by A. C. Cobble
Ben looked around his companions and saw Rhys staring at him. The rogue’s grim look spoke more clearly than words. He knew what Ben was thinking. He’d dealt with his share of unintended consequences.
“There’s nothing to be done about it now,” Rhys said. “This is a discussion for later, when we’re comfortably seated in a tavern and sipping on something cold and foamy. We can talk about it all you want, then. Now, we have something else to deal with.”
Thyr cleared his throat. “A spring I thought we may be able to stop at was also buried. There’s no telling how deep the sand fell and whether we have the water and strength in our bodies to uncover it.”
“We packed enough water for an extra two days, right?” challenged Amelie. “We’ve spent a day resting, but that should still give us one extra to find fresh water. Frisay isn’t much further if we have to push.”
Milo coughed discreetly, and the Dirhadji glared at him.
“I, ah, I lost my pack,” admitted the former apprentice.
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” growled the desert warrior. “You weren’t sticking to the ration. Your skins were near empty. You thought to hide it, but I saw.”
Milo flushed and retreated back to his place by the rock.
Ben sighed in disappointment, but there was nothing they could do about it.
“What do you suggest we do?” Amelie asked Thyr.
“Leave tonight.”
“But Ben isn’t healthy!” protested Amelie. “Lady Towaal hasn’t woken yet.”
Thyr shrugged and didn’t respond.
“Amelie,” interjected Rhys. “We have two days of water left. It’s three days to Frisay. Tomorrow, we’ll have the heat of the sand sea cooking the moisture out of us even if we rest in the shade. If we don’t move now and find a fresh source of water in the desert, we may run out.”
Amelie opened her mouth to argue, but Ben stopped her.
“They’re right, Amelie. I’m weak as a newborn fawn, but all of us will be weak if we have to hike on a half-day ration of water.”
“You’re sure this is a good idea?” she worried.
Ben nodded. “Without water, we die.”
The first rays of sun were peeking above the horizon when Ben fell face first into a soft bed of sand.
“We’ll have shade for another four or five bells,” said Thyr. “I recommend everyone take advantage and rest. When the sun hits us, we start walking again.”
Corinne grunted and tossed her pack down beside Ben. He didn’t move.
“How far do you reckon we made?”
The Dirhadji scratched at the back of his neck. “Four or five leagues. If that’s right, we have about the same to make the border of the sand sea and to where I think we can find water. Fifteen more after that to Frisay.”
“Could some of us go ahead, get fresh water, and come back?” wondered the huntress.
Thyr shook his head. “There are no roads, no landmarks out here. I can’t promise I could come back and find you. If the strongest leave, the weakest may never find solid footing again.”
Corinne flopped down and sipped her water.
Beside her, Amelie was kneeling beside Towaal.
“How is she?” croaked Ben.
Amelie grimaced. “She’s breathing. She must have pushed herself near her limit.”
“Or past it,” suggested Rhys grimly. He was sprawled out beside the rest of them. Worn to the bone, Ben suspected. The rogue had been carrying Lady Towaal for most of the night. Thyr had spelled him near midnight, but the rogue took her back three bells later.
“How does it work,” asked O’ecca uncertainly, “doing things with your mind?”
Amelie settled down and pursed her lips. “That’s a long story.”
Thyr handed her his water skin.
“I am more used to this climate than you are,” he said. “Drink deeply, then tell your story. I will consider it water well spent. I am curious to learn about what this woman did. We do not have mages amongst the Dirhadji. How does one become one?”
Amelie eyed him then tilted up the water skin.
Ben realized it was the first time Thyr had asked one of the women a question.
“Becoming a mage,” started Amelie, “is about acquiring the necessary will and knowledge. Will to manipulate energy, and the knowledge to know how.”
As she continued, Ben thought on what Thyr had said. There were no mages amongst the Dirhadji. Hopefully, the man was wrong.
A jagged spine of rock tore through the floor of the desert in front of them. Compared to the terrain around Farview, it was nothing, barely even a hill. From the sand sea, it looked like a mountain. The sun rose to the east, red light sparkling along the knife-edged ridge, lighting it like it was on fire or covered in blood.
Ben grunted. In the sand sea, there was no fire, and if they were out there any longer, they’d have no more blood.
He could feel the moisture leaking from his skin, drop by drop. He’d taken to wiping the sweat off his face and licking it from his fingers. Rubbing his face stung, but the salty sweat stung anyway. He hadn’t peed in over a day, and he feared the moment when he would stop sweating. Shortly after that, he knew he’d lay down and not be able to get back up.
“Can we drink the last drops?” begged Corinne.
Thyr, marching ahead of them, shook his head. He didn’t waste energy on speaking anymore. He barely opened his mouth. It released moisture, he told them earlier.
They each had a mouthful of liquid in their water skins, bouncing by their hips, tormenting them.
Ben knew the water would be hot and taste of the old leather it was stored in, but it would also be the sweetest thing he’d ever put past his lips. Without it, he was dying. Heartbeat by heartbeat, step by step, drop by drop.
He heard a thump behind him and turned to see Rhys sprawled on his hands and knees. Lady Towaal lay in front of him, still unconscious, splayed out on the sand where Rhys dropped her.
Ben staggered back and grabbed Towaal’s wrists.
“Ben,” rasped Amelie. “You almost died two days ago. You’re still too weak.”
He didn’t answer. If not him, who else would carry the mage? None of them had any more water than Ben. Aside from Thyr, none of them were in much better shape.
The Dirhadji’s willingness to help was rapidly fading. He was nice when he was able, but in the desert where their slow speed could kill him, their guide was becoming less interested in what they were seeking. He’d evidently decided it wasn’t worth dying to learn.
Ben planted a boot into the soft sand and pushed, dragging Towaal’s prostrate body with him.
Corinne helped Rhys to his feet, and the rogue stumbled along, head hung low, his legendary stamina exhausted after carrying Towaal through the desert.
Step by step, Ben half-fell and half-dragged the mage. He told himself, if he could reach the spine of rock, if they could find shade from the brutal morning sun, they could rest. While they were stopped, the stronger members of the party could collect water.
The mage was light, a fraction of her normal weight due to the depravation of the desert. Ben was weak, though, and every step was a struggle.
Dragging Towaal behind him, he walked backward, holding her hands in his. He felt the rays of sun warm his back. He knew that as soon as the brilliant orb in the sky completely cleared the ridgeline, they’d start to bake. One mouthful of water wasn’t enough to last very long, even if he wasn’t dragging a body behind him.
Thyr led the way, followed by Milo, O’ecca, Amelie, Ben, and Towaal. Rhys and Corinne brought up the rear. The rogue’s arm was slung over Corinne’s shoulder, and the huntress was supporting his weight as they stumbled along. Ben wished the rogue had said something earlier. Not even Thyr would make it far carrying the big assassin.
Ben watched Rhys and Corinne follow him as he dragged Towaal along. He didn’t waste effort watching where he was going. There was nothing but sand until they made the rocks.
“A bird,” she stated, nodding toward the horizon. “If there’s a bird, there must be water nearby. We’re getting close.”
Ben didn’t spare the energy to look up.
“It’s a buzzard,” called O’ecca from ahead of them.
Corinne grunted. “Oh.”
They trudged onward.
Ben’s arms burned with the strain of pulling the mage’s body. He looked down at her face, slack and still. She didn’t stir as he adjusted his grip, yanking hard on her arms. It would have hurt had she been awake, but there wasn’t a glimpse of pain in her blank expression. He would worry about the strain on her body after they got to something resembling shelter and had access to water. There, they’d have time to worry if the mage would recover.
It wasn’t the first time they’d had to carry the mage away after she overextended, but they’d never done so in such punishing conditions or for so long.
He wondered what she’d done, how she’d created a dome of force and exploded it upward. Seventy or eighty paces of sand, his friends said. He knew enough to know that much sand could weigh more than a small castle. Nothing the mage told them about using one’s will explained how she achieved the feat with the sand. He wondered where she got the energy.
His mind swirled, thinking about conversations he’d overheard in the past. How they’d used mechanical force to flip their cart back over in the woods before Irrefort, how Towaal had frozen the air to defeat Lady Ingrid, how Amelie gathered heat from the ambient air to form a fireball.
A talented mage could pull energy from any nearby source, the closer, the easier. Ben thought about how in the Wilds, Rhys had taught Amelie how to pull energy from a person.
He looked back down at the mage.
During the storm, he’d been lost in the fury of the wind. He’d rode it like a leaf, blowing where it willed him, but he’d also commanded it like a ship’s master, directing it with his will, forcing it to obey him, or so he’d thought.
His recollection of the moment before he collapsed was fuzzy at best, but he distinctly recalled the feeling of releasing the built-up power from his sword, sending it directly into the teeth of the storm. He had assumed his push was what stopped the storm. What if it wasn’t? What if that energy was commandeered after he let it go? What if it was used by someone who understood better how to manipulate it than him? There might have been enough to stop the storm and then later save them from being buried alive.
He remembered the unbelievable feeling of power as he gathered the storm’s energy. He’d taken as much power as he could and then channeled it to somewhere safe. That hadn’t blown the storm back, he suddenly realized with a start. That hadn’t shoved the winds away. He’d merely stripped the storm of its energy.
He’d taken the fury out of the storm and directed it into his sword. When he released it, Towaal had taken over. He was sure of it. When the sand fell, she’d used that force to create something that should have been impossible, something that defied his limited understanding of what a mage was capable of. She’d channeled the energy from him and done something exceptional.
The Purple intended to do the same. According to the writings they’d obtained in Alcott, the Purple were attempting to pull power from between the worlds. Unlimited power.
The mage was unconscious, but she was alive. He didn’t know if it was the strain of funneling the incredible force he’d built or if she’d pulled from her own reserves, but they’d stopped a devastating sand storm. She’d moved a thousand tons of sand with a thought. A caravan of innocent traders was killed in the process.
The storm was massively powerful, but it was limited by the rules of physics. With unlimited power from outside the world, mages could control the weather, flatten armies, rule unchallenged. There would be unintended consequences, but would they care? They could become drunk with their own power, their ability to wreak devastation with a weapon that couldn’t be challenged by mortal men.
Ben, facing backward and dragging Towaal behind him, smacked into a solid wall and flopped down. He looked up to see Thyr standing above him.
“We made it to shelter,” the man said. “Stay here. I’ll come back with water.”
The warrior bent beside Ben and collected his water skins.
Around Ben, his companions slumped down, dehydrated and exhausted. None of them were strong enough to continue with the Dirhadji. If he chose, he could leave them there. Ben knew they would die where they lay. He was certain Thyr knew it too.
Before he left, Thyr turned to Ben.
“Whatever you seek must be important. It must be worth more than your lives. I think that is interesting.”
Ben didn’t have the energy to respond.
7
Frisay
Frisay rose like an arrogant affront to the desert around it. Broken rock and scree surrounded the place for half a league, but the city itself was one solid block of red sandstone. At least ten man-heights tall, Ben estimated, it towered over the surroundings. He couldn’t tell if it had been assembled or carved from existing rock. Neither one made sense. The scale was simply too large.
Not as large as Hamruhg, Northport, or even Fabrizo, but in such a desolate location, it was a powerful testament to man’s refusal to bow to nature or common sense.
“Why would they build that here?” wondered Amelie.
Thyr glanced back at her. “You’ll have to ask them. When you get an answer, let me know. My people have been wondering the same thing for two generations.”
“Did they build that or hollow it out?” questioned Rhys.
Again, Thyr had no answer. “I wasn’t alive then, of course, but from what I’m told, it just appeared. It may have been many months between times the Dirhadji passed through here, but as you can imagine, they were rather surprised when they saw it. They approached slowly at first, the lore tells us, but when they realized it was occupied by foreigners, they attacked. The attack was repelled, and many more tried over the next several years. Before I was born, they gave up. My people do not know of structures like this. We have no art to make war against them.”
Rhys was eying the city with intense suspicion. Ben felt it as well, but they had to go in. Towaal was still unconscious, and instinctively he knew, if they did not give her time to rest, she may never wake. Water and the bits of healing Amelie was now able to trickle into her were insufficient to keep her alive for long.
“Still, it’s the best place to kick your feet up that I’ve seen in a week,” muttered Corinne.
There was no arguing with that.
Rhys chuckled and asked Thyr, “Do they sell ale in Frisay?”
Thyr stared back at him. “My people rarely drink alcohol.”
“Could have fooled me,” called O’ecca from behind.
Ben wasn’t sure if it was sun on the man’s skin, but he thought he might have detected a flush in the warrior’s face.
“We don’t drink in the desert except after a raid,” Thyr clarified.
“Do the people in that place drink?” pressed Rhys.
Thyr didn’t answer.
“Let’s go find out,” Ben suggested.
They hiked toward Frisay, stepping over sharp stones, skirting around scraggly bushes. The town was situated at the center of a wide, shallow basin.
“How often does it rain here?” wondered Ben.
Thyr glanced back. “Several times a year. Why do you ask?”
Ben pointed to the town. “There could be tens of thousands of people living in there, right?”
Thyr shrugged. “Ten thousand sounds like too many. It is not crowded like your northern cities, but there are many of them.”
“Where do they get water for so many people?”
Thyr frowned.
“Your people move from water source to water source constantly,” continued Ben. “If there was enough water here to sustain that many people, wouldn’t this area have been settled ages
ago?”
“There could be an underground river they found,” speculated Rhys.
“I suspect there is underground storage, some salt caverns, or even a river like you say. I bet they fill it from this basin. Look,” said Ben, gesturing around the flat, wide open space. “This is a shallow bowl, a league wide. Any rainfall will run fast over the rock and sand. If I’m right, it will all collect there.”
Ben pointed at the towering city of Frisay before them.
Rhys whistled softly.
Thyr grunted, clearly disturbed by the idea that these strangers may have found a way to collect and store water in the desert. Water was like gold to Thyr.
Ben hoped the man wouldn’t make trouble when they got inside.
The closer they got, the more confident Ben was about his theory. When they were close enough to make out details of the base of the structure, he grinned when he saw thick iron grates spaced along the exterior. They looked like sewer drains if it was a conventional town. He knew this place would be far from conventional.
“There’s something else,” said Corinne. “Look at the wall. It’s smooth, entirely flat. The Dirhadji said this place sprung up in a matter of months.”
“It’s like the wall of the Sanctuary,” remarked Ben. “Remember, Amelie, how smooth that wall was?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“We need to be careful in there,” advised Rhys.
Ben reached down to clear the hilt of his sword, just in case. He cringed when he remembered the blade was gone. His ability to call the wind, the ease with which the mage-wrought steel stood against inferior blades, it was all gone. His heart sunk.
At the base of the towering wall around Frisay, they paused outside two tall iron doors. Not iron-banded like Ben was used to seeing in other cities, these were solid iron. Hanging in the center of each door was a huge copper face. One was an old man, his face lined with age. A neat beard covered his chin. The other door had the face of a young man, a few years younger than Ben. By any measure, the faces were incredible works of art. The details were exquisite. The faces were staring out at the desert stoically.
