Already unstable, she flew back, losing every ounce of air in her lungs as she hit the ground, rolled over onto her chest, gasping, sucking in sand. She coughed and heaved, but couldn’t catch her breath. Footsteps and hooves pounded by her, lost in the fog. Enemies, allies—she couldn’t tell and neither could they.
And then came the blackout. She tried to rise, but grains of sand sliced across her cheeks like tiny knives. The sandstorm was unstoppable, moving faster than any she’d ever seen, and all the shouting and the din of battle was lost in it. All she was left with was howling wind and screams that were probably her own.
She tried to stand, but a horse barreled into her and knocked her aside. A heavy hoof pressed her back into the ground, again driving the air away. She was blind. Couldn’t even open her eyes against the onslaught of sand. More hooves connected with her shins and ribs, and as she lay there, wondering when a retreating foot would crush her skull, she couldn’t help but wonder if Babrak had been right. If this was meant to be where she fell. If the Current demanded it.
Someone grabbed her wrists. Her light body was heaved up onto a set of strong shoulders, and her savior dashed back toward the city. He slammed into warriors retreating in the opposite direction, absorbed the brunt of others bashing into him. All while sand assailed them from every angle. Mahi couldn’t even draw a breath without feeling like it was filling her lungs.
Then doors slammed behind her, and her rescuer collapsed to the ground inside what appeared to be a guard post along the city walls. Mahi rolled to her back, coughing up sand, wheezing as it scratched her throat.
“My Afhem!” Bit’rudam quickly kneeled by her side and held a leather canteen to her lips. He gently tilted her head back and let the cool water fill her mouth until it couldn’t any longer. She rolled onto her hands and knees and coughed up a gob of black liquid; a mixture of sand, water, and bile.
“Breathe,” Bit’rudam said, rubbing her back. She struggled to hear him over the door being battered by the storm. “Let it all out.”
Coughing again, she looked up at him. His hair was let loose, braids now a wild mess that fell over his shoulders. Sandy blood covered his face and arms, making his skin seem even darker.
“Was that you?” she asked. “That saved me? Carried me?”
Bit’rudam shook his head, and she followed his gaze toward Afhem Tingur, sitting opposite her. His men catered to him as he, too, coughed uncontrollably, soft belly spasming. His armor was in tatters, his hair and face coated with sand.
“No problem at all,” he grated, waving a dismissing hand before she could say anything. “I couldn’t leave you out there.”
“I…” Mahi paused to breath. “Almost had… him.”
“I saw.” Tingur released a pained laugh.
“The moment Afhem Tingur spotted the sandstorm coming, he and his men abandoned the camp and headed for the city,” Bit’rudam said, sounding displeased. “It opened an escape route for Babrak and the Glass army. Thanks to him, they’ll live to fight another day.”
“Thanks to him,” Mahi said. “I live.”
Bit’rudam looked as if he were biting back a response when Tingur said, “A good leader knows when to retreat for the sake of his people.”
“That’s what you do, right?” Bit’rudam said. “It’s why you’re still alive. I know the stories, how you didn’t show to support your brethren in their final battle against Liam, when even Babrak did.”
“Every day, I regret my choice, just as I’m sure many afhems do.”
“Your regret means nothing!” Bit’rudam barked. “We had them!”
Tingur seemed to reclaim his energy as he slammed his fist on the wall hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling. “I will not be scolded by a boy who’s just feeling guilty he left his own afhem out there to die!”
“I would have—” Bit’rudam froze and sank back.
Mahi could see the wave of emotions playing across his features.
Tingur was right, and Bit’rudam knew it.
“It’s all right,” Mahi said. “We survived, and that’s all that matters. Babrak might never make it back to Latiapur after what we did to him.”
“We had them, my Afhem,” Bit’rudam said. “We had them blocked.”
“And our God saw differently,” Tingur said. “As he tends to do.” He scooted up the wall to sit upright. “I’ve never seen a sandstorm sweep in as fast as that.”
“What does it mean?” Mahi asked.
“Who are we to know?”
Mahi nodded in agreement. Then, she crawled across the floor and took Tingur by his hand. “Thank you, my friend. For everything.”
“If we do not stand together, we’ll drown together,” Tingur said. “I see that now, thanks to you and your father. Our enemies may have escaped, but this is a great victory, Mahraveh. It will be remembered for generations, and it’s all because of you.”
“What we did, we did together.”
Bit’rudam stood, presented himself before Tingur and bowed his head. “I apologize for my outburst, Afhem Tingur. You made the correct move to preserve numbers, and I am beyond grateful you’ve supported my afhem.”
“It’s war, boy,” he chuckled. “We take it in stride, or we die.” He stuck out a hand, and Bit’rudam helped him to his feet. Though, in truth, Bit’rudam’s small frame did very little to aid.
“Well, they didn’t all escape,” Bit’rudam said as he helped clean Tingur off. “We have their Wearer of White prisoner. He’s with Afhem Muskigo.”
“Ha!” Tingur exclaimed. “Then we have nothing to worry about. The Glass don’t see failure as we do. They’ll do everything they can to trade for the holy Shieldsman. How the tide shifts, lady Mahrav—”
“Afhem Mahraveh,” Bit’rudam interrupted.
“Yes, yes. Of course. No insult intended.”
“We still have a way to go,” Mahi said, ending the squabble. She squeezed by them to the door. The racket of the wind was beginning to die down, and she peered through the cracks. “The storm’s moving past.”
“They never last long,” Tingur said.
After a sound of agreement, Mahi said, “We’ll need to return to their camp and salvage any food and water they left behind. We lost a lot of supplies in the bay. We’ll need more no matter what comes next.”
“And what will we do next?” Tingur asked.
Mahi bit her lip. “I’m not sure. Our victory will gain us support, but I need to speak with my father.”
“With all due respect, my Afhem,” Bit’rudam said. “You rescued him from shame beyond redemption.”
Whipping around, her withering scowl made Bit’rudam sink back once again. “And so I should ignore his input?”
“I’m not saying that.”
Tingur stepped forward. “I believe he’s trying to say that we have the advantage now. If we delay, we risk losing it. And the more of us making decisions, the more delay. I saw it myself in the war against Liam. Every single Glass soldier followed his will as if it were their own, while we all bickered over which strategy was best. Then we awoke having lost.”
“Well, my father has fought in more battles than we’ve had years,” Mahi said, looking at Bit’rudam. “His strategy will be best.”
“Of course, my Afhem,” Bit’rudam said, bowing. “Let us return to the bazaar and—”
From outside came the low hum of a horn. It sounded like a naval call from the Nahanab docks.
“What is that?” Tingur asked.
Mahi swept out into the streets, not waiting to find out. The storm was dying down, wisps of black sand flowing here and there, carrying cloth, parchment, and loose armor. Bodies covered the streets from every side, the blood beneath them, so coated with sand it seemed like volcanic rock.
Mothers cried, warriors bid farewell to brothers in arms—all the gray dead would be carried upon the Eternal Current soon, and they’d earned it, rising up against Glassmen and traitors, taking back their ravaged city when all s
eemed so lost.
As Mahi crossed the bazaar, she saw locals tearing apart what was left of Iam’s church after she’d dropped the bell onto it. From within, they dragged the statues out by ropes, broke the stained-glass windows depicting all the made-up stories Glassmen told to feel significant, pissed on the graves in the yard surrounding it.
Mahi searched for her injured father amongst the masses, didn’t see him. The horn bellowed again, this time louder, and drew her forward through a colonnade that opened to the docks. They were in shambles, naturally, abused by the Glass fleet before they’d established their barricade.
Then she saw him on an overwatch in the distance, leaning on his sickle-blade like a cane. Mahi started off toward him, then spotted Sir Nikserof to Muskigo's right, tied to a post. A few of her father’s men circled him like hounds, spooking him, and laughing when he flinched. His mouth was stuffed with cloth, and he’d been stripped of his armor. The silk tunic beneath was shredded, and his soft, pink skin was coated in tiny cuts like he’d been left out in the sandstorm. Probably had.
Mahi’s fists tightened. It was less than he deserved for slaughtering innocents.
“Daughter!” Muskigo shouted down without looking, as if he could feel her presence.
She shook away her rage. We’ll use him, like they use us. Father is right.
Leaping onto a half-sunken pier and mounting a flipped boat, she reached him fast, and went to embrace him, but received no such affection in return. He was busy staring at a small cluster of Drav Cra longboats in the midst of docking at one of the only piers left intact.
“Father, what…" Mahi’s words trailed off. Yuri Darkings stood on the bow of the lead longboat, rowing toward them. The entire harbor was now full of the green-glowing, nigh’jels. Thousands of them, flocking around the boat as if Yuri’s very presence was enough to beckon them. Yuri stared over the rail of the ship, features contorted by fear as if the harmless beings were something to be afraid of.
In the distance, Mahi thought she saw sand and salt swirling up from the bay in the shape of a woman. She thought she saw the face of that same Siren who’d claimed Jumaat’s life instead of hers, but when she blinked, the vision was gone.
“I ordered him to stay at the beach,” Mahi said.
“I figured he’d wasted away in the desert after I never heard from him and Farhan,” Muskigo said.
Hearing the name of her father’s loyal servant, Farhan made Mahi’s heart skip a beat. She’d always been partial to him. Now, he and Impili—her father’s top commanders—were gone. Both dead. “Farhan, father…” She paused to take a measured breath. “He died in Latiapur.”
“Latiapur?” Muskigo said, dismissively. “There is no fighting within those sacred walls but for Tal’du Dromesh.”
“Farhan tried to stop Babrak from attacking me, and the fat brute threw Farhan through the Sea Door.”
That finally gained Muskigo’s attention. His hand cupped her jaw, and he stared straight into her eyes and her into his. How she’d missed the strength of his glare, irises like storm clouds ready to drown the desert. Only, now, there was something missing in them. Something she’d never seen before.
Fear? she wondered. Doubt?
“That beast touched you?” Muskigo said, lips trembling with rage.
“He’s done far worse. He parades around the Boiling Keep as if he, himself, were the Caleef, chosen by God. He uses the Serpent Guard like a personal shield. Nobody touched him after he murdered Farhan. Nobody cared. He has most of the afhems under his thumb.”
“Not all of them,” Afhem Tingur said from behind her, winded from climbing the steps to the overlook. He stopped at the top for a breath, Bit’rudam standing in his shadow.
“Old friend,” Muskigo said. He limped over to his fellow afhem, and they embraced. “I see you finally got off your fat rump and joined the fight.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long, Muskigo. I grew so accustomed to peace.”
“Too many of us had, it seems.”
“Your daughter made me see what a fool I was,” Tingur said. “You should have seen her in the great arena, Muskigo. It was like watching you all over again. More, even!” He slapped Muskigo on the back. An unmistakable twitch of uncertainty flashed across Muskigo’s features—Mahi knew her father well enough to know the look. Then, he smiled and turned to Mahi.
“I look forward to hearing all about it,” he said. “My little sand mouse, an afhem.” He gave her shoulder a shake, and she blushed. “Not so little anymore, I suppose. If only I’d taken you with me, perhaps we would never have wound up here.”
“I—” Mahi began before Tingur cut her off.
“The Current takes us where it will, old friend,” he said. “You know that. But whatever has happened, here we are.” He gazed off toward the dwindling sandstorm. Then he raised his arms. “Even the winds are behind us now!”
“They are. We have the Glassmen on the run again.” Muskigo nodded toward Sir Nikserof. “We can use him to press our position. I’m proud of you, Daughter. For what he’s done, a lesser person would have killed him on the spot.”
Mahi didn’t respond. Hearing Nikserof Pasic’s name drew her gaze back toward the pitiful man. The very sight of him made her stomach turn over.
“He’s not a king,” Tingur said.
“No, but with Sir Unger removed, he’s the closest they have to a leader,” Muskigo replied.
“You haven’t heard,” Tingur said. “Sir Unger isn’t dead or imprisoned any longer. He slew the Drav Cra called Redstar, his own ally, lost his vision, and then regained it. They believe he was blessed by Iam. They’re calling him their Master of Warfare but, with Nikserof captured, he’ll be Wearer again. And he’ll be out for blood.”
Muskigo’s eyes glinted with desire. “Good. Next time, I’ll break him beyond repair.”
“Father!” Mahi shouted. All eyes snapped toward her, and she pointed at Yuri’s longboat, now docked. The Glass Lord carefully disembarked, taking care not to sully his robes more than they already were. He wasn’t alone.
A frail, emaciated man followed behind him. Women from the al’Tariq held his skin-and-bone hands, leading him out onto the dock. Rags were his only dressings, with leather blankets draped over his shoulders for warmth. The nigh’jels followed beneath him in the shallow water, surging against the blackwood planks of the dock, pushing liquid through the cracks.
Silence overcame the outcropping overlooking Trader’s Bay. Mahi couldn’t speak, nor could anyone else.
The man beside Yuri wasn’t that old, though not young either. It was tough to tell, considering how skinny and feeble he was. His knobby knees seemed to quake like a newborn calf as he walked.
And his face… perhaps that was the most confusing of all. It bore the look of a man who’d been pampered all his life—soft, even with the sharp edges of his cheekbones poking through skin. There was an almost childlike fear, which reminded Mahi of the first time she’d ever trekked out into the desert alone, when she felt the first pang of hunger and realized how narrow the chasm between life and death really was.
Mahi heard her father swallow the lump in his throat, then he fell to his knees and kowtowed. “The Caleef. He returns to us.”
Tingur joined Muskigo soon after, then Bit’rudam and the others. Mahi’s army followed, and the local markless did, too. Then, the only ones left standing were Mahi and Yuri Darkings. He, because he was a foreigner, and she, because she’d never seen Sidar Rakun before. Her father had never taken her to those meetings.
All she knew was he was meant to be painted black, naturally, by the blood of the nigh’jels who helped the chosen Caleef survive the Boiling Waters. And he was meant to be garbed in gold, face covered by beads; unworthy of being looked upon by mere mortals.
All she saw was a starving, pathetic man covered in cuts and bruises.
XVII
The Knight
“You did a fine job not dying, my friend.”
Tor
sten’s eyes opened to find Dellbar the Holy seated at the end of his bed. White robes, spattered with red draped off his slender shoulders and his hands still showed the stain of blood, dried chunks of it bunching under his fingernails.
“Are you—” Torsten asked.
“I’m fine,” Dellbar said. “We all are, thanks to you. That was a brave thing you did, shouldering the battle on your own. Foolish, but brave.” He popped the top off a leather flask and threw back a sip, then held it out for Torsten.
He stared, wordless.
“Oh c’mon, live a little.” Dellbar pawed for Torsten’s hand with his open one, found it, then placed the flask inside.
“Some priest,” Torsten said. But he lifted the flask to his lips nonetheless. Then, drawing a deep breath, said, “Iam forgive me,” before downing a mouthful. He expected to retch from the bitterness, but Dellbar had exquisite taste. Honeyed wine, probably a vintage older than either of them.
“Good, right?” he laughed. “You think I’m the first priest who liked a drink here and there? Found this bottle in the crypts below the Yarrington Cathedral.”
Torsten took another sip, then wiped his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d imbibed, even so little, but with aches in places he didn’t know could ache, he took one last sip before Dellbar could grab it. Besides, he was thirsty. So dreadfully thirsty.
“It is not the occasional drink I worry about,” Torsten said, more to convince himself than anything else. He knew how his father got when he’d had one too many. His mother too, though she did it for other reasons.
Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, Torsten positioned himself next to Dellbar. He felt like he’d been trampled by a wagon pulled by zhulong. A wave of dizziness rushed to his head as well, and he toppled over.
“Sir Unger, you all right?” Lucas hurried into the room and helped Torsten upright. He held his shoulders and stared straight at him.
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