by Dave Smeds
“My lord,” the small brown man said firmly, “do not interrupt us."
Jheheph nearly struck the man for his temerity, before he saw that his threats would only worsen the sorcerers’ performance. Jheheph left them alone, turning his anger once more toward the Zyraii riders.
He saw one of the barbarians fall off his animal. Elsewhere, two of his guards were hit by demonblades. His side was suffering casualties, but Jheheph was confident that the odds were in his favor. The Zyraii could not harm the wagons without coming within range of the well-protected archers. Now the Sister was beginning to rise, and it would soon be almost as light as daytime.
He did not see the lone Zyraii bearing down on him until almost the last moment. The white-robed warrior burst through the outer line of wagons, whipping his wounded oeikani to a frenzy of speed. Jheheph felt his heart quail, but in another instant his personal guards had collected between him and the Zyraii, pulling out swords and nocking arrows. The rider changed direction. Only then did Jheheph see the torch in the man's hand.
“Stop that man!” he shouted.
Many tried, but the wagons and other guards were often in the way, and the Zyraii was a phenomenal rider. Though both man and oeikani had been struck more than once, their agility had spared them fatal blows. Horror-stricken, Jheheph saw the torch flung into the very wagon he most wanted to save.
“My carpets!” he screamed as a fortune in fine weaving caught fire.
He was so aghast that he barely noted the rider's escape. The man was not so lucky on the way out. Once clear of the caravan, he presented an open target. They failed to stop him, but his back fairly bristled with wood and feathers by the time he won clear.
Something in the way the rider weaved away from the arrows, as well as his size, jogged Jheheph's memory.
* * * *
Two young Po-no-pha found Shigmur beside his dead oeikani and brought him back to camp. He was unconscious, but still alive.
Lonal and the twins arrived simultaneously. The war-leader leaned over Shigmur. The war-second's clothing was drenched in blood, his skin white. He still had seven arrows in him; it was hard to say how many others might have struck him.
Lonal looked up angrily. “This might have been avoided had you chosen to help."
Alemar squatted down and touched Shigmur's back. His fingers came away bloody. “Get me water,” he told Elenya calmly. She ran to comply.
“I won't accept responsibility for his death,” Alemar said, “but I will for his life."
“He hasn't much of that left,” Lonal said.
“I can save him."
* * * *
Shigmur opened his eyes. He was lying on a blanket under a tarp. It was daylight. Lonal was leaning over him with concern. Yetem was standing behind him. Not far away, Tebec was soundly asleep, looking strangely pale. Many other Po-no-pha were near.
“How are you?” the war-leader asked.
Shigmur wasn't sure. He had fallen unconscious with the certain knowledge that he would not awaken until the next life. He couldn't tell if this were a dream or if he had simply been reincarnated with extraordinary quickness. He could still feel the places where the arrows had struck. They felt like bruises. He sat up.
“How long has it been?"
“It is early afternoon after the battle,” Lonal said.
That did nothing to relieve Shigmur's confusion. “Has there been a Hab-no-ken here?” he asked.
“In a sense,” Lonal said, gesturing toward Tebec.
Yetem stepped forward. “Hold out your hands,” she said.
He did so. She dropped seven arrowheads into his palms. “I thought you might want those to keep as souvenirs."
“Thank you,” he said, wiping the bloodstain off one of them. “I will do that ... though I am tempted to send them back where they came from."
“You'll have your chance,” Lonal said. “Go back to sleep."
* * * *
Elenya walked with Lonal a short way from Shigmur's resting place, out of the hearing of the others nearby.
“I, too, would like to thank you,” Lonal said. “And I will be sure to tell your brother."
“You're welcome,” she said. “I'm curious, though. If you knew there might be a battle, why didn't you bring healers with you?"
“Hab-no-ken do not come at a war-leader's order.” He glanced back at the shelter. “Tebec doesn't look good."
“They'll both be on their feet by morning. My brother will feel weak for a few days, Shigmur for about a month."
“Can they travel?"
“On a litter, yes. Why?"
“Then they can join us at the ambush point. I think Shigmur would want to be there when we confront the caravan."
* * * *
Ret a Jheheph was in a foul mood. The sorcerers stayed out of his sight, his slaves’ bodies smarted from his lash, and the concubine who had presumed to complain about her burned coach had been forced to walk the entire previous day, until the soles of her feet, unused to even the slightest effort, had begun to bleed.
They had seen no more Zyraii. A few of the slaves, seeing the bodies of the slain riders, dared to hope that the barbarians had decided to cut their losses and had permanently retreated, but Jheheph knew this was a fantasy. The desert men were too stubborn for that. Jheheph would have his chance for revenge.
It was near dawn. Motherworld was high, as was the Sister, and the east was pale. The caravan had been travelling for two hours, penetrating the thickest part of the hills through a narrow defile. The guards kept their glances on the boulders and ridges to either side of the road. The pace was brisk; everyone wanted to reach the plain as soon as possible.
Suddenly the lead wagon and team disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Jheheph rode forward, and soon he could make out the trouble. A pit had been dug across the road and concealed. The wagon and oeikani had fallen within. It was too deep for the team to pull out by themselves, forcing the caravan to halt.
Jheheph looked to the slopes even before the shouts rang out. Hundreds of white-robed Zyraii revealed themselves. They were armed with bows. Some of the arrows were already burning. The caravan guards rushed for cover.
The Zyraii did not shoot. The mercenaries, after a sporadic initial volley, realized that the barbarians were deliberately giving away the advantage of surprise, and they stopped short. If this were an ambush, it was a strange one.
Jheheph could not fathom it, either. Either the Zyraii were going to fight, or they weren't. Both sides waited several tense moments, then a single man stood up from a hiding place and walked down to the roadway immediately in front of the trench.
“Don't shoot,” Jheheph ordered his men. His curiosity was aroused.
The man in the road stared straight at Jheheph. “I've come to give you another chance,” he said.
Jheheph's jaw dropped. He recognized the voice. It was the same Zyraii who had first confronted them two days before, who—so Jheheph had believed—had also set fire to his precious carpets. But surely it was a trick; that man must have died of his wounds.
As if reading the caravan master's mind, the Po-no-pha untied his upper robes and removed them. When he turned his back, several of the watchers in the caravan gasped. Jheheph stared at the scars and began to shake.
The man turned back. “I ask again—pay the tribute. If not, we will fight again. As you can see, the sons of T'lil are not easy to kill.” He put his garment back on and stood there, waiting.
Jheheph licked his lips nervously. He called the small brown wizard to him. “What is this sorcery?” he demanded.
The sorcerer shrugged. “How should I know? I make wards. That's all."
Jheheph stared at the Zyraii, and at the others up the slopes, and at the spot in the line where his carpet wagon should have been. He could fight. He could have his slaves fill in the pit, he could send his mercenaries up into the rocks. They still out-numbered the barbarians. They could win. If he hadn't felt confident of
that fact, he would not have challenged the T'lil in their own territory.
But—was it worth the loss of cargo like his carpets or his birds? The wealth he had with him now, though only a small part of his fortune, was still staggering. It would serve no one if turned to ash. He had depended too much upon minor magicians. And what good were the best mercenaries against warriors who could rise from the dead?
He called his quartermaster to him. The words nearly choked him; he uttered them only through clenched teeth:
“Pay them.”
* * *
XXIV
AS THE PO-NO-PHA RETURNED to the main T'lil camp in the pastures of the Ahloorm Basin, Omi ran frantically out to meet the twins at the corrals.
“Come quickly,” she said.
“What's wrong?” Alemar asked.
“It's Rol."
They left their oeikani with another Po-no-pha and hurried back to their tent. Omi ran to the partition and lifted the cloth, beckoning them into the women's section. The twins knew it was serious. This was the first time the wives had ignored the sanctity of the purdah. Peyri was stooped over Rol, who lay stiffly on his mat, a feverish sudor on his brow. He grimaced and held his lower belly.
Meyr and Sesheer got out of the way, and immediately Alemar was kneeling next to the boy, face grim.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I don't know,” Peyri said. Her tone surprised Alemar. There was no fear in it, only the resigned attitude of someone who has lost all hope. “It was the same with his older brother."
Alemar drew back the thin sheet and examined Rol. The boy, who in times past had shrunk from any contact with his foster father, seemed too deep in pain to care. Alemar noticed the tautness of Rol's abdominal muscles and pressed, once, lightly, on the right side above the pelvic bone. Rol cried out.
“Pus gut,” he said, in Cilendri. The words were an echo from the past. Behind his heart, he felt a sore, kicked feeling, like that he had felt as a child when ridiculed by his companions or cheated of a special treat. But this was an adult hurt, not capable of being put from his mind like those of younger days.
Elenya put a hand on his shoulder. He took it within his own. “Are you certain?” she asked gently.
“Just like her," he said hoarsely.
The twins felt the women watching, understanding neither the reasons for their reaction nor the foreign language. Alemar felt an old, useless anger grow and was determined that—this time—he would do something to stop it.
“Where can I find a healer?” he demanded abruptly. “A Hab-no-ken?"
Peyri only seemed more despondent. Finally Omi replied, “Rol is only a boy. Hab-no-ken are not summoned to heal a boy."
This made him more angry. “What is the use of healers if they won't heal?"
Omi shrugged—a Zyraii woman's shrug. “Rol is not important enough. Lonal would have to send Po-no-pha many leagues."
“I will go."
“Lonal will not let you,” Peyri said with certainty.
“We'll see,” Alemar said tartly.
* * * *
“I thought you were a healer,” Lonal said.
“Of wounds and injuries,” Alemar answered. “I can do nothing for Rol. A Hab-no-ken must be brought."
“No,” Lonal said.
“Why not?"
“He is only a child. Should I waste the time of warriors on his behalf? The nearest Hab-no-ken is in the hills.” He indicated the rugged terrain to the west. “It is a day's ride there, and another back."
“No one would ‘waste time’ but me."
“Do you think I would let you go alone?” Lonal sighed, as a parent would when a child is being petulant. “Have you no pride? A man should not be frightened that God has chosen to test his son."
“Next year, Rol will be one of your warriors. Would you abandon him then?"
“That is not the issue. What use is sickness, if not to weed out the weak? What better way for a warrior to play the Bu, than with nothing between himself and fate?"
Alemar showed teeth. “Should I unheal Shigmur, then?"
Lonal shook his head. “I am not arguing that the healers’ work is not good. But if we depend on them, we will lose the cutting edge that the desert demands. Rol will have to wait until a healer visits the camp of his own accord."
“That may be too late."
“It is all I will offer."
“I'll duel you,” Alemar said.
Lonal stopped. None of the others present spoke.
“If I win, you'll let me go. If you win, I'll do as you say,” Alemar continued.
Lonal pursed his lips, scanning the surroundings. R'lar and Shigmur stood near him. Elenya was near her brother, with their wives cowering in the background. Several children played not far away. “The boy is not even your blood kin,” he told Alemar.
“Choose your weapon.” Alemar's hand wavered near the pommel of his saber.
But Lonal did not move. The two men stared at one another. Soon even the children became silent and began to pay attention to the confrontation. A locust hopped noisily between the two men.
Abruptly, Shigmur stepped forward. “I will go with him, war-leader."
Both Alemar and Lonal looked at the war-second in surprise. Alemar noticed the shift in Lonal's mood and tried to control the sweating of his palms and the slight quiver of his fingers. The pommel was hard and warm.
Finally Lonal shrugged. “According to reports, a Hab-no-ken has been spending his Retreat near the spring of Triple Spires.” The war-leader pointed again to the western horizon. “Maybe you will find him there."
Alemar blinked. “I can go?"
“It seems to matter to you, far more than a duel matters to me.” Lonal turned to Shigmur. “Take Zhanee and go with him. Be back within three days."
“Thank you,” Alemar said.
“Don't. You have no guarantee that the healer has finished his meditations. He may choose not to come. The Hab-no-ken are not bound to cure all the ills of the world. But I'll allow you the chance. Remember it."
* * * *
“I am surprised,” Shigmur said, the bounce of the saddle warbling his words.
“Why?” Alemar asked, eyes riveted forward, though the hills that defined the western boundary of the Ahloorm Basin were still hazy and purple in the distance, and the configuration called Triple Spires would not be visible for many hours.
“Since he came of age, Lonal has not lost a duel. It has been two years since anyone in the camp challenged him to the ju-moh-kai. I thought he would fight you, just for the fun of it."
A small chill flowed down Alemar's spine, though if it had been necessary, he would not have hesitated to fight. The son of Keron Olendim was no petty swordplayer.
They veered away from a stand of elbraksh. Zhanee skirted the far side of the brush, his short bow strung, alert for game, leaving them alone for the moment. “I want to thank you for stepping in when you did,” Alemar said.
“I owed you that,” Shigmur said. “But I don't believe it had anything to do with Lonal's decision."
“No?” Alemar listened more carefully. Though he had come to know Shigmur better than any of the T'lil warriors, the war-second had always been tight-lipped about his own opinions.
“Lonal needs your cooperation. I think he understands now that he can't force it out of you. This trip is his way of showing you that he can be flexible."
“That would be nice.” A sand-runner burst out of hiding nearby, snapped up an insect, and was gone again. “Why is it that he is so driven?"
Shigmur wiped the sweat off of his brow and readjusted his cowl. “Lonal is weighed down by his destiny.” He sighed. “He bears the legacy of his father. I do not envy him the burden."
“Who was his father?"
“Joren,” Shigmur said reverently.
“A great man?"
“He was a war-leader such as the T'lil have not produced in three centuries, though on the surface he seemed a simple man. H
e had faith in God's good will, a ready laugh at the antics of children. You'd never catch him lost in somber thought like you do Lonal. But when it came to battle, he could pluck a hair off the balls of a rival war-leader's oeikani before the other was aware that his camp was being raided. He made the name of the T'lil one to be respected. None would attack our caravan when he was present. The T'lil nation could have doubled in size if he had wished it, but he believed in peace with our brothers born of Cadra. He saved his enmity for the traders. When the men of Azurajen came to build a fort at the pass of Zyraii-ni-Zyraii, Joren was there to stop them. He held them at bay for two weeks, and would have won the battle altogether had he not been betrayed by the Buyul and the Fanke. All Zyraii sings of that last stand, and therefore expectations are laid on the son of Joren."
“Then the fort was built. Is it still there?"
“Stronger each year. They call it Xurosh. Many Zyraii warriors have died trying to raze it—not only the T'lil, but the Alyr, the Fanke, the Buyul. Most especially the Olot, in whose territory it was built. They stood by Joren and fell next to the cream of the T'lil. Also, there is another trade route, from Palura to Nyriya, through the lands of the Olot, Hapt, Aikal, and Zainee tribes. The traders of Palura want to build another fort along there. If they succeed, Zyraii control of the desert may be lost. It is critical that we destroy Xurosh."
Alemar recalled the maps he had studied in his youth. The cause of strife was plain. The fertile Azu region had only one outlet to the wealth of the old kingdoms—through Zyraii.
“I wonder what I would do in Lonal's place,” Alemar said sometime later. “I know what it means to live in a father's shadow."
* * * *
Alemar dumped out a scorpion before he put on his boot. He stood, his shadow a long, thin patch of darkness extending toward the desiccated hills ahead. Shigmur and Zhanee were breaking down the simple camp they had made the evening before.
“See?” Shigmur said of the badlands. “Much better to hunt this terrain in the light. As it is we'll have to pray the oeikani don't twist their ankles."
Alemar agreed, though he regretted the delay. He had, however, been thankful for the rest. He had only recently recovered from the healing. Shigmur no doubt was worse off. He urged them to move quickly, and soon they were riding toward the three thin rock spires that dominated the nearby landscape.
