The men didn’t move, but she saw them go stiff and still. The bowmen’s fingers tightened round the nocks of their arrows.
“You are a witch?” said the leader. “A Rashemi witch, then?”
“No. I am a War Wizard of Cormyr. Our apprentices practice on the Rashemi witches.”
The men made the Tuigan sign to ward off evil, and two of them exchanged nervous glances.
“My father was a powerful shaman,” said the leader. “His cloak shadows me. I do not fear you.”
“What about your men? I think that one there would make a fine donkey.” She shook her staff in his direction, and he started backward, staring nervously at his leader. “I could ride him out of here. Save my feet the journey.”
Durja cawed again and flapped his wings. The two men flanking the leader spared the raven a nervous glance, but the bowmen kept their gaze fixed on Amira.
“We wish you no trouble,” said the leader. “Nor trouble on us. Give us some hospitality and we will be on our way.”
“Hospitality?”
“A drink. Maybe a bite or two and some gold if you have it.”
“You are robbing me?” Amira put every ounce of steel she could muster into her voice, stood straight and tall, and readied her staff. Rise, rise, rise, she called to the sun. Come up now!
The leader feigned shock. “Rob? Curse the notion, holy one! You are a guest in these lands and so do not know our ways. We offer you the gift of our protection. It is custom that you offer us a gift in return. Some food, drink, and maybe a little gold to trade in the caravans would warm our hearts.”
Bright light flickered on the tallest bushes and began to bleed downward. The sun was coming up at last. Durja called out again, this time hopping and flapping his wings.
“I care nothing for you or your customs,” said Amira. “Be off before I become angry and turn you all into donkeys. I’ll herd you to the nearest settlement and geld the lot of you!”
Durja raised a racket and would not stop. The Tuigan nearest to him, one of the bowmen, scowled and turned to him.
“Ujren!” he called. “Look here!”
The leader kept his eyes on Amira. “What is it?”
“The raven. He’s standing on a bit of cloth buried in the dirt, and there’s some silver.”
“Silver?”
“Looks like a bit of necklace or something.”
The leader gave Amira a hard look. “You buried your belongings, did you? Stay there. We will take our gift ourselves, then be off.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Amira. “Ravens are hoarders. Probably just a trinket he found on the steppe.”
“You said this raven was your slave.”
“He wanders.” Amira shrugged. “One of the reasons I turned him into a raven. I can’t abide a worthless slave.”
Still keeping his gaze fixed on Amira, the leader said, “See it, Geshtai.”
The bowman looped one finger round the arrow on his bow to hold it in place while freeing his other hand. He approached the ground where Durja was still keeping up his racket. The raven glared at the Tuigan, his cries becoming enraged. When the man was a few paces away, Durja hopped backward, his wings flapping. Finally, he gave up and flew a short distance before landing again and resuming his racket.
Chuckling, the bowman bent over, his free hand reaching out.
The ground at his feet erupted.
Through the spray of dirt Amira saw the glint of the new sun on a blade, and the bowman screamed as if he were being flayed alive. He went down, his shrieks increasing, and through the cloud of dirt, Gyaidun stood, a bloody knife in one hand and his long black iron club in the other.
Amira had an instant to decide—three swordsmen and a bowman facing Gyaidun in front of her and at least three bowmen and two others at her back. She chose.
Amira spun as she fell, whipping her staff around to face the four bowmen on the other side of the gully. She took a breath even as they raised their bows and pulled feathers to cheeks.
“Vranis!” she shouted.
Flames roared from the ground at the four Tuigan’s feet, a gout of fire that turned grass to ash in a rush of breath, caught in the fur lining the men’s trousers and continued its way up into their wool shirts—all in the time it took them to gasp in shock. Each man fell screaming to the ground, and their arrows flew harmlessly away. All but one, which skidded through the grass near Durja, who cried out and took to the air.
Amira returned her attention to the foes in front of her. She saw fear in their eyes, but also determination. They knew death was before them, and their only hope was to face it and fight.
Gyaidun had already made it to the first swordsman. With his comrades standing between him and the large warrior, the remaining Tuigan bowman pivoted and brought his aim to bear on Amira.
“No!” she shouted. She’d had no time to prepare any shields.
Her attention focused, becoming acute so that the scene before her seemed frozen. She saw the fingers of the bowman’s right hand open, and the tension held in the bow relaxed. Amira took one step back and leaped, partly hoping she’d make it back into the gully and partly dreading the fall.
The arrow passed so close that she heard the buzz of the wind through its fletching as it passed over her. Her hip hit the lip of the gully, and she went down head first into the dry wash. The fall knocked the breath out of her, and when she opened her mouth to fill her lungs, her mouth filled with dirt. She rolled to her hands and knees, coughing and spitting. She could hear screaming, the clash of weapons, the fire from her spell still burning on the other side of the gully over her, and above it all, Durja raising a holy racket.
Though every breath felt as if she were drawing needles into her lungs, she forced herself to her feet and risked a look above the rim of the gully. Only three Tuigan were still standing, Gyaidun facing off against the leader and the other swordsman. The third had another arrow ready, and as she watched he pulled it to his cheek and took aim at Gyaidun.
Amira thrust one arm forward, pointed at the bowman, and forced out a single word—“Dramasthe!”
It was one of the first spells she’d learned as an apprentice, one of the first spells every apprentice learned for its simplicity and sheer effectiveness. A bright beam only slightly longer than the Tuigan’s arrow shot forth from her finger and struck the bowman square in the chest. He flew backward as if struck by a hammer, his arrow streaking into the grass a few paces away and his bow falling to the ground where he’d stood.
Amira shifted her aim to the leader and struggled to draw in another breath.
Tuigan learned to fight from horseback not long after they learned to walk. As cavalry, few in Faerûn could match their ferocity. But fine swordsmen they were not, and these two relied upon superior numbers and brute force, charging Gyaidun together, one stabbing while the other swiped his blade at Gyaidun’s midsection.
Rather than try to block both swords, Gyaidun simply stepped backward out of their reach.
Amira tried to speak the incantation, but it came out a harsh rasp that turned into a cough. Some of the dirt she’d been unable to spit out had gone down her throat and she couldn’t form the syllables.
Gyaidun swiped at the leader with his club, but the Tuigan merely leaned away. Following through, Gyaidun brought the club back around. Again the Tuigan leaned away, but this time Gyaidun let go of his weapon. The long shaft of heavy iron shot forward and slammed into the leader’s face. Even over the crackling of the flames and Durja’s racket, Amira heard bone crunch. The bandit leader collapsed like a newborn foal.
The handle of Gyaidun’s club had about two paces of leather cord braided through it, the other end of which was bound to the big man’s wrist. With a flick of his arm he brought the iron club toward him and slapped it back into his hand.
The remaining Tuigan stood alone against a larger foe and a wizard. Amira half-expected him to turn and run. But the Tuigan apparently decided—and rightly so�
�that it was kill or be killed, and he attacked with renewed ferocity.
Gyaidun blocked two slashes of the man’s blade with his club and swiped at the Tuigan with his knife. He missed and the Tuigan lowered his blade and thrust. Gyaidun brought the full weight of his club down on the sword, and the steel blade snapped a hand’s length above the hilt. Thrown offbalance, the Tuigan stumbled, and before he could right himself, Gyaidun’s long knife swiped under his chin. Blood fountained outward in a long arc as the man fell back.
The Tuigan hammered the ground with his hands and heels. Amira could hear him trying to draw breath into his lungs, and she winced at the wet gurgle. The man coughed, blood and bile sprayed out of the gash in his throat, and Amira looked away. She’d seen worse. Many times. But never did it do anything but fill her with revulsion. “Good,” her old master had told her long ago. “That’s good. Don’t fight the horror. If you do, one day you won’t feel the horror at killing anymore. On that day, put away your battle spells and retire to a life of scholarship. Cormyr needs warriors, not murderers.”
The fight done, Amira rummaged through their belongings until she found her waterskin. She untied the knot, sloshed water through her mouth and spat, repeating until she could no longer feel grit in her throat. Then she took a long drink, tied the skin shut, and climbed out of the gully.
The fire on the other side was dying. Dry as the grasses were, the cold night had brought dew, and with her magic no longer fueling them, the flames were having a hard time spreading. Steam was rising off four blackened corpses, and for the first time Amira noticed the sweet smell of roasted flesh. She turned away and walked to Gyaidun, who was cleaning his knife and club on the tunic of the dead bandit leader. The Tuigan’s skull was bashed in.
The final bandit to fall had stopped his struggles. He lay on his back in a sickly mud, drenched in his own blood, his empty eyes staring up at the cloudless sky. Several paces away lay the body of the first bowman. Gyaidun’s blade had cut him deep on the inside of his thigh from knee to groin. Amira knew from her years on the battlefield that such a wound bled a man to death in moments.
Gyaidun stood and sheathed his knife. He was covered with dirt from lying in wait under his sand-covered cloak. He looked to Amira. “You did well, though the fire wasn’t the best idea.”
Amira bristled. “And why is that?”
“Fire means smoke. A big fire like that made a lot of smoke. Everyone within thirty miles will know right where we are.”
Durja landed on a tussock near Gyaidun, let out a final caw, then fell silent.
“I’m a war wizard,” Amira said. “I needed something to take them all down fast. It worked.”
Gyaidun grunted and walked over to the bowman whom Amira had taken down. Amira followed him.
The man lay in the grass. He clutched at his chest, his face twisted in pain and tears streaking his face. But he was very much alive, though he seemed to be struggling to breathe.
Gyaidun stood over the man. “You and your friends,” he said, “you had horses, yes?”
The man glared up at Gyaidun. “Kill me. Spare me my … my shame.”
“The horses.”
The Tuigan took in a shaking breath, then spat on Gyaidun’s boots.
Gyaidun shook his head, then placed one heavy foot on the man’s chest and pressed down. The man’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out.
“The horses,” said Gyaidun.
The Tuigan pounded his head on the ground, struggling to breathe.
Gyaidun stepped off. “I won’t ask again.”
The man raised one trembling hand and pointed northward. “That … way. A mile. No more.”
“How many guards?”
“One,” the Tuigan said. “Ujren’s … son. Don’t harm … him. Just a boy.”
Gyaidun scowled. “I’ll leave him most of your horses. The rest is up to him. Your thievery made him fatherless today.”
The Tuigan said nothing, just lay there struggling to breathe.
So fast that Amira jumped, Gyaidun brought his iron club down on the man’s skull. Amira looked away, but she heard the wet crunch. Durja cawed twice, and in the following silence, she could no longer hear the man’s harsh breathing.
She looked on Gyaidun in shock. “Why did you do that?”
Gyaidun’s brow fell as he looked down on her. “I could have used the knife, but he would have suffered. The club was quicker.”
“He might not have died. There was no need!”
“You’re in the Wastes now, girl. That—”
“Do not call me ‘girl!’ ”
Gyaidun continued undeterred. “That man tried to kill you. If we’d left him to recover and nurse his wounded pride, he might well have come after us. The Commani—even outcasts—do not forgive an affront. We have enough to worry about without setting enemies on our trail.”
She held his gaze and considered pressing the point. But it hit her: He was right. She was a long way from home, and her notions of honor and chivalry weren’t going to get Jalan back to her. And Gyaidun knew this country, knew it like she knew the Hiloar meadows.
Finally, she dropped her gaze, careful to avoid the corpse at her feet, and said, “You won’t … you won’t harm the boy?”
“Not if he’s smart. Let’s get our things and be gone before anyone curious decides to have a closer look at your smoke.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Endless Wastes
Sitting in the grass, his wrists and elbows bound behind his back with rough strips of elkhide cord, Lendri watched the first edge of the sun peek over the horizon. He sat in the middle of the Vil Adanrath, wolves and their elf brothers seeming to mix in equal measure, on a long rise of land that was not quite steep enough to be called a hill. Nearly a quarter mile of land rose at his back, and twice that fell at his feet so that he seemed to look down upon the sunrise. Mingan lay near his feet, sound asleep.
Tension ran through the camp like mice in the grass—more felt and heard than seen. Every elf or wolf walking about or lounging in the grass shot furtive, suspicious glances at them. Some stared in open malice. Still, once Mingan had realized there would be no immediate violence, he had settled down. It was the first time he’d been among his own kind in many seasons.
The elves, both men and women, had the same pale complexion and hair as Lendri, but they wore even less clothing—barely enough for modesty, and none wore any covering on their feet. They too had skin decorated in many swirls and thorns—the younger members of the pack sporting only a few while the elders seemed more black lines than white skin. This had been a hunt, not a permanent camp, and they were still a ways from the nearest cache, so few of the elves had weapons. A dagger or rough spear here and there, but nothing more. Many of the elves walked the dreamroad next to their sleeping wolf brothers, but a half dozen or so of each patrolled the area, scanning the horizon and sniffing the breeze while the others kept close watch on Lendri and Mingan.
Lendri did not know whether to cling to hope or despair. They had not killed him on sight, which was good, he supposed, but every attempt to speak to them had been met with either cold silence or a command to close his mouth. After his fourth attempt, his brother Leren had threatened to gag him, so Lendri sat and waited. Little brother had grown in the years they’d been apart. His limbs were lean but filled with a hard strength, and he walked with the poise and confidence of a true pack leader. Pride and sadness filled Lendri’s heart—pride that little brother had taken his place in the pack and sadness that it had to be so.
The bottom rim of the sun was a finger’s width over the horizon when Lendri first noticed the long shadows in the distant grass—several of them headed right for the pack. It wouldn’t be long now.
Leren, pacing not far away, saw them as well. He was one of the few in camp with a weapon—a long knife that he held naked in his hand. He watched the shadows a while, then turned and looked down on Lendri. “They are coming,”
he said.
“Thank you, Brother,” said Lendri.
“Don’t call me that, hrayek,” said the warrior, and he spat on the ground beside Lendri.
Mingan raised his head, and a growl, more felt than heard, rumbled deep within the wolf’s throat. Leren ignored him.
Hrayek, thought Lendri. Outcast. Oathbreaker. This was not going as well as he’d hoped. It was not altogether unexpected, but still it saddened him. He and Leren had been close once.
With full light bathing the rise, the Vil Adanrath stirred out of dreamwalk and sleep. The news spread quickly. The omah nin was coming. Several of the wolves sent up a song to greet him.
A pack of twenty wolves, led by a massive male with fur the color of new snow, ran among the gathered pack. The hunters greeted their lord and his guard, dancing about him, yipping and barking, the greatest of the pack licking his muzzle and bowing with lowered ears and tail. The huge wolf allowed it for a time, then snarled and barked till the others cleared a path for him. He walked up the slope to Leren, wolves and elves following him. Mingan circled Lendri a few times, then settled on his haunches beside his friend and watched.
Leren knelt, lowering his head and opening his palms. “Well come to the pack, Omah Nin.”
The wolf looked at Leren, then glanced at Lendri and Mingan. His fur bristled, then began to ripple as if stirred by a hundred tiny breezes. Fur faded to a misty light, the pale shadow within stretching. When the light cleared, an elf stood in front of Leren. This newcomer was the tallest elf in camp. His snow white hair fell well past his waist, and his entire body was a maze of black tattoos and old wounds. Runes the color of fresh blood lined his arms and chest. Three scars marred his skin from scalp to cheek to chin, leaving empty tracks through his pale eyebrows. His eyes stood out like jewels burning with the light of a winter sky. This was Haerul, Omah Nin of the Vil Adanrath. Chieftain of chieftains. What the Tuigan would have named khahan.
Haerul knelt by the wolf next to him, which had a light pack on its back. He reached into the pack, removed a loincloth, and covered his nakedness before looking down on Leren. “Rise, my son,” he said.
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