The Seared Lands

by Deborah A. Wolf

The Lich King frowned.

  “What troubles you, Father?”

  She was a flash of sunlight on dark waters, his Naar-Ahnet, sweet and deadly as mad honey. The years had tainted her, the pain had poisoned her, he knew, but the fault was his, and she was his sweetest love.

  “Death,” he answered honestly, and she laughed.

  “Death?” she said. “After all this, you fear death?” She sat beside him, rested her head on his shoulder, and her small hand found its way to his. “You have mastered death. You are death’s king.” She squeezed his fingers. “And mine, Father.”

  “I do not fear death,” he said, frowning again at the youthful sound of his voice. “But neither have I mastered it. Death is as yet unknown to me. It might be… peaceful…”

  “And it might not,” she finished, guessing his mind.

  “True. Why would death be any more peaceful than life?” he said. “Why would the dreams experienced in death be any less horrific than those of the living? Why should the roads be any easier, any less… lonely?”

  “You miss her.”

  “I miss her.”

  “You loved her so.” Naara snuggled close. The story of her mother’s passion for her father, and his for her, had ever been a favorite.

  “I love her still,” he said, wrapping an arm about her small form. “Ahsen-sa Ruh a’Zeera was the most maddening, the most skilled—”

  “The most beautiful—” she urged.

  “The most beautiful and the most beloved of all the Zeera’s daughters. ‘Spirit of the desert wind’ she was named, and from the moment I first laid eyes on her…” His voice trailed off. An image came to him, unbidden, of a flame-haired girl with skin too pale, too freckled to ever be his Ahsen-sa, a girl with eyes of gold and a wide, troublesome smile.

  “When you first laid eyes on her?”

  “You favor her, you know,” he said. Kal ne Mur turned his face and kissed the top of his daughter’s hair. She smelled of deathblooms and grave dust and other, less pleasant things.

  “I do not, and you know it,” she said, “but I thank you.”

  Sulema, he thought, her name is… Sulema. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and shoved the boy Ismai deeper into the shadows of their shared mind. “Your time is done,” he said irritably.

  “Will you take it up?” Naara said, playing with his fingers. “Take up your crown, reclaim what is yours…”

  “You would see me raise my faithful, and wage war upon whomever dares call himself Ka Atu now. To ride down the people of this land and seize that damned throne, but why? For a thousand years I have thought about how I might have lived my life differently. We all have,” he added, waving his free hand toward the caverns, the canyon, the thousands upon thousands of undead. “Never would one more war have made my life better, let alone the world. The people of Atualon do not wish for the return of a long-forgotten king… any more than that king wishes to return.”

  “You do not wish to return?” Her fingers dug into his arm, and Naara’s voice grew very soft. “To claim what is yours?”

  “Many asses have parked themselves on the Dragon Throne while mine sat here and grew dusty,” he answered. The wind played a short riff across the dead waves, causing the spirits trapped beneath the waters to moan. “Many men have called themselves Ka Atu and forgotten their own names, even as the world has forgotten mine. Shall the pages of the book turn backward, then? I have no wish to return to the land of the living, any more than I wish to join the trek of the dead. My faithful do not wish to be disturbed. They cry out against it, in their sleep.”

  “You wish neither to live nor to die,” she said. “What, then, do you want, Father?” In Naara’s voice he could hear the dry fire that was Char, guardian of Eid Kalmut, and he smiled into her hair. She was very much his daughter, after all.

  “I do not know,” he confessed.

  “I know what I want.”

  “What is that, beloved?”

  “Vengeance,” she told him. “They killed my mother. They… hurt me. They took in vain the name of Zula Din and perverted her warriors, the Mah’zula. They killed Sammai, and Ismai’s mother, and they hurt Ismai—” Her voice rose as a litany of hurts became a chant, a song almost, and this tugged at his borrowed heart. Surely the youth Ismai had cared for Char, though he had not known what she was. And the name Mah’zula had kindled the embers of his soul to fury. “I want justice,” she said. “I want revenge.”

  “The Mah’zula,” Kal ne Mur repeated, tasting the name as if savoring a dish long forgotten. “The men of Atualon. Upon whom would you have me unleash my wrath, little one?”

  “All of them,” she replied in a choked voice. “All of them.” She was crying. They had hurt his little girl, had turned her into this monster—and now they had made her cry.

  A dirge, low and slow and full of ill omen, rose from the depths of the Lich King’s soul, and flared in his heart. He gathered his daughter up in his arms and held her against his chest.

  “I can do that,” he said.

  * * *

  Kal ne Mur sang again. This song was born of a dragon’s love and tuned to the heart of a boy. Its rhythm was the bridge of a spider’s web, a chorus of stories, a sorcerer’s verse, and at its climax…

  Death.

  The web unraveled, the song was sung, the story told as the Lich King stood knee-deep in the Ghana Kalmut and raised his voice in command. The magic was his, pouring through his veins like sweet water, like sunlight, like mead. From the cavern behind him, the canyon walls around and above him, came the cries of the wakening dead. The sounds of rocks falling, of swords unsheathed…

  Of sobbing. Though the Lich King hesitated in the face of death, his fell hordes felt no such compunction. They longed for death, they wept for death, with every ragged indrawn breath they begged for the release that only he could give them. And with every note dredged up from the bottom of his sorry soul, he denied them.

  The magic, the atulfah, swirled about his feet like sand-dae. The sa and ka beat with the rhythm of his heart and carried the dragon’s canticle up, up, from the heart of the world to the breath of the heavens, in and out like the tides, waxing and waning as the moons, deep as the darkness between stars.

  Come, he sang.

  Wake, he sang.

  And they obeyed.

  By the tens, by the hundreds they came, his faithful dead. Fell they were, nightmares made flesh, flesh made whole. Sinews knotted and knitted along long white bones, muscles grew fat and red and were covered with sleek, pliant skin. Eyes blinked, mouths worked, shattered limbs were made whole again as the horde drew near their king.

  Kal ne Mur did not look upon them, but he knew they were there—he could feel them. Feel their despair and their pain, their horror as he dragged them back from the Lonely Road to serve once more at his pleasure. The atulfah he could summon here, in the Valley of the Dead, was a weak thing compared to the power he had once commanded. A shadow of the power he might wield were he in possession of the Mask of Akari.

  Still it was enough to unmake this world, as once it had unmade him.

  Live for me, he commanded, and they did. They would die for him, as well, again and again until the dragon woke, or until he died, and with his death released them.

  He opened his eyes.

  Ah, he thought as he beheld his terrible host of the undead. They knelt before him, heads bowed. Some were naked, some in tattered and tarnished armor, still others in finery or funereal rags. All were whole, and all were his.

  Deep within him, Ismai son of Nurati cried out in fury and in horror, beating against the prison of his own flesh like a bird in a cage made of bone. Far above a vash’ai sang of loneliness, and fury, and defeat.

  A fitting tribute, Kal ne Mur thought, as he surveyed his monstrous horde. This was a small force, compared to the massive armies he had once commanded.

  But it was a beginning.

  FOUR

  Bonesingerrrrrr…

 
; Istaza Ani sat cross-legged with her back against a large rock, eyes closed, face turned up to the sun. Many times she had sat just so, while guarding her adopted people or their flocks or their children. Ever the bones of the earth, the bones of the dead and living, had whispered to her, their voices entreating her, begging her to listen, listen.

  Always before she had disregarded them, but it had taken great force of will, knowing full well that some paths, once chosen, can never be unchosen. The path of vengeance was one such, the path of magic another, and the path of the dead most especially so. Once a soul had set foot upon the Lonely Road, those steps could never, must never be retraced.

  Such laws were written upon the bones of the earth and stars. Life and death were to be immutable, the distinction between them sacrosanct. The living lived, the dead remained so, and only the foulest of sorcerers would dare to challenge the way of things. Any who broke the laws would become a necromancer, a lich.

  A bonesinger.

  Bonesingerrrrrrrrrr…

  She ignored the voice, a low rumble that trembled up through the ground, and resisted the urge to conjure the speaker. It would be easy to do and so very, very gratifying. After a lifetime of denying her own nature, of turning from the magic that was her birthright, would it be so wrong just this once—

  Stop.

  Without opening her eyes or moving so much as a finger, Ani thrust aside the compulsion. Whether it came from within, or— as she suspected—from some ancient bonelord was immaterial. Often in the past she had enjoined the younglings under her command to think before they moved, to avoid stepping into a dark hole before determining whether it contained snakes or vipers. This particular hole was filled with foul and venomous things, and she would not give in to foul temptation.

  Not for anything would she—

  Not even for Sulema? Daughter of your friend, the daughter of your heart? Would you not do this thing for her?

  Ani hesitated, and the voice laughed.

  Tell me, then, she commanded the speaker. Or show me, if you would. What is this great disturbance of which you howl; what danger is so great that I should disregard the peril to face it? And what, she asked most eagerly and most reluctantly, do you know of Sulema’s fate?

  Ssssssulemaaaaaa, the voice hissed, a sound like a cavern full of serpents and old bones. By this sound, Ani knew she had guessed correctly. It was an ancient bonelord, powerful and wicked and hers to command. Come, Bonesingerrrrrr, come, I will sssshow you…

  Ani sighed, and gave in to the bonesinger’s wheedling, to the song that whispered like sand deep within her body, to the sound of sunlight on stones, and set foot upon the wild and reckless path.

  * * *

  When at last Ani returned to her own bones, her own body, she found herself slumped in a tangle of limbs and hair, and her mouth tasted foul. She sat up painfully, rolling stiff shoulders and grimacing at the fire in her spine. Her neck was stiff, her ass numb.

  The hot stink of carrion breath swept over her, and she froze.

  Hrrrrrrrrrh hrrrrrrrrh, came a low grumble, along with another wave of wet heat. Carefully Ani opened her eyes, blinking away crusted sand and worse, and found herself staring down the throat of death. Broken-tusked, old as a mountain’s roots, as filled with dark secrets as the river’s dreaming.

  You are weak, Inna’hael snarled in her head. Weak and thoughtless as others of your kind. I should kill you now.

  Though they were not bonded—by his choice, not hers— the words stung. She ignored the thread and stretched, rolling her head and waving away the stink of his breath.

  You have been rolling in carrion, she accused.

  And you have been running with a bonelord, the vash’ai countered, wrinkling black lips back from his tusks in a show of disgust. You reek of filth and maggots. Reckless—

  There is singing in Eid Kalmut tonight, she told him gently.

  The massive feline closed his mouth and regarded her with slow yellow eyes.

  Bonelords lie.

  Bones do not, she insisted. They cannot. They have shown me Eid Kalmut; they have shown me the armies of restless dead. Even now they march from the Valley of Death, and Kal ne Mur rides at their head.

  She did not add that the face of the Lich King, ruined as it was now, was more familiar to her than her own. Her heart wept for Ismai—he had been a good boy, and this fate was ill-deserved.

  Inna’hael was silent for a long while. When he spoke, his mind’s voice was subdued.

  So. Perhaps you are not as stupid as some others of your kind. By vash’ai standards, it was an apology. Long have your kind been foolish, worse than cubs pawing at a hornet’s nest in search of honey. Now the world reaps what you have long sown. No longer, human. It is time for my kind to put an end to this foolishness, however we may.

  Ani’s blood ran cold.

  She did not know what strength the wild vash’ai had kept hidden, or upon what powers the kahanna—vash’ai sorcerers like Inna’hael—could call, but she had the distinct impression that they might, if they so chose, bring about an end to humankind. Many kithren bonded to human companions, but she suspected they were only a small faction among the vash’ai, a quiet voice calling for peace among the roars of war.

  “Sulema will fix this,” Ani said, as if hearing the words aloud would make them ring with truth, ehuani. “And Hannei, and Daru—if he yet lives—our cubs will succeed where we have failed. Sajani will be soothed back to restful dreams, and the magic of atulfah tamed,” she continued. I will help them, she added silently, whatever the cost to my own soul.

  Beg your dragons to make it so, Inna’hael warned softly. His voice was not without pity, but his resolution was absolute. Because if you humans do not clean up this mess you have made, we will clean it up for you. He turned and sauntered away, the black-tufted tip of his tail twitching back and forth. Only then did Ani see what the massive paws had been hiding from her, the gift he had brought to lay at her feet.

  A human skull, fresh and white in the sunlight, lay staring up at the midsun sky. Tusks had pierced the forehead and one eye socket, and most of the flesh had been torn from bone, leaving only a bit of scalp, a scrap of skin, and a cluster of warrior’s braids drying in the wind.

  FIVE

  Home.

  Despite the weight of his armor, the dragging weariness in his limbs, Jian’s heart lifted at the sight of Dal Moragheirthi rising like a jeweled mountain above the pale trees. Delderrion picked up the pace, and Jian leaned forward to stroke the gelding’s dark neck.

  “Innu bar nederiach, Delderrion,” he whispered. “We are nearly there, my friend.” While not strictly true—here in the Twilight Lands, his father’s castle could be seen from many leagues’ distance, and they should not expect to arrive for a couple more days—it was as close to home as the army had been for nearly five years, as men reckoned time. Jian sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

  “General!”

  He turned at the voice and smiled at the sight of Telloren trotting up on his fat little horse. Lifting his demon’s-face visor, he addressed the bard.

  “Hai, Tello! What news from the rear?”

  Telloren pulled a face. “That is a loaded question, Highness, considering that I have been subsisting on a soldier’s rations since we ran out of goats.” So saying, the little man leaned to one side and farted loudly enough to spook Jian’s horse.

  “Augh! Tello!” the nearest soldiers yelled in unison. Tello laughed and brought his placid beast up alongside Delderrion. The gelding eyed Tello with some trepidation, doubtless wondering whether the Dae’s hindquarters might resume bellowing.

  “What news?” Jian asked again in a quiet voice, guessing that the bard’s antics were a ruse to get near the prince. Telloren still wore a fool’s grin, but his eyes were serious.

  “Your father wishes you to make all haste to the palace, Highness.” The morning’s peace melted away like visions in a mere.

  “Did he say why?”

&nb
sp; “Somewhat. A delegation of your people has come to the ocean’s edge, and they demand to speak with you.”

  “To speak with me?” Jian said. “Surely they intend to speak with my father.”

  “No, Highness. They asked specifically for you. They called you Prince of the Red Tides.”

  “Ah.” Jian smiled grimly. For five years he had been leading his bloodsworn against the troops of Daeshen Tiachu, emperor of Sindan. His handful of followers had swollen into a respectable-sized army, of which this contingent was a small number.

  Most of his soldiers were youths born into the Twilight Lands by Dae mothers who had taken human lovers during Moonstide, and who had withheld their children from the lands of men. Such a thing was, strictly speaking, a breach of treaty. Within the laws of the Dae, however, mothers governed all the matters of their children’s upbringing until they reached maturity at fifty-six years of age. None among the twilight lords, not even the king himself, dared challenge the mothers in their own land.

  Mixed in among the twilight-born, however—and growing in number—were those who, like Jian himself, had been born in the lands of men and who had chosen to forsake their homelands to join the army of their fathers. These tended to be among the fiercest of his troops. Having pledged themselves to treason, they gave no quarter and asked none. As Jian mounted his campaign against Sindan, more and more daeborn youths were found by the sea-side, waiting for their chance to join him. No few of his troops were former Daechen soldiers and officers who had defected during battle.

  The twilight lords, being bound to their land, could not themselves wage war upon Sindan. But the daeborn, having signed no treaties and with the ability to walk in either world, fell under no such constraints. They came from the farms and fishing villages, from cities and shanty towns, and from the Forbidden City itself, ready to swear their blood and their lives to Jian as it became clear that his intention was to overthrow the ruling parties of Sindan, and free the daeborn from the emperor’s tyranny.

  Jian had not been able to save his wife or their child, and so he had vowed to bring to its knees the empire which had stolen them from him.