Plains of Sand and Steel: Uncommon World Book Two

by Alisha Klapheke

  “I did what needed to be done.”

  He opened his mouth to add something, his gaze going to the burned stables behind her, but she cut him off.

  “I made mistakes,” she said. “I’ll make more. That doesn’t mean I can’t lead my people.”

  Meekra smiled so brightly Seren could practically hear it. Lucca’s fiery eyes made her feel like she could take on the entire world.

  “I mourn my husband in my own way.” Seren put two fingers on her chest, above her heart. “I didn’t love Meric. But he was my husband, and I appreciate the fact that because of him I found my purpose, my people. He is why I have a chance to help our people survive this war.”

  “I don’t doubt your passion for the Empire, Kyros Seren. That, I’ve never doubted. We can come together on that point. Varol is a fool. He throws our people, and himself, into the fight without a calm head. He is a bright fire that will burn itself out and scorch the rest of us with its heat.”

  “Sounds like Ona,” Lucca whispered.

  “Very much so, from what I saw,” Adem agreed. “I was wrong to choose Varol over you because of tradition. I don’t know how this will turn out, but I’d rather die on the right side. But know this, we will most likely die. Varol has an army loyal to him. The Invaders, well, I don’t see how we can win this. My best guess is they will sleep tonight—they don’t have much to fear from us and they know it—and after dawn, they’ll overcome our walls and lay waste to the city. We won’t be able to hold back another concerted effort with the ladders and their numbers.”

  “We have a plan,” Seren said.

  “A good one,” Lucca said, releasing Adem. “Just as brave as our kyros.”

  Adem kneeled beside one of the pots. “How exactly are these meant to work?”

  Seren rubbed her hands together and joined him as the rest went back to work. “The leaves will burn and fill the silk with hot air. This,” she held up the fuse line, “will charge as it lifts into the sky. The charge will ignite the chemicals we have inside the pot.” She showed him the tiny hole where the fuse would be set at take off.

  “And then?”

  Lucca stood over us, arms crossed. “Boom.”

  Adem stood and dusted his hands. “I hope they experience the boom and not us.”

  “That is the risk.” Seren eyed the walls leading into the city. Stars shone like one thousand eyes. “It’s time.”

  WITH THE WEAPONS in wooden crates, they started toward the city.

  “We’ll have to move quickly,” Adem said, “or the high general will hear about what we’re doing.”

  Seren shook her head. “No. Walk strong and calm. Act as though this is our duty and there is no need for secrecy. If the people believe this is all a part of the kyros's plan, they won’t think to report anything. They’ll talk, yes. But not report. Besides, no one will notice me in this cloak in the night.”

  “And this is why I should’ve supported you, ore master,” Adem said slyly.

  “It’s never too late to start a new friendship. One of mutual respect.”

  “Your mercy is commendable, my kyros.”

  Seren couldn’t help but smile.

  NEAR THE MAIN GATES, lines of warriors held shields above their heads to hold off enemy arrows raining over the walls. Their blood flowed into the canal that curved beside the first row of tents, and all had bandaged limbs or heads. Most held their yatagans low, their arms shaking with fatigue.

  Varol was there, on his prancing, black steed. He shouted orders and lifted his fist to the stars. The moon was a mere sliver, the edge of a silver blade above the chaos.

  “Lucca, take your group past Varol, to the top of the walls. Meekra, show him the best way to go. General Adem, come with me. We’ll start this to the right, in the direction of the black tent. If we can get that to go up, the fire may spread more easily.”

  “It is the mercenary!” A man pointed at Lucca and pulled the hood from his head.

  Hossam jerked the man away. “Haris! No!”

  Varol swung around and charged up to Lucca.

  Seren’s stomach dropped and she ripped her hood down. “High General Varol, if you have something to say, you may say it to me.”

  Something between a laugh and a shout pealed from Varol’s mouth. “Good of you all to arrive together. Makes it much easier to dispatch you in the middle of this mess.”

  “Mess indeed. Let’s put away our rivalry for now and focus on protecting our people.”

  “Rivalry? There is no rivalry.” He waved a hand and his army took hold of her much smaller one. A man grabbed Seren and laughed close to her face, his breath foul and hot. “There is only you a criminal and me a kyros,” Varol said. He smiled at Haris. “Bring me a very long, very sturdy rope.”

  Varol unsheathed his yatagan, nearing Lucca.

  “Lucca!”

  Lucca couldn’t move. He was surrounded.

  Without a word, like Lucca wasn’t worth a moment of his time, Varol sliced his steel along Lucca’s leg. He fell hard.

  Seren’s world went white for a breath.

  Varol eyed her, riding closer, stepping through the army and raising a shield one fighter handed him. “I hope all that foreign food hasn’t made you too heavy for what I have in mind. Bring her to the top of the walls. And the former general, too.”

  Fewer and fewer of the enemies’ arrows fell over the walls. The Invaders were headed to their tents to sleep. All the better to kill everyone at sunrise.

  The warriors holding Seren took the clay pots, then dragged her up the stairs to the parapet, Varol like a shadow behind her.

  Haris appeared, a heavy rope circling his body like an enormous snake.

  “Tie her hands,” Varol ordered the archers, who were wet with sweat. The battlefield beyond them showed campfires flickering to life and that horrible black tent at the heart of the swarming Invaders.

  “I don’t have…” an archer started, holding out his bow and arrow.

  Varol tore the black cloak off Seren, exposing her brown, silken kaftan and the face everyone recognized. Below, warriors whispered her name. They traded her varied titles like coins.

  Varol grunted and tugged the sash from her middle. “This will do.”

  She leaned onto one foot and twisted to see Lucca as Varol bound her hands behind her back. It was dark, she could make out Lucca’s shape—a seated man in the middle of a standing army. He reached a hand up. He had to be bleeding heavily. Varol knew how to make a cut that would kill slowly but surely. She squinted, willing her eyes to work like some night creature. Was he telling her something?

  Varol’s hands were rough as he finished the knot at her wrists. She kept twisting to try and see everything, to see Varol. The whites of his eyes showed too much, like a panicked horse. He knew as well as her that Death was close, very, very close. It was a stench in the air, a finger running along the neck, an ache in the bones.

  Freed from her sash, Seren’s green wool fluttered from the folds of her clothing, to the ground. It was only a dark spot near her feet. It was her world.

  Varol picked it up. His gaze snapped to her mouth. “And this will keep you quiet until I have you where I want you.”

  Adem ripped his arm away from the soldier who held him. His gray hair fell over one eye. “What will you do?”

  Death’s nearness had stripped them of titles and rituals.

  The warriors at the foot of the walls stared up, faces pale in the night’s uneven light. Seren’s fingers twitched, longing to wipe their hot cheeks with cool water. They needed comfort, support.

  “Pray over the Holy Fire. Don’t give up hope!” Some of her words threaded through the horses’ hooves shuffling, the sound of thousands moving, coughing, moaning, dying, but most were lost to the night.

  Varol gagged her with the green wool. “Keep quiet, Pearl.” Disdain oozed off the name.

  Then a change washed over his features. His jaw set. His eyes narrowed.

  “My brother, my
royal blood,” he said, “deserved full mourning. The soul is tired, You slept through the night, Give your sleep to the Dead.” He quoted the mourning folk song. “You never mourned. You. Rebelled.” He flicked his kaftan back and stepped away, lifting a hand toward the battlefield. “Lower her down. Over the walls. You’ll spend one night awake, criminal, staring at Death for a true kyros's passing, for mourning. It isn’t enough, but it’s all you can offer. And offer it, you will.”

  The men tied the rope to the parapet and pushed Seren over the side.

  She didn’t fall far.

  The rope caught abruptly, and she thought her shoulders would pop out of her skin. Her stomach and ribs screamed as the rope cut into her and her descent continued. The body-strewn ground, the stomped out campfires’ ghostly smoke, and the sleeping Invaders crept closer and closer as Varol’s men slowly lowered her.

  Varol’s voice dripped from the walls and into her ears, his words a hissing whisper. “When the sun rises, they will end you in what I would imagine will be a spectacular fashion. But for now, stay awake and bear a portion of what you should’ve when my brother first left this world.”

  The descent halted. Her slippered toes dragged along the gritty earth and her stomach lurched with the pain of the rope and the smell of war.

  Directly in front of her, close enough to hear a shout if she uttered one, the black tent hulked like a sleeping beast.

  The rope had slid up her body. Her sleeves bunched above her elbows. She pushed one arm down, twisted—bumping the wall painfully—and worked her way out of the binding. It moved up and over her head, and she hit the ground on one side, jaw smacking the earth. She sat up and shook her head. Her sash remained tight on her wrists.

  Varol had to be watching still, but she couldn’t see him. A bank of clouds choked the stars’ light and a gentle wind teased the ends of her hair. One thousand thoughts flew through her mind, but one shone clear.

  If she was going to die, she wanted to see Ona one more time.

  As if the wind read her thoughts, it increased and pushed the strip of clouds into the horizon. The stars once again illuminated the plains and hammadas, the desert to the Southwest, hills and lahabshjara trees to the North and East.

  And then she saw the sword.

  The broad, steel surface of Ona’s weapon reflected a swathe of silver in the middle of three fallen yatagans and more bodies than Seren could count. Her stomach heaved. She vomited into the muck at her feet.

  But could she find her?

  She squinted into the dark, looking for the bright points of brass on the back of Ona’s brigantine. The white streak in her brown hair. It was impossible.

  Stumbling over bodies, she kneeled beside the sword. It’d fallen along a smooth boulder where it shone like melted starlight. Seren wanted to touch the hilt and imagine Ona’s strong, pale hand, but her own hands were still bound. Blood and dirt caked the sword’s edges. But it was sharp enough to work.

  Between the bodies of two Invaders Ona had most likely killed, Seren leaned against the propped sword and pressed the sash that held her wrists into the metal.

  There was movement on the parapet. Varol. She could see his shape, the way he moved.

  The blade divided the sash and Seren’s hands fell to her sides. The flesh burned, not only because she’d nicked herself, but also because the blood had been inhibited too long by the knot. Feeling pricked its way back into her hands as she took the wool from her mouth. The wool had nearly gagged her. A cough built in her throat. The Invaders would hear her, realize how close she was if she made any noise. But maybe they’d only think it was one of their own? The cough echoed from her mouth. She couldn’t stop it.

  A pop sounded to the right.

  Her pulse jumped. She couldn’t see what had made the noise. The smell of the field and the fear in her heart blinded her as much as the dark.

  There wasn’t a Fire here, but Seren sat by Ona’s sword and prayed. Prayed for Ona’s soul. Prayed that her dearest friend, her Lucca, was still alive. Prayed Adem had kept the clay pot weapons close by and undamaged.

  Even if Seren had to die, maybe they could persuade Varol to use the weapons and they could live. Some of her people could live through this. Tears came then, hot and fast and untamable.

  “I understand,” she whispered to Ona’s sword, Death’s perfume overpowering. “You gave me so much. I don’t know if it matters, but I…I forgive you. I miss you already. Varol did seem like the strongest voice for our side, but—”

  Voice.

  Seren had the strongest voice now. She’d used it in the cell, when Lucca helped her escape. She only needed to wield her words now.

  A plan formed in her head. She wouldn’t know for certain if it worked, the walls blocked her view of her loyal warriors and the fuses, but…the truth of what she might accomplish sang through her like a song. The notes had always lived inside her, but she’d never known the words. Until now.

  She looked at Ona’s steel, the filthy ground, the dead warriors and their open eyes and swollen limbs. Just beyond the sword’s hilt lay Ona’s flint. Seren gathered the piece of cool stone and took up the familiar weapon. A sound built in her chest.

  With one last silent prayer to bless her defeated friend, Seren marched to the front gate, speared her green wool on the tip of Ona’s sword, and struck the flint to raise a spark like a falling star.

  “Wake iron!” she called out.

  Varol appeared on the parapet, his face in darkness.

  “Wake soul and Holy Fire!” She switched to the desert tongue, then repeated the words in the trade language. She wanted all to understand. All who would listen. The flint drew out another spear of blinding light. The Invaders would hear. She didn’t care. “Light the fuses of our weapons. Beg our people to show the Invaders Death!”

  “You do not rule here, Seren!” Varol called out, his words erratic and pitching up and down.

  “I am your kyros!” She shouted. She raised the sword as the sun rose over the hills and lit the green of her talisman. “This ends on my word!” Striking the flint, power tugged at her heart and burned between her eyebrows.

  Shouts erupted behind Akhayma’s gates.

  New, strange clouds filled the morning sky.

  The creations the Holy Fire had shown her soared through the gentle wind on silk. In the glowing light of dawn, they fluttered, their metal fuses like silver tails.

  Seren spun to see Invaders emerging from tents and bedrolls to stare at the lone madwoman on the battlefield in her silken slippers.

  One of the clay pots sparked. The silk incinerated. There was a bang.

  The weapon blasted into a thousand pieces.

  Seren’s ears rang. An Invader gripped his leg, his mouth open to yell as blood poured between his fingers. Another weapon exploded in a flash of light. Shards tore through a small tent. A third broke apart and fell onto a group of pikemen. They covered their faces, shouting, as the bits of clay embedded into their exposed arms and scalps. They screamed and fell, never to raise a sword against her people again. Two weapons exploded, not far away. A chip of clay hurled through the air and snapped at her back. Heat seared through her skin.

  She ran for the walls.

  Archers fought with Hossam on the parapet, with Cansu, too. Their hands flew at one another. Cansu called out.

  Ona’s sword thudded to the ground as Seren grabbed the rope they’d lowered her down on. She put her feet on the wall to begin a climb. Something knocked the pale rock beside her head. She looked down to see an arrow with bright red fletching. The Invaders were firing at her. Hand over hand, foot by foot, she ascended. Her arms shook and another arrow landed above her head.

  Booms and crashes sounded in the Invaders’ camp. Orders. Gasps. Shouted commands.

  Sudden screams eroded her focus. Gasping, she slipped to the earth. She covered her ears. More explosions. More. More.

  She spun and shouted, “It’s only because you wouldn’t stop! You left me no
choice! I have to protect my people!”

  Only because of the men running from the last of the weapons drifting down and the skull-splitting shrieks was she still alive.

  She looked up and took the rope again.

  Varol appeared on the parapet. His hair stuck out at all angles and his kaftan lay in shreds over his chest as if he’d torn it with his own hands. “Go ahead, try to climb, little kyros!”

  This was the end. She was bleeding. Trapped, an enemy before and behind.

  An arm and a yatagan snaked around Varol’s throat. Adem.

  She cupped her hands at her mouth. “Kill him!”

  Adem’s blade slid like a minnow, flashing and quick, and Varol tipped over the wall and fell. He was a blur of silk as he passed Seren and slammed into the ground.

  Victory poured strength into Seren’s limbs. She tried to climb again. Slid down. Arrows were coming fast and she was cut again, on the arm, then along her calf. Quickly, she tied a knot in the rope and shoved her foot inside.

  Adem leaned over the wall.

  “Pull me up!” she shouted. The howls of pain behind her squeezed her chest. She could hardly breathe.

  At the top, strong hands helped her over and she fell into a familiar chest.

  Dirt and blood lined Lucca’s strong-boned face. Two lengths of cloth wrapped around his injured leg and he’d slung his bow over a shoulder.

  “How did it happen?” she asked. “How did you light and release the explosives?” She wanted to think it was her, but that was impossible, wasn’t it?

  He smiled and pressed his mouth to hers. She tasted salt and him and knew if he hadn’t been here, she’d have been at Adem’s feet weeping. Lucca’s power gave her power.

  “When you called up the Holy Fire,” he said, “the fuses…a spark bloomed over each one. The loyal soldiers, and some high-castes hiding in the crowd, grabbed the devices and lifted them into the air before Varol’s men could shake off their surprise.”

  Seren closed her eyes and whispered gratitude into Lucca’s arms. The terrible sounds of the final victory clambered over the walls and shot into her ears.