by Jean Johnson
“You plan for a siege?” Adan called out. Lutun didn’t understand the word seedj, but it was explained with a nod from their golden-haired leader.
“I do. We will all retreat here to the theater with our goods and our foods and our beasts and wait them out. They have indeed planned well,” Djin-taje-ul admitted, her mouth twisting wryly at the admission. “There are enough sheer numbers approaching that the seven of us Fae would find it impossible to protect all the different valleys where people have settled for their homes. They think we will not have much in the way of food and only a limited amount of water.
“We will be as comfortable here as we would be when free-roaming, for we have water and food and plans. They may think they have us trapped and outnumbered, that they can force us to either fight or starve or surrender, but we need only wait for the return of Ban.”
“What can Ban do?” Eruk called out, frowning. “They have at least eight hundred warriors coming to overwhelm us, if not nine hundred or more. What can one man do against all of that?”
“If we cannot convince them to leave, then I will unleash him upon them.” Her tone was flat, firm, and unhappy. “I do not wish to unleash him against these attackers. It is hoped that they will agree to leave peacefully, but as the saying goes, I will not hold my breath until they do, for I should faint long before then. Zuki, Tulan, call in the sentries from their posts. I want everyone here by the middle of the night. If we have time, Kaife will seal your homes, but it is better for you to bring what you need to survive and what you do not wish these invaders to grab, than run out of time.
“You have your orders. Go.”
Bowing, Lutun turned and hurried back up the tunnel toward the doors. Food was a priority, but so were things that could be used as tools. There were five sets of grand doors into the theater on the ground floor, and five modestly large ones on the upper balcony. They were bound in bronze and made from stout palm wood, but Lutun could easily see them being hacked open by axes and the like.
He would trust Djin-taje-ul and try to trust her plan regarding the tall, absent man. But he would not trust his life to the coming army, and that meant hiding any advantage they might find.
***
Year 6, Month 1, Day 4
Taje Barrek, a large, heavily scarred man, scowled at his chief scout, Kuruk. “All of the cave-homes appear to be deserted?”
“Either blocked by stone, or stripped of all their food and at least half their goods, my taje,” Kuruk reported. “From the looks of things, the goods were taken recently,” he added. “A water jar had been knocked over; it had cracked, but only a thin line, and there was still water leaking out and evaporating.”
Barrek eyed the other tajet who had been brought together for this fight. It had taken six years not only to gather what everyone deemed an overwhelming number of warriors, but also to get the other tribes to understand just how dangerous these golden-skinned féj were. But now they all knew the dangers. These pointy-eared beings drank magic like fish drank water. They shaped stone faster than a potter could shape clay. They could fly like an insect, and stop arrows without effort, something that took the best animadjet years of training to master.
A few of the slaves from the southlands had warned against fighting them, but Barrek and the rest of the Circle Fire did not believe in beings made of pure anima. He lifted his chin at the other leaders. “They knew we were coming. The question is, where di—”
“I found them!” A firm female voice cut through the crowd, which parted to make way for a woman Kuruk recognized. Shuda, that was it, of the Water Spears. She lifted her bow and pointed with one of the ends off to the side. “There is a broad valley to the east with cliff buildings. Most have been stone sealed, but a lot of tracks point to one with a great curved front. Tracks that were made as recently as early this morning, if not late last night.”
“Show us!” Taje Garrin ordered his tribe’s scout.
Nodding, Shuda hurried in that direction. Kuruk let the tide of weapon-clutching warriors stream around him. As far as he was concerned, those who were eager for a fight without pausing to size up an enemy were at least good for one thing: revealing the tricks and skills of their opponents as the frontline fodder died. He still owed Charag at least one war slave for splitting the attention of those two féj, and intended to survive so that he could claim one for himself as well.
Charag was now one of those who believed these were anima-beings. He had confessed to Kuruk that he had started believing when they had floated up before him with no sound and no effort. That was why he had chosen to slay one of their worshippers, in the hopes it would distract the god-being, since it was rumored some such creatures could indeed restore the recently dead. Given that such beings required the faith of their followers to exist—faith being willpower, the strength to shape the anima—then surely they would stop to revive the fellow . . . or at least be greatly weakened by the loss of his share of the will powering them to exist.
Following in the wake of the scores of warriors streaming toward the valley, Kuruk had to admit that the ruse had worked. Charag, the other scouts, and he were all still alive. He didn’t know if it was because the féj needed to share anima to attempt to put the dead man’s head back on his shoulders, or if they had lost energy, but the golden-armored man had followed them, harassed them with bursts of fire nearby whenever they stopped for more than a moment. He had not actually harmed them in their long retreat southward, but neither had he left them until they were two full selijm into the great dunes.
Exhausted and angry, his younger self had vowed to find a way to make the strangers pay. Wiser and wary, Kuruk now let the overeager move forward. He would hold back his energy, his strength, and remain strong and alive at the end, when the slaves were quartered out. The scouting parties, many posing as traders and the five members of his initial team especially, would all have first pick, as would anyone who could claim a death blow on the golden-haired people.
The canyon they were in opened up into a larger valley, room enough for all of them to spread out. Some of the ground was paved in the gray-white-speckled granite, some in ripples of golden red sandstone. Much of it, large swaths, in fact, boasted grasses and low-growing shrubs, and the paths held palm trees, still somewhat short but with the potential to grow and tower and cast their shade one day.
Even with all the bodies in the way, because he was coming from higher ground, Kuruk could see that all of it had been designed, not just randomly created. Benches for resting, pillars with roofs for shelter, room for grazing . . . Even the grass was still green, though it was beginning to wilt a little under the heat of the sun. It was an oasis of art as well as greenery, water, and shade.
For a moment, he felt regret that the coming battle would bloody and trample such unexpected beauty. But everyone was streaming to the right, where a great curved structure had indeed been carved out of the cliff face on that side. There were shallow ramps, broad steps, and planters with fruiting bushes—edible, from the way some of the passing warriors did a double take and snatched at their bounty, none of them hesitant.
There were columns, too, great carved pillars rising into pointed arches whose edges were etched with scrolling vines. Granite was a hard stone, difficult to work and carve. Even without their trading spies’ knowledge, Kuruk could have guessed that the golden people had done all of this somehow. They had that kind of power about them.
They had also, he noted, filled in the archways where the doors had been on the ground floor. He had visited a few times before, always in disguise, but the change was obvious, for the doors that had once stood open to either side in front of alcoves were now seamless walls just a body’s length into the tunnels. The stairs on either side to the upper level were no longer there, either. If the changes had been made in a hurry, in the span of a single night, then that argued for a great deal of power. Kuruk stopped and frowned, wond
ering if they had really brought enough animadjet.
A golden figure appeared on the upper level. The appearance made most of the others surge forward, anticipating a fight. At this distance, it was hard to tell gender, until the figure spoke. Some sort of sound-based anima had to be in effect, however, for Kuruk heard every word.
“Welcome to Ijesh, the city of bountiful blessings,” the woman stated. Kuruk recognized her voice and made his way forward in case the tajet of the combined war bands wanted confirmation of who it was. “If you have come here in peace to talk, to trade, to visit, and to go away peacefully again, then you are welcome here. If, however, you have come to fight, to make war, to try to steal our belongings and take our people away as slaves, then you must leave now, while all of you are still alive and unharmed.”
Taje Barrek shouted something in return. It bounced off the hard stone walls, garbled. Kuruk could only make out a few words, something that sounded like a challenge, something about hiding and the balcony. The closer he got to the leaders, the more he had to nudge and then push aside the others. A few glared at him, but they did give way.
“I think not,” the golden woman replied. “In fact, I think if I were to go down there among you that you would try to kill me. After all, every one of you is armed with some sort of weapon, whether it be a bow, an axe, a spear, a blade . . . or a spell. I do not see bundles of trade goods. I do not see herd animals brought for sale. I do not see anything resembling a polite, civilized group of visitors. All I see are a bunch of brutes who envy what others have and do not grasp that if they are civilized, they can learn how to have such things for themselves without risking their lives.”
One of the other tajet spoke up, the large, muscular woman, Redra. Her voice, Kuruk could hear, though it helped he was now getting closer. “And who are you to speak for the people of this place? You are pointy eared and pale haired, with weird eyes! You are not a human!”
“True, I am not human. I am Fae. But the humans of this place, who found this place wherein I and my companions dwell, have accepted my leadership.”
“So then you are this Djin woman?” Taje Garrin shouted, his voice echoing off the pillars and curved walls.
“Djin-taje,” she corrected. “I have been given the title of Taje Djin-taje-ul, but it only applies to those who live in the Flame Sea area. You may address me as Djin-taje. Unless, of course, you wish to join our tribe and swear your service and your allegiance to me? Is that why you have come? You would be welcome to join us if you pledge to be peaceful, cooperative, and helpful, contributing to the tribe as a whole, as well as for yourselves.”
“Swear ourselves to you? I think not! We will knock you down from there and take your tribe and all of its spoils as we scrape your blood from our sandals!” Barrek retorted.
Now close enough to see details, Kuruk was amazed to see the woman Djin-taje lean her elbows on the stone railing separating them and sag her cheek onto one palm, as if she was unconcerned about the might of the warriors and animadjet gathered in front of her. Djin-taje looked merely disappointed, perhaps even bored.
“I really wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” she said. “The more you argue and swear you will fight my people, the more you claim you intend to hurt any of us, the less inclined I will be to stop Death from falling upon you.”
That caused a stir in the crowd. Kuruk moved a little closer to Taje Barrek, arriving in time to see him frown and hear him mutter, “Oh, right. The really tall male with the painted skin, who calls himself Death.” Raising his voice, he called out, “If you mean that stick of a man with the drawings on his skin, then by all means, send him out! I will take care to break him into several pieces myself, just for you to watch how he’ll suffer!”
“You also should not . . .” She paused for a moment, touched the base of her ear in an odd gesture, then continued. “Sorry—you also should not say such things. He might hear you and take offense.”
“Ha!” Taje Redra scoffed, raising one of her spiked clubs to point at the woman high up on the carved, columned wall. “You think we should be afraid of a twig?”
Djin-taje straightened and pointed past the crowd. “You can always ask him yourself. Here he comes.”
Chapter Ten
Following the line of her arm, Kuruk squinted. It was hard to see; his taje stood in the way. Glancing around, the scout leader moved over to one of the boxes, its upper edge waist high to him, one that was large and held several bushes and some sort of young fruit tree. Climbing up onto the broad stone ledge, he clasped the sapling’s trunk and balanced, shading his eyes with his other hand.
Though he was no Tureg, his vision was good enough to spot a tiny black spot. One that grew larger and larger . . . flying faster, he realized, than the golden figures had flown at his scouting team several years ago. Indeed, the figure rocked backward from much farther away, a motion Kuruk belatedly realized was some means of slowing down, for the dark-haired, dark-clothed man stood on a pair of golden half eggs like Djin-taje and the unnamed golden man had used. He carried a large bundle on his back, but it was definitely the man named Ban, Death. The colors sketched across his deep-tanned skin and his all-black trousers, boots, and vest were identification enough.
A crack of thunder reached them, though there wasn’t even any haze in the blue sky overhead, thanks to the drying winds of low summer. The dark-clad man swept into shooting range, but the archers hesitated; he was almost directly overhead, and any arrow that missed such a swiftly gliding target would only fall back on their neighbors. Within moments, he reached the upper level unmolested.
That was when the archers let loose. The twang of strings and the hiss of fletching were met with . . . the same phenomenon as years before. They stopped midflight, as if stuck in clear mud. A few more fired a second round, with the same results as before.
Kuruk watched the tall man dismount and do something with the egg halves. He shed the pack from his back off to the side, then dropped into what had to be a kneeling position. Even though the golden-haired, golden-clothed woman was tall for a female, he was almost as tall as her when kneeling; his head and shoulders could be seen above the railing of the balcony, and his black-clad legs and torso through the stone bannisters supporting it. Kuruk could just hear the man’s voice, for it was not being amplified.
“You seem to be under attack, my lady.” There was a hint of dry humor in his tone, though Kuruk could not see his face at that angle.
“Yes, it does seem we are under attack,” Djin-taje agreed. Her words rolled out from the balcony. “They have even shot arrows at you and me. Now, I have advised them not to fight, to instead join us in peaceful brotherhood. Their leaders have—”
“Enough talk!” Redra roared, brandishing one of her clubs. “Animadjet! Bring down those shields!”
Four more golden figures stepped into view, two males and two females. They raised their hands as the scores of anima-wielders on Kuruk’s side started shouting and casting . . . and the spells one and all fizzled, turning from balls of fire and columns of whirling sand into sparkling, white spheres that soared upward and passed right into the quartet’s bodies. Some of the archers fired again, hoping that their arrows would also pass through the invisible mud. Again the shafts stuck a length or so from the edge of the balcony. The air looked a little bit like the thorns of a cactus.
Seeing their powers stripped midattack, the animadjet stopped trying. So did the archers. A ripple of unease moved through the crowd, expressed in murmurs, grimaces, worried frowns, and shifting bodies. In the quiet, Djin-taje spoke again.
“As I was saying, their leaders have declared their intent to slay us and take everything for themselves,” she stated. “I keep trying to get them to understand that dealing with us in the ways of peace and cooperation is in their best interests, but they refuse.”
“That’s because you don’t belong here!” one of the o
ther tajet bellowed, a tall fellow with streaks of gray in his dark, frizzy hair. He pointed his bronze spear at the balcony. “You are not one of us, with your golden eyes and your pointy ears! You have no right to tell us what to do! Leave, or we will destroy you!”
“They seem incapable of learning your lesson, Djin-taje. Since you called me back from my travels, I presume you want them killed?”
Standing as he was on the bush-box edge, Kuruk had a good view of the woman’s face. She looked sad. Regretful, even. Turning to face the railing, she braced her hands on the edge of it. “I am disinclined by nature to order the deaths of anyone—even aggressive idiots. But I fear these people will not learn which acts are wise and which acts are foolish, until they learn those lessons the hard way.”
“Oh, now you insult us from behind your shields and your stone walls?” Barrek called up. “Come down here and fight us yourself! Stop using the anima to hide behind, like a child cowering behind its mother’s leg!”
“As you can see, they will not learn. I give you the ground rules for this engagement, Ban-taje,” Djin-taje stated. The man named Death straightened, rising to tower behind and to one side of her as he, too, turned to look out over the valley and its many invaders. “Do not strike the first blow. Do not attack those who run away. Attack only those who attack you first . . . and you may attack those who seem to run away only to turn and try to strike at you again.
“They each wear the mark of their tribe somewhere on their person,” she added. Her words made Kuruk frown, wary. “Try to let at least one of each run back home alive so that they can carry the tale. The Flame Sea will trade with anyone who comes in peace, stays in peace, and leaves in peace. This is the path of wisdom, for there is no need for us to fight one another. Those who try to raise hand or spell against us will only suffer—and suffer painfully for their idiocy. Thus speaks Taje Djin-taje-ul.”
“As you wish.” Without further word, he vaulted the railing and dropped to the ground. Clad in black leather boots, black fitted trousers, and a sleeveless vest, he landed with an audible thump. Straightening, Ban stepped forward immediately, with no sign of injury or pain from his landing. He acted no differently after the five-length fall than if he had merely dropped a single length of his body; such a matter-of-fact attitude unnerved Kuruk.
