Carnifex

5/3/467 AC, Village of Jameer, Pashtia

Noorzad had understood immediately what Mustafa's message meant when he had received it, two days prior. During the Volgan imperial incursion, while Mustafa had been off collecting money and volunteers and living the good life in Kashmir, Noorzad had been at the bleeding edge, putting the theory of resistance warfare to the practical test. He had learned much in that time.

"And about bloody time, too," Noorzad said, to no one in particular.

Still, Malakzay, trudging along nearby, had heard. "What was that?"

"About bloody time," the one-eyed bandit chieftain repeated. "About bloody time Mustafa began to direct and control the jihad. About bloody time we got assigned some missions with a point greater than, 'survive and fight.' About bloody time every little band of mujahadin was not in the war alone. And about bloody time we had a concerted plan to take care of the collaborators."

"I've heard of no plan," Malakzay objected.

"It's suggested by the message Mustafa sent; that, and by this mission and by the device the messenger brought."

Malakzay thought upon that. He had to admit that if anyone was likely to be able to tie disparate bits of information together to make a coherent whole, Noorzad was that man.

"Any word from reconnaissance?" Malakzay asked.

"Yes, the village appears effectively disarmed."

* * *

The Taurans had an interesting approach to individually owned firearms; they banned them. No one had a right to arms except governments; that was the almost universal Tauran view. Still, they were reasonable. They banned the weapons and then paid for a buyback program. Since the buyback program paid slightly more than replacement cost (and normal Volgan firearms were frightfully cheap), there was no real bar to the local Pashtians selling their, generally poorly-maintained, rifles to the Taurans operating in the south of the country and then buying newer ones.

The downside, though, was that once the Taurans had banned rifles and bought them "all" back, they presumed that anyone with a rifle was breaking the law and attempted to arrest them. These arrests usually fell out in one of two ways. If the potential arrestee was a mujahad, there would be a firefight which the Taurans were usually barred by their national governments from engaging in. If the arrestee was a simple otherwise harmless civilian, he would submit to arrest and the confiscation of the firearm. Since, however, the civilians did not want to give up their arms, they hid them. Sometimes they hid them too well.

* * *

The guerilla band entered the village in the dead of night, silent as a plague. In two to three man teams, they kicked in the doors and burst into each house on a prearranged signal, a shrill blast of a whistle. Men and women, boys and girls, were herded out into the dusty central square at bayonet point. The women were only just given the chance to cover themselves with whatever was to hand. Stumbling in the darkness, men cursed and the women and children either wept or stood in shocked silence as the mood took them.

Only one of the villagers had had his rifle near to hand. That one was shot as soon as he appeared.

Noorzad left them alone, but guarded, as the bulk of his band went through the village with a fine tooth comb looking for anything that might be of use. They found little; a couple of donkeys to add to the train, some food, a little ammunition. They also found some kerosene and wood.

The guerilla leader left the villagers alone, that is, until the sun had arisen. He wanted them to see clearly what was about to transpire.

"Who is the headman of this village," he demanded, his one eye glaring in the sun.

Hesitantly, an older man, his beard long and half-gray, raised a hand.

"Where is your family?"

Several other hands were raised, two of them from women with small children clustered around. At a nod from the chief, a half dozen guerillas prodded the rest of the populace away from the headman's family until they stood alone in a distinct cluster.

At another nod, four guerillas seized the village head and dragged him to a wall. He was certain he was going to be shot and begged for the intervention of Allah. He would have been happier had his God intervened and caused the guerillas to shoot him.

First they beat the headman, but only enough to break his will so he would not resist. Still, the guerilla's hardened fists and booted feet bruised him, broke small bones, cut the skin over his skull.

When they were sure enough he would not resist even what was coming, one of them raised the headman's left arm to the wall. A second took a long iron spike with a broad head and held it, point first, to the villager's wrist. A third drove the spike through the wrist and into the wall.

The headman screamed like a lost soul when the cold iron tip drove through the nexus of nerves in his wrist. Unimaginable agony shot through that entire side of his body. The second nail elicited even greater screams.

Unmanned, ashamed, the village headman hung his head and wept.

Then, with the headman quietly weeping and his people in shock, Noorzad began to speak.

"You call yourselves Moslems. Yet I see a school built by the infidels to educate your youth away from the faith of your fathers. You call yourselves Moslem, yet I see that rather than trusting to Allah you have let the infidels dig a well for you." He glanced at the small clinic. "I see you have more faith in infidel medicine than in your God."

"You may keep none of this. Before we take them from you though, see what the price is that your headman will pay for his impiety."

"Bring out the headman's women."

Roughly, the guerillas parted the mothers from their children and forced them to the center of the group. Then they uncovered and took those of the girls who looked to be past the age of nine, forcing these too, into the circle. The first two of the brothers to object, one eleven and one thirteen, were beaten, stunned, dragged to the wall and—shrieking in agony—nailed up beside their father. The others stayed quiet or, like the women, wept as the mood and their age took them.

There were about one hundred guerillas and seven women and girls. The rape went on for a very long time, guerillas taking turns guarding and violating. When they were done, and even had seconds, the guerillas forced the men and boys of the village old enough to sprout a beard to likewise violate the headman's females. By the time they were done, even the youngest girl, a nine-year-old, had ceased to weep.

The nine-year-old didn't weep either, when two of Noorzad's band began to beat her with iron bars, smashing the little bones and pulping her skin, finally spilling out her brain in a shower of splintered bone and blood. She did scream, though. After all, they'd started at her feet.

When they were done with the nine-year-old, the other women were likewise beaten to death. In the end there were just seven piles of blood and bone and ragged scraps of skin.

After that, Noorzad had the villagers tear down their school and their clinic. He also made them pile the firewood at the feet of the headman and his two nailed-up sons.

Then he poured a measure of kerosene and lit the wood. The screams of personal agony which had lessened under the shock of watching their mothers and sisters, wives and daughters, raped and bludgeoned began anew and rose to a crescendo as the flames ate away skin and set subcutaneous fat alight.

As the chief and his sons burned down to greasy ash, Noorzad went around the circle of villagers, choosing from each family group one son to be trained as a fighter and to serve as a hostage. Lastly, he blew up the well.

Noorzad's parting words were, "Now you see the price of cooperating with the infidel. Now you see the price of forsaking your faith. Do not forget. Also do not forget that there are those among you who are also with us."

With that, Noorzad's band trekked into the night.