When Jackals Storm the Walls

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Emre crossed his arms over his chest. “Can we move on to the part where we save Çeda and Macide?”

  “Yes, about that . . .” Ihsan had yet to bring up the most sensitive subject of all, particularly for Emre. Ihsan hadn’t been sure how best to broach it, but before he could even try, the door opened again and in walked Husamettín, Sümeya, and the Shieldwife, Jenise. They were out of breath, their faces, armor, and clothes filthy with dust and sand.

  “Malasan and Mirea have arrived,” Husamettín said in his deep voice. “Their fleets have already anchored beyond the blooming fields.” The storm that had settled over the city was unlike anything anyone, even Ihsan and his fellow, centuries-old Kings, had ever seen. Given Husamettín’s news, Ihsan had few doubts it had somehow been summoned by Queen Alansal.

  “Then let’s go to the cavern now,” Emre said. “All the planning in the world won’t stop it from going to shit once we get there.”

  “It’s all going to go to shit,” echoed Frail Lemi.

  “I don’t disagree,” Ihsan said. “But you should understand, we’re not here to rescue Çeda or Macide, or even to fight Meryam. We are here to save the city.”

  “Mighty Alu, the way you talk”—Cicio motioned with one hand, like a mouth opening and closing rapidly—“it’s like those fucking birds, the myna. Just out with it.”

  “Then stop interrupting me and listen. There are many threads that lead from this point. We might kill Meryam outright. We might burn the roots in that strange cavern. We might destroy the crystal itself. I haven’t advised we do those things because it would only delay the inevitable—in the end, the gods would still have what they want.”

  Emre’s look had grown harder as Ihsan talked. “Say it plainly, Ihsan.”

  “Very well. In the cavern, Macide will be put under a spell. Whatever Meryam has planned will begin, and that, somehow, draws Çeda into it. We must allow it to take Çeda to its natural conclusion.”

  Emre sat bolt upright. His scalp turned red. “You’re saying that for Sharakhai to be saved, Çeda and Macide have to die?”

  “No. I don’t know what becomes of Çeda or Macide. But the ritual precipitates other events, ones that could lead to our desired result: a desert that hasn’t been laid to waste.”

  “Could, might,” Cicio said. “What good are those fucking journals, ah?”

  Emre ignored him. “We may be consigning them to death.”

  “That is a risk we have to take.”

  Emre stood in a rush. “Well, I don’t.”

  King Cahil stood in a flash. “You’ll do whatever we say, scarab.”

  When Yndris rose beside her father, her hand on the hilt of her shamshir, Frail Lemi pushed himself off the wall, looking like death himself. Davud rushed to intercept. He faced Frail Lemi, put two hands on his broad chest and said, “Stop it, Lemi! All of you, please calm down!” He turned to Ihsan. “Why must we let the ritual go on?”

  “Your question presumes that Yusam’s visions have cause and effect, that one thing leads logically to another. They don’t. All I know is that Meryam’s ritual leads to a vision of a man, always wounded, bloody, tortured. It’s Macide. I’m certain of it. He has shackles on his wrists, from which he’s freed by the swipe of an ebon blade.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Emre said, and headed for the door.

  “Wasting time on bullshit,” said Frail Lemi and started to follow him.

  But before they’d taken two steps, the door opened and Ramahd walked into the room holding a portly man in Qaimiri finery by the arm. “We’ve got trouble,” Ramahd said.

  Ihsan recognized the man as Basilio Baijani, Queen Meryam’s counselor, her vizir here in Sharakhai. He had a black eye and his neck was bruised in a straight horizontal line, as if someone had tried to strangle him. Blood-soaked bandages covered his chest and arms.

  “Tell them,” Ramahd said.

  Basilio took a deep breath. “Meryam is planning to dominate the Kings and Queens of Sharakhai before the war can get underway.”

  “And upon learning this”—Ihsan waved vaguely to Basilio—“you had a disagreement with a black laugher?”

  The apple in Basilio’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “When I warned her against it, she sent Amaryllis to kill me.”

  “She ordered your death for advising her?”

  He glanced at Ramahd. “An unfortunate precedent was set when my predecessor struck against her. She was worried I might do the same.”

  “And would you have?”

  “There’s a good chance, yes.”

  “Tell them the rest,” Ramahd said.

  Basilio swallowed hard. “The preliminaries have already begun. The Kings and Queens have gathered. By now she’s likely to have started the ritual with Macide.”

  Davud stared at Basilio as if he were working a difficult theorem in his head, then his gaze snapped to Ihsan. “You knew,” he said with certainty. “You knew the ritual had already started. You didn’t tell us because you didn’t want us to interfere.”

  Everyone looked at Ihsan.

  Ihsan shrugged. What could he say? “It had to be this way.”

  It was Emre who broke first. He reached for Ihsan’s throat but, surprisingly, it was Frail Lemi who threw an arm across his chest and stopped him. Even so, Cahil was incensed at Emre’s presumption. He lifted his war hammer while Yndris drew her sword.

  “Stop!” Davud called. “All of you stop!” He drew a glowing sigil in the air and, just as had happened in Mazandir’s arena before Anila’s arrival, everyone slowed, then froze altogether. “We’ve trusted Ihsan this far. I believe he has the city’s best interests at heart. I think the rest of you do too. If that’s true, then let’s go to the cavern. It’s time we stopped Queen Meryam. It’s time we stopped the gods.”

  Ihsan felt the spell relaxing. The room was tense. Ihsan wasn’t convinced violence wouldn’t still break out. But when Emre left, fuming, with Frail Lemi right behind him, the tension broke, and everyone dispersed to begin making plans.

  Ihsan, knowing he couldn’t let things rest here, rushed along the stone-lined hallway outside the room and found his way to the tunnels beneath the city, where Emre had gathered with Shaikh Aríz and the warriors of the thirteenth tribe. Seeing his look, Ihsan raised his hands in peace.

  “Go away, Ihsan,” Emre said, “I can’t listen to another word from that lying mouth of yours.”

  “I could use my power on you,” Ihsan said calmly. “You know that I could. But I won’t. I want you to have your wits about you. I wasn’t lying about Yusam’s vision that saw you with Çeda in the blooming fields.”

  Emre pointed beyond the open door, into the darkness of the natural tunnel beyond. “Çeda’s in the cavern.”

  “She may be. But the trees, Emre. The twisted trees are where you need to be.”

  “Çeda’s in the cavern,” he repeated, “and I’m going to save her.”

  “Emre, please—”

  But Emre wouldn’t listen. He left with the others, leaving Ihsan to stand there in silence, steeped in the feeling that the mountain was about to come crumbling down on top of them.

  Chapter 53

  NALAMAE CROUCHED WITHIN the blooming fields, her spear gripped in one hand. The desert wind was up, shrieking through the branches of the twisted trees, blowing dust and sand everywhere. But dust and sand were no barrier for the goddess. Parting the branches of the adichara before her, she peered into the distance and saw a monstrous hyena, its snout low as it snuffled along the sand. Its coat was spotted along the legs and underbelly but faded toward dark brown, the color of rotting meat, especially along its shoulders and back, where long quills lifted like fur.

  It hadn’t yet picked up her scent, but it was close to the place she’d passed only a short while ago. She’d known she might be followed and had left no marks upon the sand,
but this was no normal creature of the desert. It was Tashaak, one of two mythical beasts Goezhen had crafted aeons ago as pets. The other was Rühn. They’d been hunting for her since she’d killed their master, likely sent by the other gods.

  She could have avoided them, she could have fled and come another day, but there was no time. If she didn’t finish the ritual she’d begun two nights ago to keep the gods from stepping foot beyond the blooming fields, she would never finish it. She had to complete it now. All would be decided before the sun rose, and the other gods must be prevented from reaching Sharakhai.

  So she controlled her breathing. She calmed her heart. Even so, Tashaak, seeming to sense her, lifted her head and swiveled her saucer-like ears toward the adichara trees. Her black eyes glinted. For long moments the only sound was the scream of the wind. Then Tashaak smiled and stretched her mouth wide, revealing long, yellow teeth made for the rending of flesh. She yipped and cackled, a low sound that rose in pitch until Nalamae’s skin crawled from it. From far away came a reply, the chilling laugh of Tashaak’s brother, Rühn.

  Tashaak padded closer, her massive head swaying as she sniffed along the sand. Nalamae took a pinch of sand and lifted it to her lips. She released it. Taken by the wind, it spread through the air like a luminous veil. Tashaak growled. She uttered a short whine, three sharp barks, then blessedly moved on. A reply came from Rühn in the distance, a long, rolling howl of anger and frustration.

  When the sounds of their passage had been replaced by the wind, Nalamae left her place of hiding and went farther along the great ring of adichara trees. She came to a small clearing inside a grove, where she knelt and dug carefully into the rocky soil with a small spade, creating a hole that went down three spans of her hand. That done, she retrieved a kerchief from a pouch at her belt. Unfolding it revealed a shriveled hunk of flesh—the eighth and final piece of Goezhen’s heart, the one that would complete her spell.

  She placed the hunk of Goezhen’s heart in the hole, covered it, and used her finger to draw a sigil in the loose soil. Wiping it away, she drew another, and another. Seven times did she do this, describing a different sigil each time, acts that connected this piece of Goezhen’s heart to the seven others. It bound them together and would prevent her brother and sister gods from entering this place. It wouldn’t last forever. The other gods would find her hiding places eventually and deconstruct her spell. But that would take time. Days. Weeks, perhaps. Enough that they wouldn’t be able to interfere tonight.

  It was essential, because she feared King Ihsan was right. He’d identified the right path in the Blue Journals. For there to be any hope at all, though, the other gods could not be allowed to interfere. If they did, all would be lost.

  As Nalamae stood, a discomfort was born inside her. It grew by the moment, becoming painful. Soon it was so severe she was forced to move out of the adichara grove and into the desert. Her own spell was forcing her away, an unfortunate but necessary side effect. She had needed a way to keep the other gods outside of the blooming fields; the only way to be sure it would work on them was to affect all those of godly blood, and that meant her too.

  She stared into the trees, stared beyond them, toward Sharakhai. “Fare well this night,” she whispered to the howling wind.

  Mere moments later, she heard footfalls approaching fast. She spun, lifting her bright spear, but Tashaak was already there, looming large with snapping jaws and maddened eyes. The beast bowled into her, knocked her to the sand. She lost her spear and was forced to scrabble away. Tashaak’s teeth sunk through her bracer and into her forearm. And suddenly Rühn was there too, growling, scratching, clawing.

  Nalamae kicked Rühn. Rolled away from Tashaak. She summoned her spear and it came to her, flying through the air like a burst of starlight. The black laughers fought viciously, Nalamae defending with her spear, never able to get in a good strike. The beasts were too fast, too powerful. She was constantly on the defensive, barely able to keep one step ahead of them.

  She thought of casting a spell to escape, but she couldn’t let the beasts get away. The chances that they would lead the other gods to the place where Nalamae had buried the final piece of Goezhen’s heart were too high. So she fought on, sending the butt of her spear across Rühn’s massive head. Stabbing Tashaak in the shoulder. She took a dozen wounds in the process. Bites to her hands, her arms, her legs. A gash along one shin tore her greave away. She suffered deep scrapes along one cheek when she stumbled and Rühn swiped her with one shovel-like paw.

  Nalamae sent spell after spell against them, trying to debilitate, to slow them down, but their thick, needle-like fur was proof against it. When Rühn clamped his jaws on her ankle, she fell, and Tashaak came in growling, barking, the sounds causing sharp pain that disoriented Nalamae.

  She held her spear across her guard, hoping to prevent Tashaak from ripping out her throat, but with a vicious clamp of jaws and a wrench of her great head, Tashaak tore it away.

  Nalamae rolled as Rühn bit her shin. She scrabbled for her spear, her fingers narrowly missing the haft. Tashaak, meanwhile, clawed at her shoulder, went for her throat.

  With one great lunge, Nalamae reached her spear. She sent the butt of it hard into the soft spot between Tashaak’s hind legs. The black laugher yelped, repositioning herself to avoid another blow. It gave Nalamae the split second she needed. She swung the spear around, sent the point stabbing hard at Rühn’s head. The tip caught him in the eye and sent him yipping away.

  Tashaak lunged again, but Nalamae was ready. She dodged, then thrust the spear hard into Tashaak’s exposed neck. There was a gurgling sound and the great beast tried to retreat, but Nalamae was already chasing after her. She drove the spear into Tashaak’s chest, and when Rühn came barreling in, trying to protect his sister, Nalamae swung the butt around and caught him hard across the head. Rühn stumbled drunkenly, then collapsed onto the sand. He tried to get up but Nalamae was there, spear raised high. With a cry, she brought the spear down with both hands and pierced Rühn through his chest and into the ground below.

  By then Tashaak was sprinting away. Her whines and gurgles mixed to form a wet, pitiful sound. Hefting the spear, Nalamae took five long strides and lofted the silver weapon with all her might. It flew through the air, a streaking comet, and pierced Tashaak through the back. The beast fell, the spear’s momentum and Tashaak’s own sent her scraping noisily over the rocky ground, where she lay, panting heavily for several long moments, before going still.

  Nalamae was suddenly dizzy. It was their teeth, she realized. Their slaver was tainted with something that was spreading through her like poison. She turned to Rühn. Pressed her hand against the ground. The ground turned soft like quicksand, and Rühn’s unmoving body was lost to it. She staggered to where Tashaak lay, pulled her spear free, and did the same with her.

  Nalamae wished she could cast more spells to hide them from the other gods—their proximity to the buried piece of Goezhen’s heart might allow her brothers and sisters to undo her work—but she was starting to lose consciousness. She had time for one last spell. With a final look toward Sharakhai, her body crumbled, turned to sand, and was gone.

  Chapter 54

  WHEN THE LOCK on her cell door clanked, Çeda sat up on the hard bench. The door creaked open.

  “Come with me,” said a captain of the Silver Spears, a portly fellow with a bulbous nose. Behind him stood a squad of Silver Spears and a full hand of Blade Maidens, all gripping their shamshirs, ready to draw their swords should Çeda make any untoward moves.

  Çeda was in fetters, her wrists bound. “Where are we going? Where’s Macide?”

  The captain rolled his eyes, stepped inside the cell, and yanked on the short chain between her wrists, forcing her to move. “Ask the bloody queen. See where that gets you.”

  They led her down through Sun Palace into the lower catacombs. Soon they reached tunnels lined with roots, and came to
a cavern with a massive crystal glowing at its center. When Çeda had been young, she’d gone to that very cavern. The crystal had been dim then, bright enough to illuminate the roots around the base and a bit of the fine tendril snaking down from the cavern’s roof. All else had been lost to darkness. Now it was intensely bright, lighting the walls, the ceiling, the many tunnels. It felt as if they were trapped in the heart of a desert titan.

  Beside the crystal, a scaffold had been erected. On its topmost platform stood a gibbet with a high, horizontal beam that stretched out toward the hanging tendril. Attached to the beam was a pulley with a rope running through it. Çeda thought the rope was meant for her until she spotted Macide being led from another tunnel across the root-lined floor.

  In a blink, Çeda was whisked back to her time with the mere in King Yusam’s palace, where she’d seen Macide hanging upside down, dead, a sigil drawn on his chest. The vision was echoed in an entry from Yusam’s Blue Journals, a vision Ihsan had said was of supreme importance. Before she could think on what it meant or how she might stop it from happening, Çeda was yanked to a stop while a pair of Silver Spears led Macide into the cavern.

  “Macide!” Çeda called, but he didn’t so much as turn.

  “Silence her!” called a Sharakhani woman Çeda didn’t recognize. She had alluring eyes and full lips and what looked to be a fresh burn mark along one cheek.

  “Yes, Mistress Prayna,” the captain of Çeda’s detail called from behind her.

  A foul-tasting cotton gag was forced into Çeda’s mouth and she was made to kneel, facing the crystal. Two Blade Maidens watched over her, their shamshirs drawn, while the captain went to speak with Queen Meryam, who’d just entered the cavern.

  One of the Maidens, noticing the angle of Çeda’s gaze, sent the flat of her blade against the side of Çeda’s head, hard enough to make her ears ring. “Eyes ahead. You’re to watch your thieving, murderous lord and nothing else.”