The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya)

by Bradley Beaulieu

  “You cowardly goat!” Styophan shouted in Anuskayan. “You mongrel dog!”

  Kürad responded in Haelish, and the same woman, this time with a flinty look on her face, translated. “You came too late.”

  Styophan looked between her and Kürad. “What do you mean too late?”

  When Kürad spoke, it was with clear reluctance, but it seemed as though he would give this to Styophan, this if nothing else. He spoke for a long time. He paused every so often, gathering himself, choosing the right words, and Styophan wondered what could make him open up so.

  “Three weeks ago,” the woman finally said, “the Empire came and offered us peace. They came with food and gold and an offer of land—nearly all of it that had been taken in the war between us that has lasted generations. Kürad spoke to your crow, to your Matra. The gems you offered were generous, and we would have continued the war, despite our losses…” Now it was the woman’s turn to gather herself. “Gripping arms with Yrstanla is not something we would have foreseen even three moons ago. But the withering…” Styophan had seen this look a hundred times. A thousand. It was the look of someone approaching the final days of the wasting who thought the disease a failing, some fault of their own. “Kürad could not allow our numbers to dwindle further, not if we wanted any chance of surviving.”

  “They’re lying to you,” Styophan said. “They’ve done this because of the war with Anuskaya. When that is done, they will return.”

  “That is why Kürad hopes you fight to your last breath. The people of Hael must rest. We must breathe.”

  “But don’t you see? Our only hope is to fight together. If you wait, Bahett will take you at his leisure.”

  “That may be so, but the Lord of the Hills has told us that we cannot fight. And so it will be.”

  Styophan tried to speak again, but Kürad pointed toward the entryway, and he was led roughly outside. Mikhalai and Rodion and four others were held by the Haelish men. Four more lay upon the ground, unmoving, blood pooled beneath them.

  Styophan stared at the face of Avil, young Avil, his eyes slack, lifeless. His lips were already blue. By the ancients who preserve, he was only twenty-three.

  “You goat-fucking heathens!”

  The man who held him struck him across the back of his head.

  “Fuck your mother!” he shouted over the pain as he tried to wrench his arms away.

  But their hold on him was as sure as a mainstay. They struck him again and again. Finally one struck squarely. Stars burst before him. He felt woozy. He drew in another breath, ready to fight until they killed him, but the next strike brought with it a deep and utter blackness.

  When Styophan woke, he was being dragged behind a horse on a wooden framework. His wrists and ankles were tied to long wooden poles that crossed over the horse’s withers. They were traveling through a marsh. The smell of it as the horses’ hooves splooshed into the muck was foul and fetid. The sled pulled him through the shallow water at a downward angle, giving him a clear view of the Haelish to the rear of the line. He had to lift his head to do it, though, and every time he did it the movement sent a spike of cold iron through his head.

  Dozens of horses rode in the line behind him. He could see more sleds like his, but who was on them, he couldn’t tell. He’d brought eighty-nine windsmen to Haelish lands. How many of them still lived? Four? Five? His head pounded as the weight of it struck him. He felt tears forming, but he stifled his thoughts of regret ruthlessly. He refused to let the Haelish see his tears.

  Behind the horses marched several hundred Haelish, most carrying large bundles or baskets on their backs. The entire tribe must have come, he realized. They’d picked up their entire village and went on the move. No wonder it was so difficult for the Empire to pin them down. They had only a handful of permanent settlements, and those were on ground the Haelish considered sacred, places they were especially loath to relinquish to the Empire.

  Styophan’s vision went blurry. He blinked his eyes, but it wouldn’t go away, and soon his head began to hurt worse than only moments ago. His stomach felt like it was twisting in circles, and as a Haelish man came beside him, a nausea struck him so fiercely that he simply threw up what little there was in his stomach.

  The man walking beside his sled was Datha, he realized. His eyes were resolute, but there was shame in them as well. He took a length of brown cloth from a sack at his belt and placed it over Styophan’s eyes.

  Styophan tried to move his head away, fearing what he might do when the blindfold was on him.

  “Sleep,” Datha said, tying the cloth despite Styophan’s feeble attempts at preventing it.

  Styophan wanted to spit in his face, but he saw no point in it.

  He was so woozy he wanted to throw up again, but whatever small amount of vigor he’d had on waking had already been drained from him, and he fell asleep minutes later.

  The next time Styophan woke, his blindfold had been removed. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps they reasoned they were deep enough into Haelish territory, or they’d confirmed that there were no allies near enough to help him. Or perhaps Styophan had proved himself docile enough that they could allow this small amount of freedom. That made him want to struggle once more, to break free if only to take one of them with him before he died, but the truth was he was too weak at the moment to do anything.

  They traveled among tall hills still bright with green summer growth. Grasses taller than a man swayed in the wind, making them look alive, as if they might pick themselves up and fall into line with the Haelish on their trek southward. The sky was a nondescript grey. A light snow was falling, casting the hills as something from a dream, as if it didn’t really exist beyond the white haze of snow in the distance.

  Datha was walking next to him again. As he had in the forest, he wore no shirt, no form of protection from the growing cold. His skin was also covered in something that glistened in the low light. Goat fat, perhaps, as the Matri did before submerging themselves beneath the frigid waters of the drowning basin. No paint covered his chest. This was also true of the other Haelish men that Styophan could see walking in the line behind him. Perhaps they only applied the paint in preparation for battle. It would make sense. To use it unnecessarily would be to waste the stones they found so valuable.

  He wondered if they’d scavenged the ships for the stones he’d brought from Khalakovo. Surely they had. He could see several of the warriors bearing muskets. Even from this distance Styophan could tell they were Anuskayan.

  Datha glanced down at Styophan, doing a double-take when he realized Styophan was awake. He unslung a skin of water from around his shoulders and held it up to Styophan’s lips. The act of lifting his head caused Styophan no small amount of pain, but it was manageable, and he was able to drink his fill.

  “You’re gutless,” Styophan said in Yrstanlan when Datha pulled the skin away.

  Datha bristled. “Watch your tongue.”

  “Worthless.”

  No sooner had Styophan said this than Datha lashed out and clouted him across the cheek. It was not a particularly hard hit, but with his head wound already throbbing, it made Styophan feel as if his skull were being crushed beneath a wagon wheel.

  “Kürad is taking you to Skolohalla. Bahett wished to speak with the one who led the forces of Anuskaya when they came. If you wish for mercy, or any kindness at all for the Aramahn woman or your remaining men, you will watch your tongue. No matter what Bahett has offered, Kürad won’t hesitate to kill them, or you, if you bring further shame on our tribe.”

  Styophan had heard of Skolohalla. It was not a place. Rather, it was a meeting, a joining of the various tribes of Hael in one location. They did so at certain times of the year, most often at summer and winter solstice, but this felt different. It felt momentous. They came together not only to celebrate, but to decide upon things that affected all the peoples of Hael. The Kings would meet and hold council and decide the fate of their Kingdoms, such as they were.

 
“Any shame brought upon you—”

  Datha grabbed Styophan’s cheeks and squeezed until Styophan stopped talking. His eyes were bright with anger. “I know who brought shame upon us, and so does Kürad. Why do you think you were allowed into the yurt with your weapons? Why do you think we waited after the sound of cannon was heard through the forest?” He waited for those words to sink in. “Kürad feels shame, but this is a thing he feels we must do. The withering has come, even though our wodjana said it would happen only to the Empire. They said it was in punishment for the Kamarisi’s transgressions. They said it would stop when Yrstanla retreated beyond the hills and promised never to return. And we all believed them.

  “But then the withering came, more ravenously than it had for the armies of the Kamarisi. Those taken by it die in weeks, not months. How can this be? we asked. How can we be punished more harshly than Yrstanla? Do you know the answer, Styophan son of Andrasha?”

  Styophan couldn’t shake his head. It hurt too much. So he merely stared.

  “Hayir,” Datha said with a sneer. “You have no idea what happened. It’s been happening for years among the islands and you haven’t a clue how to heal it.”

  Prince Nikandr had healed some who’d been taken by the wasting, but Styophan wondered—now that his Lord had lost his ability to commune with his wind spirit—if he could do so again. Probably not, and even if he could, he could not stem this tide. He couldn’t do so on Rafsuhan, and he certainly couldn’t do it here.

  “Do you want to know what changed Kürad’s mind?” Datha asked. “Why he decided, after all our years of war with Yrstanla, to betray his word and give you to Bahett?”

  Styophan could see the anger radiating from Datha. He didn’t truly wish to trade words with this man, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Why?”

  “Because the withering began on the islands. Is it not so?”

  The horse climbed a rise out of the swamp, but then rounded the other side and entered it once more. The water was deeper here. It seeped into Styophan’s boots and chilled his feet. “We call it the wasting, and it started on the islands, but we didn’t cause it.”

  “You did! And now it has come here. Our warriors and our women die, and the wodjana say that the only way to be rid of it is to give you to Yrstanla.”

  Datha walked in silence for a time, his footsteps splashing in water covered with tiny green plants. His face had lost much of its anger, and it was replaced with a look of regret, as if he wished Styophan and his ships had never come.

  “They may believe that,” Styophan said, “but you don’t.”

  Datha glanced over. “Don’t I?”

  “If you did you wouldn’t be talking to me now.”

  Datha walked in silence for a time, the snow falling against his dark skin and melting. Toward the front of the line, the sounds of footsteps sloshing through the mud was replaced by soft footfalls against dry grasses, and soon the horse bearing Styophan reached solid ground. They began taking a trail along higher land, and the marsh began to fade into the distance.

  “We’ll reach our meeting ground in less than a fortnight,” Datha said softly. “Four of your men are left, plus the woman.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So you don’t do anything rash. Let Kürad treat with Bahett’s men. They’ll take you eastward, and if luck shines upon you, you’ll be rescued.” With that he began walking faster, perhaps to be done with speaking with one of the enemy.

  “Wait! How could I be rescued? We were betrayed. No one even knows where we are.”

  If Datha was bothered by the word betrayed he didn’t show it. “They say you pray to your dead to protect you. Is it so?”

  Styophan nodded, ignoring the pain the simple motion brought.

  “Then pray to them today, Styophan of Anuskaya”—he glanced up toward the sky—“for one of your ships made it safely away.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nikandr rode at the head of the line, guiding them across a landscape dotted with bushes and the occasional cacti that with the spring rains were blooming with bright yellow flowers. They’d been riding since dawn and were just now, with the sun already past midday, nearing the outskirts of Andakhara. He glanced back to Atiana, who rode stoically behind him on her own mount—an ab-sair of the Gaji. Ashan and Sukharam brought up the rear. Ashan smiled and nodded, but Sukharam merely turned his gaze elsewhere. He returned to the land ahead, staring at the collection of homes in the distance that occupied the center of the wide horizon.

  He and Atiana had woken before dawn, the two of them tearing down their tent and preparing for the day’s ride silently. He’d apologized to her, the two of them holding each other for a time, but it had felt insufficient. And if it felt that way to him, he was sure the it would be trebly so for Atiana.

  As he reined his ab-sair over, the beast lifted its head and wailed—a sad sound that reminded Nikandr of the elk herds that ran through the Empire’s eastern mountains. The others in the train all did the same. They were strangely docile that way. The beasts were equine, but their shoulders and withers and neck were massive, storing water for their long journeys across the wastelands of the desert and the great, arid plains to the west. They were not fleet, but they were perfect for treks across the Gaji.

  He guided his ab-sair until he was riding alongside Atiana. “Good day to you, m’lady.”

  Atiana remained silent, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  “Ah, you’re upset. I’ve come without a gift.” He kicked his ab-sair forward, riding into the scrub.

  “Don’t, Nischka,” he heard Atiana call behind him.

  He continued on, riding toward one of the tall cacti with the thousand arms. He urged the ab-sair forward and stood up on the saddle.

  “Nischka, don’t!”

  It was a thing easy enough to do on the beast’s wide shoulders. He rode forward, feeling the rhythm of the ab-sair’s powerful gait, and snatched one of the yellow flowers from an arm that hung well wide of the body of the plant. He guided the ab-sair back toward the group, still holding the flower high, and only then, when he was back by Atiana’s side, did he drop down and hold the flower out to her with a flourish.

  She made no move to take it. She simply stared at him as if that were the most idiotic thing she’d ever seen.

  “They smell like home,” he said, shaking it.

  “They smell nothing of the sort.”

  He shook it gently, and waited.

  With an annoyed look, she accepted the flower and held it to her nose. Nikandr could still smell it: the scent of jasmine, which grew thick and strong in the gardens of Palotza Galostina, Atiana’s childhood home and the seat of her family’s power.

  “You’re little more than a fool child, Nikandr Iaroslov.” She spoke the words, but there was a reluctant smile on her lips. She hid it with the flower, taking in the scent again. By the time she lowered it, the look was gone.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Nikandr said.

  “Have you?”

  “I haven’t been truthful about the hezhan.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Atiana, please, let me get this out.”

  She took a deep breath. “You’re right. Go on.”

  “I miss the bond. You’ve known that for as long as I have, perhaps longer. But I think I didn’t realize just how much I missed Nasim. I knew him for only a short time before he took to the winds with Fahroz. We were separated by such great distances, and still I felt him. I didn’t know it, but he was there with me, all that time. I felt him growing.” Atiana made to speak, but he talked over her. “I know it sounds foolish, but I didn’t realize any of that until it was taken away from me. I felt him growing over those years. I felt his awareness expanding. I thought it was my own understanding, my own connection to Adhiya and the world around me. But it wasn’t. It never was. It was Nasim’s, or what little he granted me of it.

  “On the Spar, when Nasim severed that connection, when he p
lunged that knife into me, that was all lost to me. Adhiya. The havahezhan. And Nasim. As strange as it sounds, he was like a son to me.” Ahead, the wind pulled up dirt from the desert floor, played with it. Nikandr pointedly ignored it. “While I was up on the cliff, I was thinking only of myself, but last night, lying in the tent, I realized how desperately I want to find Nasim.”

  Atiana glanced at him, stared deeply into his eyes, and then focused on the way ahead once more. “So that you can forge a new bond with him?”

  Nikandr shrugged. “Perhaps. But I think it’s more than that. We know that Nasim is one key to closing the rifts over Ghayavand. I felt as though, if I had some connection to him, I also had some power over the fate of the world.”

  “But you do. That’s why we’re here, to find him.”

  “I know, but this is different. There’s always been something about Nasim. I can’t explain it. It’s deep, and ancient. It’s power I’ve never had on my own.”

  Atiana was quiet for a time. The only sound came from the plodding of the ab-sair’s hooves. He thought he’d angered her, and he was just about to apologize for making a mess of things again when she began talking. “I know what you mean. I felt the same of Sariya.” She placed the flower behind her ear and urged her mount closer to his. She took his hand and squeezed tenderly. “There are times when I miss that as well.”

  She meant well by what she’d said, but it only served to remind them both that Sariya was dead. Nasim might be dead as well. They might be on a fool’s errand, coming to the desert, chasing Sariya’s daughter.

  “We’ll find him,” she said, squeezing his hand one last time.

  “I know,” he replied, but he wasn’t at all sure it was true.

  They continued on toward Andakhara, reaching its outskirts within the hour. When they came abreast of the first of the simple mudbrick homes, the ab-sair wailed. Perhaps in answer, a goat brayed, and a bell clanged, and then a female goat heavy with milk trundled out from behind the nearby home. Her two kids followed, ducking their heads and drawing sharply from their mother’s teats while the mother stared on. As they passed the house—little more than a single room with a thatched roof—a black-haired girl wearing a blue shayla poked her head out from behind a corner.