[Reminder: This story contains explicit sensual content, violence, mature themes, death, and references to trauma/abuse. Reader discretion is advised.]
"He was following you," said a stern, grumbling voice.
Zazi barely made a habit of words; they usually didn't need to. Chief Raino stood in front with two of his commanders, being two of his many sons, and a few other zazi.
"Princess Salīa," Chief Raino made an x with his arms.
The zazi who slashed the archer pulled the weight of the boy by the tuft of his hair. The deceased was a young archer, barely a man, with a baby face as fresh as Magi-mi Chamba. He had cheap and rusted mail and plate, covered by a hooded and unmarked black cloak, concealed with a black mask running from his nose to his neck.
The tall, imposing zazi dropped him in front of them with an impassive toss.
He glanced down at Salīa with an aloof flicker of the eyes and twisted away, making a perfunctory x with his arms at his side.
This was Raki, a third commander and son. It was the fourth commander and younger son, Bazil, who shielded them, who marched to her immediately, his eyes fully pouring down into hers, searching for any sign of hurt.
Then he swept back over to her eyes, gazing. His lips parted to speak.
Just then, Salīa saw a figure in a black mask disappear into the woods, and she ran fast after it, ignoring the calls for her to stop. She ran on, swinging the blade, only to find herself alone in the forest, unable to spot the black mask.
Footsteps pound leading up to her, but it seemed to be coming from all directions. She spun and tried to keep her stance, her heart racing.
She breathed deep, spinning and spinning and then—she lunged, only to have her wrist caught by Raki, staring at her coldly.
The remaining zazi appeared. Chief Raino stared at her sympathetically, then looked to Raki to let go. Bazil stepped between her and him, yet she was too dazed to notice much.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Let's walk to Salazā village," Chief Raino suggested. "It was Pasang, as you know."
An annual affair of some days leading to when the moon is close to full, in which the zazi fasted and rested in the forests for their own prayer.
It was the only time there weren't zazi around. Volunteers and young recruits who trained with them would guard each village at that time.
"We heard screams," said Bazil, staring at Salīa as if wanting to hug her. "We found Sjino and Shumpa were already torn through.
There are many safe in Sana and Sando because of the mountains, and we arrived in time for them.
Silio, we missed too, yet Magi Inio must have just been attacked as we had just rescued some from Silio."
"Let father speak," said Raki, clouting him over the head.
Raki was the third eldest, only older than Bazil by two years, yet often acted as the eldest and the angriest. He always bowed as he was meant to with Salīa, yet as children, he'd have his nose turned up when she and Bazil ran around playing games.
Raki insisted that Bazil act as a soldier and that Salīa be more noble. As a commander of the zazi, he wouldn't dare scold her, yet he kept his unimpressed scowl.
"Shaka, we missed, yet it was flamed recently, as Senai," Chief Raino said.
"And the attackers just left?"
"We missed most of these men, yet those we found have no breath to speak."
"And home?"
The zazi all looked down.
"It was attacked first."
"It's in the center," Salīa nearly yelled. "How?"
"We don't know. We must speak with the ill when they recover."
"What of my family?" she croaked, asking no more when she saw the village.
It was mostly ash. Many homes still stood, broken in, unhinged, ripped of their walls, and robbed of their roofs. There lay trinkets that came out of homes that seemed too heavy to loot.
Bodies lay sprawled across, some burnt to bone, some with rotting flesh wrapped in torn and tattered clothes. Some were naked, with a net of crows and insects that were indulging in their wounds.
Salīa was deafened, and her eyes saw blurs of colors.
The sickly, wan blue mesh of skies blended into the breezy hearth of ashes, which made pathways to the once unyielding homes of commonly native brown-green brick and smoky timber.
There were once many huts made of different, pretty designs and sleek materials that their builders had discovered. Yet in the end, these many huts were no more.
She tried running ahead, yet her legs numbed.
Bazil offered a hand. At the pressed brows of Raki, she shook off her legs and lunged ahead until she saw it. The outer palace.
It was burnt, yet not fully burnt down. Many of the bricks were torn, the once-painted walls of the traveling artists marked in dirt, dents, and blood.
The grassland was soaked in mud and the bodies of the volunteer guards. All lined up around as if made intentionally so.
"Look away, Princess," said Chief Raino.
She didn't. This was her home. She owed those who protected it more than that.
"Who is that?" she turned to the man whose head lifted from the barbican.
Chief Raino made an x above his chest, and the man gestured to others, not in sight, who began to swing up the portcullis.
"There are some who remain. The trespassers couldn't open the gate, yet they tried."
"When did this happen?"
"In this village, yesterday, between morning and evening."
When I was at lessons about love and caring for springboks. When I was dancing around with a bokken and waiting for permission to leave. When I could've been here.
"Mama? Amandla? Awethu?"
"They weren't here with the attack," confirmed Chief Raino. "They already left."
"On the Noblas Veiros?" she asked, hopeful.
Bazil quickly said, "Yes."
"We believe so," Raki corrected, glaring at Bazil. "We don't know if that's still their journey."
"What?"
"It is," said Bazil, levelling his eyes with his brother.
"We don't know that—"
"Yes, we—"
"Quiet, both of you," warned Chief Raino, gesturing to a trembling Salīa. "Last time the Queen wrote, she had just left."
"When?"
"Now three moons ago."
Salīa wanted to drop. Since drinking the smoke, she'd felt like hurling every moment from every ill word said.
"None searched for them?"
"We had sent some out recently, and they were accompanied by some zazi."
"Some? Why not more?"
"It's as she asked."
Salīa couldn't fight it. What her mother asked, she got. She heard counsel and took it in, yet always made her own decisions.
"Where's the rest of the zazi?"
"We were attacked coming out of the forests. They tried to attack us in it, yet those who tried had a short fight. It is our woods, not theirs. They forgot. We hadn't known that they came with fire and were waiting to burn us out. I spread our zazi out."
"Not in Senai?"
"There were in Senai," Bazil said. "Now there aren't."
This surprised Salīa. Zazi weren't easy to battle. One of them was worth an army. Yet the attackers must have known that this was when they were most at ease.
They must have known which villages to attack first and how to reach the mainland unseen. They travelled with no banners or sigils, completely cloaked.
Their skins ranged from pale to bronzed, their eyes blues to blacks, their hair coarse or sleek in all shades of all lands. And many of them seem to have left as soon as they arrived.
"But how?" Salīa whispered to herself. "Zazi are to Salazā, what ribs are to the heart."
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