Sandstorm: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Christopher Rowe

  Cephas tensed, growing angry. “What is your purpose, Corvus?”

  Corvus made the ticking noise at the back of his throat. “A question for another day, perhaps.”

  “That’s a day that’s been a long time coming,” said Mattias.

  “That man you all talk about, Azad,” said Ariella. “He led an uprising in Calimport?”

  “Azad the Free is not a man to lead an uprising,” said Corvus. “He simply led an escape. Before that, I have learned that for a ten-year period in the middle of this century, from the time the great djinni and efreeti nobles Calim and Memnon disappeared until twenty years ago, a human slave named Azad stalked the arenas of Calimport and Manshaka as no other gladiator in history has. He used a double-headed flail, he won over a thousand matches, and he ended his career when he was taken into the household of his owner, Marod el Arhapan.”

  “The man the WeavePasha says is my father,” said Cephas.

  “Oh, he is your father, Cephas,” said Corvus. “At least, it is his blood that runs through your veins, and that suffices as a definition of fatherhood for many. The records I consulted in Saradush, and earlier, in Airspur, suggest it. Then Elder Lin confirmed it when she examined your szuldar lines. You are a scion of the el Arhapan line, one of the oldest windsouled lineages on the planet.”

  “Then Cephas’s mother was earthsouled,” said Ariella. “An unlikely match from what I have heard of the ruling classes of Calimport.”

  “An impossible match, yes,” said Corvus. “And now we come to the key that turns the lock of our friend’s past. Who was the mother of Cephas Earthsouled?”

  Cephas asked, “The pasha of games has no wife?”

  “By all accounts, Marod el Arhapan is a remarkably focused man. His passion is the arenas his family rebuilt after the departure of Calim. He has enormous political power, but rarely uses it unless he is made to by his vizar, the djinni Shahrokh. Otherwise, he is content to be the master of games. The only times he leaves his floating palace or the arenas are when he travels to the training camps he maintains in the deep desert. He is known to have married just one woman and to have fathered just one child. They both disappeared from Calimien society decades ago.”

  “When Azad led his freedmen north?” asked Cephas. “Bringing me with them? What of this gamemaster’s wife?”

  “His wife—your mother, Cephas—died in the Year of the Malachite Shadows, twenty years ago. Not long after giving birth to an earthsouled boy.”

  “Which the el Arhapans could not countenance,” Mattias interjected. “Why did they allow Marod to marry an earthsouled woman in the first place?”

  Cephas, not Corvus, answered. “Because they did not know,” he said. “She wore a Second Soul.”

  Corvus nodded. “Marod could not have known.”

  “Why did she keep it a secret?” asked Ariella. “She had to have known the child might reveal her.”

  “The answer to the first question is rooted in Southern genasi society. Even before the return of the djinni lords, the el Arhapan windsouled were involved with the earliest incarnations of the Firestorm Cabal. In the South, the sect is even more radicalized than in Akanûl. They preach division of the various souls, yes, but with the renewal of the war between Memnon and Calimport, the different chapter houses proposed ranks. The genasi must be divided by their forms, because one form is naturally superior to the others. Which form is held supreme depends on where a given chapter house was located. In Memnon and Teshburl, they teach that the firesouled are foremost. In Manshaka and Calimport—”

  “The windsouled,” said Cephas, studying the backs of his silver hands. “That is two. What of storm and water? What of the earth?”

  “As with anything else in the Emirates, the interference of the Plane Below compels. Air and fire hold sway because the djinni followers of Calim and the efreeti followers of Memnon hold enormous power over the genasi and any others living in the Skyfire lands. Of all the aspects of the genasi, earthsouled are ranked the lowest. At least, that is what the ruling windsouled and firesouled say. It’s one of the few things they agree on.”

  “Are we slaves there?” asked Cephas.

  “Yes, some earthsouled live as slaves. This is what Elder Lin believes to be your mother’s story. The matrilineal szuldar she traced on you belong to an obscure family of earthsouled who have been held in slavery in Calimport for generations. They are not even recorded by the Firestormers in Akanûl, or by the High Heralds. Marod el Arhapan married a woman who did not escape slavery into the desert or onto the sea, then,” said Corvus. “She found a Second Soul, and sought escape through it.”

  Cephas stared at the kenku. “What was my mother’s name?”

  “I do not know. Not really. As the pasha’s wife, she was known as Valandra el Arhapan, without reference to her own family name. That’s not unusual when the windsouled nobility marry someone from a low-ranking family, and she would have used a false name in any case. The Argentori have abandoned the naming conventions of the Emirates, but Lin said the most common name among earthsouled of your lineage is el Shelsper.”

  “Valandra el Shelsper,” said Cephas. “Marod el Arhapan. Do you know, I never spent any time at all imagining my parents? My daydreams were all versions of the stories in Azad’s book, with me taking the hero’s part. But if there are any stories in that book about parents and children, he never read them.”

  “I know a little more, yet,” said Corvus, quietly. “I know the end of your mother’s story.”

  They all watched the fire, though there was little light in it. Even its heat was faltering since Corvus had ceased to tend it.

  Cephas said, “Tell it.”

  Corvus said, “A tenday after you were born, Valandra el Arhapan’s name was struck from the genealogies of every Cabal chapter house. And, though I did not connect them at first, the name Valandra inh Yikaria was entered into another set of records.”

  “ ‘Inh’?” asked Ariella. “I do not know that article. ‘El’ is of the family and ‘yi’ is of the place. ‘Adh’ is the slave of.”

  “It is rarely used,” said Corvus. “And when it is, it is considered an insult. It means ‘sister of.’ ”

  “Valandra, the sister of Yikaria?” asked Cephas. The word was so familiar …

  “ ‘Sister of the Yikaria,’ I believe,” said Corvus. “As to who they are, you know them. Or have seen them. You fought them. It is the name El Pajabbar use for their own people.”

  “What?” asked Cephas. “My mother’s name was listed with those of minotaurs?”

  “No, Cephas,” Corvus replied. “She was listed with slaves bound for the arenas.”

  “Oh, Cephas,” said Ariella.

  “The day after you were born, your mother was turned into the pits below the Djen Arena. She was issued a pail and a cotton shift, and her face was branded with the Calimien slave mark. She survived there for ten days, until her name appeared on the card of gladiators and threw the wagering into disarray, because she was unknown and had drawn a famous opponent.

  “She was handed a spear and driven onto the sand, and, before eighteen thousand spectators, she met the greatest gladiator of the era, and she died, Cephas. She died as the last opponent faced by Azad adh Arhapan.”

  The prey moved about less than they had earlier, but the vibrations of their steps and sighs and endless prattle still carried along the stone strands. All the scouts felt it, and joined their minds together, then their minds with stone. They agreed. The prey was stuck, their position was fixed, and the fighters would come from the north.

  Web and rock, thought the scouts, web and rock.

  The demon sent its awareness through the stone strands, obliterating the personalities of all the plaguechanged aranea joined with it. The demon ignored the chaos this engendered in the ranks of his worshipers. The barely discernible individual personalities of the spiderfolk did not concern it, as long as their fighting prowess was unaffected.

  The demon mov
ed south over the plain, testing the limits of its leash. It had briefly imagined it was testing the limits of its freedom, but as soon as the concept came to its mind, the torment returned. The human woman was watching closely.

  The demon did not consider the possibility of escape. It could not be said to be wise, but the demon was canny, and it knew any such attempt would find its physical body destroyed and its wretched soul sent spinning into the blackest pit in the universe. It had crawled out of that pit once already, and would not risk being cast down into it again.

  The sorceress would never free it. She would not even reward it, as the demon doubted she possessed the depravity of imagination necessary to conceive something it would find rewarding. Except that she held the leash, the woman was a poor stand-in for the wizard who imprisoned it in the temple more than a century past. She was not even a pale shadow of the Qysars she claimed as ancestors.

  The demon realized the woman might sense this direction in its thoughts, so shied away from them, fearing her psychic lash. But the lash did not fall.

  A message coalesced out of the vibrations in the stoneweb. The shamans were joined in their awareness. They were the caste of aranea who believed the demon to be a god, and who had reshaped their warped and forgotten people when the land around them desiccated from nightmarish swamp to chthonic badland. The shamans pooled their thoughts from points scattered widely across the plain, where their naked bodies stretched across the ground, attuned to the tiniest trembles in the earth. They collectively decided on an action, then communicated their will to the vast, immobile eggmothers, who plucked the stoneweb and directed the hunters and scouts and fighters.

  The demon felt a warning tug on its leash and turned its attention back to the wailing shamans.

  The prey was stuck in the far southern reaches of the web, they told it. The scouts have fixed the particular junction of strands, and the fighters approach. Do they wait for its majestic and terrible coming?

  The demon listened, waiting to see if the sorceress would offer direction. Nothing came, and it judged the distance to its prey to be such that it could drag its enormous body there in a moment or two—no farther than a human could walk in a day, certainly.

  Send in the fighters, the demon told the shamans. The one that survived receiving the message passed it on.

  A bolt of liquid stone shot out of the dark, enveloping Cephas’s head and shoulders and making it impossible for him to breathe. He dimly heard shouts and the rasp of steel clearing leather, then the screams of a wyvern intent on destruction.

  A tremendous blow fell, shattering the net covering his face. He blinked rock from his eyes and looked up to see Mattias standing astride him, one of his canes held in both hands like a club.

  “Keep your head down,” said the ranger. “We don’t know what they are, but these webs they cast are hard to clear off.”

  He twisted his canes together, and the thin gold line of the bowstring shone in the dark. “Surprised the bastard didn’t have them disable it permanently,” Mattias muttered, then said, “Ariella was on watch at our right flank, beyond the balanced rock.”

  Before they bedded down, after Corvus promised to explain the WeavePasha’s plot at first light, Cephas had made a long, careful check of his equipment. He turned the double flail over and over, wondering about its age and powers. About its provenance, and about the great value it held for Azad the Free. Corvus saw him and said, “I have no way of knowing, Cephas. He used a flail on the sands. Whether it was this one in particular …”

  The kenku had not finished the thought, and now that Cephas heard the sounds of fighting out on the plain, he found that it did not matter. For now—for tonight, at least—the flail was just a tool he would use to help Ariella.

  Mattias’s climbing of the rock was a hard thing to watch, but for all his awkwardness, the ranger made the top of the balanced tor quickly. The strength in his arms must be enormous, thought Cephas, as he trotted around the stone. As he went, he shouted over his shoulder. “Where are the others?”

  A flaming arrow flew away from the rock. An explosion followed out in the dark, and inhuman screams of pain rose up.

  “You will see Corvus and Shan only if you’re in trouble!” Mattias called. “Trill is on the wing. She’s in a testy mood.”

  So am I, Cephas realized. It felt good to have implacable anger surging through him, energizing him. Did I become earthsouled again while I slept? he wondered.

  But no, it was the wind-force gathering, and the heft of the double flail was different in his hands—not lighter, precisely, but suited for a more fluid style of sweeps and swings than the inexorable crushing blows he usually favored. He was going to fight differently, he sensed, but he was still going to fight.

  An alien figure rose up from a cluster of boulders on his left, hefting a crude, stone-tipped spear and chattering from the mandibles that dominated the lower half of its face. Their attackers were like nothing out of a story, and like nothing from Grinta the Pike’s lengthy catalog of past and potential victims.

  Cephas flexed his left arm, dropping the distal flailhead and bringing the proximal around high and hard. The spiked steel sphere struck the creature in the face, rupturing one of its enormous faceted eyes. It fell without casting its spear, the eerie chattering dying with the thing that sounded it.

  “Another one!” Ariella shouted. “Behind you!”

  Even as he turned, her glowing blue sword whipped out of her hand and swung in a wide arc around him, leaving a trailing wake of golden sparks that floated to the ground, guarding the two windsouled in a circle lit by magic. The blade cut through the spear arm of one of the creatures, but another ducked back, only to stop still and sink to the ground with white bile pouring from its mouth. Cephas caught the briefest hint of shadowy movement behind the thing and knew Corvus was near.

  Very near, in fact. When Cephas turned to face Ariella, the kenku stood between them.

  “Imaginative namers of places, Calishites,” Corvus said. “Plain of Stone Spiders, indeed.” A rushing wind above their heads caused them to instinctively duck, and when they straightened, the motionless silhouettes of three more of the spiderfolk plummeted to the ground, killed and dropped by Trill.

  No other threats were apparent nearby, though the steady song of Mattias’s bow did not diminish. Every note his weapon sounded was followed by an answering scream or percussive shock.

  “Shan saw another group of them circling around to the south and went to meet them,” said Corvus.

  “This seems an ill-considered attack,” said Cephas. “Unless it is a probe of our strength.”

  Corvus cursed, and Ariella looked grim.

  “Of course,” said the kenku. “Something else is coming.”

  Cephas nodded sharply. “Then we should gather together and guard against it,” he said. He turned toward the camp. “Perhaps where Mattias stands and shoots.”

  Corvus said, “If it is where Mattias chose to stand, then it is the strongest place on the field.”

  “Ariella can carry you up,” said Cephas. “I will find Shan.”

  “I have my own means of getting there,” Corvus said. The last word floated out of the shadows, and Cephas had no doubt the kenku stood beside Mattias in an instant.

  “He said she was to the south,” Cephas said to Ariella. “Come on!”

  Weapons at the ready, the pair of windsouled ran, curving wide of the camp in case more spiderfolk were drawn there. When they came to a wash or a sinkhole, they took to the air, and it was when they were floating down from such a leap that they found a clutch of dead spiderfolk, five or six in all.

  Shan stepped out of the dark, breathing hard, her arms coated to the elbow in gore. She did not greet them, but stepped past them to the fallen creatures. She bent and retrieved dart after silvered dart from the corpses.

  “Shan,” said Ariella, “we’re to join Mattias above the camp. Corvus fears—”

  The halfling woman held up one h
and, cutting the swordmage short. She brought her fingers to her lips, signaling silence. She looked north, and it was then that Cephas and Ariella heard the sound—heard and felt it.

  Tremendous crashes sounded, growing louder, above something else, a sound almost like the sea in its liquid swell and fall, but thicker, contained.

  “It’s like a giant dragging a wineskin over gravel,” Ariella said.

  Cephas said, “If the giant has many legs.”

  “Come, Shan!” said Ariella, and the halfling leaped onto the swordmage’s back. The windsouled pair ran for a moment, and then they flew.

  At the direction of Mattias, even Trill came down from her hunt, awkwardly wrapping her long body around the rock so that the companions watched the thing that approached over a parapet of scale and muscle.

  “I don’t understand,” said Cephas. “I see it, yet I cannot say what it is I see.”

  “Foul magic,” said Ariella. “It is a nexus of fear and hate.” She rubbed her hand across her upper lip, the scant light making the blood flowing from her nose appear black against her silver skin.

  The thing dwarfed the rock where they stood. Cephas wondered if it might even be as large as Jazeerijah. The milky white sac it dragged behind its countless grasping legs had something of the shape of the earthmote. The massive, distended body was bulbous near its front, then tapered to a spiked protuberance that left a trail of slime stretching over the northern horizon, glowing with heat or sorcery.

  The impossible creature was still beyond the farthest range of even Mattias’s bow, but for all that its movements were a kinetic chaos, with the bulk of its body dragging over uneven ground and its tree-trunk legs clattering and pulling a half-dozen different directions, it approached with the speed of a galloping horse.

  “It is a demon,” said Corvus. “An abomination of the Abyss and a stain on the fabric of the world. Oh, Acham el Jhotos, I never dreamed you would go so far.”

  “Hmmm,” said Mattias, and he said it with such calm, that the others dragged their gazes from the nightmare on the plain to look at him. “Do you know, Corvus, that now that it’s come right down to it, I think you’re slandering the old tyrant? I doubt it’s his hand that guides that thing. Ah. It hardly matters.”