Chapter Eleven: The Three Strings

The stage had never felt so small, so crowded, so alive. Dust hung thick in the air, the boards creaked beneath so many feet, and every eye in Somabhula was fixed on the three warriors standing at the centre. Their eyes were white, their faces blank, their bodies coiled with a strange power. The puppet strings could not be seen, but everyone felt them, as real as the afternoon heat. They all knew who was pulling them now.

They were not just shadows. The first was short and broad, with a chest like a sack of grain, arms thick as tree stumps, his skin as dark as wet soil. The second was a woman, tall and slim, with a long scar running down her left cheek, her hair tied back in a tight knot, and she moved with a strange grace, her fingers always flexing as if testing the air. The third was neither tall nor short but had eyes of a strange golden brown, and a shock of bright hair, his lips thin and always curled up at one corner as if holding a secret he could not say. In life, maybe they had been the best among the Nuniya, but now they moved together, side by side, breathing as one, watching nothing and everything all at once.

I took a step forward, my heart slow and heavy in my chest. Behind me, Biga rose to his feet. Silver wiped blood from his lip and lifted his twin blades. Lightning was already dancing along their edges. Daves was bruised but not beaten. He rolled his shoulders and set his feet firm in the dust. Hairline, the tall one, rested his spear-blade across his shoulders, eyes never leaving the enemy. He waited for my signal. Even some of the villagers, the brave, the desperate, the young with nothing left to lose, pressed in close, ready to throw stones if it came to that.

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Then they moved, as if by command, not with the wildness of the red-haired one, but with something worse—a deadly unity, each filling the gaps the others left. The short one charged low, arms sweeping like a bull. The woman came from the left, her movements sharp and slicing. The one with the golden eyes circled, watching for the opening, a small smile still hanging on his lips.

Biga met the first, blocking his wide arms with a shout. Their muscles shook as they pressed against each other. The woman danced in with a high kick, catching Daves on the shoulder and sending him spinning to the edge of the stage. The golden-eyed one dodged under Silver’s blades and swept Hairline’s legs from under him, moving with almost lazy skill.

I ducked a fist from the short one and aimed a kick at his knee, but he did not move or grunt. He just shifted and let the woman step in, her elbow cutting toward my jaw. I blocked, but her arm was heavy, the strength not her own.

Silver tried to flank them, blades flashing, lightning arcing through the air. He struck at the woman and she spun, caught his wrist and twisted it. For a moment, they struggled, the blue light flashing around their arms. The golden-eyed one darted between them, caught Daves with a backhand and Hairline with a sharp punch to the ribs.

The three puppets were moving together, turning and shifting, always covering for each other, filling the empty spaces with fists and elbows and knees. Every time we landed a blow, another was already coming for us. I punched the short one in the chest and he barely flinched. The woman grabbed my wrist, twisted, forced me to duck. I caught her in the side, felt the breath leave her, but she did not let go.

The golden-eyed one slipped past me and kicked Biga in the back, making him stumble. Daves tried to catch him with a spinning kick but the puppet just dropped and rolled away, then was on his feet again.

Hairline lifted his spear and swung at the short one. The puppet caught the shaft, twisted it, almost breaking it in his grip. Silver cut in, lightning flaring, but the woman slipped under his guard, elbows driving into his ribs.

We tried to work together, calling out, moving in pairs and threes, but every time we thought we had them cornered, the three turned and split, drawing us away from each other. It was like fighting water that kept finding cracks to slip through.

The villagers kept their distance, shouting encouragement, throwing stones and sticks, but nothing touched the puppeteered warriors. The second master stood at the far edge of the stage, his hands weaving in the air, sweat pouring down his face, lips moving in a silent chant.

For a long moment, the battle raged, back and forth, sweat and blood running down our faces, feet slipping on the boards. Sometimes we landed a solid blow, sometimes they sent us crashing back, our arms aching, our hope fading. No matter how hard we fought, the three always came back, never slowing, never showing pain, never giving up the stage.

We circled, breath coming short, our bodies bruised and battered. The three puppeteered warriors stood in the centre again, their eyes white, their bodies still, their unity unbroken. The crowd was silent now, waiting to see if any of us would break first.