“We can hit that spire with a boarding arrow,” Bit’rudam said. “Slide down fast and find your father. But that’s sandstone. I don’t think it will hold unless we hit the blackwood over the bell.”
“It’s a long way off,” a warrior remarked.
Mahi scowled at the holy sanctuary of her enemy and extended an open palm. “Give me the bow.” A moment later, she held the longbow along with an oversized barbed arrow with a rope tied to it.
“Keep a hand on it,” Mahi said. She lifted the bow, notched the arrow and exhaled slowly. Bit’rudam was saying something, but she ignored him.
Just like shooting pit lizards on the dunes, she told herself.
The bowstring snapped, and the arrow soared across Nahanab. She could hear nothing except the rope unraveling from the arms of the warrior next to her. The wind picked up, and the arrow waffled momentarily, then stabbed into the spire's pointed roof. Mahi released a mouthful of air.
“Well done, my Afhem!” Bit’rudam patted her on the shoulder. The others echoed similar sentiments.
“I’ll hold it steady while you cross and swing in after,” the warrior holding the rope said. The distance expended most of the line, so he carried it to the nearest outcrop of rock and sidled up against the face on the other side to help him sustain their weight.
A bout of raucous cheers erupted from the heart of the city. Good or bad, Mahi couldn’t tell from where they were.
She unhooked the spear from her back, barred it across the rope and leaped from the ledge before she could think twice. A few months ago, she was skipping rocks with Jumaat in Saujibar’s oasis. Now, she zipped over Nahanab, wind and sand scratching at her half-shaved head, seeing a new city from above.
Her feet hit the surface, and she skidded. Her head came inches from slamming into the bell. Even still, she sent a roosting galler squawking and flying away. It startled her, but before she jumped and perhaps hit the bell this time, Bit’rudam touched down next to her and extended a firm hand.
The rest of the warriors bunched up around the columns. The one back on the ridge swung off with the loose rope, landing on a stack of clay homes connected by a series of ladders. He’d have to keep an eye out from below.
Mahi moved around the bell to obtain a better view of the bazaar. What she saw took her breath away. Sir Nikserof and Babrak stood on the grand stairs of the bastard church staining her lands. Babrak wore her father’s sickle-blade on his belt.
Shieldsmen, Glass soldiers, and Panpingese conscripts surrounded them. Shesaitju bearing the markings of both her father’s and Babrak’s afhemate watched from everywhere else along with Afhem Calidor’s men who inhabited and saw to the wellbeing of the city.
Her father knelt alone at the top of the church stairs. Before him, a ceremonial dagger lay atop a white blanket. The blade was obsidian glass, and an empty blown-glass sphere built into the hilt was filled with sand.
The Glassmen couldn’t have known such a custom, which meant it was Babrak’s idea. It was a blade born from the rock of mount Kal Driscus in the eastern Black Sands, a volcano made dormant when the God of Sand and Sea tamed the region so his chosen people could inhabit it. The body of any killed by the dagger would be burned and the ashes placed into the glass container.
It was a sacrifice of the soul intended only for the worst Shesaitju criminals whose shame was irredeemable. In the worst cases, it broke an afhemate. When an afhem was cursed to never join the Eternal Current, his followers’ bond was broken, and they were all left markless. Then, a new afhemate would rise from the ashes.
“What is he doing?” Bit’rudam asked, his voice shaky. Like Mahi, he’d probably never seen such an act. It was something out of legends.
“Why would he do this?” asked another.
But Mahi saw. Gripped in her father’s hand was a long braid of hair—her hair. She recalled the ceremony after her victory in Tal’du Dromesh when the other afhems shaved her head so they may tattoo the mark of her new afhemate. She recalled how Babrak watched from a distance, a sneer across his face.
Now she knew why. Only, he was more treacherous than Mahi could have ever imagined. He’d clearly convinced her father that she was dead. Broken him. Cut off from all the news from the region, why wouldn’t he believe it?
“It is time, Muskigo,” Sir Nikserof said, projecting loud enough for the entire crowd to hear. “Let it be known that this is your will and that I, Wearer of White of the Glass Kingdom, in the name of Pi Nothhelm, the Miracle King, first of his name and friend to the Black Sands, will honor it.” He raised a piece of parchment. Some sort of agreement that was too far away for Mahi to read. “May Iam have mercy on your soul.”
“Iam has nothing!” Muskigo snapped. “You will face judgment for your crimes. All of you. Soon, your kingdom will plunge into darkness. My only wish would be that I get to watch.”
“But you won’t,” Nikserof said. “Even your own people forsake you. Your own god.”
“We are with him until death!” a voice shouted from the crowd. Mahi recognized the man it belonged to by the scar covering his neck. Impili Mansoor, one of her father’s most trusted friends and warriors. His most trusted now, with Farhan dead.
Impili rushed Nikserof, sword drawn. Shieldsmen stirred to stop him, but they didn’t need to.
“Stop, Impili,” Muskigo said, raising a hand, and Impili obeyed in an instant.
Impili was restrained, shoved to his knees, and disarmed. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Mahi never thought that such a ruthless, fearless warrior even knew how to cry. His lessons when she was younger were always the most painful. She resented him at the time.
“It is clear from everything that has happened that the Current was not with you on this quest,” Babrak addressed Muskigo. “You must see that now.”
“I only hope that you will find yourself staring down at a dagger like this before your end,” Muskigo said. He faced the crowd. “The Current has stranded me, my loyal afhemate, but you shall endure! Your feet shall tread this sand and one day, I swear it, you will have a chance to free us once more.”
“Enough,” Nikserof said. “Let’s get this over with before our king changes his mind.”
Muskigo didn’t respond, only slowly reached out and let his fingers graze the blown glass pommel of the knife. His other hand clutched Mahi’s braid against his chest.
“Back up,” Mahi said to the other warriors.
“What’s the plan?” Bit’rudam asked. “We must move quickly.”
“Father thinks I’m dead.”
“But news of your victory must have reached here.”
“Yuri’s birds haven’t returned in weeks. They’ve been isolated. He can’t know.”
“How can you be sure?” Bit’rudam asked.
“I know my father.” Mahi circled around to the backside of the tremendous, bronze bell. A thick rope attached it to the spire, but it was nothing her spear couldn’t handle. “I am the snake only because of him.”
She slashed the rope, and the bell dropped with a deafening clang. Bit’rudam and the others quickly understood her intent and pushed it once it was loose. It slid off the spire and smashed down into the Eye of Iam sculpted in the clerestory of the church’s front façade. It bounced off and nearly crushed Sir Nikserof, who dove out of the way. Though a cluster of his men weren’t so lucky.
“I’m coming father,” she said, then let out a roar.
XIV
The Rebel
Muskigo extended his hand and touched the cold, metal grip of the instrument of his eternal damnation. A life dedicated to battle, to upholding the honor of his people—he couldn’t believe this was how it would end.
But there was one thing Babrak said which had resonated, even beyond all the lives Muskigo’s rebellion had cost. Under the Glass, his people had stopped slaughtering one another over old feuds, and their numbers swelled. He couldn’t let all the thousands who still believed in him enter the Eternal Current before their
time. He knew their hearts, and even as they would hate him for this surrender, they would have purpose when the Glass once again pushed too far.
Like any strong leader, he could shoulder that hate. He’d failed them enough already.
Looking up, he saw all the pleading, gray faces. His people. The sight of his friend Impili manacled like a stubborn beast, broke his heart. Of all of them, he wouldn’t understand. Muskigo remembered when he’d found Impili, the son of a broken afhemate, face bashed in by King Liam’s army. Barely alive. None had ever been prouder to wear the Ayerabi mark.
From the humble little town of the humble afhemate Muskigo had won, he’d built an army to be feared. Now the Ayerabi would die with him. There would be no tournament celebrating his life and those who’d come before him. He’d be a scribble at the bottom of the history the Glass Kingdom wrote for him.
Forgotten…
“My little sand mouse,” he whispered, squeezing Mahraveh’s braid to his chest. “I know that from beyond, your heart will inspire others to come.”
“You’re doing the right thing, Muskigo,” Babrak said. “I will find a place for these people in Abo’Fasaniyah after their service to the Crown is complete. I swear it.”
Muskigo’s fingers wrapped the knife’s handle, and he slowly lifted it. In truth, it was light, but to him, it felt like hefting a zhulong. He could see the oversized afhem in his peripherals, watching like a wolf circling injured prey, waiting to feed on the scraps.
“Even markless, they will die before turning to you,” Muskigo said.
Babrak grimaced and crossed his arms. “Then they’re as foolish as you are.”
“Quiet, Lord Babrak,” Nikserof said. “He’s doing the honorable thing for once.”
“Yes, listen to your leash-master, Lord Babrak.” Muskigo spat the title like he’d just sucked sand snake venom from an open wound. He got one last smirk in at Babrak’s expense, then raised the dagger to his chest. Protests rang out from the crowd. Each one felt like a hand upon his own, tugging the blade away. He had to persevere.
Clang!
A deafening sound above made him wince and stay his hand. Then it sounded again, accompanied by the crack of fractured wood and stone. He looked up and saw the church bell tearing through the front of the structure.
Sir Nikserof dove out of the way right before it hit the street, bounced again, and crushed a handful of Shieldsmen. Muskigo heard iron rending, then the shadow of the church’s Eye of Iam cast over him. He didn’t have time to get to his feet or even move. Instead, he covered his head and dropped into a fetal position. The crystal effigy of his enemies’ god shattered right behind him. Large chunks of stone rained down around him, keeping Babrak and the others at bay. His head may have been protected, but it didn’t keep his legs and back from getting battered. One rock fragment twisted his ankle hard. Another knocked the wind out of him. He crawled to avoid a larger chunk that would have pulverized his head.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Babrak demanded. His foot fell upon Muskigo’s back, bearing the entirety of his immense weight.
“Traitor!” A voice pierced the chaos. A familiar young woman’s voice.
Muskigo rotated his head and saw her sliding down one of the cathedral’s side-struts, landing on the second-story roof. Mahraveh—his only beloved daughter, a gift from the woman he loved who was cast into the Current far too early.
Only, this wasn’t the daughter he’d left behind. She wore zhulong-scale armor and a frilled skirt of the finest craftsmanship. Her spear was one he’d never seen her with before. The shaft was simple but hard blackwood, and the steel blade emerged like a sharp tongue from a carved iron snake constricting the top.
Yet it was her face that revealed to him the truth. It was no longer the face of a child, but that of a warrior who had seen death, dealt death, too. Any Shesaitju worth his salt and sand could see that in a warrior. And her beautiful hair was shaved off to reveal a head covered in tattoos much like his own; only bearing the mark of another afhemate.
She flicked her spear up into a throwing grip, then launched it straight down. It caught Babrak on the hip and sent him stumbling back, away from Muskigo. Muskigo shot upright, but pain flared in his ankle, and he stumbled, settling against the church wall.
Barbed arrows slashed down from the cathedral spire. Nikserof and his Shieldsmen fell behind a wall of shields. Members of Muskigo’s army forsook the ceasefire and leaped into battle against the Glassmen. Those who followed Babrak ignored it all, rushing instead to protect him.
“You meddlesome child!” Babrak shouted as he lifted the warhammer off his back.
Mahraveh landed beside Muskigo, retrieved her spear, and only then as he saw the sweat glistening on her now-toned arms did he believe he hadn’t already died and was seeing visions. A father knows his daughter, and this, undoubtedly, was her.
“You’re alive?” Muskigo asked, his voice quaking.
“I am,” she said. “I’m here.”
Muskigo couldn’t help himself. He threw his arms around his daughter and squeezed, even leaning on her until his injured ankle made him flinch back. As he saw her neck, he blanched. A crashing wave. She hadn’t abandoned him for another afhem. She was Afhem al’Tariq.
“How is this—" he said before she cut him off.
“I’ll explain everything after.” Mahi pushed him away. “For now, we’ve got to get you to safety and finish this.”
“How adorable,” Babrak said, then spat blood. “You couldn’t just sail off into the sunset and leave the Black Sands to the men, could you, girl?”
“And let you sell us out?” Mahi retorted. “Traitor.”
“How is it that none of you have brains enough to understand! The Black Sands will grow rich under the rule of the Glass. Then, when we are stronger…” Babrak let the words linger, looking to Nikserof who was too busy being battered by Mahi’s troops to care. “Wealth is all they value. It’s all they respect. How has your pink-skinned dog Darkings not taught you that yet?”
Muskigo regarded the braid still clutched in his left hand. Then the ceremonial knife in his right. He knew better than any that no warrior should enter battle when they were injured. When only rage fueled them.
But rage was all that Muskigo felt; all he had left.
He threw the braid aside and darted at Babrak, knife flashing. “You honorless pig, I’ll cut out your tongue!” Babrak shoved his men away and met Muskigo head-on.
As expected, Muskigo lost his footing on his bad ankle, and his knee scraped the stone. Babrak’s warhammer smashed down, but Muskigo rolled out of the way and lashed up, cutting Babrak across the left tricep before building distance between them. Waiting for the right opening with only a knife designed for a willing victim as a weapon, he flipped his wrist, testing the weight of the thing.
“Father!” Mahraveh shouted.
Muskigo shot a glance over as he ducked out of the way of another of Babrak’s mighty swings. Having freed themselves of battle, Sir Nikserof and Shieldsmen charged as well, but Mahraveh met them with her spear. Nikserof's heater shield deflected each of her lightning-quick strikes, but she knocked him off balance. His eyes revealed his shock at being attacked with such ferocity by a woman. Muskigo couldn’t help but feel the same way. He’d never seen his daughter move so fast or with such precision.
“My Afhem!” A warrior from atop the church leaped down to Mahraveh’s side. Others followed, all to face her Shieldsmen attackers. They all fought together, all bearing markings like hers.
“I should have killed her when I had the chance!” Babrak swung again. Muskigo evaded the blow, and the hammer broke open the corner of a building, sending tiles raining down from above.
“You couldn’t if you tried!” Muskigo feinted left, then snapped in the other direction and left another shallow cut on Babrak’s arm. The enormous man clearly hadn’t yet realized that Muskigo’s left side was compromised.
He’s too busy hoarding gold and ea
ting sweets to train.
Babrak reared back and threw his warhammer at Muskigo, who dodged left, placed too much weight on his hurt ankle, and slammed hard against the sandstone as his leg gave out again. Babrak then drew Muskigo’s own sickle-blade and slashed.
Muskigo got the knife up to parry, but the incredible force of Babrak’s swing knocked it from his grip. Babrak went to swing again. Muskigo now had nothing to defend with, so he grabbed Babrak’s forearm and held. However, his opponent had greater raw strength and all the leverage.
“Traitor!” A fauchard jammed into Babrak’s side.
Babrak abandoned Muskigo, tore his arm free, and slashed to the right. He cut open Impili’s chest, revealing a long line of red and pink muscle and torn sinew. Muskigo snatched the knife off the floor and stabbed Babrak through the forearm.
The big man howled, dropping the sickle-blade, then limped back into the waiting arms of his afhemate, who no longer spectated now that Impili had joined the duel.
“My Afhem, we must retreat!” one of them said. “We have lost the advantage.”
Muskigo wanted to give chase, but even as he tried to rise, his battered body betrayed him. His knees hit the stone, right beside his sickle-blade—a weapon he barely deserved any longer. Never in his life had he lost a fight, no matter how injured he was.
Until then.
“Defend him!” Mahraveh yelled. “Defend Afhem Muskigo!”
Her warriors had blades at Sir Nikserof’s throat and forced him to the ground. His face was bloody, and his formerly pristine armor was now dirty and dented. Mahraveh twirled her spear overhead, then went to stab it down through his neck.
“No!” Muskigo rasped.
She froze just before dealing the killing blow. Her shoulders heaved as she held in unbridled rage. He’d never seen her like this, like a rabid animal—blood drunk.
“He killed Shavi, Father. He killed everyone!”
Muskigo’s chin hit his chest. It was as Babrak said. The Glassmen really had taken Saujibar. Shavi had cared for his family since the day he’d become Afhem, but he knew she’d have died well with the Current if Mahraveh still lived.
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