War of the Magi: Azrael's Wrath (Book 2)

by Lewis, Joseph Robert

  “Ven?” Zerai started to stand.

  “No.” She waved him back.

  She came within a few paces of the alchemist before she said, “I care nothing for how talented you are, or how useful Samira thinks you might be. I think you are a danger to this mission, and a danger to the people I care most about in this world.”

  The djinn continued to pick through the reeds. “You’re probably right.”

  “Show me what is in your bag.”

  The alchemist paused. “No.”

  “Show me now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know what you have, and how dangerous it is to us.”

  He grunted. “I have many things, and most of them can kill you. Satisfied?”

  “No.” Veneka grabbed the bag off his shoulder and yanked it toward her, hoping it would slide off his arm. Instead, he grabbed hold of the strap and pulled back, and in that moment the bag hung between them and the flap fell open, letting a dozen vials and envelopes and jars tumbled out onto the muddy shore.

  “Stop!” Bashir roared louder than she had ever heard him speak before.

  She let go and the bag fell to the ground against his leg, spilling out even more of its contents, including two large lumpy packages wrapped in linen. She pointed at them. “What is that?”

  “It’s nothing,” he snarled as he fell to his knees and began hastily shoving his possessions back into his bag.

  “Those knobs on the ends, the length… are they bones?” She winced. “Are they human bones?”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Are they human?” she asked louder.

  He glared at her as he continued snatching up his supplies.

  “Did you kill that person?”

  His glare twisted and writhed across his face, contorting his mouth and eyes for a horrible moment. “No! No! No!”

  He finished pushing everything back into the bag and then rose up on his long legs and strode away down the shore by himself, leaving her alone in the reeds.

  What on earth just happened?

  What is he?

  She looked back at the others and saw the stern blankness in Samira’s eyes and the angry concern in Zerai’s.

  I wish Iyasu had seen him just now. I could use his eyes right now. Because either I just attacked some poor tortured soul, or I enraged a vicious killer.

  Veneka exhaled.

  Raziel said there would be days like this.

  I wish I had believed him.

  Chapter 7

  Iyasu

  As he walked the dusty highway north toward Sabah, Iyasu kept his hands hidden in his robe’s sleeves and tried desperately to forget what he had seen.

  But he was an Arrahim, a seer. He saw everything, and he remembered everything he saw.

  The images flashed through his mind’s eye every time he blinked. The mazomba’s fangs gaping wide. His own hand fumbling in the air, soft brown against the metallic blue of the lake. The sensations of piercing, stabbing, slicing, rending, tearing, and burning as the beast bite down on his hand, its weight helping to shred and sever his flesh.

  The stump

  The blood.

  It was all too clear, all too vivid.

  He pulled his right arm free of his sleeve. The new hand looked just like the old hand, it felt just like the old hand, and if he didn’t know better he would think it was the old hand.

  Except it’s missing a freckle on the thumb. And that little scar between the knuckles.

  He put it away again. The images played back and forth. Hand, no hand, hand. All together it gave him the feeling that his hand wasn’t a part of him at all, rather it was just a loose attachment, something that might fall off or blow away, like an ill-fitting hat.

  His stomach turned.

  He glanced at Veneka, wanting to talk about his hand, but not wanting to talk about his hand at the same time.

  My old hand is rotting in the throat of that dead fish. If we go back to the lake right now and find the head, we could pull my hand out of its throat and I could hold my own hand in my hand.

  Bile floated and burned in the back of his mouth, and he choked it down and cleared his throat.

  “You all right?” Zerai asked.

  Iyasu nodded.

  “Because you don’t look all right.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “It’s all right if you need to throw up,” the falconer said affably. “No one would blame you. You just had your arm bitten off by a giant catfish, after all. It’s only natural.”

  Iyasu wanted to hit him, but instead he found himself grinning and shaking his head. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I missed you too.”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “You’re happier, for one.” Iyasu glanced over at Veneka walking just ahead of them. “You remind me of Eon.”

  “Mm.” Zerai smiled sadly. “I think about him all the time.”

  “So do I. Everything was so different then. We were different. So… you and Veneka?”

  The falconer smiled a bit wider with a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah.”

  “When I left Naj Kuvari all those years ago, you and Kiya were so close. I was surprised that she left with us, and that you stayed behind,” Iyasu said. “But I can see it’s for the best now.”

  “It took a little time, but yeah, it was for the best.” Zerai pushed his thick black locks back from his forehead, and they promptly fell forward again. “Ven and I have everything in the world in common. And living together in the city is… it’s paradise.”

  Iyasu nodded.

  I shouldn’t ask about children. The way he looked at the children sitting in front of Raziel, the way he looks at Veneka now. I shouldn’t ask. It’s too private. Not now, anyway.

  “So when are you going to have kids?”

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Someday,” Zerai said easily. “Hopefully someday soon.”

  One by one they began to encounter other people on the road as more and more paths began to converge on the highway to Sabah. The farmers of southern Elladi came and went with their wagons, carts, baskets, and satchels filled with fruits and vegetables. Some led mules or sheep or hogs, and some rode camels or elephants, forcing those on foot to hurry out of their way to avoid being trampled or spat upon.

  Iyasu distracted himself with studying the new faces around him. Among the Navean farmers and shepherds were Vaari artisans with their brightly painted pottery and darkly tinted glass wares, and riding past them were soldiers and messengers from the distant west and south, from the warring Benduun kingdoms, the golden Hoyo Empire, and the ancient Mrin freelands.

  To fill up the silence, the young seer told and retold the histories of the people he saw, seeing past the clothing and the dirt and the scars to tales of famine and feuds, long journeys, and hopes of finding new riches in the city of Sabah. There were beggars and pilgrims, treasure hunters and priests, mercenaries and dancers, nomads and princes. He wished them all good fortune.

  So many people. So many different people. But I’ll bet not one of them had their hand bitten off today.

  They crested a high hill and looked down on the last stretch of the highway as it reached the outskirts of Sabah. The city of a thousand bridges sat astride the Leyen River, its countless causeways covering the river so thoroughly that Iyasu could only glimpse a tiny sparkling wave here and there among the endless walls and towers and banners of the capital.

  “Will the Daraji woman be here?” Samira asked.

  Iyasu nodded. “If not here, then between here and Tagal. But most of the stories say she’s been protecting Sabah, so I think we’ll find her here, perhaps at the northern end of the city, closer to the border of Maqari.”

  “Who is she?” Veneka asked. “Of course you do not truly know, but surely you have some ideas, so
me insights?”

  The seer shrugged. “I’ve heard her name is Ayen Tanzir, that she wears dark skirts and robes, that her Daraji jewelry tinkles and jangles when she moves, and that she can throw an armored man straight through a brick wall.”

  “Sounds like someone I don’t want to offend.” Zerai grinned.

  “As long as you’re not from Maqari, you should be all right.” Iyasu paused. “But I’m curious as to why a woman from the Daraji deserts would be in Elladi at all. She must have studied with Sophir as a child, so she would have been in Imaya for years. Was she born in Shivala? Why did she come to the west? Is she from the Daraji, or did she marry into them? Too many questions.”

  “Does that bother you? Questions?” The falconer glanced at him.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Times like now?”

  “Yes.”

  By the time they reached the edge of the city, the traffic on the road had grown to a small and confusing stampede of people, animals, and wagons competing for space as they tried to move up, down, and across every street all at once, with no small number of people simply standing in doorways to talk to their neighbors or arguing with would-be customers about wares and prices.

  As they struggled through the press, Petra called out, “Maybe we should have gone around the city instead of through it.”

  “We’ll be through in a few minutes,” Samira said. “And this is better. If the Sophirim is somewhere in the city, we’re more likely to hear about her in the streets than in the outskirts. Gossip is a useful tool.”

  “How would you know?” the younger sister muttered.

  Iyasu looked over at Petra and a very different wave of images came crashing down on him. Her eyes, her lips, her breasts, her fingers entwined with his, her hair splashing across the grass as she rolled onto her back, the sweat beading on her skin…

  I wonder if—

  He grit his teeth and tried to walk a little faster.

  She just wants attention. And power. And adoration. And I gave it to her. Why? Because I’m an idiot. It was all there, written plain on her face, in her voice, in every little gesture. She was playing with me. I should have seen it!

  “Seen what?”

  Iyasu blinked at Zerai. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was talking out loud.”

  The falconer winked at him. “Happens to me all the time.”

  They found their way off the main road onto a side lane where they could hear each other without shouting, and Iyasu realized that everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to lead them through the city, waiting for him to find the Daraji woman.

  So they can fight her. So she’ll stop fighting Darius. So Maqari will stop fighting Elladi. So innocent people will stop dying.

  They’re all waiting for me.

  He glanced down at his right hand, and for a mad instant he considered grabbing Zerai’s sword and hacking the thing off.

  It feels…wrong.

  Instead, he started walking up the narrow lane, heading away from the marketplaces and seeking out the neighborhoods farther along where he knew they would find people loitering in the shade, sitting near the cafés, walking near the water, and talking.

  People talk too much. There should be a law.

  “Iyasu, are you all right?” Veneka touched his arm.

  He glanced back and saw that he had been striding along so quickly that the rest of the group was strung out in a long, thin line behind him, left to hurry around the other people in the lane as they tried to keep up.

  “I’m fine. Sorry.” He started walking again.

  “How is your hand? Let me see it.” She reached out.

  “It’s fine.” He pulled it away from her. “It’s fine, thank you. Everything is fine.”

  Soon they came to a large pavilion where a dozen tall tents had been set up near the bank of the Leyen to accommodate the families sitting together on the grass and the stone steps leading down to the water. While the children played, the mothers wove belts and scarves on small looms, or carved wooden toys, or mended old clothing as they sat and talked.

  Iyasu paused and scanned the crowd until he saw someone who seemed worth talking to, and he led his entourage through the pavilion to a spot overlooking the river where two elderly ladies wearing a beautiful riot of purples and yellows sat watching the children splash in the water.

  “Excuse me.” The young seer knelt down beside them. “Good afternoon.”

  “Hello.” The two women smiled and nodded to him.

  “My friends and I have just arrived in the city and we were hoping you might recommend a place where we could stay the night.”

  “Oh, there are so many. Near the river, near the road, near the library, near the palace, near the markets,” the white-haired one said. “Some are better than others. Where are you trying to go, exactly?”

  “The library, and the university.” Iyasu recalled that both were located in the center of the city. “But we’ve heard that there’s been some trouble here lately, and we want to avoid any dangerous neighborhoods. I’ve even heard there’s talk of war. Is that true?”

  “Too true!” The gray-haired lady nodded. “A madman’s taken the throne of Maqari and fancies himself some sort of war-god!”

  The white-haired lady clucked her tongue and shook her head. “There’s been fighting just north of the city. We see the smoke sometimes. Farms burning. Forts burning. I hear a hundred men died last week.”

  “A hundred?” Iyasu peered at her. “Were they all killed by Maqari soldiers, or maybe mercenaries, or…?”

  “It’s that demon, Nidar!”

  “Oh hush!” The white-hair gave the gray-hair a little shove. “Don’t go telling him that nonsense, he might believe you.”

  “He should believe,” the gray-hair said with a frown. “Nidar has come back to punish the wicked, and he’ll punish us too if we’re not careful.”

  Iyasu frowned and glanced up at Zerai, whispering, “Nidar is a spirit of justice, a punishing god from the south.” He turned back to the women. “Where is this Nidar?”

  “No one knows,” the gray-hair said. “He just appears, makes his violence on the world, and disappears again into the night.”

  “Ha! Now I know it’s not any Nidar,” the white-hair said. “It’s not a he, it’s a she!”

  “Pfft!”

  “Don’t you pfft me!”

  “Ladies, please.” Iyasu smiled and touched them each on the hand as he studied their yellowing, wrinkled eyes. “When was the last time this Nidar appeared?”

  “Last night, I hear.” The gray-hair paused to frown at the children in the river, and then turned back to him again. “I hear he found some Maqari soldiers near a Vaari caravan at the edge of the city, near the Red Well.”

  “You hear, you hear.” The white-hair shook her head. “You hear a lot of things for someone who sits on this blanket all day. And I told you, it’s a she.”

  “Hush up, you.”

  “Thank you, ladies.” Iyasu stood up slowly. “We’ll be sure to heed your advice.”

  “Take care, young people.” The white-haired lady waved as they left. “Don’t have too much excitement. Save some for when you’re older!”

  Iyasu saw Zerai and Veneka exchange a grin and he hurried up the road away from them.

  They followed wide boulevards, passed broad red temples with tall round towers, and paused to stare up at the white pyramids of the palace where lush green gardens surrounded the mysterious homes of the Elladi royalty who dwelled with the spirits, and the bodies, of their ancestors. After an hour of snaking their way through the city streets, and criss-crossing back and forth over the Leyen a handful of times on its many bridges, they finally came to a field at the northern edge of the city where the larger caravans gathered to feed and water their camels and horses, and struck their tents together in a small city of linen, wool, and silk.

  “What now?” Petra asked, tapping her foot. “Start asking around? It’s getting late.”
<
br />   “It is.” Iyasu looked up at the bloody sun sinking toward the edge of the world. “We should find the Vaari caravan and see if we can spend the night with them.”

  “Do you think they’ll know something?” Zerai asked.

  “Maybe.” The seer started walking toward the pale blue pennants snapping in the breeze. “Though mostly I’m thinking that they’ll have something decent to eat.”

  They found the Vaari encampment to be a pleasant, welcoming place where every inch of the ground was covered in heavy carpets and the tents stood closely together in a ring around a central courtyard, so that once inside they could no longer see the dusty towers and swaying lanterns of Sabah. The Vaari traders and artisans were stern and wary of the newcomers, but only until Iyasu introduced themselves as clerics of the holy mount. Then the cry went up all around that the magi of the east had come among them, and the travelers were welcomed with smiles and open arms.

  Zerai laughed and shook Iyasu’s shoulder. “I forgot how many people still call you magi.”

  “You used to be one of them,” the seer pointed out.

  “I wonder what they would say if we told them about the djinn.”

  Iyasu squeezed his friend’s arm. “Don’t even joke about that. Remember, back when you called us magi, you also called the djinn demons.”

  Zerai’s smile faded and he nodded.

  Everyone gathered around the fires in the center of the carpeted courtyard, and the clerics and djinn sat down among the potters, glaziers, weavers, and painters from the western desert. The Vaari wore light blue robes and dresses and cloaks that hung in loose folds from their shoulders, giving the men and women all the same flowing shapeless forms.

  Just like the djinn walking through shadows. Hopefully no one will notice that little trick this evening.

  Food appeared from within the tents, prepared and served by husbands and wives who excelled in grilling meats, baking kissra and gurassa breads, crushing eye-watering spices, and brewing aqari gin from dates.

  Iyasu did his best to chat politely with the men and women seated around him as he filled his bowl with spicy steak and potato stew, fried chickpea cakes covered in too much coriander, baked fish crusted in peppers and onions, and half a dozen other dishes that he didn’t quite recognize but enjoyed all the same. He ate to excess, until his belly felt truly full and his senses dulled, filling his mind with a desire to find a bed, to lie in that bed, and to never leave it.