Jako Nighthawk
by Gina Marie Wylie
Copyright© 2012 by Gina Marie Wylie
Science Fiction Story: Jako Nighthawk is a thief in the night. The problem being a thief alone is that you can make foolish mistakes.
Tags: Science Fiction
Jako Nighthawk of the Plains Ruthani paused for a moment along the wall atop the Countess’ palace and adjusted his load. Behind him, gongs were being pounded, horns were sounding -- clearly the Hostigi were upset that someone had slipped into the palace and had stolen weapons.
He’d wondered what quality of fighting men would let a woman barely husband-high lead them. For sure, the guards in the palace had been lax! He’d slipped in and out with ease! No one had seen him, he was sure ... it was the weapons they’d missed.
He laughed silently to himself as he pulled his jerkin over the long rifle; one of those weapons that the Hostigi used to kill men at unbelievable distances. Six shots as fast as a man could pull the trigger!
The shorter weapon, the shotgun, he slung that over his right shoulder, and the bag of ammunition he’d stolen went over his left. He shrugged, settling the load into place, then reached down and found the rope he’d tied to the wall in this place as he’d snuck in.
With a silent laugh, he swung his thin frame over the wall and slid rapidly down the rope. It was the smallest detail to pull the loosing rope, untying the knot above. He stepped back, letting the tangles of rope fall a few feet in front of him.
He bent over, dragging the rope in loose hanks, then stuffing the rope under a box placed earlier on the roof of the administration building that he’d picked for his escape. He had just finished hiding the rope from curious eyes when there was an odd series of pops from the sky. A heartbeat later, bright lights shone down over the roofs of the city. He froze in place, unmoving, pretending he was just another dark shape on the rooftops.
There were no shouts, no alarms, and no bullets winging his way. He counted to ten and moved slowly to a patch of darkness a few steps away. Then he flitted from one patch of darkness to another and then another. When the light went out, he crossed quickly to another roof, and a hundred steps later, a third.
He dropped lightly and silently into a dark alley, and sidled along one wall until the alley ran into a dark lane. Again, he stayed dark and silent, moving like a ghost.
In two finger-widths, he moved another two hundred yards, scaled another roof, and stashed his takings in a tiny attic that looked like no one had been in it for decades. There too, he found a place of refuge. It was two palm-widths before dawn; he would stay where he was until midnight, nearly a day away. Patience was a virtue to a Nighthawk.
He allowed his breathing to even out, commanding his muscles to relax. There was no way the Hostigi could find him now!
It wasn’t much, but then the Plains Ruthani were not much these days either. They had long borne the fight against those who had come to their country from the west, as they followed the rivers, going further east.
He sighed softly. He’d been fourteen, just a little too young to go on a raid with his father, a war band leader of the Plains Ruthani. His father and the band had returned, touting their victory. Jako hadn’t understood. Thirty men had left, twenty-three returned. The raiding band brought back three wagons with unground grain, eighteen horses to draw the wagons, and five more that the raiders had trailed behind them on their return.
Jako hadn’t thought it much of a victory. The grain would keep the village alive a month, little more. The loss of the labor of seven men who could have worked through the winter was going to cost more than the raid had gained. He understood that sometimes raids turned out wrong -- that was the nature of war, and his people had been at war with the Zarthani and their kindred for thousands of years.
Still, his father declared it a great victory, and he’d brought a barrel of decent ale back. The village had a big party that night, drinking too much, trying, Jako thought, to drown the memories of their failure.
He’d gotten his nickname early in his life -- he slept during the day. He was comfortable prowling around at night; people had gotten used to his strange comings and goings and no longer commented on them.
He’d walked the village palisade parapet, contemplating whether or not he should leave. It was a momentous decision, as he would never be allowed to return if he left. Some would think he was a coward; he wasn’t, but he had the notion that he wanted to sell his life dearly, not toss it away for some sacks of grain and a barrel of beer.
As skilled as he was, he almost hadn’t seen them; in fact, he hadn’t seen them in time. He’d caught the movement of a dark shadow behind a row of huts in the village. He looked carefully and saw a file of men sneaking stealthily towards the bonfire in the center of the village.
That had been warning enough. He hesitated only a few heartbeats before he dropped to the ground at the base of the palisade, just before men moving along the parapet would have seen him.
He’d moved quickly to a nearby horse trough and lowered himself into the water, not a moment too soon. There was a sudden slam of a musket volley, then screams and shouts of pain and terror.
He hardened his heart to what little he could hear; there was nothing he could have done except get killed himself.
It was over quickly, a finger-width at the most. He took only a few quick peeks, and then the Hostigi raiders fired on the village and he had to sink to the bottom of the trough to remain hidden.
The last thing he’d seen was Rain Dancer, his two-year-older sister, slung over the shoulder of a huge hulk of a man, the largest man Jako had ever seen. He’d gotten a fair look at him; Jako made a mental vow that if he ever saw the man again, only one of them would survive the meeting.
Now, years later, Jako huffed another sigh.
A voice in the dark spoke. “You sound like a horse! Didn’t anyone ever teach you that if you want to hide, you have to be quiet?”
He froze, unsure who was out there; the voice was a woman’s after all! He considered drawing his knife and lunging at her; maybe, though, he might try a softer approach.
Then it was taken out of his hands.
“He can’t possibly be hiding, Lady Puma! Not when a half dozen men followed him to this spot.”
“I led them,” the woman reminded the man.
“Aye, but we all followed the trail he left. A child could have followed that trail!
“Ruthani, I am going to count to three. You will come out of that cranny; your hands well above your head and where we can all see them. Or you will die there. Men! Ready!”
What followed was scary. There was a racket of sound. At least a half dozen weapons being cocked!
“If you’re going to kill me, kill me, Hostigi piss-ant! I’ll sell my life dearly!”
“Ruthani, there are a half dozen men you can’t see around you, plus Lady Puma and myself. You won’t sell your life dearly -- you’ll be giving it away. On the other hand, if I wanted you dead, you’d already be guesting with your ancestors. The High King, Duke Tuck, and the Countess can use men like you.”
“Once he takes a bath,” the woman’s voice said.
Jako bristled at the insult, but the male voice said, “One!”
He was dead where he was, no doubt about it. Jako called, “I’m coming out!” and did as he’d been bid.
He stood his hands shoulder high, his palms facing outwards. For a second. Then someone lit a flare, and he saw the man standing a few feet away from him.
With a scream of rage, he hurled himself at the man, heedless of the risk, unconcerned, and uncaring. Something happened to his legs, and he couldn’t keep his feet. He sprawled in the grit of the roof, stopping a good six feet short of his target. Something heavy landed on his back, and he felt the prick of a knife beneath his left shoulder blade.
A voice hissed in his ear. “I am Puma, daughter of the Lion of the Ruthani! My father, little man, hunted the big cats with his rifle.” The knife pressed a little harder. “I hunt them with my knife.”
Jako froze. If he tried to buck her off, that dagger would slide home. He lifted his head and spat in the direction of the Hostigi. “Kill me! One of us will not come down from this roof alive.”
“I don’t think he likes you, Big,” another man said, emerging from the darkness. He was younger than the man who’d taken Jako’s sister -- and like all men, he was much smaller.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life, Captain.”
“Corporal Chartus, bind the man’s feet. Andion and Gryax, loop binds on each hand. I don’t want this one to escape.”
It took a few moments, and Jako was hauled erect. One man had a loop around his throat, and two more held the bonds that tied his hands and legs together. Always, through the entire process, the knife had been pressed into the skin just behind his left shoulder, freezing him into impotence. He ground his teeth, but gradually reason overcame anger. He had to bide his time, to wait for a better time. Throwing away his life wouldn’t avenge his sister!
There was one thing his mind focused on then; the rest of the world faded into insignificance.
“Tell me, Ruthani,” the Hostigi officer asked, “why is it that you don’t like Captain Mortar here? Perhaps you feel that the gods shorted you, somewhat, when it came to handing out height? Compared to Big Mortar, all of us came out short.”
Jako ignored the man’s feeble attempt at humor, his eyes fixed on his target.
“Ruthani, think about something for a heartbeat, assuming you actually have some gray matter between your ears. What is different about you than you would normally expect? If, say, you’d caught a man thieving your weapons?”
Jako had long since stopped struggling; he had to lull them into thinking he’d surrendered.
“Lady Puma,” the officer told the woman Jako had yet to glimpse, “remind our guest what it is that sets him apart from most thieves in the night.”
Jako didn’t see the blow, but he felt its effects. The woman had fists like sledgehammers. Her right hand slammed into the shotgun over his right shoulder, gouging it into his back; her other hand hit the rifle.
They’d left him with the weapons he’d stolen! Were they loaded? He’d be betting his life on a sloppy Hostigi soldier. He glanced around him. None of the men had lowered their pistols; not one of them looked the least bit sloppy.
“Ruthani, you hate me, don’t you?” Big Mortar asked of the prisoner. “Why is that? I’m a fair man; I just as soon not kill a man when I don’t know the reason for it.”
“You stole my sister! I saw you! You trussed her up and carried her over your shoulder like a sack of grain! You sold her to the slavers!”
Big Mortar frowned; if he’d been fearsome before, now he was worse. Much worse.
“Ruthani, I have liberated women -- aye, and some men -- from slavery. I’ve never sold anyone into slavery. If I knew anyone who had, they’d be dead. I’ve never stolen a woman. Not ever.”
“You lie! I saw you with my own eyes! You raided our village, killed the men, and stole the women!”
The big man rubbed his chin. “You’d think I’d remember stealing a woman.” He laughed then. “Oh! I remember now! You’re one of those thieving Plains Ruthani who raided a half dozen farms, killed a dozen people until we put paid to the lot of you.”
He pointed to one of the men with a pistol and beckoned to him.
The man listened to the whispered order, grimaced, and glanced at the other Hostigi officer who said plainly, “Oh, humor Captain Mortar, Corporal! He is a man of many surprises.”
“You’ll be really surprised by this one, I’m thinking, Captain,” the corporal replied, but he turned and vanished into the night.
The huge mountain of a man gestured at the person behind Jako. “Lady Puma, explain to good Captain Gryllos about the Plains Ruthani, and then, as gently as you can, explain to our Plains Ruthani guest just how we followed his trail.”
The woman behind Jako spoke. “Plains Ruthani were once the fiercest Ruthani warriors. For centuries, they held back the Zarthani invaders, fighting many battles, where they proved their bravery over and over.”
Jako nodded. That was so! They’d sung those songs often when he was a boy. This woman didn’t lie!
“The thing was, there were a lot of Zarthani and not many Plains Ruthani. All of them with stones were killed in the wars; only the meek and foolish survived to father children. There are very few left, and mostly they are either meeker or more foolish than ever.
“It was twelve years ago, when I was a little girl, the old ones whispered that the Plains Ruthani had raided the Hostigi while they were fighting the Mexicotl; the High King had only the very old and very young to send in defense of their farms. They caught the Plains Ruthani in a trap and then followed them back to their village. Those fools thought because they had traveled a thousand miles to raid the Hostigi that the Hostigi wouldn’t know where they’d come from.
“They were like children, hiding in plain sight, pretending to themselves that no one could see them.”
Big Mortar nodded. “We actually beat them back to their village; old Krimnos had the idea of leaving a barrel of beer in their path. They got back to their village and opened that barrel.”
“And you killed them all!” Jako growled in anger.
“We killed one foolish man who thought he could shoot straighter than a dozen of our marksmen. Their chief threw down his weapon and called Oath to Galzar.” He laughed wickedly. “A Ruthani calling Oath to Galzar! We respected it anyway. We arrested them...”
Jako interrupted. “And burned the village!”
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