Relics of the Desert Tomb

by James Derry

  Jamal smiled back at them; then he howled. The troglodytes yelped and stumbled away. Jamal used the opportunity to make his own retreat, clambering over the rock pile and back toward sunlight. Loose scree and sand slid away under his feet. And something pulled at his legs. Jamal slashed at the space beyond his heels, and the pulling stopped.

  He propelled himself upward through the half-filled hole, moving in leaps and lurches until he burst out into the fresh air—the red heat of the flames below replaced by the broiling light of the sun. He was nearly skewered by six swords; then his fellow soldiers jumped back, their faces twisting with shock and shame—all except Raheed, who complained that Jamal’s unlikely escape had left a breach in their barricade.

  “We have to run!” the eunuch exclaimed. “We can’t fight that many trogs…”

  Nothing but wisps of dark smoke rose from the partial cave-in.

  “Stand your ground,” Lieutenant Aszir ordered. “All of you. And prepare for their charge.”

  But seconds passed, and nothing emerged from the hole.

  Raheed asked, “Do I hear voices?”

  Indeed, disturbingly meek sounds rose from the tunnel, like the mews of kittens. There was a regular rhythm to the sound.

  Raheed was astonished. “It sounds like the trogs are… praying?”

  Jamal was sprawled out near the mouth of the hole. His chest rose and fell as great gulps of air passed through his throat. His scimitar was slick with blood.

  Lieutenant Aszir asked in a low voice. “What did you do down there?”

  “He put the fear of gods into them.” Raheed’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Look at his leg.”

  Every soldier—commissioned or castrated—took a step back from Jamal. Sygne inspected their faces through Jamal’s eyes. What did they see? Jamal’s gaze wandered down to his right leg. He realized that there was a pressure there, like a tight band wrapped around his calf. That was where two big caveman hands gripped his leg. Both hands had been severed, presumably while trying to pull Jamal down as he made his escape. Blood oozed from their stumps.

  “Gozir’s gaze!”

  Lieutenant Aszir rubbed his jaw. His face tightened as he realized he had to restore order. He yelled instructions. “Jamal, pry those things off your leg! Raheed, run back to camp and fetch a few more empty sandbags. We’ll fill them here and plug this hole once and for all.”

  Raheed was in the mood for running. He was already sprinting away as Aszir called after him, “And hurry! Before the trogs finish their prayer!”

  One man grabbed Jamal by the armpits and pulled him away from the hole. His eyes were bright with awe, and he told Jamal, “I don’t think those trogs are praying. They don’t have gods. They’re only religious about thunderstorms. Thunderstorms… and demons.”

  ***

  Sygne woke up in a cave that was similar to the troglodytes’ lair in her dream. For a moment she was afraid. Was she still trapped in Jamal’s memory? Then she noticed the smell of moisture and dust intermingling. The rock wall to her left was dark and sweating water. Tiny plants grew from crevices in the gleaming rock, and Sygne remembered she was in one of the herbal caves of Djunga. She wiped sleep from her eyes and saw a girl dressed in auburn wool standing in the mouth of the cave.

  “Sygne? Are you all right?”

  Sygne blinked in the dimness. She still felt blinded by the sun over Uhl-Arath. The Djungans lived on the southeastern edge of the Tawr Desert, and Uhl-Arath was on the desert’s northwestern end. Those war-torn hills were a two-month walk from Djunga—across territory that would kill an unprepared traveler within a couple of days.

  “I… I’m fine. Who…”

  “It’s me. Ullowhi,” the girl said. Of course it was Ullowhi. The Djungan girl followed Sygne around like a puppy.

  “Hello. Good morning,” Sygne stood—too fast— from her pallet. While most Djungans were enraptured by the quackery of their shamans, Ullowhi seemed genuinely fascinated by Sygne’s science lessons. Sygne didn’t want to deteriorate that progress by admitting that she had seen a real-life mystical being, and that that entity had imprinted memories on her brain that were not her own. Instead Sygne flattened out the wrinkles on her shapeless wool gown, and spoke as nonchalantly as she could. “It was just a bad dream. Nothing more… and completely natural… Remind me to tell you what the Mentors say about dreams.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ullowhi said. “I would like to hear that in very many ways. But for now, our Chief is asking for you.”

  “Chief Tuhn?”

  Ullowhi dropped her eyes at the mention of the Djungan ruler’s name. Gazing at the floor was a common gesture of acquiescence among the women of the tribe. Sygne couldn’t help but feel defensive. She had been living as a guest in the Djungans’ cave-village for two weeks, and Chief Tuhn had yet to acknowledge her presence. Now he wanted to speak with her? First thing in the morning?

  “Please…” Ullowhi said warily. “It is something with very many importances.”

  Sygne ran her fingers through her hair. Luckily, her hair was short enough that she could quickly unknot her bangs and smooth out the tightly clipped hairs at the back of her head. She didn’t have to waste time finding the tiny mirror she kept in her pocketbook. (Sygne’s pocketbook was a very large book, in which she had sewn leather pockets and a shoulder strap.)

  In less than a minute, she was following Ullowhi outside. The Djungas lived in natural caves that were burrowed deep into the faces of tall sandstone cliffs. The mouths of the caves were connected by ladders, narrow stairs, and switchback ledges. Ullowhi was a wisp of a girl, but she moved with powerful leaps from ledge to ledge, whereas Sygne had to traverse very carefully.

  Eventually Sygne dropped down onto the sandy floor of one of the wadis that ran through the Djungan bluffs. The ravine was wider than most—and clear bright water ran down its middle—but Sygne still felt boxed in by the sheer walls of sandstone on each side of her. The black mouths of caves showed along the cliffs. Their animal-hide curtains had been pulled back, and white-garbed tribesmen stood at each entrance, watching her. Sygne swallowed hard. What was this about?

  The Djungans’ cave-village was basically a series of sandstone bluffs, each of them separated by wadis that had been carved through the rock by tributaries of the Bedotan River. The streams all rolled into a lowland plain that was wet and green year-round, like a landlocked river delta. Ullowhi led her here, where acres of palm trees grew in the shadow of the Djungan bluffs.

  Upon first impression, the sight of so much greenery—in the middle of leagues-upon-leagues of desert sandstone—had taken Sygne’s breath away. Rumor said that the Djungans were backward hill-people—savages who were barely more civilized than the dreaded cavemen. And yet the Djungans had maintained an improbably huge garden on the outskirts of the Tawr. They were ingenuous in the ways that they used the palms to provide everything they needed. Food, building materials, rope, and textiles. And they used impressive agricultural techniques to keep their trees flourishing in the harsh conditions. That included earthwork canals and tall structures called shadufs that could access underground water.

  Chief Tuhn was waiting for her alone, standing by one of these shadufs. Sygne curtsied deeply to the man. When she raised her head she saw that Ullowhi had disappeared.

  Chief Tuhn spoke his first word to her, calling Sygne by a name that made her wince.

  “Scientician,” he said. “I hear that you know very many things.”

  Sygne didn’t want to sound like a know-it-all. “I don’t know… every person knows… very many things… But…”

  Chief Tuhn stared hard at her. Between the white cloth of his turban and the black curls of his beard, Tuhn’s skin was a warm, dark brown—burnished by a lifetime in the sun.

  Sygne struggled for the right words to soften his gaze. “You know very many things. Your people… I want to teach you more… very many things…” She swallowed. “If I can… I wan
t to help you… In very many ways… to make your lives better.”

  Chief Tuhn continued staring. “You think we need help?” His tone was flat, so that Sygne couldn’t tell if he was curious or offended.

  “No! No… You don’t need… Well, everyone needs some help… That’s one of the goals of science…” Her lips quivered over words that would not come.

  “I am a simple man, scientician. Let me start this conversation again, in a simple way. Answer this question: Do you know what this is?”

  Chief Tuhn pointed to the ground. Mulch had been raked away to reveal a flat area of fertile soil. A figure had been molded there out of a black substance.

  Sygne cleared her throat, and tried to clear her head of nerves. “That is one of your tribe’s artisan idols. It’s made of goat… ordure.”

  “Dung,” Chief Tuhn clarified.

  “Yes.”

  Sygne studied the idol at Tuhn’s feet. Crude. She hated to use the word, but she couldn’t think of a more fitting description. This graven image was of a woman. Her legs were stubby. Her arms were almost nonexistent. And her head was gigantic. As large as her body. The idol looked like two ovoids joined together. The defining characteristic of the top ovoid (the head) was an upside down ‘v’ shape, meant to represent the hair of a female. The defining characteristic of the lower ovoid (the woman’s torso) was a cleft running up from between the idol’s stubby legs.

  Chief Tuhn asked, “And why do we make our holy idols out of manure?”

  “I don’t know,” Sygne said. She hadn’t had the temerity to ask.

  Chief Tuhn nodded. “Because it reminds us that our gods may be everywhere and everlasting, but they are not infallible. They were made like us—in a way that is not perfect, and not pretty.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you know who this is supposed to be?”

  Sygne frowned. “I don’t know. I know that most of your idols have palm fronds or fibers… stuck into them… to represent the adornments of your gods. This one…”

  Chief Tuhn asked, “…Has less many clothes than usual?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Chief Tuhn swiped at the idol with his foot. Sygne gasped—not just because the chief had made a mess—but because the Djungans considered their dung idols to be sacred. He explained, “That wasn’t one of our deities. It was an Issulthraqi goddess.”

  “Bliss?”

  “Yes. There is a rumor spreading through our caves. I hear that a mortal woman—A woman!—made a fool of the goddess Bliss. Using science.”

  Chief Tuhn paused for a moment, and a grin passed over his face. He was pleased.

  She said, “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “They say the woman had hair the color of wildfire. And she used her intelligence to show that the goddess Bliss was drawing flies. And she humiliated her.”

  “If that story were true…” Sygne spoke cautiously. “Then that woman would have to be careful… To not provoke any further anger from that goddess.”

  “I understand,” Chief Tuhn nodded. “A female that powerful, she brings very many dangers when she is scorned. Hell hath no furies…”

  “Well, that’s slightly sexist,” Sygne murmured.

  Chief Tuhn said, “For very many months we have heard that the Issulthraqis will come here to conquer our lands. They were spurred on by their gods, who want more believers.”

  Again Sygne murmured to herself, “And perhaps something else? I can’t…” She suddenly felt even more confused and off-balance—like she was forgetting something very important.

  “…and now the Issulthraqis march no closer to our caves, since their goddess has been shamed. They see that their gilded armies and their perfumed gods are just as dirty as the rest of us.”

  “I don’t think that’s truly how it happened… If it happened.”

  Chief Tuhn stepped over the smear of excrement and into Sygne’s personal space. “This woman has done very many good things with her science. A feat that may have been beyond what a hundred of my finest spearmen could hope to do. She should be revered.”

  Sygne looked to the Djungan warriors watching from the bluffs. Somehow their stony glares seemed a trifle more appreciative now.

  The Djungan leader continued, “She should be listened to. Her very many ideas can do very many good things. Will you teach us what you know?”

  Sygne took a moment to center herself, to push away all the doubt and confusion that had crowded her head. She nodded. “I would love to. Absolutely! Very many so!”

  3 – An Arrival

  Sygne was dreaming as Jamal again. Through his eyes she saw stars piercing the dark with an icy light. Nights in Uhl-Arath could be bitterly cold. It had been several days since the Gjuiran army had claimed victory and since Jamal had earned his moniker, the Demon of Uhl-Arath. Since then Jamal and his fellow conscripted soldiers had been clearing dead cavemen from the tunnels during the day, and warding off the desert cold with strong ale at night.

  The officers had insisted that young Jamal enjoy a few extra draughts this night, and at some point he had probably passed out. Now he started into wakefulness with a head that felt hollowed out—and a feeling of panic wringing his empty belly.

  Sygne could feel his fear—and hear that something was wrong. The clatter of bronze armor. The scuffing of sandals on gritty sandstone. The unmistakable sound of Gjuiran soldiers on the move, but moving furtively.

  A shadow leaped past the nearest campfire. Jamal reached for his scabbard and staggered out of his bedroll. He winced as he put weight on his bandaged calf.

  Someone pounced on Jamal’s back. Strong and heavy. Jamal fell face first onto the hard floor of the desert. Sygne heard the jangling slither of manacles drawn across Jamal’s back and around his wrists. Jamal screamed, “No!”

  There were at least two other men there, restraining him with well-practiced ease. One lifted Jamal so that the chains could be pulled tight around his midsection. Jamal roared. One man stuffed a wet rag in his mouth and pressed Jamal’s head into the ground, so that the sandstone grated his cheek.

  Jamal’s face was stuck, glaring into the campfire, and Sygne’s gaze was trapped with him. One of the Gjuirans brought over an object that looked like a miniature cage silhouetted against the firelight. The soldier fastened the cold metal to Jamal’s face.

  It was a muzzle.

  ***

  “Strangers!” Ullowhi called from her perch atop the bluffs.

  Sygne lifted her head to see the girl, and sweat rolled down into her eyes. She had been supervising a trio of farmers as they planted a palm tree trunk into Djunga’s second largest aquifer. The men grunted as they pushed the trunk into its final position, and Sygne called up to Ullowhi, “Strangers? What do they look like?”

  “I see six camels,” answered Ullowhi, “with two men among them.”

  The farmers passed wary looks among themselves. Visitors had to be extremely desperate, or dangerous, to venture to the edge of the Southern Tawr.

  Sygne handed a curved, trough-shaped piece of interwoven palm fronds to the nearest man. “Iwawhil, will you continue to attach the threads?”

  The tall Djungan nodded, and sweat dripped from his chin. Sygne grabbed her pocketbook and hurried up the cliff face until she could see from Ullowhi’s vantage point.

  Once she was at the lookout peak, Sygne rifled through her pocketbook. Vial of chemicals. Measuring threads. Needles. A lodestone compass. Finally she pulled out two circular lenses of glass.

  Ullowhi gasped, “Your fire glasses? Can you burn them from here?”

  Sygne held up the smaller lens so that it was aligned between her eye and the larger lens. She understood what Ullowhi was thinking; the Djungan girl had seen Sygne start a fire by using the lenses to magnify the sun’s light. Maybe two lenses lined up could burn a distant target?

  “No, but good thinking,” Sygne said. “These two lenses together can
magnify light so that sights from far away can appear closer to our eyes.”

  “Ooo. Can I see?”

  Sygne couldn’t answer. She knew the man who had come into focus through her lenses. “Jamal. But what is he doing here?”

  “You know those men?”

  “One of them.”

  “Is he a scientician like you?”

  “No,” Sygne said softly. “He’s… A warrior.”

  Ullowhi gasped and quickly jumped down several ledges of rock, as graceful as an ibex.

  “No!” Sygne called after her. “He’s a poet too.”

  But Ullowhi had already traveled out of earshot.

  ***

  Jamal was perched on a mound of mangy, wobbling fat. He clapped his heels against the beast beneath him. “Come on, can’t you go any faster?”

  Jamal scowled as the man beside him chuckled. His name was Ohbo, and he was a pudgy desert rat from the arid Hogback Hills region. Ohbo and Jamal were both riding camels, but Ohbo was obviously quite comfortable on his hump of beast-flesh. He was a cameleer and a desert guide who appeared to be in his late twenties—although it was hard to tell because he was so babyfaced. His cheeks were round and hairless, and his mouth was usually pursed in a sly, mischievous smile. His jolly eyes seemed to grow brighter as Jamal grew more miserable.

  “Patience, my friend,” Ohbo said. “My ladies will get us there.”

  “I wish you’d stop calling your camels ladies. They’re far smellier than any women I’ve ever known.”

  Jamal’s camel grumbled, and Ohbo consoled her, “Don’t listen to him, Daphne. You are a beautiful blessing to this world.”

  Jamal stared ahead. The green expanse of the Djungan’s palm groves stretched out before him, but they were blurred by distance and the desert heat. Jamal rubbed his throat. “I wonder if the Djungans have any beverage close to honey-and-hibiscus lemonade.”