The Seared Lands

by Deborah A. Wolf

  Still, she reasoned, someone must sit on high in that black tower and sing the cursed dragon to sleep, and I have neither the will nor the tongue to do so.

  Horns sounded from among those already massed on the shore, low and mournful calls like the shofarot of Aish Kalumm, and these were answered by the low hooooo-hoooo-arooooo of the serpents who roiled in the water all around their ships. Dragonkin, they were, nearer to dragons even than bintshi or wyverns, and the smallest of them was thrice the length of Sulema’s own dragon-headed ship.

  That Sulema’s brother could talk to the dragonkin was shocking enough—one of them had bonded him, as vash’ai to warrior! Even more astonishing, from time to time the pirates would lower themselves from the great boats and stand upon the broad scaled backs, laughing and fearless as if they rode horses across the golden sands.

  Such merriment was short-lived, however. Pirates and warriors, sorcerers and walking corpses all shared the grim look of those who like as not had eaten their last meal and said their final farewells to sun and sea and sword-sister. The drums beat tha-rumm tha-rummm tha-rummmble like her heart, urging the rowers to dip their oars faster, harder, shepherding them that much more quickly to their doom.

  Hannei had faced death and far worse for longer than she cared to remember. Since the night Tammas had died she had not much cared for life. Yet excitement akin to fear surged through her, hot as blood. It sharpened her senses so that she could smell the serpents, feel the vibration of their shrieks, taste the war to come.

  We live today, or we die today, she thought, and either way the world will never again be the same as it is now. It was the ending of an age, she knew, and not at all untimely.

  Then the ship thrust itself shuddering into the soft flesh of Atualon’s shoreline. Hannei staggered and nearly fell as Rehaza Entanye, ever at her side, grabbed her shoulder and only just saved her from plunging headfirst into the serpent-boiled waters.

  “Easy now, girl,” Rehaza Entanye said, laughing. “You do not want to die now and miss the war, do you?”

  Planks were steadied and lowered, and those on board the ship made ready to disgorge. Shouts and the ring of sword on sword sounded from the tree line. Hannei drew her own blades as she took her place among those others eager to kill and to die. Akari Sun Dragon kissed her face, and Hannei found herself grinning up at him.

  If I die today, she decided, I will die facing my enemy. There is beauty in this, at least.

  Ehuani, whispered a voice across the sands of her heart. Ehuani, little warrior.

  * * *

  From the woods and the mountain above them came those bearing the Dragon King’s banner—a serpent biting its own tail, coiled about the sleeping form of Sajani, with Atukos soaring above. Hannei had been stung in her heart when first she beheld it.

  The serpent king has no right to Akari, she thought then. We warriors of the Zeera are his children. She was not truly Zeerani anymore, but as the opposing forces pounded into each other there on the beach, she ceased to care one way or the other. Surrounded by tightly packed bodies, with the sound of steel upon steel ringing just ahead, Hannei only had time to launch herself toward the enemy. Here there would be pain, and death, a never-ending feast.

  Those who had come to seat Sulema upon the Dragon Throne crashed upon the defenders like the waves upon the shore. Archers had been hidden in the tree line, and these loosed volley upon volley of arrows which fell among them like a rain of hissing black snakes. Many in the first wave fell, so that when the second wave of attackers ran they stumbled up the shoreline over the fallen bodies of those who had gone before. Even so, they hardly slowed at the sight of the mangled carcasses of women and men with whom they had broken fast just that morning.

  No few of those corpses rose to fight, then fell, and rose again. The Lich King’s armies paid no more mind to dying than Hannei might have paid a stubbed toe. The enemy pulled back in horror from the sight of armies of the risen dead, only to be whipped forward again by lash and spear and force of magic.

  The two sides were well-matched, as those who rode for Sulema found themselves facing a wall of white-cloaked Salarians with their bright silvered steel. Her warriors matched swords with Draiksguard and Atualonian soldiers. A knot of shadowmancers faced off against a knot of Baidun Daiel, each side wielding such magic that the sky flashed light and dark, light and dark, as if the battle took place in the heart of a storm.

  Swinging her blade right and left, sending up sprays of blood and viscera, Hannei fought and killed women and men whose names were forever hidden from her. She could not help but think back on her time in the fighting pits of Min Yaarif. There she had faced and slain strangers and beasts, but she had also fought—and killed—pit slaves such as herself, some of whom she might have thought of as friends in other circumstances.

  But the world was not as fair and true as her mother’s stories, or Akari as just. There was irony, however, in the fact that she fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Rehaza Entanye, the woman who had saved her from and fed her to the slave pits, and whose fortune depended upon delivering her back into slavery.

  Life is dark and inexplicable, she thought in a rare moment of calm as she wiped blood from her eyes with the back of a hand. She tripped over something soft, looked down, and saw the bloodied face of Mahmouta’s son, who had snuck aboard the ships and was not supposed to have come ashore. He was not meant to have died this day. Hannei stooped to close the youngster’s staring eyes, and to jerk free the shell necklace he wore, so that she might return it to his mother.

  Life is odd, and it is short, and less beautiful than we are told.

  Light, dark, and light again. There were screams in the tree line and a blossoming of fire, and then the defenders broke and fled for the fortress. Those around Hannei roared and surged forward, a many-faced beast with a thousand voices and no heart, eager for blood.

  Ahead of her Hannei could see Sulema’s banner and that of the Lich King streaming in the wind as their bearers made for Atukos. Rehaza Entanye snatched at Hannei’s torn tunic and pointed after them.

  “Follow,” she panted. Hannei nodded.

  Mutaani, she thought, even as she ran, bloodied swords drawn and eager. If I cannot find beauty in life, I will find it in death.

  * * *

  The beautiful gates had been torn down before Hannei reached them, shattered by the machines of war, by the near-constant shaking of the earth, or by treachery, she knew not which. The battle flowed up the slopes of Atukos, into the narrow alleys and even the houses of her citizenry. They fought and killed and died till the golden streets were as slick as stones in a foul red river.

  Again arrows hissed from wall and battlement, interspersed with crashing stones or the plummeting bodies of defenders, of attackers, alike in death. The Atualonians fought well and bravely, but the sheer numbers of Sulema’s forces and the horror of the army of undead pressed them up and back till finally the line broke, and the Dragon King’s armies were scattered or slaughtered.

  They shrank in fear too from the sight of Hannei as she danced among them, gluttonous blades drinking deep but never sated. Had she truly wished to die, just that morning? She could not remember. Her only wish now was to kill—perhaps, after all, that was all she had ever wanted. Forward and on she pressed, hacking face and throat and limb as she climbed the steep and narrow ways of the city, eyes fixed on Sulema’s flag as if it were the only whole thing left in her life.

  Rehaza Entanye fought at her side, but she hardly noticed. Neither did she heed the ache in her arms, the hollowness in her breast as every life she claimed stole a mouthful of what was left of hers. She could no longer have said why she followed the banner at all, only that she had to do so.

  There was a brief glimpse of fiery locks and golden shamsi as the Dragon Queen’s guard and Ismai the Lich King disappeared through a hole that had been blown in an inner wall. The dead followed, as did a knot of pirates whose bright silks were rent and bloodied. Hannei follow
ed as well, swift and silent as a vash’ai engaged in the hunt. Up they went, at times running, then fighting back-to-back with Rehaza Entanye or a pirate or a corpse that had forgotten to lie still and be dead. Ever on and ever up, through winding narrow roads cobbled with stone and bone and littered with the shattered glass of a thousand broken windows.

  At last they came to Atukos, the fortress of the Dragon King.

  Or the Dragon Queen, Hannei thought, awed by the sharp black stone. The brooding black towers leapt to incandescent life as just ahead Sulema passed through them. Indeed, the gates swung inward almost of their own volition and the dragonglass walls shone blinding bright in welcome, leaving none to doubt with whom the loyalties of the fortress lay.

  The inner courtyard was thick with white cloaks, and golden and red. These last—the Baidun Daiel—moved as if of one mind and faced Sulema’s banner. It was such a strange, inhuman ripple of movement, so unnaturally coordinated, that the chillflesh on Hannei’s arms stood up even through the blood and gore and myriad tiny wounds of the day’s battle. Golden masks flashed bright and expressionless in the sunlight, and then the blood-cloaked sorcerers sheathed their black swords and stepped back from the battle to stand aside, still as statues.

  Good fortune, Hannei thought, even as a white-clad Salarian soldier ran screaming at her. She slapped away his spear almost contemptuously and hacked into the meat at either side of his neck with a quick wet thuckk-thuckk, then spun to the side to avoid the spray of bright lifesblood as he collapsed at her feet. How many times had she practiced that very move? How many times drained a life with it? More than she cared to count.

  Good fortune for me, and good riddance to him.

  Hannei did not fear death, but she did not care to die blasted to bits by fell magics that she could neither understand nor fight. She heard Rehaza Entanye grunt and curse, and nearly fell as the woman slammed heavily into her and then fell away. Hannei did not spare a glance backward as she followed Sulema through the wide doors into Atukos.

  Good riddance to you too, she thought.

  It was odd, odd and horrible, to fight within the confines of the fortress. The narrow halls and doorways reminded her too much of the Mothers’ rooms and kitchens, too much of comfort and laughter. Women and men sprang bellowing from doorways or down staircases and were hurled screaming to their deaths, torn by spear and club, rent by Hannei’s blood-glutted blades, or—twice—thrown from a high window to fall wailing to the streets below.

  Such a place should smell of cinnamon bread and sweet rushes, it seemed to her, not of blood and shit and death. But blood and shit and death were all the gifts she had brought, and she doled them out with a generous hand. The dead swept before her, fighting even as she fought, and the dead lay behind her torn and bubbling. A river of death, a sea of blood; it was all she could do to swim.

  They burst from the hall into a wide room so abruptly that Hannei crashed into the undead called Sudduth and they both nearly went sprawling. Rehaza Entanye fell through the doorway behind her, blood streaming from a crushed nose and eyes wild but not nearly as dead as Hannei had hoped.

  Sulema had come to a stop at the heart of the chamber and stood with her back to them. She was panting with exertion, gripping her staff in one hand and a golden shamsi in the other. Her sunset locks were drenched in blood, her skin streaked with gore, and she had long since lost her warrior’s vest.

  Her back straight, she faced the man who sat on her father’s throne, one leg thrown over the arm in an indolent and insolent pose. The Illindrist Aasah of whom Hannei had heard tell stood behind him, arms folded over his massive chest, jeweled skin aglitter like a scattering of stars. He twitched when he saw the Lich King, and his pale blue eyes narrowed, but he did not move or speak.

  The golden Mask of Akari glittered bright on the seated man’s face, and waves of heat pulsed from it fit to sear the flesh from their bones as he stared at those who had come to kill him, if they could.

  “We have visitors,” he said, his voice resonant with dragon’s magic. “Aasah, why did you not tell me? I would have had wine brought. Or a headsman, at least.”

  Sulema lifted her fox-head staff and brought it down once, twice, three times on the dragonglass floor. The walls about them, the floor beneath her feet, the arched ceiling flared blinding-bright with joy as Atukos welcomed her home. Sulema, daughter of Hafsa Azeina and Wyvernus.

  Truly she is the Heart of Atualon, Hannei thought. Though she had grown up with Sulema, though she had bested the girl in combat more times than they had fingers, this woman before her was a stranger. Never had she seemed more like her mother, more like a warrior from the old stories.

  More like a queen.

  The room about them went silent. Even the sounds outside seemed very far away. It seemed to Hannei, in those moments between the death of one dragon and the birth of another, that the world held its breath. Into that silence a voice hissed close to her ear.

  “Kill her.”

  Hannei turned her head fractionally and met the eyes of Rehaza Entanye. That woman’s face was hard as stone. The pale cast of her skin and smashed, bloodied nose made her look more like one of the Lich King’s horde than the living woman with whom Hannei had trained these past moons.

  As she turned her head, a wound near her shoulder pulled and stung, and a hot wash of blood spilled down her side. When had she been cut? She could not remember. Her muscles trembled with exertion, now that she stood still, and breath came in shallow gasps.

  “Kill her,” the pitmistress repeated, voice low as a shadow’s breath so that it carried to no ears but hers. “Kill the red-haired bitch and be free. This is Sharmutai’s command, and her revenge. This is the price of your freedom and the hour of your vengeance. Kill her.”

  Indeed, as luck would have it, nothing but a couple of short strides lay between Hannei’s drawn blades and Sulema’s naked back. Her eyes, the eyes of Ismai the Lich King, indeed every eye but hers and Rehaza Entanye’s were fixed on the glittering mask of the Dragon King, waiting for his next words. In two strides, three, Hannei would have her revenge for the death of Tammas and all that had been taken from her. She would buy her freedom from Sharmutai, and that of her child. It was equally possible that she would perish in the deed, but would that also not be just?

  Was she not Kishah, whose blades sang of vengeance?

  No, she thought, and no, she mouthed. Whether Sulema was her friend or her enemy, and even if her blood was the only coin with which Hannei could buy back her life, she would not do this thing.

  No, she mouthed again, and this time Rehaza Entanye saw it. Her features darkened with rage. The older woman moved quick as a striking lionsnake, and Hannei felt the point of a blade press against her skin.

  “Then you die.”

  Before the world could draw its next breath, Hannei closed her eyes, and let go of life.

  Better I should die with an enemy’s sword in my belly, she thought, than I should live with my sword in a friend’s back.

  The point of the pit-trainer’s sword sliced a burning gash down the front of Hannei’s stomach, shallow but painful, and the hot blood welled free. Then came a clatter as the sword fell away, and a soft gasp. Hannei opened her eyes and her breath caught in her throat.

  Daru stood behind Rehaza Entanye, a knife pressed to the woman’s throat. His eyes were dark and beautiful as he met Hannei’s shocked gaze, and he smiled.

  “You will not hurt her,” he murmured into the woman’s ear. “She is stronger than you know.” Then in a single powerful stroke he jerked the sharp blade. Hot salty blood sprayed into Hannei’s face, her eyes, her mouth. It washed down her front and filled her nostrils with the sweet stink of death and freedom.

  Daru let Rehaza Entanye slide, lifeless and limp, to lie twitching at their feet. He grimaced at his knife, cleaned it somewhat on his tunic, and slipped it back into his sheath before meeting Hannei’s eyes with a saucy wink that reminded her of the boy he had been.


  “Now,” he told her, “we are even, you and I.”

  A voice soft and dark as midnight caressed Hannei’s mind, there and gone again.

  It is good.

  The world expelled its held breath in the form of the Dragon Queen’s voice. It carried across the room, rich with the tones and power of Sajani Earth Dragon who slept fitfully far beneath their feet.

  “It is over, Pythos,” Sulema said to the man on the throne, as the undead horde and her borrowed armies filed into the chamber behind them.

  “Surrender.”

  FIFTY

  “It is over, Pythos,” she said. “Surrender.”

  Sulema could smell sweat and blood, hear the grunts and heavy breathing of weary women and men as the room behind her filled with fighters live and undead who had brought her to this moment. She burned with fatigue and the small voices of a thousand wounds, and blood rushed in her ears like a rain-flooded river singing, singing.

  No, she realized, and the breath caught in her throat. It occurred to her that this new voice, a low sweet sound at once new as green leaves and familiar as a mother’s breath, was not the singing of her own heartbeat. Neither was it the song of the sea, the sands, the harsh whisper of hot winds across golden sands.

  This was the song of a dragon.

  Sajani slept fitfully in the belly of the earth, far below their feet, and as she slept, as she dreamt, she sang. She sang of rivers and seas and life-giving mud, of trees and moss and small, precious lives. She sang of the first steps of making, the first words, the first songs.

  The first wars.

  She sang of mothers and daughters, fathers and kings. She sang of lovers and sisters and hard, jagged rocks. Of fire in the moonslight and cool sweet water. She sang of life, and the stories humans told one another in the long dark.