When Jackals Storm the Walls

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  For a time Emre merely walked along the edge of the groves, afraid of venturing in. He was worried he’d miss Çeda if he did. He was also convinced that the branches would grab him and squeeze the life from him were he to go anywhere near them.

  As he stood there, bathed in his own indecision, a sound rose above the wind, above the rattling. It was a long, pitiful wail. By the gods, an asir. As Emre walked toward the source, reckoning Çeda might be drawn there, too, he heard another, and another. Had the adichara called to them? Had they been drawn to the twisted trees?

  Emre followed the sound of the nearest, still skirting the edge of the grove until he could come no closer unless he ventured inside.

  After giving the sandswept area around him one last pass of his lantern, he steeled himself and walked through a gap between the trees. He crouched low, expecting the branches to reach for him. They didn’t. They were still dangerous, but as long as Emre took care not to come too close he was safe from their poisonous thorns.

  He reached a clearing. An asir, a man once, was on his knees before a tree that moved slower than those around it. Its blooms were dim. And the asir wore a crown. By the gods, it was Sehid-Alaz. Kneeling before that dim, diseased tree, he seemed to be working himself up to something. When Emre reached his side, Sehid-Alaz didn’t turn, but his wailing ceased.

  “What’s happening, grandfather?” Emre asked him.

  With rheumy eyes, Sehid-Alaz stared at the adichara. “They call to us, Emre Aykan’ava.” His voice was hoary, little different than the chilling howl of the wind through the trees. “They call and we obey.”

  “But it isn’t the adichara calling. It’s Queen Meryam. She’s cast a spell.”

  “I know, but what does it matter in the end? Our time is done. She’s giving us a path to the land beyond. Why shouldn’t we take it?”

  He was bowed over his knees, rocking like a child on Beht Zha’ir trying to convince himself that the asirim weren’t coming to get him, that he’d live to see the rising sun. He looked like he’d nearly given up hope.

  Nearly, Emre echoed. But he hasn’t given himself over to the tree for a reason.

  “You’re upset about what happened in Mazandir.”

  Sehid-Alaz’s rocking movements grew in intensity.

  “You’re upset because you feel abandoned by the children of the tribe.”

  “You are no child of the thirteenth tribe,” Sehid-Alaz said.

  “You say that because you think blood means everything.” Emre rubbed Sehid-Alaz’s back. “But it doesn’t. You are a part of me. All of the asirim are.”

  Sehid-Alaz turned his head. He regarded Emre with tears in his eyes. “How I’ve wronged you,” he said. “I should never have looked away when Hamid tried to kill you.” He waved to the adichara, his face screwed up in a look of pain and regret. “Now look at what’s become of us.”

  “You must fight it,” Emre said, pulling Sehid-Alaz against his chest. “Fight it, my King.”

  “Let him be,” came a new voice.

  Emre started and turned.

  Breath of the desert. Standing there beneath the arc of the adicharas, like a goddess of bough and branch and bloom and thorn, was Çeda.

  Chapter 56

  ALONG A DARKENED TUNNEL beneath the city, Ramahd, Cicio, and Davud walked side by side. Behind them came Basilio, who’d decided to take up a sword and fight alongside them. Ramahd had nearly denied him when he offered, but he had good reason to want to fight Meryam, and Alu knew they were short on swords, so he’d let him come. Young Duke Hektor and Count Mateo brought up the rear along with the knights and soldiers who’d thrown their lot in with Ramahd.

  Meiying had broken away earlier to help cover their approach. Hamzakiir had left as well, though in his case it was to deal with Meryam. “Wait for my signal,” he’d said to Ramahd before parting. “She’ll be prepared for resistance.”

  He gave the same message to the Kings and to Emre and his cadre. They needed a way to neutralize Meryam, he said, and that was precisely what he’d gone to the cavern to do.

  Ahead, a faint light appeared. As they rounded the corner, they saw a half-dozen Silver Spears with lanterns—a patrol, there to ensure that no one could approach the cavern without being seen. Ramahd and the others stopped while Davud padded ahead. As he neared the Silver Spears, their lamps seemed to point anywhere but at Davud himself.

  When he stepped behind one of the soldiers and whispered into his ear, the soldier collapsed, his fall broken by the spongy roots. Another soldier bent down to see what was wrong, and Davud whispered into his ear as well. And so it went, the patrol soldiers falling one by one until all of them were incapacitated. Ramahd heard their soft snores as he and the others walked past.

  In the days leading up to this assault, Ramahd had worried that their numbers wouldn’t be enough. They had Duke Hektor and over twenty battle-hardened men. But even with the warriors of the thirteenth tribe and Shaikh Aríz’s crew adding fifty to that number, it had still seemed like too little to challenge Meryam. But when the Kings, several Blade Maidens, and a small cadre of Silver Spears joined their cause as well, he could no longer deny they were a respectable group. It brought them to well over a hundred swords—not as much as Ramahd would have liked, but with war having returned to Sharakhai’s doorstep and the distraction it would cause, it gave him as good a chance as he was ever going to get at bringing Meryam to justice.

  They snuffed the soldiers’ lanterns, plunging the tunnel into darkness, and were guided by the faint silver outlines of Davud’s pathfinding spell. Soon there came an eerie white light, which grew steadily until they arrived at the tunnel’s mouth and the immense cavern beyond was revealed, the one Ramahd had heard so much about.

  Another squad of Silver Spears stood guard at the cavern’s entrance. This time when Davud whispered into their ears, they stood stock still. To anyone who might be watching they seemed attentive, on guard, and yet they made no move as Ramahd and the others approached, nor did they make a fuss when Ramahd stepped behind one of them and peered over his shoulder into the cavern.

  The crystal was a sight to behold. After the darkness of the tunnels it was difficult to look upon. Macide, shirtless and bloodied, a rope around his ankles, hung above it. The crystal itself was pure white with tinges of violet, but Macide’s blood was dripping onto it, staining it, making it look like a blunt instrument that had been used in some murderous act.

  Beyond the crystal, nearly three hundred were gathered: the Kings and Queens of Sharakhai, their vizirs and viziras, and many lords and ladies, all come to witness the fall of Macide Ishaq’ava and the Moonless Host.

  “Just look at them, ah?” Cicio whispered. “It’s like a bloody fete.”

  Indeed, as strange as the scene before them was, the casual way in which everyone seemed to revel in Macide’s pain was perverse. Ramahd had no love for Macide, but he’d lost his appetite for slow, painful revenge. Meryam clearly hadn’t. Speaking to the gathered crowd, she would stop often and stare up at Macide as if this were the greatest achievement of her life.

  Meryam looked healthy and radiant, the Meryam of old. It was all an illusion, though. Ramahd was able to see through it, and what he saw was a woman who stood at the edge of her own grave. He felt along the edges of the spell and found that it encompassed not just her, but eleven others as well: Prayna, Esrin, and nine more blood magi from the Enclave. It would take Ramahd a long time to unweave, time in which Meryam and the others would be able to sense it, which was precisely why Hamzakiir had said to wait.

  “Where is he?” Ramahd asked Davud softly.

  “I don’t know”—Davud pointed up toward the cavern walls—“but our time grows short.”

  He wasn’t sure what Davud meant at first, but then he saw it. Some of the roots were shrinking, shriveling, desiccating before their very eyes. The effect crept along the floor, h
eading ever closer to the crystal.

  Meryam waved to one of the desiccating roots and spoke loudly. “You see? As we stand here, those who share Macide’s blood, the filthy Moonless Host, have left Sharakhai. They’ve been drawn to the blooming fields and now the scarabs are giving themselves to the adichara. Their poisoned souls are killing the trees, even as the trees kill them. Soon the city will be free of its two greatest burdens.”

  “Sea and stone,” Ramahd breathed.

  The spell was staggeringly complex, staggeringly powerful. He’d try to dismantle it if he knew the first thing about where to begin, but he didn’t. This was infinitely more complicated than anything Meryam had done before. What was more, it would be powerful enough to compel any of those in Emre’s group of the thirteenth tribe as well.

  “It’s up to us now,” Davud said softly, coming to the same conclusion.

  “Us and the Kings,” Ramahd said.

  Their number had just been slashed by more than a third. At best they would have sixty valiant souls against the two hundred in the cavern who had swords and would be ready to fight. Part of him wanted to charge into the cavern anyway, to inflict what damage they could while they still had the element of surprise. Part of him wanted King Husamettín to storm into the room so the choice would be taken from him.

  Cicio, grim-faced, asked the very question Ramahd was struggling with. “Do we go or not?”

  Ramahd shook his head. “We wait. There’s still a chance Hamzakiir can give us an edge.”

  It was torture watching the roots shrivel. Ramahd was certain each one meant another death. Or more than one. For all Ramahd knew dozens were dying, the deaths of many trees leading to the desiccation of a lone root in the cavern.

  “Are we still hidden from them?” Ramahd asked Davud.

  “Yes,” he said, “but I won’t be able to maintain it once you engage.”

  Ramahd nodded. He faced Duke Hektor, Count Mateo, and their gathered knights and soldiers, thirty stout fighting men who were no strangers to war. They all stared back, ready to heed Ramahd’s call. Just then a sharp crack rent the cool air. He turned and saw a jagged white line running the vertical length of the crystal.

  Meryam’s guests gasped, pointing to it.

  “Remain calm,” Meryam said. “This is to be expected.”

  Meryam was good at hiding her emotions. No one else would notice, but Ramahd could sense the tightness in her voice. She hadn’t expected the crystal to crack.

  Then something miraculous happened. Meryam—the real Meryam—stepped back while an illusion of herself strode toward the crystal. The false Meryam beckoned others closer, and they came, their expressions and movements a mixture of curiosity and fear. A similar effect happened to Prayna and Esrin and the other magi, their false selves following the others toward the crystal while their real selves moved behind the Kings and Queens.

  Prayna touched Queen Sunay’s neck. Esrin did the same with King Umay. A third mage touched Queen Nayyan. Each time, new illusions were born. The Kings and Queens appeared to be walking toward the crystal along with the rest, while in reality they were standing stone-faced near the magi.

  “It’s happening,” Ramahd said to Cicio. “Meryam and the other magi are dominating the Kings and Queens.”

  There was one magi for each of the Kings and Queens. Using their blooding rings, the magi pierced the wrist of their chosen monarch, then sucked the blood from the wound. Meryam herself moved behind King Alaşan, the man who’d risen to one of the central seats in Sharakhai, a King of Kings in the making.

  The crystal cracked again, much louder than before, and several stepped back in fright.

  Meryam, meanwhile, pierced King Alaşan’s wrist. She bent forward and drew his hand to her lips. The moment she sucked on the wound, however, she went rigid. Her body convulsed. She fell to the ground, and the illusion around them simply disappeared.

  This was it. This was the surprise Hamzakiir had arranged. “Now!” Ramahd called, and charged into the cavern, heading straight toward Meryam. His men followed, roaring as they went.

  From another tunnel came Kings Husamettín, Cahil, and Ihsan. Behind them ran Sümeya, Yndris, and Kameyl. They were joined by a group of twenty Silver Spears. The patrols, Ramahd realized. Husamettín had said he would try to win them to his side, and it had clearly worked.

  “To me, Maidens!” Husamettín raised Night’s Kiss and pointed it toward Meryam. “Join the true Kings of Sharakhai against the traitor queen!”

  The Maidens nearest him hesitated. The gambit might have worked on the Silver Spears, but Ramahd thought surely it would fail against the Maidens, but then, lo and behold, one of them obeyed, peeling away from the others. A second came, and another, until the full hand stood by Husamettín’s side.

  Queen Sunay, who still stood with glazed eyes before the blood mage, Prayna, bellowed to the Maidens, “You will protect your Kings and Queens!”

  It seemed to wake the soldiers clustered around the crystal. They didn’t attack, but they closed ranks as Ramahd and his men approached.

  “Lay down your weapons and you won’t be harmed,” Ramahd shouted.

  Husamettín led his cadre of Kings and Blade Maidens and Silver Spears closer. “Do as he says. All of you.”

  In a flash, Prayna spread her hands wide and sent a blinding ball of lightning streaking toward Husamettín.

  Ramahd was ready, though, and the spell dimmed to nothing before it reached him. A man behind Prayna touched her neck, very much as she’d touched Queen Nayyan moments ago, and Prayna collapsed. The man who’d touched her strode easily toward Ramahd, his appearance changing as he came. He grew taller. His beard turned pepper gray as it lengthened. His face narrowed while wrinkles and sunspots appeared on his skin. Hamzakiir once more, he turned and faced the crowd.

  “I said lay down your weapons!” Ramahd repeated.

  Many looked to one another. Some stared at Meryam where she lay, shaking. Others seemed to be having some intense internal debate.

  Then, by Mighty Alu’s grace, they obeyed. The Silver Spears dropped their swords and shields. The Blade Maidens laid down their ebon blades.

  They’d done it. They’d actually done it.

  In the silence, another great crack rent the air, and all eyes turned toward the crystal, where an angular rift could be seen.

  King Ihsan pointed his knife up at Macide. “Cut him down.”

  Kameyl, shamshir in hand, climbed the scaffold stairs and, instead of lowering Macide to the platform, swung her blade and cut the rope that held him. Macide crashed onto the crystal, then slipped off its slick surface and fell tumbling to its base, landing with a muffled thud against the roots.

  As Ramahd strode toward him, Macide stared up, blinking slowly, his face bloody and cut and bruised. For long moments he said nothing, but then he croaked, “Here we are at last.”

  Ramahd had been so certain this moment would feel cathartic, that it would release him from all the pain and misery and the self doubts he’d had for so long. But it didn’t. It felt completely, utterly hollow. Yasmine and Rehann deserved their revenge, but just then all he could think about was the hollowness that had been created in his life with their passing.

  In that awkward silence, Ramahd became aware of a pounding, a rhythmic beat growing louder. There came shouts from one of the tunnels beyond the crystal. Then terrible screams of pain. A dozen Silver Spears burst from the tunnel. They scattered upon reaching the cavern, throwing desperate looks over their shoulders as they went.

  The smell of rot and decay wafted through the cavern and Ramahd felt a twisting sensation in his gut, then a deeper, soul-rending wrench, as if a demon had woken inside him. He recognized the feeling—he knew the creature that instilled it.

  “Mighty Alu, no,” Duke Hektor breathed beside him.

  A moment later, the towering, undead
form of the ehrekh, Guhldrathen, ducked low beneath the mouth of the tunnel and entered the cavern. His tails curled and twisted. His ribs were splayed wide, reducing his chest to a grotesque display of rotting organs. His skin was the mottled, putrefied shade of sand after dusk. And his eyes were filmy and white with only a hint of their former, acidic yellow remaining.

  Standing tall, the ehrekh swung his baleful gaze toward Ramahd.

  And charged.

  Chapter 57

  ÇEDA STOOD WITHIN THE ADICHARA GROVE, watching Emre stand from his crouch beside Sehid-Alaz. She’d known that her people were also being drawn to the groves. She hadn’t realized it had caught the asirim up as well, but of course it would have. Were she and the others not descendants of those cursed souls, after all?

  “Çeda?”

  The look on Emre’s face was one of deep concern. He alternated glances between her and Sehid-Alaz, whose voice called her when she’d stepped from the mouth of the cavern onto the Haddah’s dry bed. She’d wandered toward the sound and had been surprised to find Emre, but now she thought it a gift from the fates. Emre should be here at the end. She would hold him one last time. She would say goodbye before she was taken.

  “Çeda, can you hear me?”

  She stared at the adichara that Sehid-Alaz knelt before. Like so many of the twisted trees, it was diseased, dying. It was ready for its release, ready for this grand tale of kinship and pain and blood to be over. Just as Sehid-Alaz was. Just as all the asirim were.