by Ginn Hale
From time to time he caught glimpses of Wah’roa or the other kahlirash’im watching him from the infirmary doorway. Sometimes he heard them offering prayers. Late in the evening, Sen’an brought John a bowl of boiled taye, bowing and apologizing to John for the poor quality of the meal.
John assured him that he preferred coarse food to most of the more refined dishes. John thanked him and ate a few spoonfuls, but he felt guilty about enjoying the nourishment while Ravishan lay there unconscious at the edge of death. He pushed the bowl away and lay his head back down on Ravishan’s cot.
Near midnight Wah’roa came for him. Another fire had erupted on the forth terrace. John spent the rest of the night devouring flames.
Just after sunrise, he stood on the outer wall, taking a break from the heat and smoke. Soot streaked his whole body and saturated his clothes. He scooped up a handful of fresh snow and scrubbed it across his face, then stopped, momentarily surveying the sparkling white valley below. Now that the snow had disguised the shapes of bodies and broken machinery, John could almost find it beautiful, so long as he didn’t think about what lay beneath the surface.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the tiny shapes of riders approaching from the north. There were, perhaps, fifteen at first. But as he watched, more and more appeared over the rise of the hill. Even from the great distance they looked ragged. None wore uniforms. John thought that some of them might be wearing blankets rather than coats. Their tahldi straggled and stumbled through the wreckage of the valley. John caught sight of a group of people on foot as well. Then he noticed more, many of them hunched under the weight of packs, others leading goats on tethers. They were too disorganized to be Fai’daum, but they definitely looked like refugees of some kind. John wondered if they had come from Amura’hyym’ir. There was a chance that Lafi’shir and Fenn could be among them.
Bells rang from the watchtowers and twenty of the kahlirash’im rode out to meet the people approaching Vundomu. John watched for a few moments, trying to pick out a familiar face from among the refugees. They were too many and all of them too far away. Several kahlirash’im dropped back to the people on foot and helped them up onto their tahldi.
John headed back up to the temple. He climbed the walkways slowly, checking the stones and iron girders for flaws. As he walked between the makeshift animal pens on the sixth terrace a sudden screeching, rending noise tore through the air. The sick sensation of the ripping Gray Space washed over John from the seventh terrace. The ushiri’im were back.
John bolted through the mud and wreckage. He charged up the walkway. He heard another shriek of the Gray Space and this time he smelled the burning ozone. They were in the temple.
John wanted to move faster, to call down the wind and lightning, but he didn’t dare. He couldn’t assault Vundomu again. He sprinted through the street and took the temple steps in a single leap.
John threw open the doors of the temple. A wild, cold wind rushed in with him. The dozens of people gathered inside scattered out of John’s way. They stared at him in terror. One young man dropped to the floor in front of the statue of the Rifter and sobbed. John looked around, but there was no sign of any ushiri’im.
John rushed to the infirmary. Inside, it was quiet, but the smell of burned ozone rolled over John. John studied the room desperately for a faint distortion. The old priest slept in a chair. Ji sat beside one of the cots. She whispered something over a battered young boy. He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep.
“Is something wrong?” Ji looked up from the boy to John.
“I felt the ushiri’im,” John told her.
“It was only Fikiri.”
“Oh.” John had forgotten about him. His panic dropped away, leaving behind a tired, foolish feeling. “Why was he here?”
“Gathering information for Sabir,” Ji replied. She trotted to John’s side.
“Did he say how things were going in the south?” John asked.
“Good. The gaun’im who support the Payshmura are sending their armies north to fight us here at Vundomu. With them out of the way, Sabir expects to take Umbhra’ibaye by the end of next week.”
“Oh.” John expected to feel much more elated at the prospect of taking Umbhra’ibaye. But it was already too late to save Laurie. It was far too late to stop the Rifter from crossing to Basawar. Sabir and his plans seemed almost pointless now.
But they weren’t, John reminded himself. The Payshmura had to be defeated and the issusha’im had to be freed. Those things mattered. They just didn’t feel so important to John right now.
John glanced to Ravishan. He lay on his side, in the same position he’d been in for four days now. He looked thinner, paler.
“How long can he go without food or water?” John asked.
“Without food, he will survive for a while,” Ji said. “Tanash got a little water down his throat a few hours ago.”
A little water, that was all. The thought slowly sank into John. How long could he live on just a little water?
“He’ll wake up soon, won’t he?” John asked.
“I don’t know,” Ji said. She didn’t meet John’s gaze. A sharp pain cut through John’s chest. He stepped closer to Ravishan’s cot, but Ji cut him off before he could sink down to Ravishan’s side.
“I need your help,” Ji said. “Your blood is powerful enough to feed several large spells, ones that would incapacitate someone else.”
“Healing spells?” John asked.
“Maybe later,” Ji replied. “But first I have to set wards. We need to protect Vundomu against Payshmura spells. The southern armies will have ushman’im mystics riding with them.” Ji glanced to Ravishan.
“The best thing you can do for him now is to make Vundomu a safe place for his recovery,” Ji said.
John brushed a lock of Ravishan’s hair back from his face. Ravishan’s skin felt so warm and delicate. He looked like he might just be sleeping, as if he would wake up any moment. John stared down at him, wishing he would open his eyes. All of this work and exhaustion would have a point if he would just open his eyes.
Ji bumped her head against John’s leg.
“Sorry,” John said. His voice broke a little as he spoke.
“I know you don’t want to leave him, Jahn,” Ji said quietly. “But there is nothing more either of us can do for him now and Vundomu must be secured.”
“Of course,” John replied. Ji was right. He had to pull himself together. He couldn’t help Ravishan, but there were other people in the world and they needed his protection.
John found Wah’roa and explained that Ji would need to raise wards to protect them against Payshmura mystics. Wah’roa considered the idea of Eastern magics in his temple and then directed them to a courtyard that was just outside the holy grounds of the temple itself. A stone wall protected it from casual observation and Ji approved of the stone used to pave the courtyard.
Tanash and Kansa joined them and Wah’roa took his leave to attend to the evening prayers. Both Tanash and Kansa brought large glass jars with them. They set the jars down next to John and then began to help Ji carve and scratch dozens of complex, spiraling symbols into the stones of the courtyard floor.
“Do you need my blood?” John asked.
“Not yet,” Ji responded. “But you could be of help…if you think you have the control to inscribe this big central stone without cracking it.”
John considered the dull gray flagstone and then nodded his assent. Ji traced the complex sign she needed etched into the face of the stone. John carefully carved the graceful lines as if he were drawing his fingers through soft mud instead of brittle sandstone. The pure beauty of latticed minerals occupied his thoughts with a blameless purpose that he hadn’t felt in days. He could have lost himself in the work, if only Ji had provided more of it.
As it was, when he looked up, the sky had gone dark and flickering yellow torches lit the wide courtyard. While he had deeply inscribed the largest central flagstone, Kansa
and Tanash had scratched a maze of symbols around it.
John recognized some of the symbols. They indicated traps and locks. Some of the spirals ended in signs of death. As he looked more closely, John realized that there were more spells than he’d first thought. Delicate lines curled and coiled out from the larger ones, filling every inch of the courtyard floor like spiraling fractals.
“Just how much blood are you going to need?” John asked.
Ji gave John an unconcerned glance and John realized that it didn’t matter. He would give as much as she needed. Vundomu had to be protected so that Ravishan could wake up to its safety.
Chapter One Hundred
Over the next five days the Fai’daum transformed the ruins of the sixth and fifth terraces into orderly camps. Two of the foundries were working again. Ten of the godhammers had been salvaged and remounted on the southern walls. Morale among both the Fai’daum and kahlirash’im soared, but Ravishan did not wake up.
As had become his habit at the end of the day, John went to the infirmary and sank down to his knees beside Ravishan’s cot.
John’s hands were stained with yellow pitch and soot. They looked filthy against the white sheets and even worse against Ravishan’s pale skin. John drew back and pulled his blanket around himself. He ached and stank of fire and sweat. His hair hung in limp, greasy curls. There wasn’t enough clean water for bathing. There was barely enough to keep the infirmary and kitchens clean. The dank odor of a dead man’s blood drifted up from John’s clothes.
“I’m sorry I stink,” John told Ravishan quietly. “Not that you care, do you?”
Ravishan lay motionless. John bowed his head against the thin mattress of the cot. Apparently distressed by the sight of John sitting on the floor, Wah’roa had given John a private bedroom. With furniture salvaged from unruined parts of the fortress, Wah’roa had converted a small storeroom just adjacent to the infirmary into a cramped but welcoming space. John knew he should have gone and slept in it just as an acknowledgement of the courtesy, but he knew he wouldn’t. He would fall asleep here, waiting for Ravishan to wake. Every night it was the same, or nearly the same. Ravishan grew a little thinner, a little paler, and John’s hope faded a little more.
From the fifth terrace, far below, night bells rang the hours, until finally morning bells replaced them. Soon entire regiments of Fai’daum would be up, repairing waterlines, rebuilding houses, melting down wrecked iron, and forging new weapons. Wah’roa would come find John in the infirmary and gently usher him to the latest crisis. He didn’t resent the kahlirash commander, exactly. He understood that Wah’roa, Ji, and the others were only attempting to recover from one battle while simultaneously preparing for the next. He knew it was all incredibly important and yet John found it hard to take heart in any achievement while Ravishan still hung in this limbo between life and death.
More refugees arrived daily from Amura’hyym’ir and the surrounding mountain villages. They joined the Fai’daum in rebuilding Vundomu. In exchange they were given shelter and food. Ji’s witches treated the wounded and Wah’roa trained both men and women in the defense of the fortress. The stores of food had to be rationed, but they were plentiful enough to last several more months. Water, on the other hand, was becoming dangerously scarce. Even the snow had been gathered up and melted down.
“I have to find a source of fresh water for them all.” John stroked Ravishan’s cheek. In the darkness he could sometimes imagine that he saw Ravishan’s eyes open. “I’m going to flood the valley chasm. It’ll be a huge freshwater lake. If you wake up, you’ll be able to see it happen. That would be worth it, wouldn’t it?”
Silence filled the infirmary.
John dropped his head back down to the side of the cot. He closed his eyes, listening to Ravishan’s slow breathing.
“Please come back to me,” John whispered.
Outside the infirmary door, he heard boots striking stones with a distinct military rhythm. The soft rustle of leather coats sounded almost like birds’ wings. They were kahlirash’im gathering for their morning prayers. John listened as they begged the Rifter to grant them his fearless strength. Wah’roa’s voice rose above the others.
“They’re calling to you.” Ravishan’s voice was so soft John almost missed it. He looked up instantly. Ravishan stared at him through the shadows of his half-closed eyes.
“Parfir’s divine wrath,” Ravishan whispered. “I saw you rise from the valley and bring ruin upon your enemies. I saw you come and I bow before you…” Ravishan trailed off. His eyes drooped closed.
“Don’t go back to sleep.” John caught hold of Ravishan but didn’t dare shake him. “Stay awake!”
Ravishan gave no response. He lay in John’s arms as if he’d never woken up. John bolted to the cot where the infirmary priest slept. He woke the old man and dragged him to Ravishan’s side.
“He woke up,” John said. “He spoke to me.”
The old priest leaned over Ravishan. He pulled back one of Ravishan’s eyelids and then nodded.
“Is he going to be all right? Will he wake up again?” John demanded.
“If we act quickly we might be able to help him, my lord. But I will need to call upon the demoness.”
“Ji?”
“Yes. She is well versed in breaking Payshmura curses. Her skill is far beyond mine alone.”
“I’ll get her right away.” John rushed out of the infirmary and raced past the kahlirash’im. He found Ji on the fifth terrace, sleeping. She and Tanash both followed him back up towards the temple. John outdistanced them again and again and then had to wait for them to reach him.
When they arrived at the infirmary, the priest had stripped the bedding back from Ravishan and sponged his body down with a pungent red salve. Where he brushed the red salve over Ravishan’s wounded back it steamed away, revealing dark, misshapen letters. They seemed to quiver just beneath Ravishan’s skin. John thought he recognized the Payshmura words for slow death and rotting.
“Good. Ravishan’s fought the last commands of the curse up to the surface,” Ji said. “They’ll try to reinfest him.” She stepped up beside the priest and began muttering low Eastern incantations over Ravishan’s back. As Ji growled and muttered, the letters of the curse oozed up through Ravishan’s skin. In the open air, they writhed in masses like tiny black worms. The red salve glistened around them and a choking, putrid scent wafted up.
“Quickly, Tanash,” Ji said. “Place one of your lamb bones down in the midst of the curse. Don’t let any of it touch your skin.”
Tanash dug a small white bone from the pocket of her wool skirt and dropped it down into the wriggling black mass of the curse. Ji’s voice rose, sounding more bestial than John had ever heard. The curse slowly crawled back from Ravishan’s body, retreating to the bone. The old priest grabbed the bone with a pair of tongs. Black tendrils curled up from the bone and touched the edges of the metal tongs as if tasting them. The priest rushed to the small wood stove and hurled the bone and the tongs into the fire. He slammed the grate closed and locked it.
Ji nodded approvingly and then sat back on the floor.
“Well done,” Ji said. She glanced to John. “What did you do to wake him?”
“Nothing. I was just sitting with him. He heard the prayers of the kahlirash’im and woke up for a few seconds.”
“The prayers to the Rifter,” Ji said thoughtfully. “I think your presence must have drawn him back to you.”
“Will he be all right now?” John asked. Ravishan didn’t look any better. The red salve pooling off his body was as sticky and dark as blood.
“He should regain consciousness soon. He’ll be weak for some time, but he’ll recover now that the last of the curse has been destroyed,” Ji replied.
“He looks so thin and dirty,” Tanash said. She glanced back to the supply cupboards. “We should wash him off, shouldn’t we?”
“The daum’wah salve won’t harm him,” the priest replied. “And we have very litt
le water to spare.”
“But Jahn-Jath’ibaye has a plan for the water.” Tanash smiled at John. She still had trouble remembering his new name, but John appreciated that she tried. “Ravishan shouldn’t have to wake up covered in sticky goo.”
The priest frowned at Tanash. He clearly had no intention of following the directives of a teenage girl.
“I’ll take care of the water,” John said. “I can start right now, if that will help.” He wasn’t going to be able to sleep now anyway. If he didn’t find something to do, he’d just end up pacing the infirmary waiting for Ravishan to wake up again.
“Can I come with you?” Tanash asked. Her expression brightened.
“I…” John glanced to Ji. She shook her head.
“It won’t be safe,” Ji said. John wondered if she knew something he didn’t. He looked at her questioningly, but Ji just turned and padded to the door. “If there’s going to be a water source, then we’d better get the cisterns repaired and cleaned. Come, Tanash.”
“Coming.” Tanash gave John a little wave and then followed Ji out of the infirmary. The old priest watched John quietly, then turned his attention to where Ravishan lay.
“My lord, are you certain we will have more water?” the priest asked. He, like the rest of the kahlirash’im, refrained from acknowledging John as the Rifter when any of the Fai’daum were present. But when they were alone, the priest kept his gaze averted and addressed John formally.
“I swear I’ll have fresh water for you by the end of the day,” John said.
“Then we should certainly bathe your divine Kahlil.” The priest filled a washbasin from one of the water barrels.
“I can do it. I used to assist our physician in Rathal’pesha all the time,” John said. He took the washbasin along with a washcloth and a towel.
