by C. T. Rwizi
Salo quickly scans their immediate surroundings with his shards. The woods aren’t thick enough to form a canopy, but anything more than several hundred yards away might as well be invisible. He comes up with nothing save the vague sense that they are surrounded. “Did you know this was going to happen?” he says to Tuk, failing to keep the panic out of his voice.
“Not so soon.”
“So you knew! Why the devil didn’t you warn us?”
“I didn’t want to cause you needless worry.”
“Needless? We’re about to get ambushed, Tuksaad!”
Tuk’s expression remains serious, but his eyes turn a traitorous green. “Let me handle it, and we’ll be fine.”
“I don’t see what’s funny about this,” Salo says.
“I’m not laughing, am I?”
“Your eyes!”
“I can’t help that,” Tuk says, and this time a dimple materializes on his face. “Look, just follow my lead, all right? No spells.” He looks at Ilapara. “And put that blade away, for Ama’s sake.”
Ilapara clenches her weapon stubbornly. “I won’t be killed without a fight.”
“No one will be killed if you just hang back and let me do the talking.”
She glares at him for a long moment but then purses her lips and returns her weapon to its harness.
“Salo,” Tuk says, “keep your cat friend in line.”
Salo is too fixated on the surrounding woods to respond. They seem particularly ominous now.
With Tuk in the lead, they set off at a slower, more cautious pace. Mukuni and the other animals remain agitated, and for good reason: barely five minutes pass before frenzied howls erupt in the woods around them, followed by the emergence of husky figures in skimpy loincloths, white body paint, and layered necklaces of beads and copper. They move so quickly it’s only a matter of seconds before Salo and the others find themselves trapped inside a thicket of spears and ornate bow-like weapons with arrows that seem to be made entirely of red light.
Their assailants are not alone. They’ve come with frightful horned jackals on leashes, and the blasted things won’t stop snapping their teeth. Salo barely musters the clarity of mind to keep Mukuni from attacking.
Ilapara is a stiff presence behind him. He can tell it’s taking all her self-control not to draw her weapon. A part of him would feel better if she did.
One of their attackers—perhaps the group’s captain, since he appears to be wearing the most intricate necklace of them all—comes forward and demands something in a language Salo can’t understand.
He shares a worried glance with Ilapara, but Tuksaad surprises him yet again by replying to the demand in the captain’s language, speaking with his hands raised in a show of peace.
The captain glowers up at him and says something else. Tuk replies confidently, pointing at his gauntlet. He seems to ask for permission from the captain, which the captain grants with a nod.
All eyes watch as Tuk raises his left arm, pointing his clenched fist toward the branches up and off to the side. A hiss as a silver barrel telescopes out of the gauntlet, rapidly gathering a nimbus of moonfire. Then the branches explode with a loud crack, sending the Tuanu jackals into a snarling frenzy.
Tuk ignores them, releasing five more blasts in rapid succession. Mukuni growls, and Salo holds his breath, expecting to be attacked. But the captain and his men behold Tuk’s gauntlet with pure wonder, like they’ve come upon a yet-undiscovered vein of moongold.
A big smile breaks on the captain’s face, and he nods at Tuk. He shouts a command at his men, and the thicket of spears draws back, the bows going slack, their glowing arrows disappearing into thin air.
“We have to follow them,” Tuk says. “It’ll be a two-hour walk to the lake from here.”
Without protest, Salo and Ilapara prod their mounts into motion and follow, flanked by potentially hostile armed men and their snarling jackals.
“What on Meza just happened, Tuk?” Salo asks and flinches when one of the spearmen glares up at him.
“I have bought us passage up the lake,” Tuk says.
“How?”
“I offered them my gauntlet in exchange.”
“What? But you can’t! This is my pilgrimage, Tuksaad. I should bear any costs that need paying. And that’s a really valuable and powerful weapon!”
On his abada, Tuk sighs. “Now you know why I didn’t tell you. I had a feeling you’d react like this. Look, it’s done now, and it’s best if we limit our talking. We don’t want to make them suspicious.”
Salo cranes his neck to look behind him at Ilapara. They both shake their heads when their eyes meet.
31: The Maidservant
The Tuanu Borderlands
The Maidservant shadows her quarry from the infinite depths of the Void, spreading her flies and thus her consciousness across miles of woodland so as to evade detection.
Earlier she witnessed a most astonishing sight: the great Hunter, lieutenant of the Dark Sun himself, flung down from the skies by three youths. She felt his power extinguished from the land they both drew from like a whooshing wind, felt it become a roaring absence the Dark Sun surely sensed as it tore open. How she would have loved to watch her hated lord’s reaction.
The Yerezi mystic has become very interesting indeed.
She would have attacked him already, wrung out the secrets from his mind and destroyed his body so the Dark Sun would learn nothing from him, but there is another presence shadowing him through the Void.
So far she has kept herself concealed from the presence, drawing the thinnest stream of energy from the profane door in her mind, which she learned can shroud her footprint in the Void and make her much harder to detect. Occasionally she sends ripples through the Void like a bat using echolocation to discern the nature of its surroundings, but the presence must have superior protections since it successfully deflects her scrutiny, keeping its nature hidden.
She’ll just have to bide her time and let the presence reveal itself.
They follow the mystic and his companions northwest into the Tuanu borderlands. They watch from a distance as he is accosted by a patrol of Tuanu warriors, and though at first it seems he will have to fight his way through, for some reason the warriors lower their weapons and start guiding him deeper into their territory.
This puzzles the Maidservant since she knows the Tuanu to be generally hostile to foreigners. She wants to venture closer and perhaps listen in, but she senses the other presence slowing down and banking southwest.
One of the other parties hunting the mystic must have gotten too close.
The two of them are not the only ones on the mystic’s trail. The Maidservant can sense at least five other groups in pursuit, all of them making good time despite having to move stealthily across lands ruled by hostile warlords. But only two groups are close enough to cause trouble should they be allowed to continue.
The first is a death squad Sand Devil dispatched from a distant village in the east—over a dozen men with red skulls for masks, led by a disciple and drunk on tonics that make their blood boil with rage. They are approaching on mutant kerit bears, meaty creatures with spikes on their shoulders, erect manes, and no lips to cover their ghastly teeth; they’re still some distance away, but the mystic has slowed down considerably. Should they keep going past the borderlands, they will catch up to him sooner or later.
The other group of concern is a detachment of militiamen loyal to Northstar, machete-wielding warriors in grass skirts coming from the southwest on giant, swift-running sable antelope. Given the mystic’s current speed, they will intercept him within the hour if they maintain their pace.
It is this latter group that the other presence in the Void veers off to confront, and the Maidservant follows, keeping far enough away to remain cloaked in Black magic, yet close enough to see what the presence does with her own eyes.
The suns are behind her, and the flat woodlands spread out into the distant horizon, where a gre
at mountain range can be seen shrouded in a haze. Movement in the trees below catches her attention, about a mile ahead of her; then a dozen figures come into view, bulky men riding even bulkier antelope with massive arching horns.
Their spear-wielding leader wears a wooden mask with no eye slits. His naked chest is an intricate network of scarification and tattoos. Judging by the red fires throbbing around his charmed spear of witchwood and tronic bone, the Maidservant guesses his strength lies in Fire craft.
How typical, she thinks. Rare to find a male mystic of Umadi stock who isn’t seduced by the destructive potential of moonfire. Rarer still to find one whose Axiom can actually put the craft to effective use.
He must sense something in the air, given how he slows down and calls a halt, searching the skies through his eyeless mask. His men wait patiently behind him, secure in his power and in the power of the lord they all serve.
They don’t realize that they are already dead.
The Maidservant ghosts just a little closer as she waits with bated breath for what she knows is coming, and when ravens explode out of the skies and swoop down onto the men, she is not disappointed.
Antelope bleat and rear up in alarm. The female silhouette she can just about glimpse at the center of the flock is a knife-wielding blink of motion whose blades are pure Void craft. They dart from one mount to another, tearing bloody smiles open and leaving the men clutching at their slashed throats.
In his desperation, the disciple detonates a spherical ward of moonfire that incinerates everything in its path as it rapidly expands away from him—everything including his dying men and their beasts. The ensuing shock wave is powerful enough to level some of the surrounding trees, but his attacker releases a counterward of Void craft that bends space around her to slow the fire’s approach. She storms upward and out of the sphere’s radius, escaping to a safe height before her ward breaks down and the fires dissipate.
But the attacker must know, as the Maidservant knows, that most Umadi mystics, especially those of the male variety, are rarely capable of sustained sorcerous battles. That spell was in all likelihood sitting at the back of his mind, waiting for him to unleash it at a moment’s notice. It will be seconds before his Axiom can provide enough Fire craft for him to perform another spell.
Sure enough, the attacker hurtles back down even before the disciple has reoriented his antelope to face her.
A brief struggle, a flutter of dark wings, the flash of a knife pulsing with shadows, and then the flock retreats back upward while the disciple falls boneless off his saddle. His beast vaults away without him.
Her curiosity sated, the Maidservant withdraws from the scene before she is detected. Now she knows why the attacker’s presence was so odd to her: deadly though she may be, the attacker is no mystic. She is a manifestation of the Yerezi ancestral talent, given the power of magic by a mystic of her tribe.
This must be what the Yerezi witch meant when she said her queen had eyes on the boy.
Mystic or not, the Maidservant decides that she might need help taking the boy and acquiring his secrets. She is confident in her own abilities, but she will not make the mistake of underestimating him. Not when she saw what happened to Hunter. The stakes—her peace of mind and the freedom to end her torment and finally fulfill her vow—are much too high.
32: Ilapara
Lake Zivatuanu
When a sprawling village reveals itself past a dense thicket of bush after two hours of silent trekking, Ilapara has to grit her jaw just to keep it from dropping to her chest.
Lying beyond the village is a body of water so vast it seems to her like the frontier of the world. The water goes on and on forever until it melts away into the sky in a shimmery blur, promising abysmal depths she shudders to think of.
“And here it is,” Tuk says from astride Wakii, wonder brightening his voice. “Lake Zivatuanu, the longest freshwater lake in the world.”
Salo whistles and slowly shakes his head. “I thought our lake was big. And look at those ships!”
Ilapara is just as awestruck. All the lakes she’s ever seen were puddles in comparison to this landlocked sea. And gliding over the water in the distance are vessels so majestic and fanciful they seem like giant birds. They even have ribbed winglike structures jutting up from the hulls, outstretched as if to take off in flight.
“Will we be sailing on one of those?” she asks, hating the anxiety she hears in her own voice.
“That’s the plan,” Tuk says. “We should count ourselves lucky, you know. The Tuanu don’t let many foreigners sail on their waterbirds or even come close enough to see them.”
“Waterbirds,” Salo echoes, looking out at the ships in the distance. “Now I understand the name.”
They are led down gravel streets lined with graceful triangular stone huts featuring wide decks. Unfriendly eyes peer at them through mazes of body paint. A fishy smell suffuses the air, but the streets are clean and cared for. Nothing at all like a stopover town, and Ilapara finds that she is grateful for it.
“Those are no ordinary sailing ships,” Salo says ahead of her. “If I had to guess, I’d say they’re a secret these people guard as jealously as we guard our red steel and talismans.”
“Over a hundred villages surround this lake,” Tuk replies. “The waterbirds are the heart of Tuanu culture and the lifeblood of their economy. Makes sense that they’d want to keep the secret of what they are.”
By the time they reach one corner of the village center—a square of dry earth surrounded by the largest huts they’ve yet come across—there’s a small crowd trailing behind them.
“How is it you know so much about this place, Tuk?” Ilapara says as they come to a stop.
Tuk smiles, watching the Tuanu captain approach him. “Later,” he says.
He goes on to exchange a few words with the captain, after which he dismounts and hands Ilapara the reins of his abada, smiling reassuringly. Even so, a feeling of wrongness runs through her as she watches him follow the captain up the stairs to the largest hut in the square and then disappear beyond the arched wooden door.
Salo stares at the door as well, the line of his jaw visibly tense. “What now?”
“I guess we wait,” she says, because it’s not like they have any other choice.
More villagers trickle into the square. Children chase each other across the open space while their parents point at Mukuni and murmur to each other, occasionally throwing Salo glances that raise the hairs on Ilapara’s skin and make her itch for her weapon. The Tuanu warriors remain on guard nearby with their bows, spears, and leashed jackals, ready to spring at the slightest provocation. Obviously they think Salo is the bigger threat.
“A friendly lot, aren’t they?” he says, clearly nervous.
“They know what you are,” Ilapara says. “And I’ve heard they don’t like mystics very much. Just don’t give them a reason to want you dead.”
“I feel much calmer now, Ilapara. Thank you.”
She smirks, saying nothing.
At last the captain emerges from the hut with Tuksaad, the former looking mightily pleased and the latter with a subdued, slightly smug grin. Stepping forward with his hands on his waist, the captain bellows something that might as well be a proclamation of victory given how his men raise their weapons and cheer.
Salo watches them anxiously. “What’s happening?”
“I think Tuk just sold his gauntlet,” Ilapara says, looking up at the strange young man. “He’s not wearing it anymore.”
“I get that it’s a powerful weapon, but isn’t their reaction a bit much?”
“I bet Tuk will know the answer to that question.”
In front of the big hut, Tuk bids the captain farewell, getting a vigorous handshake before he is allowed to leave, and as he walks over, the grin he was smothering spreads to the rest of his face.
“Success, I presume,” Salo says to him.
His eyes are as bright blue as the New Year’s Come
t. “Indeed. There’s a ship about to set sail, in fact. It awaits us by the docks.”
Ilapara gives the cheering men one last glance. “You’ll have to explain this to us at some point.”
“I will, but on the ship.” Tuk starts prodding Wakii toward the young warrior waiting for them on the other side of the square. “Come on. This way.”
A full-bosomed Tuanu woman in a long green khanga is waiting for them at the docks with her three sons, and by the heavy set of her brow, she’s clearly not pleased that her waterbird has been chosen to transport the foreigners. While her sons load crates of mouthwatering fruits onto the ship, she gives Tuk a long, winding speech involving furious gestures, like he’s the cause of her every woe on the planet.
Tuk nods apologetically the whole time, but the smile he wears when she finally allows them to board mirrors the one on Salo’s face.
Ilapara tries not to hate them for it.
Up close, the vessel is even larger than it appeared from afar, a looming presence of exquisite carpentry. The sight of it makes her stomach feel unsettled. Am I really doing this?
“The ferrywoman and her sons are going up north to trade for livestock,” Tuk says as they lead their animals along the landing stage. “There’ll be room for our mounts belowdecks, but I’ve been warned it reeks down there, so we might want to stay up on the main deck.”
“I don’t mind,” Salo says. “I want to see everything.”
“You and me both, my friend,” Tuk says, and Ilapara makes a face behind them.
By the gangplank she plants her feet on the landing stage and traces the glossy vessel with her eyes, from the swan figurehead at the prow to the slightly upturned and tapering stern, lingering on the reddish, diaphanous winglike structures currently tucked into the broadsides. When Salo notices the look on her face, he throws her a smirk.
“Is something the matter, Ilapara?”
She cuts him a warning glare with her eyes. “Why would you say that?”
