With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  After, they lay there a long while, their bodies becoming one as night fell over the desert and the chittering, buzzing insects came to life.

  Ramahd and Meryam traveled from oasis to oasis, taking care to drink their fill and carry extra water in the hollowed-out bulbs of the small cacti that often grew along the wadis that funneled water into the oases. Eating was difficult, but Ramahd created a spear as he’d done on his self-imposed exile and managed to take a few lizards and snakes so they might fill their bellies with something besides beetles and sweetgrass.

  He even made a fire one night using tinder from the bark and dried leaves of a date palm and a hand drill he fashioned with his knife. There was no fruit on the palm, but the fire was a welcome solace, a thing that felt so foreign the two of them stared at it for long hours, lost in thought. When it had died to embers and flickering flames, they lay next to it and made love, their own warmth mixing with that of the fire, creating something like comfort for a short while, at least until the two of them were lying next to one another and the very real possibility returned that they would die before they reached Sharakhai.

  The days wore on, stretching into weeks. The food was spare, as was the water when he misjudged the distance between oases. But when that happened, they would rest for an extra day at the next one and gather their strength. They would gain nothing by rushing this journey, and they stood to lose everything if they took one misstep too many.

  Ramahd thought Meryam might withdraw from him, seeing their lovemaking for the mistake that it was, but each night when the sun set and the stars stormed across the sky, she would take him in her arms, kiss him, draw him down to the sand or into the warm water of the oases. It seemed right, somehow, a part of this strange landscape they found themselves traversing.

  Meryam seemed to be gaining weight. This in itself wasn’t surprising; she’d been so thin, so skeletal, that any amount of regular sustenance was sure to put meat on her. More surprising by far was the fact that she was eating regularly. She never once complained about the food Ramahd offered her—no matter how strange or offensive—and she always ate as much as he recommended.

  “I wish I had a plate of fekkas,” she said one evening after chewing and swallowing a tiny live lizard. “How I’d grown to hate them, Ramahd, but I would eat a dozen platefuls were they set before me now.”

  “I’ll make them for us when we reach Sharakhai.”

  She smiled then, a healthy glimmer in her eye. “When we reach Sharakhai, I fear I shall eat the city whole, every stone, every bone, every happy king’s throne.” It was a line from a nursery rhyme about a giant who was tricked by a witch into eating an entire city, the home of a king who had once done her harm.

  “Now the only way out is to pay the old crone,” Ramahd said, completing the line. She laughed, a sound that nourished his soul, and he laughed with her.

  As they entered their third week of travel, rare clouds came, providing welcome shade for their daytime trek. They made good time to the next oasis, but Ramahd was almost certain they’d reached the last of the easily accessible watering holes they would find between here and Sharakhai. The rest were few and far between, and would be much harder to find.

  “Leave that to me,” Meryam said the next morning.

  For hours she searched the ground carefully, looking for he knew not what. Eventually she picked up a stone that looked rather like the hull of a ship—rounded with a keel-like ridge on one side, flat on the other. She used one end of it to press deeply into her thumb, drawing blood.

  Ramahd knew her nature, and yet the sudden return of her abilities felt strange. The two of them had been traveling almost as husband and wife for long enough that this sudden reminder of who they were and all they’d promised to do felt like a sudden storm from the seas, a thing that carried with it the troubles they’d set aside since Guhldrathen had stalked away on that cursed plain.

  “It’s better if we both do it,” Meryam said, handing the bloody stone out for him to take.

  “What will it do?”

  She shrugged, as if this were nothing. “It should be enough to summon a ship, if any are near.”

  He continued to stare at it, not wanting to don that life once more. “You might have done it two weeks ago if that’s what you meant to do.”

  “I might have died if I’d tried it then. And besides, if you think the ships of the wandering tribes go anywhere near that blasted heath, you’re daft.” She shook the stone at him. “Take it. The time is ripe, I think.”

  Ramahd took the stone and pressed it into his thumb. He knew as well as she that without the use of her magic, the chances of dying were high. They’d been lucky so far. To continue unaided was to gamble with their lives. And yet, it felt like doing this wiped the ink from the story they’d been writing these past many days, a story he’d hoped to explore further.

  “What are you waiting for, Ramahd?”

  He looked down at his hands. He hadn’t drawn any blood.

  “It’s only . . .”

  She looked at him as if she knew exactly what he was feeling. “It’s only what, Ramahd?” she asked in that tone of hers, the one that seemed to devalue anything that stood between her and what she wanted.

  It’s such a very long road at times, he wanted to say to her. He wanted to erase all that had happened since they’d arrived in Viaroza. But he couldn’t, and they both knew it.

  He pressed the stone into his thumb until the edge bit and drew blood. He let the blood pool, then ran it along the red line Meryam had already drawn. It looked for a moment like a ship riding a blood-red sea. When he held it out for Meryam to take, she took it gently, emotion showing in her eyes—for him, for her father, for Yasmine, he couldn’t tell—then she threw the rock toward the deeper desert.

  It landed with a splash of amber, the sand somehow swallowing it whole.

  A pair of ships arrived at the small oasis the following morning. They’d gone off course in a terrible sandstorm, they told Ramahd when they arrived, watching the two of them warily. Meryam greeted them politely, more reserved than she would normally be, knowing the tribes’ propensity to distrust aggressive women. They spoke to Ramahd, asking him what happened, and he told them enough lies to convince them that a lord and lady from Qaimir might end up here: a whim to voyage to the Shangazi and see its grandeur for themselves.

  The tribesmen—men and women of tribe Oran, judging from their flowing blue thawbs and dresses—had merely nodded, sharing looks as if to say: And what would a man and woman of the rain-filled south know of the Great Shangazi?

  “We can take you on our ships if you wish,” they said to him.

  “Where are you headed?” Ramahd asked.

  “To Sharakhai,” came the expected reply, “to trade for steel. From there you can arrange your return home.”

  “We would be most grateful,” Ramahd said, allowing some of the relief he was feeling to shine through. “To Sharakhai it is.”

  Chapter 24

  DAVUD’S EYES FLUTTERED OPEN.

  Sweat rolled down his scalp. Made his skin itch. It was morning, wasn’t it? If it was this hot already, it was going to be a sweltering day in Sharakhai.

  He felt strange. Sick. As if the world were spinning, as if the floor itself were pitching this way then that. A weight rolled against him. His heart beat like a tambour. No. It was another heart, not his own. A dream? It felt like a dark presence looming, a thief unseen yet palpably present.

  I’m good and drunk, Davud decided. The celebrations after the graduation. He’d been invited to three. He’d accepted them all, not wanting to disappoint. He’d promised to go to Anila’s in Blackfire Gate, but had decided to go there last in hope of spending a bit more time with Anila herself. His stomach turned over just thinking about it. Had he gone? Had he stopped by the others? Had he drunk so much araq he couldn’t remember?

 
; The floor pitched again, and a shushing sound entered his awareness, a sound he suspected had been there all along. Breath of the desert, it was so bloody hot. Sweat trickled down his temple, along the center of his chest, pooling there. He wanted so very badly to scratch it, but just then he was lying too firmly between dreams and waking.

  He fought to find his memories, a battle that escalated quickly, with him on the losing side. He remembered going to the collegia grounds. He’d stood with his fellow students in the basilica. He’d hugged everyone. Smiles and laughing, talks of what the days ahead would mean for each of them. The sounds of drums had summoned them from the building. He’d received his laurel crown, hadn’t he? Yes, because after, King Azad’s grandson had delivered a speech. And he’d talked with Çeda. Gods, why did he always act like a little lost lamb whenever she was near?

  And then it all came back in a rush. He’d been standing in the forum when the first of the bloodcurdling screams had come. Shouts had followed. They’d been funneled like goats into the basilica. A childlike fear of the unknown had followed. They all felt it, and as they’d stared into one another’s eyes, their helplessness spun their fear into terror. They’d watched the doors, the high windows in the ceiling, the corners of the basilica’s grand arcade, wondering when the attackers would arrive. They’d been warned there might be danger, but they’d also been assured they had the protection of the Kings.

  Sounds of battle had approached. The clash of steel. Men and women dying, distant, then closer, then closer still. He’d smelled something strange. An earthy scent like mushrooms and garlic laced with the purest of alcohols. His eyes burned. The world around him had gone hazy. Colors trailed in his vision like paint smeared across canvas.

  “Run!” he’d called, staggering toward the doors, blinking to clear away the muddiness in his mind. “It’s in the air!”

  He’d not gone five steps before the basilica floor had risen up and struck him in the face. It seemed only moments later when he’d woken here. But where was here? The groan of wood came. The lurching of the world around him. The snap of rope on canvas. Rigging, he realized. Gods, the rocking. The incessant hiss. He was on a sandship.

  A thousand questions boiled up inside him. Where was the ship bound? Who commanded it? How many of his schoolmates were still alive? How many were here with him? How many of the enemy were there?

  His breath was coming quickly now. Too quickly.

  Calm, Davud. Calm. Calm yourself down.

  Trying to reason with himself was only making matters worse. His throat constricted as the ship tipped upward and lurched as it crested a dune. He pushed himself up off the deck, stars swimming in his vision. Gods, he was going to pass out again.

  It was the girl next to him that brought him back from the brink. Anila. She’d been lying next to him the whole time. She looked fragile, lying there with a circle of red just above her delicate eyebrows. And then a terrible thought occurred to him. He pressed his fingers against her neck. He felt nothing. He moved her so that she was lying flat on the deck where he’d been moments ago, then tried again. Thank the gods, he finally felt something. A pulse, but weak as the flow of the Haddah after a soft winter rain.

  “Anila,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s Davud. Please wake.”

  She didn’t respond. Nor did Jasur or Raji or Meiwei when he tried to wake them. But at least they were still alive. Collum was not. Kind Collum. Fair-skinned Collum. The boy from Qaimir, the son of a merchant who specialized in antiques from sailing ships of the southern seas. They sold well in Sharakhai. So many, even those in the kingdoms beyond the Great Shangazi, were fascinated by stories of the Austral Sea.

  All of those trapped here in the hold had a circle of blood drawn on their foreheads, just above the eyebrows. He checked his own forehead, scraping away at the skin with a fingernail, finding flaking blood when he looked at it. Why had they all been marked? And why with blood?

  The sound of footsteps passing just overhead pulled him from his reverie. They stopped, then went the other direction, aft. Calm, Davud. Use reason to your advantage. Clearly he and the others had somehow been transported to the ship, but how long ago? A day? A week? From the way they were all stacked here, thrown on top of one another like fish in a basket, it seemed unlikely that the crewmen above came down here to give them all drink. Davud’s lips were dry, a bit chapped, but not overly so. The others were the same. They couldn’t have been gone for more than a day or two, then. It might even be the same day!

  Wait. He peered at the brightness on the dunes through the gaps in the hull. The ceremony had taken place in the afternoon, and it looked to be high sun now, so it was probably the next day. They might still be near Sharakhai, then. Perhaps close enough to return should he manage to escape.

  He stood, cracking his head against the low beams above. He moved about the hold on uneven legs. He stepped over Anila, his other friends, to reach the rear, where a gap between the planks let in a good amount of light. He knelt and peered through the gap. He was at the aft of the ship, the golden sands of the Shangazi flowing away from him. As they crested a dune he scanned the horizon for any signs of Tauriyat, but there were none. Of course there weren’t. They’d likely been sailing for six or seven hours, or more if the men who’d taken them had decided to sail through the night, which likely they had.

  From somewhere above, a woman called, “Ho, tighten forward sail!” An echo of her command came moments later, “Aye, tightening forward sail!”

  Davud picked at the dry rot on the wood. It practically powdered at his touch, flaking away and falling into the sand. He heard the squeak of a windlass being pulled, felt the ship list as they tilted over another dune, and all the while he scraped away at the wood. Larger pieces came free, falling dull and gray against the bright amber sand.

  They’ll see me. They’ll see the pieces and come down here and bash my head in for trying to escape. By the gods, Davud, slow down! And yet the thoughts only made him move faster. The thought of widening this hole far enough to slip through drove him beyond the point of prudence. It felt as though one of the crew would come down the ladder and into the hold at any moment. Surely they came to check on them, to give them water. When they did, there would be no hiding what he’d done. It was now or never.

  He pulled as much of the dry rot out as was going to come easily. The ship was old and in poor repair; the planks were not as sound as they once were, but he was weak and dizzy. It made for slow going. He gripped against the plank, his sandaled feet to the wood on either side, and strained, pulling mightily until it snapped.

  He fell onto his rump, holding a hunk of wood the size of his head in his hands. The snap had been loud. And the sounds from above, movement, the shuffling of feet, had suddenly stopped.

  He set the board down carefully. Looked to Anila, then Jasur, then Meiwei. He might try to stuff one of them through the hole first so that he’d have an ally. They could trek across the desert together.

  But no, that was foolish. Even if he somehow managed to get one of them through the tight hole, they’d likely break their neck on the fall down to the sand, and even if they survived that, he’d likely be condemning them to death in the desert. He couldn’t do that to them. Better to go on his own and get help, tell the Kings’ men where the Host had gone.

  “Farewell,” he whispered, then angled himself through the gaping hole. His robe caught on the rough edges, but he managed to pull the snag free and inch further out. His hips were the most difficult, but a wale, a hull board thicker than the rest, ran just above the hole and he was able to grab its upper lip and work himself back and forth. He felt like a massive pickle being removed from a particularly stubborn jar.

  “Captain,” came a voice from above.

  Davud froze, looking up toward the aft gunwale. He saw only blue skies, a piercing yellow sun.

  “Yes, my lord Hamzakiir?” a voice replied
, the same woman who’d called out the orders earlier.

  “One of the scholars is attempting to escape through a hole in the rear of the ship.”

  The thud of booted feet. A woman’s head peered over the side. She gave a broad smile, accentuating the scar running down across one eye, then she turned, looked up, and whistled, pointing down, where Davud was caught like a desert hare. A moment later, a man swung wide of the ship on a rope tied to the end of a yardarm, arcing expertly around the ship’s stern.

  Rhia’s grace, the sailor was going to land right on top of him. Davud struggled to wriggle his way out, but his infernal robe caught again. He freed himself, swinging one leg out, ready to drop to the sand, but just then the swinging sailor clucked his tongue and fell hard across Davud’s back. “Now, now, my little lizard,” he said, the scent of his breath heavy with cumin and araq, “it wouldn’t do to slither to the sand just yet.”

  Above, the captain whistled, flicking her hand up, and in as little time as it took Davud to cry out from the surprise of it, he and the sailor were hoisted upward. He tried to keep his grip, to remain in place, but was ripped free of the ship anyway. The two of them swung out over the sand, Davud’s legs kicking like some naughty child who’d been swept up in his father’s arms.

  He and the sailor landed on the afterdeck, where a pilot manned the wheel, where the captain stood grinning, where a tall, gaunt man with a dark beard waited with hands clasped behind his back as if this sort of thing happened to him every day.

  “What is your name,” the gaunt man asked.

  Davud looked around to the sailors gathering round, to the captain who waited with an aggressive sort of patience, then back to the man who was surely Hamzakiir, the blood mage, son of Külaşan the Wandering King. He thought of disobeying, of making a stand to retain his own free will, but after a moment, he decided to take another sort of stand entirely. “My name is Davud Mahzun’ava.”