Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Guards met her and led her to another gate leading into the sand pit. She stood alone this time, her spear resting against the wall. She gripped it and held it up, remembering all those years of training beside her father. She wished he could see her now.

  A rumble and the metallic clanking of chains was her first warning as the gate began to rise. The next was the roar of the audience.

  The sun sat high, warming the top of the arena for the finale, while the sands and all the bottom were bathed in the green of the tremendous nigh’jel globe hanging overhead. From smaller gates all around the circumference of the arena, her opponents were let out one at a time. She didn’t recognize any of them except for Rajeev—of course, he’d made it—but counted four others. That meant the beasts had slain two other warriors, including Amoud.

  “Latiapur!” the eunuch shouted. “Enough games!” Beastmasters prodded a growling desert leopard into a caged entry. Others cleared the corpse of the pit lizard it had apparently battled. Mahraveh had wondered what the crowd was clamoring over before she was let out.

  “Honored combatants, the sea swells for your mighty performances,” the eunuch went on. “But only one of you will claim afhemdom. I wish it could be you all, but that is not the way of our people. Only the mighty may endure the whipping sands and crushing waves.”

  The other combatants spat in their hands and ran them through the sand, and this time Mahraveh joined them at the proper time.

  “We give honor, to you, our combatants. Death comes to all, but for one of you, let it not be for years to come. May the eternal current guide you.”

  “May the eternal current guide me!” the combatants echoed, just as they had last time. Between then and when the fight was signaled to start, Mahraveh closed her eyes and breathed in. The sea was near. She could smell the salt. And she could smell the stink of death and rotting corpses filling her home. All because the leaders of her brave people had taken a fondness for cowardice.

  By the time her eyes re-opened, the others had fanned out. Rajeev broke rank and charged, relentlessly attacking another combatant. Metal sparked, but Mahi couldn’t watch. A reedy looking warrior stalked toward her. His tattoos were distinct against his bare arms, and so were the many scars.

  When he was close enough, he feinted a thrust with one thin sword only to stab upward with the other. Mahraveh saw it coming and knocked it aside with the shaft of her spear. She recognized the ruse right away. The man expected her to block and anticipated her trying to use the advantage to attack, but she didn’t. Instead, she leaned back and brought her spear vertical, spear tip directly in front of her face.

  These were the best of the combatants. She couldn’t extend herself without studying them first. The way his hands gripped his weapons. The way his hips moved when he stepped into a stroke.

  He smiled, approaching again. Their weapons play lasted for several minutes, Mahi deflecting every attack. He wasn’t overly strong in comparison, so using his weight was easy. She waited until frustration of not being able to pierce her defenses mounted, then finally saw the opening she needed. She sliced the warrior’s hand, causing him to drop one sword.

  “You are a warrior, not an artist,” she remembered Muskigo tell her. “Do not look for the one-hit kill. Slice them a thousand times if need be and watch them bleed out.”

  She lashed twice more, drawing two deep gashes on his arm before he recovered. His stance didn’t allow a strike at anywhere more vital without her leaving herself vulnerable to his remaining sword. Blood flowed freely down the warrior’s arm, but he didn’t relent. The scars were proof he was no stranger to battle. Unfortunately, Mahi was. She’d trained with the best, but actual combat was new to her.

  The warrior raked his weapon around and caught Mahraveh on the hip. It wasn’t deep but it stung. He swiped again, but she was ready this time. She allowed his blade to slide along her spear pole and cut her hand, but he extended his arm too far. He was off-balance for only a moment, but it was enough for Mahraveh to dig her spear tip into the side of his neck. She removed it, and his lifeless body dropped.

  She wiped the blood from her brow and saw Rajeev still fought on the other side of the arena, two corpses at his feet

  Mahraveh began to make her way toward him when she noticed another man to her right. He’d killed an opponent and was closer to her. The three of them exchanged glances, then Rajeev grinned and bowed, and invited Mahraveh and the other to fight each other.

  “Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said.

  The other warrior didn’t. He gripped a spear from his fallen foe and threw it at Mahi as hard as he could. She wasn’t used to dealing with such speed. She spun, the blade grazed the side of her helmet on its way by. She landed on her hands and feet like a cat, then sprung back upright. The crowd seemed delighted by the display.

  The third man charged her, wielding a sickle-blade. She flipped backward as he swung. Her back heel strung on the landing, but she pushed forward, following beneath another of his swipes and gashing the side of his torso.

  She was about to spin to face him when she realized Rajeev was done waiting. His axe raced toward her head, and she evaded it just in time, but not enough to avoid his massive frame. She slammed into his hip and twisted, earning an elbow to the gut that sent her to the sand.

  Rajeev could have crushed her beneath his foot if the other didn’t come at him. His sickle-blade cut and slashed. It was a rare warrior who could master such a weapon, but the unpredictability made it proficient in one-on-one combat. Rajeev parried, but he was on his heels, his back to her.

  Mahraveh caught her breath and prepared to make her move, but as she stood, a bellot pelted her in the helmet. The crowd booed a patron who’d decided to interrupt the fight. Guards stormed down the stands to arrest him. All Mahraveh noticed was Babrak up above, a smirk smeared across his face. She couldn’t imagine what he’d paid the man to defy honor like that.

  She turned back to the fighting and saw Rajeev get close enough to daze his opponent with a head butt. The man staggered, tried to strike, but Rajeev caught his arm and pulled him into the waiting tip of his blade. Rajeev heaved the man over his shoulder, blood showering him before the man slid off like meat from a skewer.

  Rajeev puffed out his chest and roared, breathing in the adoration of the crowd. Again Mahraveh saw her opening and took off. She was only a couple of meters away when she stabbed at him, but she was overeager, like a sand snake must never be if it wishes to survive.

  Rajeev spun, deflecting her spear just to the right of his torso, and he elbowed back, catching her in the nose-piece of her helmet. She landed with a thud on top of the other warrior, the air evacuating her lungs as his knee dug into her back.

  “My apologies, boy,” Rajeev said as he stepped down on Mahi’s fighting hand. Her fingers released the grip of her spear, and he lowered the tip of his axe blade to her throat. He looked up to Babrak and the others—an opportunity to gloat. But it was also the opportunity Mahi needed.

  With her other hand, she grabbed a fistful of bloodied, black sand and threw it into Rajeev’s eyes. Instinctively, his hand went to his face, his foot backed off her hand, and she was able to roll to her feet.

  The crowd stood in anticipation.

  Her spear still lay on the ground at his feet, but she didn’t need it.

  “You filthy, pis’truda!” Rajeev barked. “Fight with honor!”

  “You tell me to fight with honor, yet you fight for that sack of zhulong shog?”

  With that, Mahraveh dropped back into the black fist stance. She took a deep breath, and everything around her seemed to vanish except for the sounds of battle. They played in her ear like music as she closed her eyes. The gentle beat of footfalls. The sound of steel cutting the air. She bent her knees and felt the wind of Rajeev’s axe slicing above her head. She rolled backward, then sprang up, extending her feet. They connected with his ribs, and she heard a crunch. Small as she was, black fist taught its wielder how t
o focus strength to a singular point.

  “Impressive,” Rajeev said, clenching his jaw. “But there’s no way a child will best me.”

  She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Remained steady and calm in her black fist stance.

  “Black fist?” he said. “In a fight between fist and steel, I’ll take my steel.”

  Rajeev came forward, driving his axe downward. Mahraveh spun aside and punched Rajeev under his arm. The force was like that of a battering ram. She’d once seen her father kill a zhulong with one punch, and she was sure the other afhems weren’t as graced in the ancient martial arts as he.

  Rajeev grunted and swung again, this time in a horizontal plane directed at her neck. She easily ducked and punched again, this time connecting on the other side. She could tell Rajeev was getting angry, which was precisely what she wanted.

  A fighter who’s judgment was clouded by anger was a fighter who made mistakes.

  She noticed Rajeev tighten his grip on the axe handle as he moved in again. This time, she didn’t wait for him to strike.

  I am the snake.

  She kicked twice, each one like a horse hoof into each of the man’s shins. He doubled over, and she drove her fist down on his head. The followthrough left him sprawled out in the sand, cursing. He tried to get up, but he swayed as he did and staggered to the side.

  Mahraveh kicked his axe aside and didn’t bother looking to the crowd for approval before she straightened her hand, clenched her fist, and drove it straight into Rajeev’s chest. The bones crunched, piercing his heart, as he flew back onto the sand.

  Mahraveh couldn’t hear even her own heartbeat over the cheers of the crowd. She looked around, her vision red and unfocused. The bodies of her opponents lay all over. Some headless, and some just a frayed mess of ligaments shredded by many cuts.

  In the distance, she heard the game master’s voice. She expected another round with some foul beast, although she knew she’d never be able to survive it. It took every bit of her focus to punch Rajeev in a way that would affect the mountain of muscle. He lay on his back, lips trembling as he struggled to speak. The eternal current would take him soon.

  “Jumaat of the Ayerabi,” the game master roared, and the crowd shouted back.

  “Jumaat! Jumaat! Jumaat!”

  Mahraveh stepped forward, looking up toward Babrak, then at the games master. By now, he was a tall silhouette against the blinding sun. The crowd continued to cheer, and for once she didn’t feel like waiting for something to happen. Waiting for her father to come back. Waiting for the Glass to attack. Waiting to help.

  She reached up, grasped her helmet, and tossed it aside. The collective gasp of the crowd as her dreadlocked hair fell to her shoulders and beyond made even the cheers seem like gentle whispers. Babrak and the other afhems leaped to their feet. Far behind them, Yuri Darkings stood as well. She thought she could see the smile across his face before he stood and headed out of the arena.

  “What madness is this?” Babrak demanded, clamoring to the end of the walkway. He shoved the games master aside, nearly sending him off the side of the walkway. It bolstered Mahi’s resolve, reminding her of what he’d done to Farhan. “You are not Jumaat,” he said.

  “I am not,” Mahraveh said.

  “Deceiver!” an afhem cried out. “Cheater.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” the eunuch asked.

  “Jumaat took the oath on the sand and sea, but he is no warrior. I am. Trained by my father, Muskigo Ayerabi. The Scythe—who won his name on these very sands.

  “This is an outrage!” Babrak shouted.

  “Afhem Trisps’i,” the eunuch said. “You will calm yourself.”

  “Quiet, you!” Babrak grabbed the man by the robes and shoved him further behind him. “This cannot be allowed. You have deceived us all, and taken a place not meant for you.

  “What? Have I not done what is required of any warrior?” Mahraveh paced the sand, looking up at the crowd as she did. “Have I not defeated the same number of foes as any other who won their afhemate through this hallowed place?”

  “You are a woman!” Babrak said.

  “Are women disqualified? Or are you embarrassed that the greatest warriors in the Black Sands fell to someone who should be fanning you and stuffing your fat belly?”

  “You will watch the way you speak to me—”

  “Are we not equals now, oh, mighty Babrak?”

  “We are nothing! Can’t you all see how the progeny of Muskigo is so like him? They don’t respect our customs, our laws! Because of them, our Caleef is missing. Our enemies are at our doorsteps. Have you not heard about how Saujibar was raided by Glassmen? Enemies, brought by her father’s lack of trust. You would hand the great al-Tariq afhemate over to this… this… this ingrate!”

  Many other afhems came to Babrak’s side as if supporting him. But not all. She recognized the head of the Jalurahbak afhemate as well as the Avassu. She’d fought and killed one of their champions with honor, and watched the other fall.

  “A woman has never fought upon the sands,” Avassu said, “nor lead an afhemate. But no law forbids.”

  “And what of broken vows made in the name of our God? What would the Caleef say if he were here?”

  Afhem Avassu stroked his long beard but said nothing.

  “Would we declare no victor then?” the eunuch asked.

  “Quiet, you sackless piece of shog!” Babrak grabbed him and threw him against the wall of their viewing box. “It does matter that she’s a woman!” Babrak shouted to the crowd. “It matters that her family thinks they are above our laws.”

  “Then throw another of your champions at me!” Mahraveh shouted. “I’ll kill him, too. I’ll kill anyone you send in here until all of you realize we don’t have to be lap dogs to the Glass any longer. Liam is dead, and my father proved our strength at Winde Port!”

  “Before the gods punished him with fire! Sent him crawling to the city of Afhem Calidor, one of those poor fools who thought to support him. He’s probably dead now.”

  “Had you stood with him instead of hiding here, maybe that wouldn’t be the case.”

  “Silence!” A powerful, matronly voice filled the arena, striking silence into everyone. Sand swirled about the center, revealing the shape of a woman covered in seaweed, shells, and coral—one of the Sirens. Mahi didn’t know much about the Tal’du Dromesh, but she’d never heard stories of the Sirens at one of the tournaments.

  Mahraveh wasn’t sure why but she fell to one knee. If all the dealings with fighting and Babrak hadn’t done it, her skin was now coated in goosebumps. Even the grand nigh’jel globe grew brighter, painting even the sky a sickly shade of green.

  She dissipated into a puff of sand, then appeared beside Mahraveh. Her bumpy fingers ran upon her cheek. “Your story does not end here,” she whispered.

  Mahraveh couldn’t even think of how to respond.

  “A sacred vow was made to our realm!” the Siren then said, her voice now carrying. “To fight with honor to the death and the eternal current. This daughter of the sands and matron of the sea has broken nothing. We see in her heart that she would have upheld this vow but for the chance to make it.”

  “Holy Siren, if I may—” Babrak began.

  “I said, silence!” Her voice thundered. Mahraveh couldn’t tell if it was herself shrieking, or the crowd. “But a vow was broken, as the waves against the cliffs, and the God of Sand and Sea doesn’t abide weakness.” The Siren reappeared directly in front of Mahraveh and stared at her. Her dark eyes churned the deepest blue like the Boiling Waters during a typhoon.

  “Mahraveh al-Tariq, she will be,” the Siren said, floating in a circle around Mahraveh. She could hear Babrak’s groan of disapproval along with his gaggle of sycophants. “But the sea will have its payment.”

  The Siren vanished again, and Mahraveh spun, following a trail of black sand floating to the center of the arena. When the tempest calmed, Mahraveh saw that Jumaat stood in front of he
r, stripped bare.

  He searched from side to side, face contorted by terror. Then his gaze froze on Mahraveh.

  “No!” she screamed.

  His eyes were glued to Mahi’s as the Siren pressed her lips against his. The gray drained from his face until it was white, his veins popping out like the strands of a spider web. His cheeks shriveled, eyes, still on Mahi’s, bulging. When the Siren backed away, his desiccated corpse turned to ash and fell in a pile to the ground.

  Mahraveh did the same, sliding on her knees as she cried out. The Siren faced her, then the crowd. “The sand and sea are just,” she said. “But they are not merciless.” Then, as quickly as she’d appeared, the Siren was gone, black dust dithering around where she’d been.

  All noise in Tal’du Dromesh stopped. Mahraveh crawled to the gray mound of ash that was Jumaat. She lifted her hands, dust sifting through her fingers. Then, looking upward, she let out a cry of anguish. The only sound in the whole arena.

  XXXVI

  THE DESERTER

  “It’s time you choose, Rand,” Fierstown said. “All these people, or your sister.”

  Rand felt his heart drop as the words reached his ears. He’d gone so far for her already. Sided with men who may as well have been devils, all to free her from the fear of savages like the ones about to murder these innocent people—Whitney Fierstown and Bartholomew Darkings excluded.

  Before he could respond, Fierstown opened the cage and slipped out.

  “Langley,” Bartholomew said. “Rand.”

  Rand ignored him. “Iam, help me,” he whispered to the sky, though he didn’t imagine that after all he’d done, Iam would care to listen at all. Then he followed Fierstown out onto the bridge, staying low. The Drav Cra were busy handling the Caleef while Mak and Sir Reginald played their game of who wants to die first?

  Rand Langley’s heart raced. He’d been in battles before, but never with such dismal chances of survival. Never this outnumbered. It didn’t help that he was following a mad fool who only seemed out for himself.