D & D - Red Sands

by Tonya R. Carter

  Marix began a retort, but Tamakh's hand on his arm

  stayed his tongue. "He is the only one who can lead us out of the city," Tamakh reminded him. "The hour that brought us together was not as ill-fated as he might think."

  The Royal Road

  Jadira awoke with a start.

  She didn't remember falling asleep, or even lying down. The last thing she did recall was the thief Nabul agreeing to help them. There were alarums in the street below: the tramping of soldiers' feet, horses, shouts. After that, she knew nothing.

  Jadira turned her head and discovered the comfortable pillow under her head was Marix's arm. The young man pushed pale hair back from his eyes and asked, "Are you well, lady?"

  "What—what happened?"

  "You swooned. Too much tumult and too little food have wrung you out."

  She sat up abruptly. "How long have I been asleep?"

  "Not long—perhaps one notch of the candle."

  "Tamakh? Where's Tamakh?"

  The priest set a hand on her shoulder from behind. Jadira flinched. Tamakh said, "Fire Star is setting. Dawn will break when it touches the horizon. Nabul will be back before then, and we must go."

  "You mean you let that sniveling thief go?" asked Jadira.

  "I was against it," claimed Marix.

  "He convinced me of the truth of what he said," Tamakh said. "We could not hope to cross the Red Sands with only the clothes on our backs and no food or water." His round face relaxed, and he smiled. "Besides, Uramettu went with him."

  "So they're off finding provisions?" asked Jadira. When the priest nodded, she groaned. "We'll never see them again, or if we do, it will be because he betrays us to the sultan's men."

  "You must have faith," said Tamakh gently. "Our fate is bound with Nabul's by the god's annealing fire. He will return. What else can he do? The soldiers would likely slay him on sight."

  The black dome of heaven warmed slowly to deep purple as the Fire Star declined to its rest. The air seemed to stir like a living thing with the coming of the sun. The purple sky gave way to rose red. Nabul returned.

  Uramettu boosted the thief to the neighboring rooftop. She clambered lithely up and pulled a chain of bags up from the alley. Nabul produced a plank from a hiding place on the other roof and bridged the alley with it. He crossed, and Uramettu came over with the provisions.

  "Four-and-thirty food shops in Omerabad, and all I could find was wheel bread and yogurt," said Nabul in disgust. "Six-and-twenty wineshops, and I couldn't even find a mug of wheat beer!"

  "What is this?" asked Marix, sloshing a goatskin bag in small circles.

  "Water. It'll go rancid in the heat, mark my words." Jadira rolled her eyes.

  While Nabul unburdened himself from the rest of his ill-gotten gains, Jadira helped herself to bread and yogurt. From the folds of his robe, Nabul produced a small copper pot, a mallet, a coil of coarse twine, cloth lor two keffiya, and a lump of soft white chalk. He squatted on the tar-and-leaf roof and began to draw.

  "The main gates of the city will be filled with armed men," he said, scribing squares west and south. "Our best chance lies at one of the posterns, here or here." Nabul made two dots.

  "Posterns will be guarded," Marix observed.

  "Two men at most. No match for five desperate fugitives," said Jadira.

  "Let us try the nearest one," Uramettu said. "An hour hence and the sun will be well up."

  Off they went. Nabul led them on a merry trail across the housetops of Omerabad. Up a story, down a story, leaping alleys and skirting courtyards. They trod the roofs of the rich and the poor, the tapered peaks of shrines, and the flat tops of shops. Finally Nabul stopped.

  "The city wall," he said. Ahead of them, the stone curtain reared twelve paces high, well above the level of the nearest houses.

  The band descended a shaky iron trellis affixed to the side of a tannery. Nabul scampered down easily, but the others had trouble with the thorny creepers entwined in the lattice. Together again on street level, they huddled in the deep shadows opposite the postern gate. A single Faziri, armed with a long spear and wooden buckler, paced to and fro in front of the single portal.

  "Who's the most innocent-looking among us?" asked Jadira.

  Without hesitation Nabul replied, "The priest."

  "I agree," said Jadira. "Tamakh, you must divert the guard so the rest of us can overcome him silently."

  "How?" said Tamakh, looking uneasy.

  "Lure him over here. We'll do the rest," Marix said, tapping his palm on the pommel of the sword.

  "I cannot be the cause of bloodshed," Tamakh said.

  "Do you have a better idea?" asked Marix.

  "Almost certainly," said the priest and walked out of hiding. With great dignity, he stepped into the street. The first rays of the sun peeked over the wall, highlighting Tamakh in shafts of gold. Halfway to the gate, he halted.

  Tamakh gestured to the empty air. "Kobit," he said sonorously. " Namis kobit vobay . . ."

  The guard spied Tamakh. He ported his spear and strode toward the priest. As he drew nearer, his steps faltered.

  "Vobay namis, Agman!" said Tamakh. Though he spoke at normal volume, the priest's words seemed to ring like the tolling of a great bell. Jadira felt a numbness take hold of her arms and legs. She saw Uramettu flexing her own ebon arms as if to preserve feeling in them. Nabul shivered violently, and Marix's face showed surprise.

  "Agmas, nam kobituri vobay moiitu. Moritu!" With this last, Tamakh's voice rose, and he flung out his right arm toward the soldier. Four paces from the portly priest, the soldier froze.

  The spear rolled off his shoulder, and he remained rooted to the spot.

  "By the Thirty Gods! What happened?" asked the thief.

  Jadira nodded sagely. "Magic."

  Tamakh rejoined them. "We can proceed. The guard will offer no trouble."

  They passed on either side of the motionless soldier. Nabul waved his hand before the man's eyes. The guard never blinked. Tamakh reached out and gently, with his figertips, closed the man's eyes.

  "What did you do to him?" asked Marix.

  "He is under a glamor, a paralyzing spell. He will hear .md see nothing till the sun reaches its zenith."

  "If I had such a talent, I would be the king of thieves!" Nabul said wistfully.

  They hastened through the gate, though not before Marix relieved the Faziri of helmet, cloak, spear, and shield. Nabul took four coppers from the enchanted man's purse.

  The road, white as a bolt of fine cloth, stretched out to the horizon. "The royal road to Rehajid," Jadira said. "Come; we can't be long on it."

  The city fell away behind them. They marched briskly lor half a league, but the ex-prisoners were in poor shape and tired quickly. Jadira and Tamakh rested on the sloping bank of the road. Nabul crouched nearby, muttering to himself. Marix, armed with a collection of Faziri weapons, stood on the road and watched the way back to Omerabad. While his back was turned, Uramettu padded off among knife-bladed grass.

  There would be pursuit.

  Azrel, emir of Bindra, vizier to His Magnificence Julmet III, was not a kindly man. The servants who awakened him from his nightly unsound sleep often got a beating for their trouble; of course, they received a worse lashing if they failed to waken him at the appointed hour. The physician who could not cure the emir's dyspepsia earned a flogging, and his tailor hobbled con stantly from being kicked. Yet, Azrel was the sultan's eyes and ears, the harsh but effective power behind the Eternal Throne. By war and threat of war, Emir Azrel had enlarged his master's domain from the steppes of Nangol to the shores of the Crimson Sea. By subtlety and craft he enriched the Faziri Empire beyond the bounds of any previous vizier.

  Now Azrel sat in the guardroom of the palace prison, boiling with unconcealed anger. Facing him was a tall, fork-bearded Faziri soldier in the scarlet cape and lion-etched armor of the Invincibles. The soldier's handsome yet immobile face reflected none of the emir's hostility.

&nbs
p; "Captain Fu'ad, you are generally known as a reliable officer. Is this not so?" said Azrel.

  "I do my best, Excellency," said Fu'ad. He wanted badly to scratch his nose, but dared not take such a liberty in front of the vizier.

  "You must do more than your best, Captain. It is bad statecraft to send a coercive note to the count of Dosen when his son is no longer in our keeping. It is bad theo-craft to promise the city priesthoods that we will suppress the heretical followers of Agma, then to allow one to escape. Am I making myself clear, Captain?"

  "Perfectly so, Great Emir."

  "Good. Good. I want no misunderstanding. It was j my name on the note, Fu'ad; it was I who signed the priest Tamakh's death warrant. It is I who will have to explain to His Magnificence these blunders. Can you imagine how much the sultan—may he live forever! — likes to hear of blunders?" The vizier's voice had grown steadily in volume and was now a scream. "I want them back, Fu'ad! The prisoner Marix alive if possible, but back in my hands, do you hear?" The dead in their

  graves could have heard Emir Azrel.

  "I will lead a troop myself," said Fu'ad. "They shall not escape."

  "take two troops. Anyone who helps them must die. I want all who are caught in their company put to the word. There is to be no mercy in this matter, Captain. Mercy is the prerogative of the sultan—may he live forever—and I am not His Magnificence."

  "My lance has never failed in his service."

  "Good. Good. See that it doesn't."

  There was a knock on the door. Azrel said, "Come." A loot soldier entered.

  Your command has been carried out, Excellency," said the Faziri.

  "Show me," the emir replied.

  The foot soldier held up his hands. In each he clutched by the hair a severed head. One was Nungwun, the guard who allowed the escape; the other was the warden-general of the prison. His crime was allowing Nungwun to allow the escape.

  "Post them in the usual place," said Azrel. The soldier bowed and departed on his grisly errand.

  "When do you leave, Captain?" asked Azrel.

  "Before sunset, Excellency."

  "They may get far by sunset, even on foot."

  Fu'ad chose his words carefully. "I have dispatched riders from the Cobra Regiment to leave the city from all the gates to search for the criminals, Great Emir. When they are found, I shall ride forth with the Invincibles and catch the pestilent scum."

  Azrel chewed fitfully on his graying mustache. "See that you do, Captain. It would distress many ladies in Omerabad to see your handsome head on a pole in Kefaaq Square," he said. "Such is the penalty for failure.

  Fu'ad snapped to attention and bowed. "I will have them, Great Emir, or die trying."

  Azrel smiled unpleasantly. "Is that not what I said?"

  Fu'ad was glad to return to the sunny, dusty street outside the palace. The sultan's realm was home to scenes of great wealth and beauty—and heartless cruelty such as he had never known, even on the battlefield.

  His second in command, Marad gan Rafikiya, held the reins of Fu'ad's horse across the neck of his own mount. He handed Fu'ad the reins as the captain put a foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle.

  "What is the word, my brother?" Marad asked.

  Fu'ad answered, "We hunt them down. The yellow-haired one is to be brought back alive. The rest..." He drew a finger across his throat.

  Marad straightened his back. The mail curtain around his helmet brim jingled musically. "The Phoenix Troop is ready," he said.

  "Call out the Vulture Troop as well," said Fu'ad. "His Excellency Emir Azrel wants no effort spared in recapturing the prisoners."

  Marad saluted and spurred his horse. He galloped up the crowded street, scattering a mob of traders and beggars, and upsetting a line of women who carried the morning's bread in flat baskets on their heads.

  Fu'ad rode back to barracks of the Phoenix Troop. The men there were well into packing their gear for the chase. Fu'ad did not interrupt. His quarters consisted of a single room at the north end of the barracks, plainly furnished. Fu'ad drew the curtain across the door and unbuckled the strap of his heavy helmet. From under his armor, Fu'ad pulled a small golden disc on a chain. He turned the necklace until he'd inspected every link in the

  chain. The yellow patina revealed no signs of wear.

  Fu'ad turned the amulet over in his hands. In low relief on the front was a profile of Sultan Julmet. On the reverse was an inscription in archaic Faziri script: MAY HE LIVE FOREVER.

  The amulet was one of the sultan's many eyes. Each man who took the oath as an officer in the army of His-Magnificence was given an Eye of the Sultan to wear around his neck. Through it, the Faziri monarch could follow Fu'ad's actions. Though it did not show scenes like a magic mirror, it did send location images and feelings back to sensitive magicians at the court. They would know instantly of any triumph—or treachery. The penally for removing the amulet was death. It was believed that the Eye of the Sultan was indeed capable of causing death, if removed. No one of Fu'ad's acquaintance had ever investigated this possibility.

  Fu'ad packed a few items into his saddlebag. He went out to the barracks courtyard, where the Phoenix Troop was assembled. The Eye of the Sultan was hidden beneath Fu'ad's armor, close to his beating heart.

  The Word of Agma

  Noon found the companions sprawled beside the royal road. They had made fair progress, almost two leagues, and the easy path to Rehajid weakened their resolve to enter the desert.

  They rested, in their own fashion. Tamakh knelt on a flat rock in meditation. He swayed slightly, back and forth, moving his lips in a silent litany. Not far away, Nabul was trying to fit himself with a keffiya. He put a piece of the white cloth he had stolen over his head, but the headband was too loose and the cloth slid, engulfing his face. Jadira stifled a laugh. The thief whipped off the hood and sawed at the headband with a wicked-looking dagger. He re-knotted the band and tried the arrangement again. This time only his eyes were lost.

  Jadira scrambled up the embankment and saw Marix a few paces away, standing guard. With helmet, shield, and spear, the nobleman looked quite martial in the bright light of noon. She admired the straightness of his shoulders and the lift of his chin.

  Marix spoiled the effect by turning toward her. The heavy helmet was far too big for him. It squashed his ears outward in very comical fashion. She could not restrain a laugh.

  "What's so amusing?" asked Marix. The spear slipped from his hand. Marix bent to get it, and the conical iron pot fell off his head. Jadira clapped a hand to her mouth to smother her laughter.

  Marix replaced the helmet and came to her. "Am I such a buffoon?" he demanded.

  "No worse than I would be in your country," Jadira replied generously, stifling more laughter.

  Marix, disarmed by her response, looked quickly up the road. "No sign of pursuit. Indeed, no sign of anything."

  "I don't like it," she said. "It would be better for us if the road were crowded. A fine, big caravan would mask us well from the Invincibles."

  "What happened to Uramettu?" asked Marix. "Each time we stop she disappears."

  "Perhaps she is foraging—"Jadira began. The drumming of hooves cut her off.

  "Get out of sight," Marix said, pushing her to the bank beside the road. "Hurry!"

  She skidded in the loose sand to the base of the slope. Nabul popped out from a desiccated maqeet bush. To his quizzical expression Jadira simply replied, "Hide!" She ran farther and grabbed the somnolent Tamakh by the shoulders. "Wake up, Holy One! The Invincibles are after us!"

  '"Vincibles?" mumbled the priest. His eyes grew wide. "Agma preserve us!"

  Marix threw himself down by Jadira and Tamakh. The rider was in sight now, a lone figure galloping hard from the direction of Omerabad. White plumes bobbed from

  the peak of his helmet. An aroused serpent was graven on his blackened breastplate.

  "The Cobra Regiment!" hissed Nabul. "Nangoli swordsmen in the sultan's pay!"

&
nbsp; "What shall we do?" asked Marix.

  "Lie low and let him pass," said Tamakh.

  "No. We must take him," said Jadira.

  "But why?" the priest asked. "He does not threaten us. He doesn't even know we're here."

  "We need a horse. And he'll have food and water."

  "Right!" said Marix. Before anyone could argue further, the third son of Count Fernald stood and waved to the oncoming horseman. In cloak and helmet, Marix looked like a Faziri himself.

  "He's coming. Are you ready?" Marix muttered from the corner of his mouth.

  "Now you ask," said Jadira. Tamakh invoked his patron deity again.

  The mercenary came on at a trot. Marix gripped the spear tightly, turning the hardwood shaft in his sweaty palms.

  The horseman drew up short. He put up a hand and called, "Kasah al'am!" Was it a greeting or a challenge? The rider pushed back his brimmed helmet and repeated his hail.

  "Oh, filth," muttered Marix. Then he shouted "Yahh!" and charged. The helmet fell from his head and his blond hair shone in the sunlight.

  The Nangoli snatched his scimitar and spurred his mount forward. He caught the point of Marix's spear on his shield. It skidded off, and the young man crashed into the steed. Marix spun and fell just as the scimitar's tip swished by his ear.

  Jadira uttered a Sudiin war cry and sprang to attack.

  Nabul leaped to his feet and circled behind the mounted man.

  The mercenary cut at Jadira, who had only Nungwun's cudgel to ward off the blade. Marix got up, all a-tangle in cloak and spearshaft, just in time to receive a blow on the head from the horseman's brazen shield. Down he went again.

  The horse pranced as the fugitives surrounded the lone rider. Nabul had his dagger drawn, but he shrank back each time the mercenary rotated to face him. Jadira landed a good clout on the enemy's leg. He struck back with his sword, the flat of his blade catching the nomad woman on the neck.

  Roused by the melee, Tamakh appeared in the road. The horse's tail swatted him in the face, and he tumbled backward on the sand.

  "Taqeet asah!" said the mercenary in disgust. He grabbed the spear from where Marix had jabbed it in the ground. With the extra reach of this weapon, he could spit these annoying vagabonds without further ado. He singled out the dagger-wielder first, as he was the most seriously armed.