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

by Lewis, Joseph Robert

  He let his eyes drift halfway closed and his mind wandered, not to visions of beasts or battlefields, but to the quiet mountain paths where he had run and played between his lessons with Arrah, when life consisted entirely of being happy and content, at peace with himself and his friends…

  A voice intruded gently into his thoughts, and Iyasu opened his eyes just a little to see a Vaari man standing off to one side, singing. The singer wore the same blue robes as everyone else, but even in his stupor Iyasu could see that something was not quite right about this man’s body.

  He has no left arm.

  He glanced over at Veneka and saw her leaning back in Zerai’s arms as she listened to the man’s song slowly swell and grow, unaccompanied by any instrument. She gazed at him, caught somewhere between admiration and pain.

  She’s going to heal him. Or try to, anyway. I wonder what that will be like for him. I wonder how long he’s been without it.

  The man sang in the language of the Vaari, a dialect that Iyasu could not begin to fathom, so he let the melody dance majestically through his thoughts as his eyes dipped closed again. He imagined it to be a ballad, a love song, a tale of ancient heroes and maidens and tragic misunderstandings that would end badly, and yet with a note of hope.

  The next time his eyes flickered open he saw that the singer was a little closer to the fires and had turned to reveal that he wore a blue silken scarf across the left side of his face, which almost covered the scars on the side of his head.

  Something with very large claws tried to kill this poor man. This singer. I wonder why he’s still alive. Someone must have saved him. With wounds like that, he couldn’t have saved himself.

  I couldn’t have…

  He shuddered.

  I would have bled to death in that boat. I would have died today. But look at them all now, so happy, so content. I doubt any of them almost died today.

  Or…

  He sat up a little straighter.

  Maybe they did. Maybe they do all the time, and I’m the only one sitting here like a sack of filth feeling sorry for myself when a man with one arm and one eye is singing his heart out for me.

  Damn me.

  Iyasu blinked his eyes wide and tried to focus on the singer a little more, tried to follow the melody and imagine what the words meant. He was staring so intently at the singer that he was sharply startled when the man stopped singing and everyone turned to look behind him. Iyasu looked up, frowning, and saw the six armed men stepping into the private enclosure of the Vaari camp.

  The six men carried short swords and long spears, and on their shields they carried a symbol, an emblem that Iyasu knew all too well.

  The lion shield of Maqari.

  Darius’s men.

  Some of the Vaari stood up. Some of them began talking to the soldiers, offering them food, asking them to leave, extending handfuls of money, pointing threatening fingers.

  Iyasu clutched the carpet under him.

  No. No, not here, not now. Oh God, please, not again.

  He felt his clothing suddenly flush with warmth as a dark stain grew on the carpet under him.

  Run, run away, we need to run away.

  But he didn’t run. He couldn’t move, or even speak. He sat very still with tears pooling in his eyes as the soldiers raised their swords and began to slaughter the Vaari.

  Chapter 8

  Zerai

  The falconer saw the strange movement of the tent flaps before the soldiers arrived, and he put his hand on his sword. He saw the drawn blades in the soldiers’ hands and he placed his empty hand on the ground just in front of Veneka. So when the screaming started, he was ready.

  As the first Vaari fell dead to the ground, Zerai grabbed Veneka around the waist and pulled her to her feet as he stood up, and with a silent look he sent her running toward Iyasu, away from the soldiers. He glanced once at Samira.

  Will she help a bunch of lowly humans?

  Can she help, here, with all this grass and carpet everywhere?

  The djinn cleric seemed more interested in getting her sister to safety, so Zerai ignored her and dashed into the fray. A handful of the Vaari had knives and small wood axes, and they were trying to protect their friends and families with these meager weapons, but the only thing that slowed the soldiers’ progress was when they paused to pull their swords out of the bodies of the slain.

  Zerai shoved past the poorly armed potters and weavers and brandished his khopesh at the invaders. Three large men in banded armor raised their shields and glared at him.

  Oh shit.

  Zerai stumbled sideways to avoid the first two stabs and hacks, and he swung his short sword wildly to knock the oncoming blades aside as he tried to push the Vaari back to safety, wherever safety might be.

  “Go! Go!” he hollered as he fended off the Maqari soldiers. “Run!”

  One of the soldiers lunged past him and Zerai hacked with both hands at the man’s ribs, only to see his own sword clank uselessly on the man’s bronze armor.

  I am a dead man.

  He grabbed the soldier and jumped onto his back, wrapping his arms around the man’s head to cover his eyes as he tried to pull him off balance.

  The ground under the soldier’s feet surged upward, hurling him onto his back and crushing Zerai beneath him. The falconer groaned as he beat on the man’s face and kicked to roll him away, but the soldier seemed too stunned and too weighed down by his armor to move away. Zerai twisted around and grabbed his sword from the edge of the carpet beside him and looked around for the other soldiers, but he could only see their backs.

  Kicking and swearing, Zerai crawled out from beneath the stunned soldier and staggered to his feet just in time to see the Vaari flooding out of the encampment to reveal a lone figure standing beside the fire pit.

  So she decided to help after all.

  Samira stood with one foot slightly raised on a small bump in the ground, which he guessed was a part of the buried rock she had used to throw the soldiers back. Now the stone rippled and slithered like a nest of snakes just beneath the carpets and grass, and the soldiers stumbled back from her and from the coiling shapes in the earth.

  Zerai moved to Samira’s side with his sword raised as he watched the men from Maqari retreat. The stunned man on the ground slowly recovered, saw his comrades about to leave, and then saw the huge shifting serpents under the carpets, and he too dashed after the others.

  “What do you think that was all about?” Zerai asked quietly.

  “Retaliation?” Samira kept her eyes on the wall of tents as the last of the soldiers disappeared from view. “If the Daraji woman attacked them last night near here, then maybe the soldiers think she is protecting these people, or that she is one of them.”

  “Maybe.” Zerai paused. “Let’s find out.”

  He jogged out of the camp, hesitating as he pushed through the tent walls to make sure there were no swords waiting for him on the far side. Then he spotted the handful of soldiers hurrying away through the pavilion grounds, moving from shadow to shadow, and he ran after them.

  “What do you think you are doing?” Samira hissed in his ear.

  He winced and looked over to see the djinn woman gliding swiftly and eerily through the darkness beside him. “I’m going to see what they know about the Sophirim.”

  “It’s too dangerous!”

  “Then go back.”

  “And let you die? The seer and the healer would never forgive me, and I may still need their help to complete my task.”

  Zerai grinned. “Your concern is very touching.”

  Moments later he felt hard stones under his boots as they crossed the threshold from the caravan grounds to the city streets. Small brick homes lined with fine cracks stood to their left and right, and the dim lights of candles danced behind the shuttered windows. Up ahead, the soldiers turned left and dashed out of view.

  “You should let them go,” Samira said.

  “You’re entitled to your opinion
, I suppose.” Zerai slid to the corner and peeked around to make sure the Maqari men weren’t waiting for him. They weren’t, but they hadn’t gone far. The six armored men stood in a small knot halfway down the narrow lane, catching their breath and muttering in low voices.

  “And now?” the djinn woman whispered.

  “Wait. Watch.”

  One of the soldiers spoke. The others laughed. They put away their swords and went on talking in low voices.

  “Fascinating.” Samira sighed.

  “You can leave.”

  “Not without you.”

  One of the soldiers yelled something at the far end of the lane and the men started ambling away. There was something about the way they moved, the way they fanned out to block the width of the narrow road, that made Zerai reach for his sword.

  They’re going after someone. Someone alone. Someone they know they can beat.

  He started down the lane after them, shaking off Samira’s hand as she tried to stop him. With his sword held low, he moved quietly along the wall, trying to keep to the shadows, and wishing for one very brief moment that he could move like a djinn.

  The soldiers laughed again. Zerai could see a hooded woman among them, surrounded by them, unable to get past them.

  This is bad.

  He moved faster, his feet sweeping expertly over and around the small pebbles and bits of trash in the darkness that might have made some small sound and betrayed him.

  One of the soldiers moved in closer to the woman.

  Very bad.

  The ring of soldiers tumbled backward as one of the men flew up against the right-hand wall, bounced off the ancient bricks, and slammed back down to the ground. A small avalanche of crushed stone trickled from the brick wall where a large impression now stood surrounded by thousands of tiny cracks.

  Zerai froze, staring at the wall.

  I was wrong. It’s worse.

  “It’s her!” Samira hissed.

  Only one of the soldiers glanced back at the sound of her voice. The others were too busy drawing weapons and shouting at each other to attack the empty-handed woman wearing the dark hood.

  “Get back!” Zerai yelled. “Everybody get back! Drop your weapons!”

  No one listened. One man swung his sword at the hooded woman, and was hurled straight up into the sky, only to come crashing down on the roof of the house beside them. A second man disappeared with a yelp, and Zerai saw him go flying off toward the far end of the lane. Now there was enough room in the road for the falconer to see the woman clad in dark Daraji skirts and bright Daraji necklaces and chains. She grabbed a man by his armor and slammed him down into the paving stones. She grabbed another and smashed him backward through the wall beside her.

  Zerai looked at Samira. “Well? Aren’t you going to do anything?”

  “I’m watching and learning,” the cleric said. “This woman is very dangerous.”

  “You don’t say?” Zerai started forward again and caught hold of the last soldier’s arm just as the Daraji woman thrust her fingers into his thick black hair and hurled him into the wall opposite. His head rebounded off the cold bricks and he fell to the ground in a heap. Zerai just looked at his empty hand.

  She threw him so fast.

  He blinked and realized he was now alone with the hooded woman. She took a step toward him.

  “No, no, no, just wait a minute.” Zerai dropped his sword and held up his empty hands. “I’m not with them. I was in the Vaari camp when they attacked us. I’m from Tigara.”

  The woman hesitated, then turned and started to walk away.

  “Wait, please!” Zerai jogged after her and touched her shoulder.

  Suddenly he was flying through the air, the street whizzing by in a blur below his head, and then he hit the ground and every bone from his tail to his skull blazed with sharp and burning pains. He gasped as he rolled onto his side, one hand going to his head and the other clawing at the ground as he struggled to push himself back up to his knees.

  “Wait,” he muttered, shaking his head and blinking hard. “Just wait!”

  “Surrender!” Samira glided forward out of the shadows. “In the name of Holy Raziel, I command you to surrender to us immediately!”

  “Raziel?” The Daraji woman stared at the djinn cleric. “Raziel is dead.”

  “He was, sort of.” Zerai struggled up to his feet, though the street kept trying to spin around and drop him on his side again. “But he’s fine now.”

  “Who are you?” the woman asked him.

  “Zerai Saqir.” The falconer paused, wondering what would be helpful to say. “I live just down the road from Raziel’s fountain.”

  “No one lives in Naj Kuvari.”

  “Actually, quite a few people do these days.” He risked a small smile. “Is your name Ayen Tanzir?”

  The woman lunged at him with her bare hands, but the paving stones beneath her swirled around her feet, swallowing up her legs to the knee and sealing her in place. She twisted around to look at Samira. “A djinn cleric?”

  “Holy Raziel has commanded me to bring you to him,” Samira said.

  “I believe you.” The woman ripped her legs free of her stone restraints, scattering the warped rocks across the road in a wave of pebbles and dust.

  “Why are you attacking people?” Zerai asked. He felt steadier on his feet, but the pounding aches in his head and back left him stiff and unfocused.

  “Because I can.” She looked at him, her face a cold blank. “Because someone should.”

  “There’s going to be a war if you don’t stop,” he said. “Thousands will die. You need to stop killing these soldiers.”

  “I haven’t killed one yet,” she said softly.

  Zerai looked down at the armored bodies and saw that they were indeed still moving and breathing, somewhat.

  “They were killing the Vaari tonight, weren’t they?” she asked. “They deserve to die.”

  “Then why didn’t you kill them?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “Can’t?” Zerai gestured at the soldiers. “I’m betting you can. You have more than enough power.”

  “What power do you think I have?” Her voice fell to a deadly whisper.

  “You’re a Sophirim.” He shrugged. “You have the power to make objects heavier or lighter. You can hurl men into the sky, or crush them with boulders. It seems like more than enough power to kill.”

  “Things often aren’t what they seem. And people almost never are.”

  At the far end of the lane, Iyasu and Veneka ran into view, paused, saw Samira and Zerai, and started running toward them.

  “Stay back!” Zerai shouted.

  “Why?” The woman raised her voice and stared at him with two cruel eyes that seemed to glimmer with gold fire. “Because I might kill them? I won’t kill them. They’re not killers. And neither are you. Or this one.” She nodded at Samira.

  “Look, I understand what you’re trying to do,” Zerai said. “Punishing the wicked, protecting the innocent. I understand. But there’s a warlord out there who is ready to raze Elladi to the ground because of what you’re doing. It has to stop.”

  “Yes, it does. But it won’t.”

  The woman began striding down the dark street past Zerai and toward the river.

  “Stop where you are!” Samira called out.

  The woman walked on.

  Samira stretched out one hand in the cool night air and the street began to rumble.

  “Careful!” Zerai grabbed the wall behind him. “There are people in these houses!”

  “Then perhaps you should protect them.” The djinn cleric swept her hand to the side and the paving stones surged up from the ground as a hundred grasping hands, gray and red and black, all reaching for the Daraji woman’s legs and arms and clothing.

  Dozens of the stone hands grasped their target and twisted aside, pulling the woman’s arms and legs out straight, restraining her as they lifted her off the ground. Zerai froze, wat
ching in equal parts fear and fascination, as the hooded woman rose into the air at the center of a hideous multi-limbed creature of stone and shadow.

  With a crackle and a crash, the stone arms shattered and hurled a thick gray cloud of dust into the air as the broken hands and arms rained down on the earth, and their captive dropped to the road. The Daraji woman paused amidst the chaos to shake the dust from her cloak, and then she walked on as though nothing had happened, leaving a small forest of twisted and shattered stone hands standing in the road behind her.

  Samira raised both hands, but Iyasu ran to her side and grabbed her wrist, saying, “No, wait. Something’s wrong here. She’s no Sophirim.”

  “What?” Zerai looked at the seer. “What else could she be? No one is that strong.”

  “She is.”

  Zerai frowned at him. “Well, yes. Because she’s a cleric.”

  “Perhaps she isn’t.” Samira frowned as well. “But we can’t let this opportunity pass. We have her now, and we must capture her now.”

  “How?” Iyasu glanced back at the crushed walls and street of the lane behind them and the disturbing grove of stone hands in front of them. “She’s too powerful.”

  “There is always a way.” Samira looked back down the lane. “Bashir? It’s time to earn your favor.”

  The alchemist emerged from the shadows and Zerai shivered.

  Where the hell was he all this time?

  A sharp throb in the back of his head tore his attention away, and he caught Veneka’s eye as he pointed to his backside. “Dearest, would you mind? I’m a little broken.”

  The healer came over quickly, placed her hands on him, and a moment later he felt as fresh and whole as he ever had. But it came with its own sort of weariness, the knowledge that now he would have to go on, that there would be no rest, that this would be one of those terrible nights of running, and fearing, and hurting, until something coldly final happened to someone.