War of Power (The Trouble with Magic Book 3)

by B. J. Beach

  By the time wide bands of magenta and orange were streaking the deep purple of the dawn sky, Jadhra and grelfon had twice over-flown the half-buried city. Now they returned to the mountain ledge where two days before Miqhal had stood to weave and cast the complex weather spell which had unleashed the desert’s fury. Following Jaknu into the concealed crevice, the Jadhra chieftain enjoyed a deep surge of anticipation. He now had over seventy new warriors to impress and train. Knowing it would not be easy, and that time was a luxury he could not afford, he had already set in place the first part of his plan to win them over. As always, he attended personally to the feeding and comfort of his grelfon before heading down to the single vast cavern which served as a temporary prison for the captured Vedran soldiers. Two unarmed black-clad Jadhrahin guarded the short narrow tunnel which provided the only visible access.

  Miqhal touched a hand to his chest in greeting. “Have they been any trouble?”

  The guards returned the greeting, and the older one gave a wry grimace. “They’re too busy gorging themselves to cause trouble.” He frowned. “We shall have no food for ourselves if we hold them much longer.”

  Miqhal gripped the man’s shoulder. “It will not be a problem. The matter is already well in hand. Now, wait here and remain alert. Things may start to liven up shortly.”

  Beneath the ceiling of the cavern, three hovering Perimus orbs poured their shadowless light onto expectant Vedran faces as Miqhal entered. With his lean well-muscled body clad in the comfortably fitted black garments and intricately folded head-dress of a desert chieftain, he made an impressive figure.

  A querulous voice called out in the guttural tones of the Vedran patois. “How long are you going to keep us here?”

  Ignoring the question, Miqhal folded his arms, his eyes searching. “Which of you is the leader?”

  There was a long silence as the Vedrans nervously exchanged glances. Eventually one of them pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, a defiant glint in his eyes. “Lieutenant Abrak went mad. He’s in one o’ those blasted caverns o’ yours, back there. Ushak, the one who took over…well, you cut ‘im down and knocked ‘im cold.”

  Quickly he looked about him but there was no sign of Ushak. With a brief nod the Jadhra chieftain signalled for the soldier to sit down. The man had unkempt hair, and food stains spattered the front of his tunic. Miqhal knew he would not be the type of soldier he was looking for. Scanning the cavern, his dark eyes found the soldier who had asked the question.

  Taking care to keep his movements unthreatening, Miqhal stepped towards him.

  “What are you called?”

  His initial bravado temporarily abandoning him, the young soldier looked nervously round at his companions. Miqhal took another step forward to stand barely a pace distant.

  Clenching his fists, the Vedran glared defiantly up at the tall Jadhra chieftain. “I am called Rashk.” His chin came up in a gesture of misplaced pride. “I am Grelfi.”

  If his intention was to impress or intimidate, it fell flat. Miqhal merely nodded as he turned away. “We shall keep you here only as long as you wish to stay.”

  The seated Vedrans began to shuffle and murmur. Miqhal stopped, turned round to face them again, and held up a cautionary hand. “First, hear what I have to say. Consider my words carefully, then choose a leader and follow his advice.”

  He looked round at the restive group as another stood up, his voice cutting through the rising swell. “If we don’t like what you say, will you lead us out to the surface?”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Miqhal nodded. “If that is still your wish when I have finished, then my warriors will guide you safely out.”

  The questioner called for quiet and sat down again. For the benefit of a few small inimical groups at the outer edges who had not bothered to move closer, Miqhal drew a little power and amplified his voice. He wanted there to be no misunderstandings.

  “You will not be held here against your will. It is through no fault of your own that you found yourselves lost and abandoned in our underground system. Unlike Lord Ghian, I would not stoop so low as to send my loyal warriors into any situation I would not go into myself.

  “You have been treated in a way the Jadhrahin would not treat a dog. He who claims to be little less than a god, and no doubt sent you to locate and recover certain artefacts, will have no qualms about sacrificing each and every one of you to further his own ends. His desire for wealth, power and domination will prove to be his downfall.

  “If any of you do decide to attempt making your way back to Vedra, you will be wasting your lives for a cause that is already lost. We have given you food and water, seriously depleting our own supplies. These cannot be replenished without a considerable amount of forward planning and physical effort. But it can, and will be done. Of that I have no doubts. We shall not starve. On the other hand, if we release you it is quite likely that you men will.”

  Rashk sprang to his feet. “There’s plenty of food in Vedra. Supplies are brought in every month by a secret route.”

  The Jadhra gave the Vedran a flat gaze. “And how will you return to Vedra?”

  “Through the tunnels of course! You just said you’d lead us out.”

  “To the surface, yes. Unfortunately for you, a severe sandstorm has altered the face of the desert. Once on the surface you would not only have to be certain where Vedra lies, but also survive a crossing of the changed and changing sands to get there.

  “Now you have eaten, rest here, gather your strength and discuss your options. Above, nightfall returns to the desert, and with it bitter chill. In the morning I will hear your decision.”

  Making the accepted sign of peace and respect, Miqhal turned away and walked slowly towards the far end of the massive oval chamber where a hundred or more of his warriors had gathered to eat their evening meal. Those who had been assigned guard duty over the Vedrans would be relieved shortly.

  In a torch-lit alcove barely longer than he was tall and about as wide, Miqhal knelt beside a makeshift bed of blankets and horse-hide. Assisted by one of the women-folk assigned to the task of caring for the sick and injured, the Jadhra chieftain rolled the still unconscious Ushak onto his side. Buried almost up to its hilt in the back of the Vedran’s thigh, the slender throwing knife glinted dully in the torchlight. Miqhal studied it for a long moment. Taking a short cutting knife from inside his waistband he opened a long slit in the worn leather around the wound, then placed the knife aside. His strong slender fingers closed round the protruding hilt of the throwing knife. Murmuring quietly, he slowly drew it towards him until all but the tip of the gleaming blade had left the dense coarse flesh of Ushak’s leg.

  The tribeswoman moved forward to hand Miqhal a fist-sized bundle of dried but soft and pliable grey-green foliage. Still holding the knife hilt steady, the Jadhra chieftain packed the leaves against the short but deep gash in Ushak’s leg, pressing it firmly as he withdrew the last inch of the slender blade. Still murmuring, he nodded to the woman. Leaning forward she secured the bundle of herbs with her hand as Miqhal released it, rose fluidly to his feet and turned away.

  * * *

  Thankful for full stomachs, the majority of the captives had wrapped themselves in the blankets they had been given and settled down to sleep. Determined to turn the situation to their own benefit, a few others had cautiously sought each other out. Casting occasional sullen glances across the cavern towards a small group of unarmed but vigilant Jadhrahin guards, the Vedrans huddled together whispering in the soldiers’ coarse patois.

  Fists clenched against his food-stained leather tunic, the soldier Miqhal had earlier rejected, leaned forward, slanted eyes glinting darkly in the torchlight. “There’s six o’ them and eight of us. Reckon we could take ‘em?”

  His question elicited a snort of derision from one of his companions. “Didn’t know you could count that far, Drakk. Keep it up and you might be able to count a few dozen more if you look around.”

  Drakk�
�s thin black lips curled back against his pointed yellow teeth. “By the time they get here Tarek, we can have them other guards down.” He glanced briefly towards the darkly inviting maw of the exit. “We work it right we can be out through that opening over there before them others even get to us.”

  Tarek kept his voice low as he made a show of studying a cut on the back of his hand. “What were you thinking then?”

  Drakk edged forward on his buttocks, leather trousers scraping softly on the granite floor. “We split up. Make a diversion so they have two lots of us to deal with.” Keeping his hand low, he pointed to his companions. “You four ain’t as fit and fast as me and Tarek so what I reckon is this.”

  A few minutes later muted conversations quickly stilled, while Jadhrahin alertness sprang to a higher level. Raised in heated argument, the harsh timbre of Vedran voices carried across the huge cavern. Drakk’s scaly hand shot forward. Gripping Tarek roughly by the shoulder he lifted him bodily to his feet. Their faces scant inches apart the two Vedrans glared into each other’s yellow eyes. Tarek pushed and Drakk retaliated, quickly creating distance between them and their crouching companions. The Jadhrahin guards moved in.

  Faces contorted with hatred, Drakk and Tarek leapt towards them. Their fellow soldiers jumped to their feet and began their dash across the cavern towards the narrow exit. Drakk moved swiftly towards a young Jadhra warrior. Fit and lithe, he would be more of a threat to their escape. As Drakk feigned a side step to his left, the guard stepped to his right in a counter move. Drakk leapt into the air. Extending the full force of his muscular legs, he dealt a stunning blow to the neck of the young guard, snapping it and killing him instantly. Landing heavily, Drakk began a stumbling run towards the exit. From the corner of his eye he spotted Tarek grappling with an older guard, attempting to wrest a knife from the Jadhra’s hand. Drakk kept running.

  Surprised by the attack of the two Vedrans, the old warrior had been caught off balance. A younger Jadhra warrior, especially one of such great standing would have truly ended Tarek’s life in that instant, but the years had caught up with the old soldier. Holding and pushing, Tarek assaulted the man’s body with a series of inside punches until he sensed the old warrior was weakening. Slowly they started to move backwards. Despite his skills and experience the Jadhra’s strength was failing. No match for the younger Vedran, one final, hugely determined push from Tarek sent him tumbling backwards. The old warrior’s head struck the granite floor and he lay still.

  In seconds the swift hands and flying feet of the Jadhrahin had sent two of the escaping Vedrans crashing to the floor. The remaining two, more skilled in unarmed combat, circled and feinted, trading vicious kicks and stinging chops with their guards. Miqhal’s expression was thunderous. Having brought these men to safety, given them a modicum of comfort and shared his tribe’s food with them, still they chose to repay with violence. Drawing in power he held it in check as, woken by the commotion, small groups of Vedrans got to their feet. Shedding their blankets they began to move ominously forward. Only if his own warriors were in danger of being overcome would Miqhal intervene. Concealed by a deeply shadowed cleft, the Jadhra chieftain watched.

  The half dozen Vedran soldiers who had begun the upheaval now lay twitching and groaning. Bruised and broken, they had finally been incapacitated by a series of accurate flying kicks, and a rapid succession of precise and practised punches. Undeterred by the sight of their seriously injured comrades, a dozen or more Vedrans surged forward. Short bursts of power quivered through the cavern as those Jadhrahin who were gifted enhanced their fighting prowess. Swift moves flowed and glided in an effortless, skilfully co-ordinated and choreographed martial ballet.

  In a few short minutes it was all over. Already weakened by their ordeal in the dark terror of the tunnels, those Vedrans who had joined the retaliation lay where they had fallen, broken in body and spirit. Alert for any other Vedran who might decide to make a further attempt, Miqhal’s warriors scanned the cavern, their faces taut with scorn and disdain. Backing away, they left the beaten Vedrans where they had fallen. Those who had woken but taken no part in the affray found themselves being crowded by black-clad unarmed Jadhrahin. Remaining alert, the desert warriors touched fingers to forehead, lips and chest as they solemnly witnessed the removal of the bodies of their two fellow warriors.

  * * *

  Mind and body soothed by the cool dim interior of the temple, Andra knelt in front of the massive black altar. Breathing slowly and deeply, oblivious to the cloying metallic scent of recently spilled blood, she began to concentrate her thoughts. Gradually she allowed the tension to ease from her bruised limbs and overwrought emotions. About to enter a trance-like state, a harsh voice ripped her cruelly back to reality. Silhouetted against torchlight and flanked by two heavily armed temple guards, Ghian stood only feet from her. She had not heard his approach.

  Like a jagged steel blade his words tore into her. “I will not tell you again. Stand up!”

  Lips pressed tight together to prevent them quivering, Andra rose slowly to her bare feet, thin silk robe swishing round her bruised ankles.

  Lifting her chin with an air of confidence she hardly felt, she forced out her words. “My master’s wish is my command.”

  Ghian’s short mocking laugh echoed round the dark high walls. “It would seem your memory is beginning to fail you my dear Andra.”

  He stepped closer to her, the evil-eyed guards remaining close behind him. Leaning forward slightly, he glared into her upturned face. “Where have you been?”

  Andra’s thoughts raced. Her blood seemed like ice in her veins, but a fine film of perspiration prickled her forehead and upper lip. “I...I went into the desert. Just to be away for a few hours and...renew myself.”

  Flicking a hand to each side, Ghian dismissed the guards. As the sound of their booted feet died away he reached out and cupped Andra’s chin in his hand.

  Ghian’s tone was cold and level. “Renew yourself? Is that what you wish...to renew yourself?”

  Lowering his hand he folded his arms across his chest, the rustle of his robes ominously loud in the oppressive silence.

  Edged with menace, his words knifed into her gut. “You knelt before the altar. Now, kneel before me.”

  Andra sank to her knees, tears beginning to sting her eyes as Ghian glared down at her. “Did you think I was not aware of your every move? You betrayed me, bitch. Therefore you will receive your wish. You will become a different kind of bitch, and serve me another way. That will be your renewal.”

  Fifteen minutes later, oblivious to the agonised screams which swiftly regressed to an abandoned howling, the Vedran overlord strode from the temple. Exhausted, the desert she-wolf curled up at the base of the altar. Covering her black muzzle with her bushy white-tipped tail, she fell into a fitful sleep.

  45 - Winging Home

  Karryl stumbled out of the cave, stretched and scratched. Already two hours high, the late spring sun flooded the secluded little beach with gentle warmth. A few feet away, Dhoum crouched on all fours by the rekindled fire.

  He spoke without turning. “Morning. Did you sleep well?”

  Karryl rubbed at his hip as he moved towards the fire. “I’ve had more comfortable beds.”

  Dhoum responded with a deep rumbling chuckle as he poked a long stick at something in the makeshift fireplace. Hunkering down beside him, Karryl inched forward to take a closer look. On top of a large flat stone, almost buried among the glowing, flameless embers lay half a dozen palm sized, ribbed circular objects.

  Karryl rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Are those clams?”

  Dexterously flicking one off the hot stone with his claw-like fingers, Dhoum dropped it onto the sand between them. “They are. I caught them less than an hour ago. As soon as you’ve eaten, we’ll be off.”

  He handed Karryl the knife he had plucked out of the air the previous evening and turned back to the fire. Holding his four-fingered hands out flat, he slowly l
owered them. Gradually the embers began to fade and die until, in only a few moments, all that remained was a circle of charred and blackened stones surrounding a low pile of soft grey ash.

  His breakfast finished Karryl shook sand out of his wrinkled robe and wandered down to the water’s edge. After washing bits of sticky clam from his fingers, he splashed water into his face, rubbed his emerging whiskers vigorously and ran his fingers through his straggled hair. His ablutions completed, he turned and looked up at the grey granite cliff face which towered behind the tiny beach.

  He called across to Dhoum who was scurrying back and forth across the sand, replacing the stones they had used for a fireplace back amongst the surrounding piles of boulders. “It strikes me that the only way off this beach is up over the top of that cliff. Unless we could….”

  Raising himself up onto his hind legs Dhoum pointed high and seawards. Checked in mid sentence, Karryl gave him a knowing grin and turned, shielding his eyes with one hand as he searched the cloudless sky, fairly certain what he would see. His heart pounding, eyes stinging with emotion he craned his neck, spinning round in the sand as two Lammergeyers soared low, their golden black-tipped wings beating hard back. Gusts of sun-warmed air thrust downwards to spin eddies around Karryl’s feet as the great birds thrust forward gold and white feathered legs, talons spreading to grasp the cliff-top turf forty feet above. The bird’s-eye image which entered Karryl’s mind showed him a broad vista of rabbit-cropped grass dotted about with straggly wind-stunted shrubs. Large boulders of lichen-mottled granite lay strewn over the cliff-top as if carelessly thrown by some giant hand in days long past remembering.