[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Khasia's eyes were narrowed and expressionless as she listened to Jasara's plan. It was wise, Khasia was surprised to hear such wisdom from her sister. She had been so concerned about numbers, so concerned about strength. But killing the young ones would be the right way, the way of the strong. She nodded resolutely as Najah chimed in her agreement. "I accept."

The four youngest children were killed quickly, mercifully. Khasia wiped her knife on a tuft of grass and stepped back from the widening pool of blood where she had slit the throat of the youngest boy. Grabbing his limp wrists she pulled him across the hot ground to the place where the other bodies had been left.

Najah's late training session was strenuous, but Khasia fought hard, not doubting that her sister would order her death too, should she fail. The broadsword was too heavy for her, and as she sparred with Najah her hands shook and the other girl struck it quickly from Khasia's nerveless fingers. But her aim with the throwing spears was deadly, and her bowshot was true. Sweating, she shook her braids back from her face and nodded in grim satisfaction. Bare feet padding silently across the baked earth, Khasia watched the other children train, eyeing them idly as though it made no difference whether they passed or failed.

Khasia winced as one girl sliced across her arm with her own sword blade. A quick mental note added her to the list of failed warriors. Another boy, fairly young, hit nothing with six consecutive spears. Khasia pursed her lips unhappily. There were so many. So many who were helpless with their best weapon. So many who needed much training to fight competently. Najah's voice pierced the afternoon, calling the sparring children to a halt, sending them to the stream for a drink.

Khasia made her way to where Jasara, Najah, Nasir and Uri stood. Jasara gazed after the sweatsoaked line of children disappearing in the direction of the stream. "How do they look?" Najah, Khasia, and Nasir exchanged looks. They hadn't looked great.

"How many can we spare, Jasara?" Najah asked calmly. "The Painted Sand group is much stronger and better trained."

"That is to be expected," cut in Uri, smoothly. "But there are a few of ours who could be spared. And six or seven of yours." A catlike grin spread over his face, satisfaction with his own recruits' comparative preparedness. Khasia wanted to smack him, suddenly, but she restrained herself, speaking instead.

"Marah is terrible with a sword. And Qitan is too small to lift one properly." Jasara nodded, as she glanced at Nasir and Najah. After much deliberation, two more Baobab youth and one Painted Sand were selected as unnecessary to the tribe's defense. Exchanging one final meaningful glance, the five youth separated, each headed to find one of the condemned children.

The firey red of the sunset sky was cooling to an ashy grey as Khasia approached the boy, Qitan. He was small, weak, pitiful, useless. Khasia stared at him with impassive eyes as he turned from his work to face her. The blade of the dagger in her hand was a matte grey, she almost wished it would glint ominously, give away her plans, give her cause for chase. But no. Jasara was right, it must be done quietly, mercifully. There could be no struggle. "Qitan." she said softly, tonelessly. He nodded in the fading light, his large eyes inquisitive. "You have failed in your training, Qitan. You will never be a warrior. We have decided you are no good to us."

His breath quickened, but he didn't move or show fear. "Am I to be sent home?" he asked, with a glint of anger lurking in his eyes. Khasia nodded, stepped closer.

"Yes, Qitan, that's it. Sent home." She stepped closer still, slashed her dagger across his throat. Her eyes remained impassive as he crumpled to the ground, last breaths rasping in his severed throat. Leaving the body where it lay, Khasia looked with disgust at the blood spattered all over her skirt and tunic. She spun in her tracks and made her way back to where she could see Jasara and Nasir sitting together beside a fire.

She had barely reached them when Najah and Uri approached from another direction. Uri's hands were boodstained, and Najah carried a bloodied knife in front of her. Her words carried the sentiment they all shared. "They were never warriors, they died like children." Jasara spat on the ground as Nasir and Uri went to gather the bodies together. "We will need more youths to carry the dead, Jasara." Najah pointed out sagely.

"Yes." Jasara confirmed. "Go find them, Najah. Two of ours and two of Uri's, strong and closemouthed. Khasia and I will prepare the dead." A tremor went down Khasia's spine at the sound of those words, prepare the dead. She nodded at her sister, and the two moved to the place where the bodies of the youngest children had been left. Jasara had procured a coil of rope and a pot of grease mixed with red pigments. Khasia watched as Jasara moved to the body of the first boy and painted an angry red eye on the skin of his bare chest. Khasia followed Jasara's lead, tearing away the clothing from the next girl's stomach and marking her with the symbol of the eye. After each child was marked their hands were tied above their heads with Jasara's rope.

Soon the little company was ready to go, each figure clothed in dark colors, and carrying a corpse slung across its shoulders. Jasara nodded at them, and they crept through the desert dark in single file. Stopping a far cry from the edge of the larger tribe's camp the nearest outlying sentry was silenced by one of Khasia's spears, and they crept onward. The encampment was silent, the dark silhouettes of tents against the sky contrasted with the orange glow of flickering fires. The young people moved cautiously to the center of the camp, where a small tree grew.

Dropping their burdens, Khasia, Jasara, and Najah hoisted themselves into the tree's lower branches. Each rope was passed up to them, each knot stealthily tied, each body left to hang, hair and tattered clothing flickering in the light breeze. Light as cats the three girls descended from the tree, and the small party slipped away, nine shadows departing into the openness of the night, leaving nine smaller shadows swaying suspended behind them.