A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Ibrahim sprinted down the ramp and onto the sands as quickly as his aged frame would allow him, his beard trailing behind him like a scarf.

  Demons followed. They streaked past him, slashed at him with their claws. One tugged sharply on the hem of his thawb, sending him tumbling. He got up again immediately and continued on. His flesh took slash after slash from claws and teeth, but still he went on, shouting his fear and pain as he went. One of the larger demons hovered into view. It raised a bent trident and launched it toward Ibrahim with a heave and a piercing cry.

  It caught Ibrahim in the back. Down he fell, and the coins spilled everywhere. They glinted through the air, diamonds set ablaze by the sun. They pattered against the sand, kicking up tiny clouds of dust that settled immediately.

  And still the battle raged on. They’d failed. Ibrahim had sacrificed himself for nothing.

  “Close the ramp!” Captain Inevra called.

  “Wait,” Ihsan ordered.

  The larger demon, the one that had thrown the trident, was hovering closer to Ibrahim. Ihsan thought perhaps it wanted its weapon back, or wished to feast on the man who writhed slowly, his hands grasping at the sand. But no. The demon flew beyond Ibrahim’s prone form to the coins. It landed, staring at the nearest of them. It crouched, transfixed, and picked one up. It licked the silver with a forked tongue.

  It was just reaching for another when a second demon came streaking in and snatched the coin away. When the first fought for it, the other slashed back with its crude iron sword. It created an opening for more demons to grab the fallen coins. A half-dozen came at first, each snatching up a piece of silver to call their own. Others fought for the tiny treasures. The small, cat-sized demons seemed to fare better at first. They would snatch one up and fly away, but others would catch them, tear into them, leaving them broken, dying, their black blood spilling on the amber sand.

  Soon hundreds of demons were fighting. Some fled from the suddenly intense battle and flew hard for the main host in the distance. Others chased them, screeching as they went. The few demons still attacking the ship seemed to lose interest. They broke away, one by one, to chase after the retreating host. Soon none were left but those too wounded to fly, and those were quickly dispatched.

  Ihsan ran to Ibrahim. Others brought metal-working tools and cut away the tooth of the trident that had pierced his abdomen and carefully removed the weapon from his flesh. They stuffed two lumps of black lotus between his cheek and gums for the pain, then let the ship’s surgeon stitch him as best he could.

  “How did you know?” Ihsan asked Ibrahim.

  The old storyteller’s eyes were languid. With no small amount of effort, he drew his gaze from the sky and focused on Ihsan. “It was one of the legends of Bahri Al’sir. A sultan had assigned a demon to guard Bahri Al’sir for having stolen a piece of his magical bread. Bahri Al’sir used the silver to escape.”

  “You bet your life on a fable?”

  Ibrahim smiled. “All stories have a kernel of truth in them, my King.”

  Ihsan couldn’t help it. He laughed. “You’re a stupid, bloody fool, you know that?”

  Even with his eyes glazing over from the black lotus, Ibrahim looked proud. “Well, we had to do something.”

  “Yes, we did.” Ihsan studied the fluttering black cloud in the distance. “We still do.”

  Chapter 29

  In the valley below Mount Arasal, Emre stood at Çeda’s side. The shaikhs were all present, with one notable exception: Hamid. He’d somehow managed to break the vision’s spell and fled the scene. They had hundreds of potential witnesses, but no one admitted to seeing him escape. Most had surely been caught up in the vision of Meryam and Ashael, but someone must have seen him leaving.

  “Go,” Shal’alara said to three of her best warriors. “Find him.”

  No one argued with her. Not even Darius, Rasime, or the shaikhs who’d sided with Hamid only a short while ago. Emre was tempted to join them, but there was too much unfinished business with the shaikhs, so he remained.

  Çeda stared up at the acacia with a confused expression. “How could he have awoken?”

  Emre had been struggling with the same thing. “The visions you showed the shaikhs of his treachery,” he finally said. “They would have terrified him. It’s possible his fear broke the vision’s spell.”

  “I suppose.” A serious look overcame her as she took in the shaikhs anew. After a brief pause, she stepped closer to Emre, took his hand in hers, and spoke in a low voice. “I hope you can forgive me, but we can’t worry about Hamid. Now right now. Sharakhai is what matters.”

  Reliving the terrible things Hamid had done had only enflamed Emre’s desire to see him pay for his crimes, but Çeda was right. Ashael and his demons had risen. Time was running short.

  “Thank you for saying so,” he said, “but there’s no need for forgiveness.”

  She squeezed his hand, then turned and addressed the gathered crowd. “Hamid deserves justice, but the question before us is no longer what we should do about a traitor to his own people. It’s what we plan to do about Ashael.”

  Shaikh Zaghran was still visibly shaken. As were Neylana, Aríz, Dayan, and several others. The shaikhs who had been ready to align themselves with Hamid seemed reticent.

  It was the comely and normally taciturn Shaikh Damla who spoke first. “The council should meet.”

  Valtim, the baby-faced shaikh who outweighed Emre by at least ten stone, nodded in agreement. “There’s much to consider, including Hamid’s fate.”

  “Much to consider?” Çeda cast her gaze over them all while pointing west. “For the love of all that is good, open your eyes. We must sail for Sharakhai. We must stop what’s about to happen.”

  “If things are as dire as you say,” Damla countered, “it’s all the more reason for each of us to weigh in and, if we decide your counsel is wise, discuss the best way to go about it.”

  “We can decide on the way to Sharakhai.”

  Damla’s face turned hard. “You will not dictate how the council conducts its business.”

  “By rights,” Shal’alara said, “Çeda is now shaikh of the thirteenth tribe. Her voice counts as much as any of yours.”

  “As much, perhaps,” Damla said, “but not more. She is but one out of thirteen.”

  Çeda held her hands up in a sign of peace. “I’m not dictating. I’m asking you to see reason.”

  “Sharakhai has much to answer for.” Though the words had come from Shaikh Valtim, Damla was nodding her head in agreement, as were several of the other hardline shaikhs.

  Emre could tell Çeda was furious. “We have no time to waste. We must be on our way. I implore you to make ready. We’ll have days of sailing ahead of us, why not make them days of sail and debate?” Çeda paused, but when neither Valtim nor Damla seemed receptive, she went on. “An hour ago, you were ready to set sail to make war on Sharakhai. Why won’t you sail now, when the entire desert is threatened?”

  “Who’s to say anything beyond Sharakhai is threatened?” Damla replied in an easy tone.

  “You know it is. You saw it. You felt it.”

  “I would expect a child of Sharakhai to say nothing less,” said the hulking Valtim, “but the tribes deliberate in our own time, and in our own way.”

  Çeda stared at them both as if she couldn’t believe her ears. She looked as if she were ready to argue, but then her gaze shifted to the acacia, to Nalamae’s staff on the singed grass. After a deep, cleansing breath, she nodded, as if she’d just come to a decision. “I’ll not stand by and watch,” she said, “as you gamble my birthplace away.”

  Valtim seemed unimpressed. “Then go.”

  Emre, knowing Çeda was about to harden their minds against her, stepped forward and took her by the elbow. “Çeda, please—”

  “No, Emre.” With a calm he’d rarely seen in
her, she drew her arm from his grasp. “This isn’t something to be reasonable about.” She faced the shaikhs. “It we sit here, thousands upon thousands are going to die.”

  “They may die if we go,” Valtim replied, “only then it will be us with them.”

  Çeda spat on the ground. “That is the coward’s path. Take it, and may the gods damn you all.”

  With that she stalked away. Sümeya, Kameyl, Jenise, and the Shieldwives followed. Frail Lemi watched them go, then looked to Emre questioningly, asking whether they ought to follow.

  Emre shook his head no. Part of him was glad Çeda had put pressure on the shaikhs to do the right thing, no matter their attitudes toward Sharakhai. But the vote was far from certain. Someone had to remain. Someone had to try to sway them further.

  “Who speaks for Tribe Khiyanat?” Shaikh Zaghran asked. His gaze alternated between Emre and Shal’alara.

  “I will,” Emre said, “for now.”

  Emre thought Rasime would argue, but she looked like a cornered fox, ready to bolt or to fight.

  “Very well,” Shaikh Zaghran said, and headed for the pavilion.

  The other shaikhs and their vizirs followed. Emre beckoned Shal’alara to follow him into the tent. The shaikhs settled themselves, but Emre hardly let them rest before addressing the assemblage. “The only question before us—”

  “You are not recognized to speak,” Valtim said.

  “Let him speak,” Shaikh Aríz said immediately. “Or are the Standing Stones suddenly afraid to hear truth when it’s spoken?”

  Valtim bristled. “The Stones are afraid of nothing, but Emre son of Aykan has already shown himself to be biased.”

  “Not biased,” Emre said. “Merely a man with a different perspective than yours. There is a city to our west that needs our help. You no longer see those people as children of the desert, but they are. I know that here in the desert the night of Beht Revahl is despised. You consider it the day the tribes were defeated by the Kings.”

  “It was the day the tribes were defeated.”

  “It was, yes,” Emre said, “but none in the city see it that way, not any longer. They revere the desert and the tribes.” There came snorts of derision and rolled eyes, but Emre went on. “There are those who saw things as the Kings did. The highborn. Their families. But I tell you now, the people of the west end, people all over the city, take pride in their heritage. They dream of sailing the sands as you do. They dream of traveling to the Great Mother’s farthest corners and learning her secrets. They know of her beauty because of the stories you passed down. Bahri Al’sir. Fatima the Untouchable. Jalil the Bold. Bashshar of the Innumerable Tribes. We tell all these tales and more. And do you know why? Because the people of Sharakhai feel, as you do, they are part of the desert. We are part of the same tribe.”

  Valtim sneered. Many of the others glanced around, apparently unsure what to think. Shaikh Neylana, a woman who’d told Emre in no uncertain terms he would one day sway the hearts and minds of many, gave him a respectful nod. Aríz was smiling from ear to ear. He stifled it quickly, but not before sharing a wink with Emre.

  Before anyone could say another word, Çeda stormed into the tent, and Emre was left speechless. She now wore her armor from the pits, the guise of the white wolf, which Mist had led her to in the desert. Her battle skirt and leather breastplate were dyed white. So were her greaves, bracers, and fingerless gloves. They’d all seen better days. The leather’s natural, tawny color was showing through, but it made the armor seem like an artifact discovered in some ancient crypt, evidence of a hero that words in a story could never capture. The helm with the mask of Nalamae was held under one arm; the white wolf pelt affixed to it stared accusingly at the gathered crowd. Her hair, bound earlier, was now wild, black, and curly as it fell over her shoulders and down her back. River’s Daughter, her ebon blade, stood out starkly. The sword, a weapon of a Blade Maiden, not a pit fighter, looked incongruous, yet it somehow made the wild stories about Çeda loom all the larger.

  Staring at her, as all in the pavilion were, Emre’s heart swelled. Çeda could be standing beside Bahri, Fatima, Bashshar, and Jalil, and none could say who the greatest of them was.

  “I’m going to Sharakhai. Now. All those who wish to make a difference should join me.”

  With that, she turned and left.

  As the tent flap closed with an audible thwap, the mood in the pavilion changed from one of calculation to one of uncertainty and introspection. The very act of declaring her intent had called their courage into question. Çeda had the right of it, Emre reckoned. There was no debate over what they should do. Not really. If they still had questions over what the right thing was, they would one day answer for it, either to themselves, their children, or their ancestors when they reached the farther fields.

  Frail Lemi stared at the pavilion’s entrance, eyes pinched, brow furrowed. Then he locked eyes with Emre. “Time to leave, Emre?”

  “Time to leave, Lem.”

  Emre, Frail Lemi, and Shal’alara left the pavilion together. They caught up to Çeda, who smiled as they came near. She took Emre’s hand, curled his arm around her neck, and kissed the backs of his fingers. No one said a word as Çeda and Emre led the way down the winding path toward the desert. Frail Lemi, Sümeya, Kameyl, and the Shieldwives came next.

  By the time they reached the sandy bay with its array of ships, the path above was still empty. “So be it,” Çeda said as she boarded the Red Bride.

  They pulled anchor and were just making way when Frail Lemi pointed aft and shouted. “There they are! There they are!” He was jumping up and down and pointing. “I knew they’d come!”

  Indeed. It soon became clear it wasn’t just a handful of tribes joining them. Shaikh Aríz and Tribe Kadri came first. Then Neylana and the Rushing Waters of Tribe Kenan. Shaikh Zaghran and the Raining Stars of Tribe Tulogal came next. Then the Black Wings of Tribe Okan, the Red Wind of Tribe Masal, the Bloody Manes of Tribe Narazid. And on and on. Valtim of Tribe Ebros came last, but they came. All twelve remaining tribes were making their way down from the valley.

  The shaikhs gathered on the sand before the Red Bride. Zaghran stepped forward and stared up at Çeda, who stood on the foredeck. “The Alliance joins you,” he said.

  Çeda drew River’s Daughter and lifted it into the air. “May the desert’s fortunes be shaped by the edges of our blades.”

  It was an ancient saying, one Zaghran and the others recognized. Zaghran drew his shamshir, and the other shaikhs did as well. “By the edges of our blades,” they intoned in unison.

  And so, the greatest host the desert had seen in four hundred years set sail, the Red Bride at their lead.

  Chapter 30

  As the Miscreant anchored near a broad plateau of rock, Ihsan watched the standing stones in the distance, alert for any sign of movement. It was likely the demons had all moved on with Ashael, but assuming so could cost a life. Worse, it might be his.

  When he judged it enough time for any curious demons to have arisen from the pit, he waved to the crewman standing ready with the gangplank. “Lower it.”

  The gangplank dropped with a thud against the sand. Yndris and three other Blade Maidens went ahead with shields and swords in hand. A score of Silver Spears followed. Most bore spears. Others held bows with arrows nocked, fingers on the strings as they cast their gaze about. Ihsan and Nayyan came last. Ibrahim remained aboard as his body fought off infection from the stab wound of the demon trident.

  All were on edge as they paced toward the standing stones and the scent of brimstone grew strong, so much so that the Blade Maidens drew their veils over their faces. Others raised their arms to cover their noses.

  Here and there, demons lay unmoving on the red rock.

  “How did they die?” Yndris asked.

  “If the way they fought one another for the coins was any indication”�
�Ihsan crouched beside one of the fallen demons—“I suspect they were victims of their own aggression.” The demon had an eyeless face with long slits where the nose on any normal desert creature would be. Its skin was riddled with ragged tears both deep and shallow. “I suspect their attrition rate will be high.”

  “Little matter,” Yndris said. “It looked like they have more than enough to take on the royal navy and the combined might of Malasan and Mirea.” She waved east. “She’s likely halfway to Sharakhai by now.”

  Seeing no immediate threat, their group approached the standing stones. They were just heading inside the circle when Nayyan grabbed Ihsan’s wrist and pulled him to a stop. “We’re not alone.”

  Hidden from view earlier, Ihsan now saw a clipper in the distance, Qaimiri from the look of it. Three men were approaching their position.

  Yndris and the Blade Maidens moved to intercept, but Ihsan motioned them to stand down. “Let them approach.”

  “By the gods who breathe,” Nayyan said, “is that Lord Amansir?”

  Indeed, Ramahd was at the lead. Behind him was Ramahd’s second, Cicio, a short, curly haired man who walked with a cocky stride. The third was a fellow with a ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat who shambled more than he walked.

  “Will the wonders of the desert never cease?” Ihsan breathed.

  It was Fezek the ghul. Ihsan thought he’d died when his creator, the necromancer, Anila, passed through the crystal.

  Ihsan and Nayyan met Ramahd and Cicio in an area blessedly clear of demon corpses. Fezek, meanwhile, continued toward the pit. On reaching the edge, he stared straight down, leaning out so far Ihsan had half a mind to go and yank him back.

  Ramahd waved toward the mangled bodies of two nearby demons. “I see my sister-in-law has been here before me.”

  “Been and left, Lord Amansir,” Ihsan said.

  “How long ago?”

  “She and her horde departed yesterday.”