Abalach’s eyes went wide. She twisted a hand around behind herself, trying to reach the blade. Sa’ram stepped closer, lowering his skeletal arm to attack the queen’s back. Before the banshee could touch her, the Scourge stopped chiming. A huge geyser of black fluid shot from the shard’s jagged end and splattered Sa’ram’s gnarled form.
The inky liquid spread quickly, coating the banshee beneath a thick layer of ebony slime. Wherever the fluid stained Sa’ram’s twisted bones, they untwined and rearranged themselves into a less contorted skeleton. The back grew round and hunched, while the arms became long, gangling things that ended in barbed talons. The banshee’s gray beard disappeared, then a skull of sable bone rose from the shoulders in its place. The head seemed remotely human, with a drooping chin, a small jawbone, and a pair of rather flat cheekbones. Blue sparks replaced the banshee’s orange eyes, while a crown of yellow lightning crackled around his skull.
“Rajaat!” Abalach gasped, facing the apparition.
“Uyness of Waverly, Orc Plague!” The skeleton stared down at the queen, billows of black fume shooting from its nostrils. “I have come for you, traitor!”
Abalach-Re stumbled away. “No! You can’t be free!”
Sadira sprang at the queen’s back. Slipping one arm around Abalach’s throat, she used her other hand—and all her supernatural strength—to drive the Scourge’s tip deeper into the queen’s body. She felt the steel grate against a bone, then pass into a lump of softer tissue.
Abalach howled in pain but abruptly fell silent when Sadira twisted the blade. A convulsion ran through the queen’s entire frame, and she fell limp. Brown smoke began to pour from her nostrils and mouth. Her limbs went stiff, and the muscles of her stomach started to quiver. A terrible heat poured off her body, and her clothes began to smoke.
Sadira turned and hurled Abalach away, not bothering to extract the Scourge’s tip. The queen spun through the air with her arms and legs splayed stiffly at her sides. She dropped to the ground a dozen paces away, landing with a hollow thud. For a moment, the body just lay there, staring blankly into the sky while brown fumes rose from its nose and mouth. Finally, the corpse folded in on itself then burst into a column of bronze flame. The explosion left nothing behind except a salt crater stained brown with soot.
When Sadira looked back toward the black skeleton, she found it melting into a pool of bubbling sludge. The only recognizable feature was the head, and even it was quickly dissolving. The sorceress saw no sign that the ebony mass would reassemble itself into anything resembling Sa’ram. She silently spoke a few words of gratitude for the banshee’s efforts to protect Rkard.
A moment later, Rkard took her hand and tugged at her arm. “Come on,” he said. “Jo’orsh says that stuff’s dangerous.”
The sorceress opened her eyes and allowed the boy to lead her to Jo’orsh’s massive figure. “I’m sorry about your friend,” she said, craning her neck to look into the banshee’s orange eyes.
“There is no need for sorrow,” said Jo’orsh. “A banshee can hope for nothing except to find rest, and now Sa’ram has.”
“And what of that?” Sadira asked, gesturing toward the black pool. “Was that really Rajaat?”
“Yes,” the banshee replied. “Your spell allowed his essence to escape the Scourge’s shard.”
The sorceress swallowed and stared at the bubbling fluid. “How do we put it back?”
“You cannot,” Jo’orsh replied. “But there is no need for worry. Like Rajaat himself, it is locked inside the Black. It can harm only those foolish enough to touch it of their own wills.”
A shiver of terror ran down the sorceress’s spine. “Then the sorcerer-kings didn’t kill Rajaat?” she asked, turning back to the banshee.
Jo’orsh did not answer, for he had vanished as quickly as he had arrived.
“What happened to your friend?” Sadira asked, taking Rkard’s hand.
“He’s still here—like always,” the boy said. He scowled thoughtfully then looked up Sadira. “It’s okay that I helped you, isn’t it?”
Sadira furrowed her brow and pretended to consider his question seriously. “I don’t know. Didn’t your mother tell you no heroics?”
“She did,” the young mul grumped. “But I don’t see why. Rikus gets to be brave.”
He pointed toward the oasis. When Sadira turned around, she saw her husband charging up the hill on the heels of the Raamin army, waving his sword and cursing his enemies for cowards. The sorceress could not help laughing. The mul did not seem to realize that Caelum had bridged Abalach’s chasm with an arc of flickering flame, or that Neeva was leading four hundred warriors—all that remained of the Tyrian legion—across the trestle to help him.
Sadira started toward the chasm. “Come on,” she said. “We’d better let Rikus know the battle’s over.”
TEN
THE FORSAKEN
VILLAGE
THE TWO INIXES STOOD IN THE CENTER OF THE DUSTY plaza, their saddles empty and their reins hanging loose. Having battered down the bone railing that enclosed the village well, the great lizards had stuck their horny beaks into the dark hole as far as their stocky necks allowed. Apparently, they could not reach the water, for they were bellowing angrily and snapping their serpentine tails from side to side. The beasts’ riders, four Tyrian scouts, were nowhere in sight.
Magnus stood at the edge of the plaza, his dark eyes searching for some sign of the missing riders. He counted fifty-two stone huts ringing the plaza, each shaped like a beehive and covered with a scaly roof of gorak hide. He did not see any villagers peering out of the door ways, nor any of their herd-lizards roaming the dirt alley ways between the shacks. The place looked deserted. Even the scouts seemed to have disappeared without leaving any footprints by which to track them.
The unnatural quiet disturbed Magnus even more than the lack of visible activity. As his big ears swiveled around the plaza, he heard nothing—not a child whimpering, not a gorak scratching at a stone wall, not a stifling wind hissing through the streets. The place was as noiseless as death.
“Do you think this is Samarah?” asked Rikus. The mul whispered his question, apparently reluctant to disturb the eerie tranquility of the place.
The windsinger shrugged. “It’s in the right place,” he replied, starting toward the well. “But the inhabitants seem to have abandoned it.”
“Or been driven away,” said Sadira. Her voice was loud and sharp as she stepped from a narrow path between two huts.
“What do you mean?” asked Neeva. She was clutching her battle-axe in both hands, as if she expected to be attacked at any moment. Caelum and Rkard were not with her. When the scouts had not returned, she had sent them with what remained of the Bronze Company to examine the village’s southern perimeter. The Tyrian legion was circling around in the opposite direction, inspecting the north side. “Did you find something?”
The sorceress shook her head. “No, but I’m worried about what happened to Sa’ram.”
“Then tell us why,” Rikus demanded. “This is no time to make us guess.”
Sadira scowled at the mul, but Magnus interposed himself between the two spouses before she could retort. “Perhaps we should have something to drink first,” he said. “Thirst is making all our tempers short.”
The windsinger was not being very honest, and they all knew it. After the battle against the Raamins, the coolness that had come between Sadira and Rikus had warmed slightly for about a day. Then something had gone wrong, and now they could hardly speak without quarreling. From what the windsinger had gathered, Rikus had tried to make love to Sadira, and that had angered the sorceress, who was still mourning her other husband’s death.
As they moved across the square, Rikus peered around the windsinger. “I’m sorry, Sadira. That was uncalled for,” he said. “What were you going to say?”
Without acknowledging the apology, Sadira explained, “Jo’orsh said that Borys wanted him and Sa’ram because their magic was
still hiding the Dark Lens,” she said. “But that was before Sa’ram was destroyed.”
The company neared the well, causing the inixes to look up and hiss. Magnus ignored their threats and began to examine the tackle on their backs, at the same time keeping his enormous ears turned toward the sorceress.
“So you’re worried that by destroying Sa’ram, you ruined the enchantment that had kept the Lens hidden all this time?” the windsinger asked. He pulled a heavy waterskin off an inix harness.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sadira said. “It’s been ten days since the battle with Abalach-Re. If the Dragon suddenly found himself able to locate the Lens, that would be more than enough time for him to come here and take it—along with the villagers, Tithian, and anyone else who happened to be here.”
“That’s true,” Magnus said, opening the waterskin in his hands. The liquid inside smelled too much of leather and lime to have come from the well. “But that doesn’t explain the absence of our scouts. Wherever they went, they didn’t take their waterskins. In fact, they didn’t even change water.”
Sadira and the others scowled. Anyone who traveled the Athasian desert knew to keep a waterskin handy, and it was a rare man who did not fill that sack with the freshest water available. That the scouts had not done this suggested they had not lingered at the well for long.
“There’s only one way to find out what’s going on here,” said Sadira. “We’ll have to search the village.”
“Right, but first things first,” said Rikus. He pushed an inix aside then retrieved a rope and bucket tied to the toppled rail. “I’m thirsty.”
The mul tossed the bucket into the pit. After falling for a moment, it struck the bottom of the well with a muffled sound somewhere between a splash and a thud. Rikus allowed the weighted pail a moment to sink, then pulled it up. He stepped away from the inixes and tipped his head back, closing his eyes in anticipation of a cool drink.
The water that flowed from the bucket was cloudy and pink. Rikus gulped down a mouthful, then made a sour face and threw the bucket across the plaza. “It tastes like blood!”
“That’s what it looked like—”
Hundreds of frightened voices cried out from the north side of the village. The screams lasted for only an instant, then faded away in a single, strangled croak. By the time Magnus and his companions had spun around to look toward the disturbance, Samarah had fallen silent again. They saw nothing but a hillside of orange stones rising above the scaly roofs of the empty village.
“We’d better see what happened,” said Sadira, leading the way across the plaza.
Magnus followed the others. They crossed the plaza in silence, the thick dust cushioning their footsteps, and entered a crooked lane running northward through a small borough of huts. Here, they had to plow through waist-high silt drifts filling the alley with gray clouds of dust. Neeva and Rikus began to choke and cough, but Magnus simply closed his mouth and breathed only through his huge nostrils. Deep within his nose, several membranes kept his airway clear by filtering out fine particles of dust.
The group emerged beside a small pasture that lay between the huts and the village wall. A blanket of undisturbed silt covered the ground, the jagged shapes of upturned stones visible beneath the gray shroud.
“We should be able to see the legion by now,” Magnus said. He pointed across the pasture.
The village wall rose only chin high. If the Tyrian warriors had been standing on the other side, it would have been an easy matter to spot their heads protruding above the crest. Magnus saw nothing but a slope of rock and dust.
“Four hundred warriors don’t just vanish,” Rikus said.
“The scouts did,” Magnus reminded him.
The mul grunted an acknowledgment, then said, “Let’s go and have a look.” He drew the Scourge, which had grown back to its original length.
Magnus pulled the mace from his belt, and the small company started across the field. The stones beneath the dust were loose and often shifted as soon as any weight was put on them. The companions had to move slowly, picking their way carefully to avoid turning an ankle.
Sadira reached the wall first. She peered over the top and cried out in alarm. The sorceress gave the barrier a hard shove and stones flew in all directions. She slipped through the resulting gap and stared at the ground with a horrified expression on her face.
Magnus and the others followed her through the breach. Along the base of the wall lay the Tyrian legion, still in column formation. Most warriors had fallen with their heads uphill. All were curled into the fetal position and clutched at their stomachs in agony. Their faces were twisted masks of anguish, except that their gaping mouths seemed more astonished than pained, and their vacant eyes uniformly stared at the same spot on the slope above. Although none of the bodies were moving, they looked more paralyzed than dead.
Magnus kneeled beside a red-haired woman whose hand still gripped her half-drawn sword. He leaned over her head, cocking one of his ears to cover her mouth and nose.
“Well?” Rikus demanded.
“Her lips no longer sing the song of being,” the windsinger said. He placed a hand on her torso. The flesh remained soft and warm, though it was as still as stone. “Nor does her heart carry the beat of life.”
“There are no wounds,” Neeva said, rolling a black-haired man over. “What happened?”
“Their life force was drawn from their bodies,” said Sadira. She climbed up the hillside to where the warriors’ dead eyes were fixed. “And this is where Borys was standing when he did it.”
Magnus and the others joined the sorceress. She stood beside a pair of three-toed footprints such as a bird might make—save that these were a full two paces across. The windsinger had no doubts about who had made the tracks, for he had seen the Dragon attack Kled and recognized the prints from there.
“You were right, Sadira,” Magnus observed. “Borys has beaten us to the Dark Lens.”
“So let’s take it back,” said Rikus. He studied the ground, looking for an indication of where the Dragon had gone. There were no other tracks, only the ones Sadira had discovered. “If we can find Borys.”
“I have a feeling he’ll find us,” said Magnus.
“Or my son!” gasped Neeva. She pointed across the village. A short distance beyond the south wall, the sun’s rays glinted off the bobbing figures of armored dwarves. “If he knows of the banshees’ prophecy, he’ll try to kill Rkard.”
The warrior had hardly spoken before a gaunt figure as tall as a giant appeared behind the Bronze Company, emerging from thin air as though stepping from behind an unseen curtain. He was the color of iron, with a chitinous hide equal parts flesh and shell. His head sat atop a serpentine neck and resembled that of a sharp-beaked bird, with a spiked crest of leathery skin. He had long, double-kneed legs, and his gaunt arms ended in knobby fingers with sword-length claws. The beast crept up behind the dwarves so silently that they seemed unaware that it was following them.
“Caelum! Behind you!” Neeva yelled. She started down the hill at a sprint.
Rikus followed instantly. Magnus was only a step behind when he felt Sadira’s fingers digging into his shoulder. “You go to the well.”
“But you’ll need help—”
“Do it, Magnus!” The sorceress looked across the village. Outside the wall, the Dragon had almost reached the rear ranks of the Bronze Company. The dwarves, who were too far away to have heard Neeva yell, seemed as oblivious as ever to his presence. “I’m not going to leave Rkard in danger!”
Sadira gave Magnus a gentle shove, and he found himself running down the slope. The windsinger glanced back and saw the sorceress looking toward the Bronze Company, one hand searching her cloak pocket for spell components. He faced forward again and rushed through the gap in the village wall.
Magnus crossed the rocky pasture at a full sprint, stones clattering and slipping beneath his pounding steps. He almost fell as he entered the narrow lane betwee
n the stone huts, knocking several holes in the walls as he bounced from one side to the other.
At last he emerged in the square. He saw Borys’s gaunt form looming above the huts on the south side of the village. The Dragon was hardly moving at all, simply staring down at the ground. Magnus feared the beast had already destroyed the Bronze Company, for he did not hear so much as a shield clanging outside the wall.
The windsinger rushed across the plaza, his huge feet crashing down on the dusty stones. The inixes looked up and hissed, then slowly backed away from the well to reveal Caelum and Rkard. The two Kledans sat on the ground, looking dazed and frightened.
“Don’t worry. Sadira used a spell to move you,” Magnus called, still fifty paces from the pair. “The Dragon destroyed the Tyrian legion, and now he’s after the Bronze Company.”
Rkard was on his feet instantly. “Then why’d she move us?” he demanded. “I can’t kill Borys from here!”
Outside the village wall, Neeva’s distant voice called, “Bronze Company, halt! Face to the rear!”
Billows of orange smoke poured from the Dragon’s nostrils, streaming out of sight as they passed behind the huts on Samarah’s south side. Dozens of warriors cried out in anger and fear. They began to cough and choke, but the windsinger did not hear the clang of any armored bodies falling to the ground. Neeva shouted a harsh command, ordering the dwarves to attack.
Rkard drew his sword and started toward the battle, but Caelum grabbed the youth’s shoulder to hold him back.
From outside the village came the clatter of dwarven axes striking stony flesh. Borys roared in anger and raised a clawed foot so high into the air that Magnus saw it above the roofs of the huts. The Dragon slammed his heel down. The windsinger heard death screams and crumpling metal.
Rikus screamed in anger, then Sadira’s voice rang out with the mystic syllables of a spell. A low growl rumbled through the ground, ending with a tremendous bang. The Dragon stumbled back. The dwarves gave a mighty cheer, and Magnus heard them tramping forward. Sadira called out another incantation, and a black bolt of magic energy blasted a hunk of scaly flesh off the beast’s shoulder. Borys sprayed glowing sand toward the village wall and retreated.
The Cerulean Storm Page 16
