Relics of the Desert Tomb

by James Derry

  “What?” Ohbo asked. Before Jamal could repeat this question, the cameleer launched into a bout of tittering laughter. “Honey-and-hibiscus lemonade? Are you serious?” A few of Ohbo’s ‘ladies’ chortled along with him. Or maybe they were just gargling up more phlegm.

  “Fine. Fine. It’s a dumb question. What do the people drink in this region?”

  Again, Ohbo’s lips pursed in that annoyingly knowing smile. “The Djungans have a wealth of excellent beverages. I believe their favorite drink is goat’s milk.”

  “Goat’s milk!” Jamal glared at the rugged Djungan bluffs. “I don’t know why I would expect anything less from dung-worshippers.”

  Ohbo frowned. “If the Djungans are so loathsome then why did your friend come to live with them?”

  “Honestly, I can’t explain it. She’s the dumbest smart person I know.” Jamal sighed. “You really don’t see anything wrong with goat’s milk?”

  “Nothing at all. It’s not as good as camel’s milk, but it has its charms.”

  Jamal made an exaggerated retching sound. “You can tell a lot about people by what milk they drink. In Gjuir-Khib we only drink aurochs’ milk. It’s the only proper milk to drink.”

  “What about mother’s milk?” Ohbo asked.

  “You mean from a human mother?” Jamal groaned. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Gjuirans don’t nurse their babies from the breasts of their mothers?”

  “No. They drink aurochs milk as well. That’s how we raise the finest soldiers in all of Embhra.”

  “That, and conscripting slaves,” Ohbo said. “So what do you think is wrong with people who drink goat’s milk?”

  “They’re savages, of course. One step up from cavemen. They would probably drink a man’s blood given half a chance.”

  With that Ohbo pointed to a line of warriors approaching from the palm groves. They carried heavy sharpened staffs, and curved swords hung from their belts. “You should hope that’s not the case, because here comes the goat-suckling horde.”

  “Enemies behind us,” Jamal said. “And now maybe enemies before us.” He pulled his own sword from the gear on his dromedary’s hump. It was time to face reality. There was a chance that these hill-people had already killed Sygne and roasted her on a spit. If that was the case, what would he do next?

  Jamal nearly cried out in relief when he saw a flash of red hair and pale white skin among the greeting party. He said, “Get me off this camel, Ohbo! Tell it to lower itself.”

  Ohbo stayed with the camels as Jamal trotted ahead. (He kept his sword with him, just in case.) Sygne sprinted to meet him. She threw her arms around him, and he lifted her off the ground and twirled her in a circle.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sweet eyes?”

  Sygne laughed through tears. “I’m not sure that’s how the phrase goes.”

  “It is!” Jamal put Sygne down and looked her over. “I came up with that saying, and Hadat the Harmonious took it and flopped it. Now everyone says it his way—although I don’t know why anyone would be flattered to be called ‘a sight for sore eyes.’”

  Sygne shook her head. “The same old Jamal. What are you doing here?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question! You haven’t had any troubles from a certain love goddess?”

  “No,” Sygne said. “Why should I? We’ve been following the terms of the agreement. At least until now.”

  “Well, I think Bliss has thrown out that agreement. She used her divine passion-powers to try to kill me.”

  “‘Passion-powers?’”

  “It was less pleasant than it sounds.”

  Sygne blinked. “The people here are telling stories about how a couple of mortals foiled Bliss’ plans. It doesn’t paint Bliss in a flattering light. Do you think she’s heard them?”

  “I’ve heard them,” Jamal said. “In every salon and tavern between here and the Ruffian Coast. Everyone’s joking about the goddess who draws flies. And now I think Bliss wants to write a new ending to the story.” Jamal glanced behind him and saw Ohbo approaching on foot. Luckily, he saw nothing else on the western horizon. At least not yet.

  He continued, “After my attack, I headed east to find you. I met some Lishans who said they took you to Djunga. What happened to your plan to head to Albatherra?”

  “Albatherra?” Sygne looked genuinely confused.

  “There’s no time to talk about this now,” Jamal said. “Let’s get to the safety of those hills. Unfortunately I have more bad news to tell you.” Before Ohbo was close enough to overhear, Jamal asked, “Do these people know how to make a flavored lemonade, by chance?”

  “No.” Sygne shrugged apologetically. “But they have goat’s milk. It’s fairly sweet.”

  Ohbo had nearly reached them. Jamal had never seen the chubby man waddle so quickly. He tugged at the nose-rope of his lead camel, to make her hurry. The others followed behind.

  Jamal groaned an introduction, “Sygne, this is Ohbo. He’s been my guide.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Sygne shook the cameleer’s hand.

  Ohbo stared at her and stammered incoherently.

  “And who are they?” Sygne nodded happily to the camels.

  Ohbo seemed to be struck speechless. He continued gaping at Sygne, so Jamal rolled his eyes and rattled off the animal’s names. “They’re Phoebe, Daphne, Chloe, Zoe… Oh, what’s the last two names? Penelope? And Lily… I think. Don’t ask me to tell you which is which.”

  “Oh! Such pretty names.”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  Ohbo’s round cheeks jiggled as his mouth struggled back to life. “Uh, uh. Jamal, aren’t you going to introduce me to her?”

  “Oh,” Jamal said, “Sure. Ohbo, this is Sygne. Isn’t she a sight for sweet eyes?”

  Ohbo’s plump face brightened, like the desert sun dawning on a fat dollop of river clay. “A sight?” he asked. “No, she’s a vision!”

  ***

  Ohbo continued to moon over Sygne as they made their way through the shade of the palms. Jamal was so distracted that he couldn’t focus on any of the Djungans that Sygne introduced. Luckily he was able to regain his focus once the tribal leader arrived.

  “Jamal, this is Chief Tuhn.”

  “Pleased to meet you. “

  “Very many pleasant greetings to you,” Chief Tuhn said. “Any friend of the Mother of Invention is a friend of this tribe.”

  Jamal asked, “’The Mother of Invention?’”

  Sygne answered through the corner of her mouth. “That’s what they call me here.”

  “Yes, the Mother of Invention,” Chief Tuhn said. “Has she told you of the very many wonders she’s planned for us?”

  Sygne and Chief Tuhn escorted Jamal and Ohbo over a maze of falaj channels. They stopped to admire a large tree trunk that was slanted down into the excavated pit of an aquifer. The tree trunk sat it a large half-pipe trough, and four men were crawling along the half-pipe, fussing over a green structure that spiraled up the pole.

  “What’s that?” Jamal asked.

  “Those are water sluices,” Chief Tuhn said. “Palm fronds and oils can be made watertight, if you know what you’re doing. Iwawhil! Show them how it works.”

  One of the Djungans bowed and ran to a crank at the side of the pit. He turned the crank, which moved a complication of gears and pulleys. Wood and rope fibers creaked, and then the tree trunk began to turn.

  Jamal asked, “You helped them build all this, Sygne?”

  Sygne beamed. “Impressed?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The man named Iwawhil grabbed a bucket by the crank and ran to a funnel set against the top of the rotating pole. After a few seconds, water lapped into the bucket. Hoots and whistles went up from the crowd of Djungans.

  “It’s called a water screw,” Sygne said. “It draws water uphill. In a constant flow, if you want.”

  “
I get it.” Jamal said. “You screwed up their water supply. Nice.”

  “Very nice,” Ohbo said in a strange, drawn-out tone.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” Jamal dragged Ohbo away from the crowd of smiling Djungans. He hissed at the cameleer, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?”

  “It’s her! I’m enamored. She’s such a beauty!”

  “Sygne?”

  “Yes, of course!” Ohbo’s face twisted from bemusement to dread. “Please tell me that you… That you were never her lover?”

  “Ew! No! Besides, haven’t I told you that I lost the part of me that can love another woman?”

  “Oh good. I was afraid that she was crazy. I can’t even understand why an angel such as she would even be your friend.”

  “What?”

  “So you wouldn’t mind if I pursue her?”

  “Pursue her? Of course I mind. We have enough pursuers in our life right now. You were hired to bring me to Djunga. This is where you and I part ways.”

  A cry came from the bluffs above them. It was a little Djungan girl acting as lookout. “Another stranger approaches! He’s by himself and on foot.”

  Jamal clapped Ohbo on the shoulder. “Speaking of pursuers!”

  Sygne came close to speak with them. “Did someone follow you here? Do you know this stranger?

  “It’s not a stranger,” Jamal said. “It’s a strangest.”

  4 – Death in the Dark

  The sky’s light was failing, and Jamal decided this would be the last time he looked through Sygne’s sight-leaping lenses. It was a monotonous view. The figure was still there looking like a cloaked man standing three hundred yards from the farthest Djungan palms. The strangest hadn’t moved from that spot in more than six hours.

  Sygne put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s pretty creepy. I’ve never seen something look so menacing, just by standing.”

  “Well said, Sygne.” Ohbo nodded. “Very astute, as always.”

  Jamal groaned, but Ohbo ignored him. The cameleer said, “The strangest has been following us across the borderlands for four days. Why would he stop and wait now that he’s so close?”

  Jamal said, “It’s an ‘it.’ And it’s waiting for dark. That’s when it can use its powers most effectively.”

  Ohbo whistled. “You must have really irritated that love goddess for her to send that thing after you. Hell hath no furies. Am I right?”

  “Why do people keep saying that?” Sygne asked.

  Jamal took a moment to evaluate their situation. It had been a four-day chase; it would all be settled in the next hour or so. Jamal had first noticed the strangest following him in the trading town of Bindu. He’d been lucky to see the monster before he had wandered down one of Bindu’s dark alleyways. If the strangest had caught him unaware then his story would be well and truly over. In desperation, Jamal had hired Ohbo to guide him through the open desert spaces where the strangest’s method of killing would be less effective. Ohbo’s six camels were far faster than the strangest, who always glided along at an eerily methodical pace. The difference was that Daphne, Phoebe, and the rest had to sleep at night. Those eight-hour delays almost gave the strangest enough time to catch up with them every morning.

  “You really think it won’t stop until you’re dead?” Sygne asked.

  “It won’t stop until both of us are dead. That’s what makes it such an elite assassin.”

  “Jamal?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re smiling. Just a little.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose I’m thinking about adding ‘monster slayer’ to my list of job skills.”

  Sygne listed Jamal’s professions, “Soldier. Bodyguard. Pirate. Mercenary. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “You forgot poet-singer.”

  Sygne grinned and nodded. “That led to quite an adventure.”

  “We got through that, and we’ll get through this.”

  “Do you really think your plan will work?”

  “It’s the best option we have,” Jamal said. “I’ve only heard of one monster slayer defeating a strangest, and that involved using a fast horse. Since the Djungans don’t have any horses—and since Ohbo’s camels won’t follow simple directions—we will have to improvise.”

  The sun was nothing more than a yolk of molten light against the horizon. Instead of watching it melt away into twilight, Jamal turned and beckoned for Sygne to follow him down to the center of their trap. They were only halfway down into the shaded wadi when Ohbo called out, “He’s floating into the air! His robes are flapping out behind him.”

  “It’s not a ‘him,’” Jamal muttered. That was an important point. The difference between monster and man. The difference between slaying and murder. In a louder voice, he called, “And those aren’t robes. They’re wings.”

  Jamal and Sygne squeezed past warriors on the ledges. The tribesmen were armed with slings and javelins. The open area between the bluffs and the Djungans’ palm groves was lit up with torches. That was where Jamal was headed.

  A sharp gasp from Sygne made him stop and turn.

  The scientician said, “It looks like it’s dragging darkness behind it.”

  Jamal could see what she meant. The strangest had hovered to a point over the highest palm trees. Its wings ruffled around the edges, but besides that they were weightlessly, effortlessly still. When the strangest’s wings were fully extended, they formed a circular canopy around the creature’s torso, so that it looked like a six-foot-tall floating mushroom.

  Behind and beneath the strangest the purple twilight had thickened to pitch black.

  Jamal said, “It’s the creature’s ink.”

  “Airborne ink?”

  Jamal pointed to a ring of torches surrounding the aquifer pit and Sygne’s water screw. “Let’s get into position. It’s about to get much darker.”

  Chief Tuhn stood by the crank of the water screw. He planted his long spear into the ground and called out, “Everyone get ready! Hide the women and children.”

  Jamal and Sygne stepped into the circle of torches. The screw’s operator, Iwawhil, was there as well. Both he and Sygne were tightlipped and wide-eyed. Jamal could sympathize. Standing in the ring of torches was like standing in a bullseye. And here was the strangest floating over the palms, moving into an attack position and dragging a wide plume of blackness behind it.

  “Gird yourselves,” Chief Tuhn called to his warriors. “Do not panic when the darkness swallows you!”

  Jamal wished that the chief had chosen his words differently. He cringed, but no one saw it. The shadows rolled in like a fog, and the raging torches that surrounded them seemed like tiny moths fluttering their wings feebly against the dark. Jamal could barely see the weapon on his belt.

  “Everyone have their machetes?” Jamal unsheathed his. “Iwawhil! You’re in charge of keeping the screw moving. You’re the screwdriver.”

  Jamal had realized he would need the sound of the crank moving in order to know exactly where the mechanism was.

  A man screamed on the cliffs behind them. “I see it!”

  Jamal heard the flap of wings. Then the clatter of a javelin landing on the sandstone. He called out, “Don’t throw into the dark! You’re more likely to hit one of us.”

  He thought he felt Sygne touch his shoulder. There was a whisper, the sound of a mother shushing her child to sleep. Jamal gazed straight up, and a tentacle wrapped itself around his neck, as soft as silk. There was something almost comforting about it, except that the tendril turned from satiny slickness to sliminess as its grip tightened.

  The tentacle hardened around Jamal’s neck and pulled him straight upwards. Jamal’s windpipe was closed off by the weight of his own body; he was being hanged. He cursed himself for not holding on to some part of the water screw structure. Now he was being dragged into open air, where he’d find nothing to hold and no one to help him.

  He sw
ung his machete over his head and cut through something gooey with a sinewy center. The tentacle around his neck instantly lost its strength, and Jamal plummeted through the pitch black.

  He had no idea how far he would fall, no way to prepare himself for his landing. So he hit the ground with a tangling of limbs and a great ‘woof’ of breath. That was one of the airborne assassin’s most devastating tricks. Never mind that it could negate its victim’s sense of sight. Never mind that it could float in the air with its vital parts high above an opponent’s reach. But even if you could cut through its strangulating tentacles, you still had to deal with a nasty free fall.

  Sygne called out to him. He could hear her take a step toward his direction.

  “Stay near the screw!” he said. “Hold onto something.”

  Already, the strangest was making a second attack. Another tentacle descended from the darkness and snagged Jamal’s ankle. He clawed at the ground, but again he was lifted effortlessly into the air. Another tentacle wrapped around his shoulder—luckily not on his sword side. He cut through that tentacle and then heaved himself upward with all the core strength he could manage. He grabbed his calf and then sawed through the tentacle that had him suspended. He braced himself; this was not going to be a pleasant landing.

  But someone was there to soften his fall. Desperate hands and hard elbows and another ‘woof’ of breath as Sygne collapsed beneath him.

  He gasped, “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to catch you,” Sygne moaned. Her arm was wrapped around Jamal’s chest, and she jammed a length of hemp into his free hand. “Here’s a line leading back to the water screw. It’s only a few yards away.”

  In his panic, Jamal had forgotten to listen for the sound of the mechanism. Now he clenched Sygne’s lifeline and stumbled toward the screw. That was the centerpiece of their trap.

  A third tentacle slithered across Jamal’s waist. Smoothly, deftly—with the touch of a courtesan—the strangest tried to ensnare Jamal again.

  “Gozir’s gaze!” He slashed through the tendril, and then he grabbed the water screw and hooked one leg around the mechanism. Sygne had reconfigured the machine so that it was drilling down into the aquifer instead of up out of it.