RUMPELSTILTSKIN RETELLING.
"I challenge you to find my name, princess. Three tries." Light flickers beneath the recesses of his mask, the wooden fangs and shadowed eyes. "Think you can beat me?"
***
A witch doctor, user of dark magic, terrorizes a...
Opium, sleepless nights, murderous intent. Knives twisting your stomach, eternal sleep, disease, or seduction.
Rangda.
Rangda.
Rangda.
The witch doctor's chant lures me from my sleep again. This time, however, I'm prepared. Cato's Divine netting stays at my hip. Fire lights the rest of my squad's faces as General Sol hisses at them to wake up. Grumbling and mumbling, the squad sets to work.
"Shut up and hurry," Sol bangs her axe arm against the barn, shaking the wooden slats. Dust falls from the ceiling. "Before that sorcerer kills again, dammit!"
Tawil's first, slightly hungover and mewling, but otherwise a solid fighter from all his tavern-brawling days, and preening in the wash-basin's reflection, scowling at his twice-broken nose that he keeps changing the story of for how he got it. The bruises fade into his russet skin, most likely received from a drunken bar fight before we left for Raja. "Fuckin' witch doctors..." he mumbles.
"Rise and shine, handsome," Pari, dressed in the newest armor. His father is an Idriolan ambassador to Rahasia, so his hair's run through with blonde, and he's got a smattering of freckles mixed with sunspots. He keeps trying to claim Tawil's affections. He only ever seems to catch Tawil in a bad mood, though. Hungover.
Tawil glowers at Pari. "We could die horribly. We'd be sober." Leave it to Tawil to remember his liquor.
Pari winks, a youthful flush along golden skin. "But we'd be together."
Tawil pauses, looks at Pari, then glances nervously at me. "Don't talk about these things with princess over there." He mumbles, pretending to busy himself with gathering his weapons. "Since she's here, we've got twice the chance of dying tonight."
"Oh, posh. As long as you land in my arms, all is well." Pari flips his hair back, the golden strands catching in the lamp light. "Maybe I'll dare her to be my wing-woman, teach me how to win drunken Tawil's heart."
"Oh, sod off with your dares." I roll my eyes at golden curls over there. Pari growls in response. How funny, like a pet guarding its owner. "Tawil's got enough back home to worry about, being a single father. Too busy sending coin to the mother to start a new career someplace else so he won't have to look at her."
"Don't speak of what you don't understand, princess." Tawil warns.
I glance over his tall, skinny frame. Weak. "Or what?"
A man with a thick, graying beard lumbers over, eyes that reflect a lifetime of wisdom and war. It's Saban, the oldest of the patrol. Saban whacks Pari on the back of the head. "Quit it. You squawk like hens. Save the flirtation for later. This is a war mission, not a ball." He nods stiffly at me. "Princess."
I nod coolly back. I always get an itch whenever the gruff war dog addresses me. I must be allergic to his patronizing, if well-meaning, tone. Like I'm a little girl who snuck out with the men, being tossed a flower to play with instead of the swords.
Girls have flowers, boys have swords. Typical. Why can't we all have both?
General Soleil assesses the rest of the squad mates. Their names, like their faces, lost in my wavering memory. I don't usually bother memorizing the rest. Nobody lasts long on this patrol squad. They either piss Sol off or get smashed to bits by a golem. Fighters cycle through like cards. One of the wondrous perks of living in Rahasia.
She gestures out at the night, the darkness thick. The chanting in the distance cloying, like blood dripping down the back of one's throat. A worm in one's ears, invading our senses. And like a heartbeat, still we hear...
Rangda
Rangda
Rangda
A little boy, screaming. Terrified. Shrill. A village boy, about to be bled dry and turned to gold. Left as nothing more but a husk of skin on the earth.
"While you were bantering and as nervous as a bunch of lambs, a child is dying out there. Go!" Soleil screams, watching our faces fill with shame. Our pride made us forget our purpose out here. Our mission to put an end to murder, to restore peace. "Find the sorcerer! Find the child and bring them home."
Pari's no longer joking. Saban's grim. And Tawil clutches his stomach, as though about to throw up. I shove ahead of them, the netting secured at my hip and shoulders.
I'll take this witch doctor down.I think, my heartbeat pounding to the rhythm of the chants. Prove myself. Finally.
Like hounds unleashed, we run free.
***
General Sol's about to follow her squadron when she hears screaming from the house.
"Kura!"
She looks at their fleeing silhouettes. The princess, raven hair pulled tightly back with bits of ribbon. Her weapon, the flanged mace, clutched tightly in her fist. Teeth pulled back, fangs bared. A young wolf ready for battle.
Kura, gods knows what's happening. They'll be alright without her, without Sol.
Kura screams. Sol doesn't have time to think. She turns back to the house., the dark shadows rising alongside it, like poisonous vapors, summoned by blood magic.
She chooses honor over duty.
***
Readers,
General Sol chooses her wife over her empire. A bold move.
