Lords of the Black Sands

by J. Edward Neill

  It reminded her of home, a village by the Nile which was no more.

  She thought of her sisters.

  Entering the village, she slunk into an alley and wove her way through the shadows. The moon was low, but nearly full, its glow powerful on the streets. Under stars wheeling and around pools of pallid light, she skirted the tallest of the nameless village’s minarets and arrived at the door to which she came every night.

  Four knocks, she sounded. The old wood rattled beneath her knuckles. In moments, she heard footsteps beyond the door.

  “Who goes?” said the crusty old man on the door’s other side.

  “Spirit of the dusk, sister of the night.” She spoke the password. “You know it’s me, old man. Open the door.”

  A heavy bolt slid in the dark. The door opened, and a wrinkled, ancient creature peered out at her. His bony fingers were covered in tarnished silver rings, and his eyes like dark stones sunken into his tired sockets. The old man ushered her inside, and locked the door behind them both.

  Down in the candlelit gloom of the tower’s cellar, she and he sat at a table whose top looked the same as the old man’s weathered cheeks. Tapping his rings against the table’s edge, he began with the same questions he always asked:

  “Your sisters?”

  “All dead, save one,” she replied.

  “Your master?”

  “Still exiled. His father won’t have him back until he and the warlord Volkan slaughter all their enemies.”

  “And the Prey?”

  “Gone. No longer a moving piece on the board. Why do you ask these questions, Babar? You know the answers seldom change.”

  Babar, his sackcloth shirt swallowing his boney wrists, peered at her through the candlelight.

  “Hope, little one,” he said. “I still have hope.”

  With that, Babar reached into his bottomless sleeves and produced a crumpled sheet of paper. It was only a scrap, a few square inches of ragged, threadbare parchment, yet the mere sight of it caused Thessia’s heart to jump.

  Merely possessing such a thing was enough to ensure the execution of anyone who’d touched it.

  And if the paper had writing on it, it would be much, much worse.

  Thessia caught her breath and leaned closer. She’d yet to sip from the cup of tasteless tea Babar had prepared. She no longer cared about anything besides what appeared on the paper. The truth was—she’d been expecting this particular shred of parchment to appear in the nameless village for many, many weeks.

  She’d waited for it, as had everyone who hated the Pharaoh.

  “Well?” she pried.

  “Still impatient as ever.” Babar made an ugly face. He unfolded the paper and held it beneath his tired eyes. It was all Thessia could do not to snatch the paper away.

  “Alexandria in winter,” said Babar.

  “Alexandria in winter?” She squinted.

  “Yes.” Babar nodded. “All it says here is Alexandria in winter.”

  This time, she did snatch the paper. In the red candlelight, surrounded by dancing shadows, she stared at the three words as if expecting them to sprout into many others.

  Alexandria…

  …in winter.

  She’d expected more. Much, much more. But she knew the words’ meaning well enough. Alexandria, the last thriving metropolis on the Kingdom of Earth, the city by the sea, was the most valuable of the Pharaoh’s possessions. From it, the Lord extracted supplies, slaves, and parcels shipped in from the far corners of the world. Alexandria was a fortress, a harbor, a garrison, and a granary, holding great stores of food, guarding the northern deserts, and of course housing the great Tower, in which hundreds of the Pharaoh’s most loyal servants controlled his satellite network.

  “Saeed means to attack Alexandria.” She looked at Babar with wide eyes.

  Babar wagged his brittle finger. In the light, his tarnished rings looked almost freshly polished. “No, no,” he said. “Not just attack. Destroy.”

  “Because he knows he can’t destroy the Pyramid.” She gazed into the candlelight. “The Pharaoh’s home is too well defended. It has too many weapons. So Saeed will disrupt the Pharaoh’s supply line instead. He’ll raze Alexandria. If it burns, the game is changed.”

  “It is the obvious move,” agreed Babar.

  She sank back into her chair. As exciting as the notion of Alexandria burning felt, she’d hoped for more information.

  “There’s no date, no rally point, no details.” She sighed. “How does Saeed think he can do this? Menkaur controls the canal from the southern sea to the north. He’s got two-thousand soldiers, at least. And now, with his new warships, even if Saeed brings an army, just one of the Pharaoh’s ships would be enough to destroy it. How? How will Saeed get close enough? I don’t understand.”

  Behind his grey eyebrows, Babar looked sad. He knew none of the answers Thessia wanted.

  She retreated into silence. Sipping her tasteless tea, she pulled back her headscarf and gazed at the ceiling, upon which the shadows made a thousand bending shapes.

  Alexandria.

  Vulnerable? Yes. Easy to reach? No.

  And Saeed, for all his cunning…the people love him little more than the Pharaoh.

  How then?

  How will this happen?

  Wait…

  “I need your help,” she blurted.

  Babar’s eyes sharpened. His face turned serious.

  “Help?”

  “I need to send a message to Alexandria…to my sister, Mariya.” She leaned close. “She’s there. I need this message to reach her.”

  Babar looked confused.

  “I can’t explain. It’s too dangerous,” she continued. “But I must get word to her. It’s about Saeed…and the help we can give him. But I can’t travel beyond this village. The Pharaoh’s men will execute me if I stray too far. So I need your help, old man.”

  “But—” Babar tried.

  “I know.” She took one of his hands and squeezed it with both her own. His rings were cold beneath her palms, and his fingers colder. “You don’t have any idea where to find Mariya. But some of the caravan bosses do. They’ve slipped me letters before—it’s how I know things I shouldn’t. I can’t be outside when the caravans arrive. But you—you could. I could write a note—it’ll be in the old language—and you could give it to them. The boss of the salt caravan, he’d deliver it. Or maybe the gear boss. Or the old woman who brings in bales of cotton—she’s a friend of my family. Any of them, they could deliver this message to Mariya.”

  Babar’s eyes were wide now.

  Wide and full of doubt.

  “No, no, no.” He wagged his finger. “This cannot happen. You and I, we play our little parts in knowing of the rebellion. But we’ve no real part. We’re small things, you and I. We don’t dare jeopardize the rebels’ attack by interfering.”

  She felt ferocity smolder in her neck. Cowardice, especially from old men who’d nothing to lose, made her angry.

  “Listen, Babar…” She took his hand again and squeezed it almost hard enough to hurt. “…you know who I am and what I do. You have to help me. I’ve no reward to give you…except perhaps one day before you die you might look up and see this hope you so often talk about. The only way you’ll get it? The only way you’ll ever leave this place? The Pharaoh must die.”

  Darkness swam in Babar’s eyes. She saw his anger, weaker than her own, but still simmering. And she caught his fear, rising up from his skin like heat from the desert sand. Where was the Babar she’d known, the fiery old man who’d presided over secret meetings in his basement, the furious speaker of a thousand curses against Menkaur.

  “No, girl.” He shook his head. “This doesn’t feel right. Are you sure you’re fighting for the right side? You’ve bedded the darkest soul this earth has ever spawned, and you think you can control it. You can’t, Thessia. The Nemesis doesn’t love you. He won’t help you. He—”

  “Foolish old man.” She stood with su
ch force her teacup fell over and her chair spilled to the stone floor. “What I have with Eadunn isn’t important, nor is it any of your business. I will turn him. I swear it. But it’s not him I’m talking about. It’s his father. I’ve no love for him. If I can help Saeed, if I can reach Mariya, maybe this will end in my lifetime.”

  “But how? What will you—?” Babar looked confused.

  “No.” She cut him off. “Never mind. I was wrong to speak to you of this. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I’ll do it myself.”

  She spun and climbed the cellar stairs. Babar called after her, but she closed his voice out of her head.

  In moments, she stood in the moonlight again.

  Babar was too old, too tired, and too afraid.

  If her destiny was to make a difference, she would have to do it herself.

  * * *

  The only sounds in the grand hallway were the thrum of the water behind the walls and the clack of her armored boots on the smooth, dark stone.

  She’d worn a knight’s raiment only once before. After lovemaking more than a decade ago, Eadunn had allowed her to dress in a spare set of armor. She’d even slid a mask atop her face, and she’d viewed the world through the same cold, artificial lens as the rest of Eadunn’s knights.

  She’d shivered then.

  And she shivered now.

  Marching down the vast, empty hall, she mimicked the way she’d seen the knights walk.

  Not too stiff, she thought. But not too relaxed, either.

  Remember to breathe. No talking, only nodding.

  She’d betrayed herself in order to steal the armor. Last night, she’d seduced one of the Pyramid’s newest soldiers. He’d been sober, of course, but nervous after his induction rituals.

  She’d waited for him in the hallway.

  And when he came to his door, she’d swept close and gazed at him with her big golden eyes. He hadn’t known her, and so she’d pretended to be another of the Pyramid’s slave girls.

  “Welcome, m’lord,” she’d said.

  And he’d become hers.

  Once inside his tiny quarters, he hadn’t resisted her. Not when she kept him up past midnight making love. Not when she’d slipped out of his room while he slept, the key to the nearest armory tucked into her bodice.

  As she walked, and as fear took hold of her body, she dwelled in the dark corridors of her guilt.

  I’ve betrayed you, she thought of Eadunn. Just as I betray everyone else by loving you. For you are a monster, and yet I am yours.

  Forgive me this one small thing.

  And I shall forgive you for the massacre of millions.

  She marched on. Her stolen mask made the world seem sharper and brighter than it was. In truth, the hour was late, and the halls within the Pyramid were draped in shadow. Only with the mask’s power and her memory of the labyrinthine corridors did she make her way closer to the front gates.

  It happened then.

  Two captains, both wearing armor and both with their masks off, rounded a corner and began walking in her direction. She reminded herself not to lower her head or appear small in any way.

  They stopped and regarded her. She halted on her side of the corridor.

  “Task?” The taller of the two captains stared.

  She nodded straight ahead. Not far beyond, the Pyramid gates awaited. She hoped he would understand.

  “Caravan duty?” said the other knight. Him, she’d seen before, carousing with a gaggle of slave girls. He’d been hired by Eadunn twelve years ago, and he’d killed more people than most in the Pharaoh’s service.

  She nodded again, her body rigid with fear. If they unmasked her, they would kill her on the spot.

  “You’re late,” said the taller captain. “Best hurry. Forty-three wagons tonight. You’ll be at it until sunrise.”

  She nodded one final time, and they left her standing in the gloom, breathing so hard she thought her lungs might burst. When they were gone, she realized why she’d survived.

  Drunk.

  They were drunk.

  Couldn’t harass me without causing a scene. Without being known.

  Liquor for all but the highest-ranked is forbidden.

  Sweating, shaking, her heart racing, she strode down the hall, made a quick turn, and looked upon the wide-open Pyramid gate. Moonlight spilled into the giant doorway, while the shapes of dozens of workers haunted the space beyond.

  She walked out into the night. Immediately, she felt farther from death. Out here, officers were rare. Common soldiers supervised the movement of goods from carriages, wagons, and carts into the Pyramid’s vast storage chambers. All she had to do was appear useful, and slip to the caravan’s rear when the opportunity presented itself.

  Calmer than before, she moved into the open. The caravan’s wagons and carts had stopped in a single line, stretching from the Pyramid gate halfway down to the nameless village. She walked among them, reaching out with armored fingers to touch carts full of spice, a wagon loaded with butchered meat and leather goods, and a carriage stocked with crates of wine. She knew this caravan—knew its people. From all over the Pharaoh’s kingdom, they collected their goods and brought them to the Pyramid as tribute.

  Every single one, every cart, wagon, and six-wheeled carriage were compelled to stop at one place before arriving—a place where every incoming good was checked, re-checked, and determined to be fit or undeserving to enter the Pharaoh’s stronghold.

  Alexandria.

  How long she wended between the caravan’s people and goods, she couldn’t have said. She sweated beneath the armor, which she’d made fit her small body by packing herself in with strips of cloth cut from her shawls. She managed not to show any discomfort. At length, her nerves began to ease. She began seeking the few who might help her deliver the letter she’d tucked into her black steel gauntlet.

  The gear boss. He’s not here. He was supposed to be. Perhaps they’ve finally killed him for selling secret tools to the Habiru.

  The salt boss. He’s here. But he’s surrounded by knights. He’s in too deep. I don’t dare risk asking him for a favor.

  Worried, she neared the end of the caravan line. There, in a shallow pool of starlight, she arrived at a giant wagon. The heavy wooden thing was laden fifteen feet high with bales of dyed cotton. The material was meant for the Pyramid’s textile warehouse, in which it would be spun into thread and woven into garments for the Pharaoh’s servants, soldiers, and attendants.

  At the wagon’s head stood a tall woman. All but her sand-colored face was hidden behind her garish scarves and robes. Her face resembled a desert hawk’s, her nose hooked like a beak, and her eyes wide and roving.

  Lady Keshiaa, Thessia knew. Last in line, first to trust.

  Carefully, she circled Keshiaa’s cotton wagon. She rapped her armored knuckles against the wooden planks and trailed her black-clad fingers along the tightly-wound cotton bales. After two full circuits, during which Keshiaa and her three attendants feigned indifference, Thessia moved closer.

  She cleared her throat, muffling the sound behind her left-hand gauntlet.

  And in her gruffest voice, she stood before the Lady and her three men and spoke.

  “Lady Keshiaa, your servants are dismissed,” she grunted. “Send them to the front of the line.”

  Keshiaa, standing a full foot taller, glared down at her. Thessia felt small, vulnerable, and out of place in her ill-fitting armor.

  No matter.

  “Your servants, now.” She pointed to the Pyramid.

  Lady Keshiaa, brave though she was, dismissed her servants with a snap of her skeleton-thin fingers. She knew the penalties for disobeying a servant of the Pharaoh. Pale and terrified, her three men trudged away.

  They fear execution, Thessia knew.

  …or worse.

  “What is this?” Keshiaa folded her arms. She looked regal, almost deadly in her hawkish pose.

  Thessia cleared her throat again.

  “Madame
,” she said in her true voice, “please forgive me. I’m not what I seem. I beg you not to cry out.”

  Keshiaa frowned. Having survived many decades as caravan boss, she was no fool.

  “I can’t remove my mask,” continued Thessia. “They’ll know me. They’ll kill me. But you…you and I know each other. You knew my aunt, and you quarter in Alexandria, where my sister keeps a home. You can help me. You can help the entire world.”

  Keshiaa snapped her eyes closed and open again. The starlight glimmered in the blacks of her pupils, and when she looked at Thessia once more, her gaze was no longer as cold.

  “Is that you, girl?” the Lady asked. “Say your name. I must hear it.”

  Thessia swallowed hard.

  “Thessia Qadira,” she offered. “My mother called me Thess. I’m one of six girls. Only I and one other yet live.”

  Keshiaa scanned the long line of wagons ahead. Satisfied no knights were watching, the Lady allowed herself a moment of sadness.

  “Thess? You mean—?”

  “Elia’s gone,” said Thessia. “Killed by Volkan’s men in Japas. I only hope…I pray…Eadunn was not the one to do it.”

  A flash of anger moved in Keshiaa’s eyes. But the Lady, as full of compassion as any woman alive, let it pass.

  “Why are you here, Thess? Why are you dressed like this? They’ll find you. They’ll do terrible things to you, no matter your relationship to…him.”

  Thessia felt her heart race. She might have died then, had not Keshiaa reached out to steady her.

  “There’s going to be an attack,” she said in her softest voice. “In Alexandria. By Saeed. It will happen in winter. I don’t know how. But I do know it will fail unless Saeed has help.”

  Keshiaa looked doubtful. She raised her mighty eyebrow and stared. “Go on, girl,” she said.

  “Saeed needs someone to mask his army’s movements.” Thessia gulped. “And there’s only one who can do it. Mariya—my little sister. You know her. You know what she does in the Pharaoh’s service. She’s been helping the Prey for more than a decade. And now she can help Saeed.”