO!”

Their bonds cut, the captives leapt to their feet and ran for the distant mountains,
clutching their wounds. The woman remounted her horse and retook her war-spear.

“For this is the oath and bond of RASHAKA, the Giver and Taker of Life!”