Davud cringed, expecting another blow, but the Sparrow stalked from the small room into the larger one beyond, with the birds. A knocking came, then a pounding. Then an almighty crash of wood, some of which flew into Davud’s field of vision.
He could see the Sparrow, his eyes lit with anger and a raw potency derived from Davud’s own blood.
“Zahndr?” the Sparrow called. “Zahndr, stay where you are!” He lifted both hands. A darkness was forming within each, a void Davud could feel thrumming in his chest. “I command you to stop, Zahndr!”
As the Sparrow backed away, Zahndr lumbered into view. He walked steadily as the darkness in the Sparrow’s hands deepened and buzzed like a rattlewing. And then a rope of darkness was released. Like chain lightning it flew across the floor, up to the ceiling, covering a wide expanse in tendrils of dark power. Where it touched Zahndr it singed his clothes, blackened his skin. His right arm, near the shoulder, shriveled, dissolving like clumps of sugar in steaming tea, and then the lower part of his arm fell bloodless to the floor.
Another arc of dark lightning came, cutting across Zahndr’s waist and thighs. It melted so much skin his organs came spilling out and exposed his thighs to the bone. But Zahndr was close to the Sparrow now, and the Sparrow could retreat no farther; he was already backed up against the wall near the hearth.
Zahndr, no longer able to walk, leaned forward, brought his remaining arm down like a sledge, and struck the Sparrow across his greasy, balding head. As the Sparrow fell, his eyes going slack, one last arc of lightning was released. It cut Zahndr in two.
As the two of them lay on the floor, motionless, another form rushed into view.
“Anila,” Davud breathed.
She hurried to his side. After stripping a bit of cloth from his robes, she licked it and rubbed at his forehead. A sigil upon his skin, he realized, confirmed a moment later when he felt movement returning to his arms and legs.
As she helped him walk into the next room, he heard shuffling steps from beyond the now-shattered doorway. Another form plodded forward. “Gods, Anila, no.”
It was Bela. She walked over the carpet, over the broken remains of the door, over Zahndr’s remains, toward the Sparrow’s stirring form.
“Quiet, Davud. She deserves this.”
The Sparrow opened his eyes as Bela neared, and he blinked up at her, his eyes going wide. “No!”
Bela didn’t listen. She knelt beside him, picked up a wedge of wood. With all the innocent curiosity of a child crushing a beetle beneath her thumb, she drove it into his neck. Blood flew and the Sparrow fell slack to the floor. The very moment his eyes went glassy, Bela tipped over and fell on top of him, unmoving, as if she’d followed him to the farther fields to haunt him there as well.
For long moments Davud and Anila stared at the carnage. The smell was terrible. Rot and burning and something acrid. The birds in their cages had been aflutter, but now they settled, another part of the eerie silence.
“We have to go,” Anila said numbly. Her eyes were aghast, as if she hadn’t realized it would go this far. “Sukru. The Spears. They’ll be coming.”
Davud looked around the room. Took in the birds. He crouched and unwound the leather necklace from around the Sparrow’s head. He untied the triangle from it, then pierced his skin with one corner, giving him the power he would need. He then went to one of the cages, the ones filled with the firefinches. After flipping the tiny latch and swinging the wire door open, he retrieved a finch from within.
“Take it,” he urged, using a simple spell of fulfill and bind. The bird did, eyes blinking as it ruffled its wings. “Go,” Davud said, “anywhere but the House of Kings.”
The bird fluttered noisily away, taking the triangle with it. Somewhere, the sounds of men approaching could be heard. They grew louder and louder until Davud was sure they were only a floor or two below.
“Davud?” Anila asked, her nervousness clear.
“One moment,” he replied.
His sense of the triangle, formed when he’d used it earlier, dwindled as the bird flew deeper into Sharakhai. Only when the first of the Silver Spears arrived at the end of the dark hall did he call upon that link and summon the sigils for passage and doorway. A spinning, triangular space opened up before him, a window that revealed a sloping hill, rows of planted crops, and a vast reservoir of water beyond.
Three tall Silver Spears ran forward. “Halt!” the lead soldier called as Anila stepped through. Davud followed, and the triangle closed behind him.
Chapter 44
EMRE WATCHED as Mihir sprinted over the sand, his long, swift strides kicking up a tail of sand as he flew toward Onur.
Onur waited, a feral grin on his face, his massive arms spread like a dirt dog in the pits. His left hand was empty. In his right, he still held the fist-sized fire opal.
When the two warriors engaged, Onur met Mihir’s onslaught like a bear before a snapping wolf. His movements looked ungainly, and yet, for all his mass, he moved with deceptive ease. He was nearly as fast as his smaller opponent, dodging Mihir’s kenshar, swinging his fists like bludgeons to keep Mihir at a safe distance. Onur had that same black laugher grin on his face the whole time. It enraged Mihir, whose movements became wilder, overeager, and when he stepped just a bit too close, Onur backhanded him so hard he spun and fell to the sand. Onur’s personal guard closed in, but stopped when Onur held out one meaty hand.
“Leave him,” Onur said as he pounded forward.
Mihir, recovered somewhat, rolled away from a great stomp of Onur’s leg. He slashed at Onur’s leg as he came up, but Onur’s armor warded the blow and gave him another opening, which Onur used to deliver a crushing kick that sent Mihir falling and scrambling away.
Onur loomed over him. “You should have kept that fool mouth of yours shut.”
With a quick roll backward, Mihir was back on his feet, but Onur was already on him. He pummeled Mihir, who had finally regained his senses. Mihir retreated, dodging when he needed to, rolling gracefully over one shoulder, sand spraying, to come up at the ready. Over and over Onur tried to bring his tankard-sized fists to bear, but Mihir took only glancing blows. And in return he used his brother’s knife to deliver a cut to Onur’s forearm. Then another to Onur’s opposite hand.
Onur’s massive fists became coated in blood. His skin and leather bracers glinted red in the bright sun. Onur was becoming angry, his eyes lit with anger, his teeth bared. He bulled forward, faster than before, but Mihir was always quicker. Soon Mihir had scored another cut, then two more. Mihir smiled as he fought, eyes bright as he wove an intricate pattern over the sand that was much more careful and considered than his initial violent rush. He was a mongoose now, not some clumsy hyena.
Onur’s breath came in great rasps. Like a wounded bull he chased Mihir, but again and again the smaller man was too swift. When Onur stumbled, an opening presented itself. Mihir ducked a clumsy sweep of Onur’s arm, drove his shoulder into Onur’s chest, and stabbed his brother’s kenshar into Onur’s side. The knife was buried to the hilt. But in that moment Onur grabbed Mihir’s wrist with his left hand. His right, the one holding the stone, came down like a sledge against the top of Mihir’s head.
Emre heard a dull crack, the sound of wet wood being split by an axe. Mihir went stiff. His right hand released the knife while his arms trembled, a thing that grew worse with every passing moment.
Onur lifted the bright orange stone and brought it down on Mihir’s skull again. The knife was still sticking out of Onur’s side as Mihir tipped like a tent pole to the sand. Onur pulled the knife free, tossed it aside, and dropped to one knee by Mihir’s side. With a crazed expression, he grabbed a hunk of Mihir’s hair and brought the round stone against the crown of Mihir’s head over and over.
Only when Mihir’s body had gone still and the upper part of his head was a pulpy mess of hair and skin and bone and blood
did Onur stop. His chest heaving, he turned to Tribe Kadri and held the stone high. “You see what comes from defying your King?” He levered himself to his feet, favoring his left side where the knife wound bled freely. He gestured toward them, and his personal guard, and the dozens of soldiers standing behind them, charged. As one, Tribe Kadri drew their shamshirs and roared as they met the advancing line of Onur’s warriors—a mixture of the Black Veils and the Red Wind. Onur didn’t move. He merely watched while holding the orange stone high. His lips moved, but the roar of the ranks of charging soldiers was too loud for Emre to hear.
Beyond the looming battle, beyond the pools of the oasis and the vast cluster of ships, Emre heard a groaning sound. On and on it went, becoming more intense, rising in pitch until it sounded like a trumpet blast from the herald of Thaash, lord of battle.
The sound shook the desert floor. All around, the soldiers stopped, their battle momentarily forgotten. All eyes turned to look back beyond the camp where a great tail lifted into the blue sky. Frills with long spikes running through the translucent skin spread to either side of the lashing tail. The skin and spikes were a mottled landscape of stone and sand and rust.
As the tail dropped, a reptilian head lifted and a gasp fell over the warriors. They could see the sheer size of it now. It was longer than a ship, as broad as ten men. Long horns fanned back from the back of its wedge-shaped head. Even from this distance Emre could see the orange of its eyes, a near perfect match for the stone in Onur’s hand. Its body leaned to one side, then the other, neck craning as it surveyed the scene before it.
It was not a sand drake, which could not fly, nor was it one of the smaller wyverns of the desert’s southern reaches. This was a wyrm, one of the great dragons of legend. Longer frills ran along its back. Translucent skin stretched between them, the sun shining through it in hypnotic patterns. Midway along its length, the frills grew longer, into wings. The thin skin of its wings extended unbroken from its neck all the way down its length until just short of the tail, which had a second, smaller, leaf-shaped set of frills attached.
With a terrible roar the beast launched itself into the sky. Every man, woman, and child went into a half-crouch, arms over their heads, as if the creature was about to attack them. It didn’t matter if they were loyal to Onur or not. All were terrified.
A whooshing sound accompanied each sinuous beat of the wyrm’s elongated wings. Its body moved like a Mirean kite, twisting through the sky as its wavelike movements brought it higher and higher, while the rolling rhythm of its frills were more like a millipede’s crawl.
“Burning Hands!” one of the women from Tribe Kadri called. She was near the front of the line and had turned to face the bulk of the warriors, one hand high, her tattooed palm facing them. “We must take Onur!” When she lifted her shamshir high, the Burning Hands lifted swords and spears and shouted, “For Mihir!”
As they renewed their battle, warriors on both sides woke from their daze. Battle cries grew like a coming storm.
Emre, however, paused.
Onur wanted this battle, perhaps as a way to test his mastery over the wyrm. He’d gone out into the desert alone to find it, and now he wished to use it. How else to ensure it would work in other, larger battles to come?
How it had all come to pass, Emre couldn’t begin to guess, but he was sure they couldn’t stay here. If they did, they’d all be killed.
Emre gripped Shal’alara’s arm and pointed to the Kadri ships, where some of the crews were preparing them to sail, but not enough. Not nearly enough. “We must make them see sense! They must return to their ships! Get them ready to sail. I’ll bring as many as I can.”
Shal’alara nodded, as if she’d been thinking the same thing, and made for the largest cluster of Kadri ships. “Try,” she called over her shoulder, “but follow if they refuse to listen.”
Emre drew his sword and sprinted in the other direction. Dozens of Kadri warriors were now engaged. The clash of steel rang out, mixing with the cry of battle and a renewed roar from the wyrm above. Onur lumbered forward, looking as though each step pained him. There was no sign of the stone. Instead he held a great, broad-headed spear, which he used to run the nearest Kadri warrior through. In one great show of strength, he lifted the warrior up and over his head, throwing him like a cut of meat onto an open fire, and then he waded deeper into battle, eyes filled with glee, laughing all the while.
Haddad was nearby, stout Zakkar by her side.
“We must retreat!” Emre said.
Haddad said nothing. She couldn’t take her eyes from the wyrm, which moved closer with every rolling beat of its great wings.
Emre took her arm and shook her. “By the gods, help me! Those who remain will die or be enslaved by Onur, including you and your crew.”
She nodded numbly, as if her mind were only now lifting from the ruin Onur had made of her plans when he bashed Mihir’s head in. “Come,” she snapped at her bodyguard, Zakkar.
Together, the three of them stood before a second wave of Kadri warriors running from the ships, hands high, gesturing wildly. “The tribe!” Emre called, looking up to the wyrm. “We must save those we can!”
Many paid him no heed, but a few, and then more, paused, paralyzed with fear as the wyrm reached an apex and dropped into a dive. Its wings pulled tight to its body as it speared toward the nearest of the Kadri ships. When it came close, it curled its body in, legs forward, wings snapping outward while its tail twisted sharply to adjust the angle of its landing. It crashed between the ship’s masts, snapping rigging as it fell upon the crew.
Its tail lashed as its jaws came in reach of any man or woman who hoped to stand against it. The ship’s crew had spears, swords, and bows, but they didn’t stand a chance. Its jaws snapped at bodies, crushing them before throwing them wide. Its claws rent flesh and bone and wood alike. From the aft of the ship it slipped down to the sand, tail whipping behind, delivering terrible cuts from the sharp spines, only to climb back on the foredeck and begin its assault anew.
More of Onur’s soldiers approached the battle. Many swung their swords over their heads, rejoicing at this demonstration of Onur’s power.
“Now!” Emre commanded Mihir’s tribe. “We go now!”
“With me,” Haddad said, motioning to her ship. “Convince as many as you can to follow.”
“I’ll fight with you,” Emre told the dozen nearest him. “The rest will get the ships moving. We retreat only when they’re on the move!”
As Haddad led most of them toward the ships, Emre ran with those he’d chosen, his heart pounding with fear as they joined the battle.
Shouts of anguish and moaning mingled with cries of rage and desperation. The sound of steel on steel was all around him, as was the crack of wooden shields being struck or sundered. The roars of the wyrm felt as though they were coming from just behind him. Several times he looked over his shoulder and saw that it had laid the first ship to waste and had fallen upon a second.
He nearly lost his head as a Masal warrior attacked him with a feverish energy. Emre was no master swordsman like Macide, but he held the warrior off, retreating while shouting for those nearest to prepare to retreat. Thankfully, several of the Kadri ships were beginning to glide over the sand. A horn blew, signaling the warriors that the fleet was nearly ready. No sooner had it sounded, though, than the wyrm landed on that very ship. The woman blowing the horn was lost and the sound cut short as the wyrm’s jaws clamped over her. It lifted her up, thrusting its neck like a stork swallowing a fish, devouring her whole.
More ships began to move.
“Now!” Emre cried. “Retreat!”
But Onur’s warriors had started to surround them. They’d curled around their flanks like a crescent moon. There was now only a narrow gap through which to retreat, a gap that was quickly closing.
Onur, Emre realized. Onur was still nearby. If he coul
d wound the King, it would distract his warriors and give Tribe Kadri the diversion they needed. Emre released a primal scream, putting all of himself into wild swings against the two men before him, preparing to push through a gap and charge for Onur when a stout figure began wading through the battle.
It was Zakkar. Haddad’s bodyguard.
He had the same scowl he always wore. The warriors before him were unable to stand against his powerful strides. He moved across fallen bodies, through men and women locked in battle, heedless of everything and everyone but Onur.
He wielded his massive scimitar to devastating effect, but he took cut after cut from swords all around him. One bit into his shoulder. Another sunk deep into the top of his bald head. But strangely, the cuts didn’t bleed, nor did they go as far as they ought. It was as if Zakkar were made of earth and stone, not skin and bone.
A shout alerted Onur to Zakkar’s advance. He turned just in time to meet a downward chop from Zakkar’s scimitar. Onur blocked it to the side, then did so a second time. On the third swing he blocked it wide and struck Zakkar across the jaw with the butt of his spear. It struck with such force that Zakkar’s entire jaw flew wide from his face and spun over the heads of the nearby warriors. Even Onur stared in horror at the place Zakkar’s jaw had once been.
What remained was a misshapen gap made of what looked to be red clay. A golem, Emre understood suddenly, just as the stories of Malasan told.
Zakkar hardly seemed to care. He drove his sword so hard against Onur’s side that even though Onur blocked it he was thrown backward several steps. All those around Onur converged on Zakkar, but Zakkar’s dead eyes were fixed on Onur alone.
“Tribe Kadri!” Emre called, knowing they would never have a better chance. “We go now that we may fight another day!”
A Veil of Spears Page 42
