by K A Doore
“You’ve done enough harm,” snapped Heru. “If you were concerned about the sajaami before, you should be doubly—no, triply—so now. The sajaami had been contained and stable, within a city that was likewise contained and stable. Now it has been let loose on the sands with only myself and a handful of unskilled guards to keep it safe from guul and other would-be assailants.”
Merrabel smiled. “If you’re so concerned about the safety of the sajaami, you should give it to me. Unlike you, I was prepared to convey something so dangerous across the Wastes. Besides, Sametket—you’ve already proven that you can’t be trusted with the sajaami. How far have you come in destroying it, let alone understanding it?”
Heru gritted his teeth, but he didn’t deny it. Seven years, and in all that time, what had Heru done with the sajaami but let it hang like a pretty bauble in the center of his lab?
Not a bauble—a trophy.
A trophy, it seemed, he’d intended to do nothing about.
“Not very far,” continued Merrabel, crossing her arms. “I promised His Majesty that I would find and stop the disruption. And I will, at any cost. Can you make that promise, Sametket?”
Illi laid her hand across her wrist, the metal cool beneath the cloth. She thought she felt the sajaami stirring, curling and uncurling like a fist. But that could have been her own churning gut, her own worries and fears. Merrabel was the one who’d upended everything. Her carelessness could have gotten them all killed. And Merrabel had known exactly what she was doing, up there on the dais. Heru might have built his own pyre, but Merrabel had struck the spark.
“Leave,” she said, startling herself as much as Heru and Merrabel.
Heru’s eye finally seemed to see her instead of her bracelets. Merrabel regarded her for the first time since entering the tent. Then she turned back to Heru.
“Do you always let your servants speak out of turn?”
“She’s my assistant, not my servant,” corrected Heru. “In this instance, she is not incorrect. You have overstayed your welcome, Barca. If you are as prepared as you insist, then you will have brought your own tent.”
Merrabel nodded. “I appreciate our conversation, Sametket. I’m looking forward to future such conversations with you. After all, we’ve many days before we reach Hathage. I pray we’ll come to an agreement by then.”
“I highly doubt it.”
Merrabel smiled, stood, and ducked out of the tent. Illi watched her go, resenting the unease she’d left behind. Illi needed to trust Heru. He’d saved Ghadid from tainted water and from the guul. He’d find a way to save them from the sajaami as well.
Do you trust me?
The weight of her bracelets dragged at her. She had no choice.
11
When the sun fell away and the caravan halted for the night, most of the Azal built fires and set up tents. Illi was still in the middle of unburdening her camel when she heard the swish of a light wrap and the soft shh of approaching steps. The familiarity of both those sounds shot a thrill through her like a static shock, sending her pulse racing and stealing her breath. Her reaction was all the more reason why she kept her head down and hoped they’d keep on going right past her.
Then she felt a tap on her shoulder and she couldn’t ignore the inevitable any longer. When she looked up into warm brown eyes, she remembered how they’d stared into hers so recently as their fingers drew out her gasps. Heat rushed up her neck and inflamed her cheeks, turning her mouth as dry as the sands around her.
“Oh, hi,” she said, attempting nonchalance, but her dry throat coughed the words out and made them too loud, too awkward.
“Are you ready for your next lesson?” asked Canthem.
Damn that tagel, thought Illi, because she couldn’t tell if Canthem was smiling or smirking. She pushed away her breathlessness. She couldn’t let this become anything more than a sparring match. If she could stick with that, then she wouldn’t have to worry about the fluttering in her chest and the way she kept thinking about those lips beneath that tagel.
“I have a few minutes,” said Illi.
“Let me help with that.”
Without waiting for an answer, Canthem stepped close, hefting the heavy blanket from the camel’s back. The scent of them washed over Illi: honey and cinnamon. It was all Illi could do not to press herself against Canthem’s side, feel their strong body beneath their wrap, weave her fingers behind their neck and bring their face down—
Illi took a sharp breath as Canthem moved away, dropping the blanket next to the rest of Illi’s things. They glanced at her, eyebrows pressed together in an unasked question. Illi shook her head. Then she attacked.
Canthem blocked and then they were trading practiced blows. It was easier for Illi to ignore Canthem and whatever this feeling was while sparring. There were just too many details to keep track of—where to place her feet, how to hold her hands, when to block, when to twist, how much to twist, how hard to block, when to strike back, when to feint—for her to think about what else she could be doing.
Canthem occasionally stopped her to make small corrections, but for the most part they traded attacks back and forth, back and forth, repetition transforming intent into action into reaction.
The stars were a tapestry of light overhead, slowly being pulled across the world. They had shifted considerably by the time Canthem caught Illi by surprise and swept her off her feet. She hit the sand with a wide grin.
“Hah!” She started to get up. “Good one. I deserved that.”
Canthem held out their hand and Illi took it and in one motion, Canthem pulled her to her feet, then to them. Suddenly there was nothing between them but the fabric of their wraps and Illi wanted to remove even that. The night was cold, but Canthem radiated heat. She tilted her head back, met their eyes. Canthem’s hand went to their tagel.
Illi cleared her throat and abruptly stepped back. “Well, that was a good lesson. Thank you.”
Canthem’s hand lingered for a heartbeat, then fell to their side, as heavy as a rock. They started to reach for Illi, but she’d already put another foot of distance between them.
“I should … sleep. We start before dawn and it’s going to be a long day.” Each word felt even rougher than the last.
“I know that,” said Canthem. “I’ve traveled with caravans many times. Illi—what’s wrong? Did I do something—?”
Illi smiled—too bright, too sharp—and shook her head. “It’s nothing you did. I’m just—I can’t—”
Canthem held up a hand, stemming Illi’s words. They smiled at her, warm eyes full of understanding she didn’t deserve. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I’ll be here if you change your mind. We can continue sparring. It doesn’t have to be any more than that.”
Illi let out a breath. Canthem’s understanding only made her ache more for their arms, their hands, their smell. But she could hold strong. She could just let it be the sparring between them. She didn’t have to feed that flutter in her chest, she didn’t have to care. She wouldn’t care—as long as she cut this short, now.
“Okay,” said Illi, still too brightly. “Good. Well. I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow. Then.”
Canthem gave her a curt nod, then disappeared into the yawning night, leaving Illi alone and colder than before.
* * *
The next day blossomed bright. The night’s cold quickly faded to a chill, which in turn became warm, even hot. Illi rode and walked alongside Awalla at turns, taking her cue from the rest of the caravan. At midday, they rested again and a runner came by with tea.
As Illi accepted a scalding hot cup, she finally risked a glance backward. She gave the horizon a perfunctory scan, not allowing herself to analyze any of the bumps in the thin line where sand met sky. Ghadid was out of sight. Gone. The relief she felt was a surprise. As long as Ghadid had been there, still visible, she could have headed back on her own. But now there was only one path left to her: forward.
That way was easier.
She faced north again and finished her tea, then checked on Awalla. After confirming that her straps were still tight and her lead loose, Illi offered the camel a bundle of dried grass. The caravan hadn’t found any grazing yet. There should have been more than ample grass around Ghadid, not enough for a herd, but enough for a passing caravan. Instead, there was only sahar, smooth sand without stones or rocks or even pebbles. Certainly no plant life. From the grumbling she overheard, she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.
Beyond the caravan was an endless nothing, but it was that same endless nothing that warned them of the attack.
A shout went up toward the front of the caravan, followed by a wave of heads turning and fingers pointing: south and west. Toward the Wastes. Illi swung onto Awalla for a better look. Dust smeared the horizon like smoke, billowing upward from a single dark point. Something was approaching, fast.
“Bandits!” called the caravan leader, her fist in the air commanding attention. “Hel! Warriors, to me! Guards, to me! The rest, form up!”
The caravan roiled like a kicked hive. Despite the chaos, there was trained order. Azal with swords and axes converged around the caravan leader, circling tight. Other iluk wearing the same reddish-brown tagel as Canthem joined them. With one gesture from the leader, the warriors and guards formed a wall between the rest of the caravan and the approaching threat. As the chaos turned to order, silence settled heavy in its place.
“Those aren’t bandits.” Heru had drawn up alongside Illi, his camel staring unblinking, its skin thin with sparse white fur and stretched over bones.
“Then what are they?”
“Guul,” answered another, familiar voice.
Heru stiffened, but didn’t turn. “I didn’t solicit your input.”
Merrabel had joined them, her camel a distinct contrast to Heru’s with its healthy, thick beige coat and bright, alert eyes. Absently, she searched through her saddlebag with one hand. She pulled out a large leather satchel and set it in her lap. “Thank G-d I’m not asking for your help. Just stay out of my way and don’t try to do anything and we’ll all survive this.”
The caravan leader approached them. “General Barca. What do you make of this?”
“Guul,” said Merrabel. “Over a dozen of them, if that dust cloud is any indication.”
The leader peered toward the dark point, which was quickly growing into a dark smudge. “How can you tell at this distance?”
“Trust me,” said Merrabel. “And we’re quickly losing time. Let me have my guards and I’ll protect the caravan.”
The leader nodded. “All right. I’ll move my warriors back.”
“What is your plan?” asked Heru. “That appears to be a significant number of incoming guul. I calculate you will need a great deal of blood to quiet and control that many, unless you know how to otherwise subdue them efficiently. Or—is that why you travel with such a large retinue? Introducing so many variables into the equation can only—”
“Shut up, Sametket,” said Merrabel sweetly as she slid from her camel. “Try watching for once instead of using every moment to flaunt the little knowledge you have. Perhaps you’ll learn something.”
A guard broke off from the group and took her camel’s lead. Merrabel brushed the dust off her dress and crossed to the western edge of the caravan, the leather satchel hanging from one hand. Illi couldn’t shake Heru’s question as easily as Merrabel had; a protective barrier was easy—there were at least three ways to draw one. But quieting the guul was another thing entirely, one that would require a lot of water they didn’t have.
Perhaps the general had things under control after all, but perhaps was too thin a chance for Illi. She had years of experience with guul; she didn’t need to leave anything to perhaps.
Illi drew her sword and kicked Awalla’s flank. But even as her camel surged forward, Illi was held back. Someone had grabbed her wrap and it took all of her ingrained skill to keep from falling off. She twisted to find Heru uncomfortably close, his real eye glaring, his glass eye staring past her, as if fixated on the oncoming guul.
“You will not attempt to aide that woman.”
Illi shook her head. “I’m not helping her. I’m going to help the caravan. I don’t trust her with the guul, either.”
“Absolutely not. I won’t risk the guul harming the sajaami.”
“You mean, harming me.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
Illi started to say something, then stopped and shook her head. “Look—the guul can only harm the sajaami if they get to me, which they won’t. I’ve got years of experience stopping those things, but they’ve never met one of me before. I’ll be fine.”
“While I respect your experience, if any harm comes to the sajaami’s container, the wards may not be enough to restrain it.”
“I’m glad you care so much about me,” said Illi dryly.
“I don’t think you comprehend the potential destructive force of an angry, uncontained sajaami.”
“Maybe not, but I comprehend the destruction over a dozen guul can inflict, and that seems a lot more immediate right now. Besides, do you really trust that woman to not only quiet those guul, but let you collect them?”
Heru hissed through his teeth, his eye flicking toward Merrabel, then beyond to the approaching dust plume. For a moment Illi knew she had him, but then his eye settled again on her and narrowed.
“No,” said Heru. “The risk is unacceptable. One sajaami can achieve damage several more orders of magnitude greater than a handful of guul. You’ll stay far back and out of the way. If anything goes wrong, I’ll handle it.”
Illi gritted her teeth, but she couldn’t find any fault in Heru’s reasoning. As much as she objected to being considered little more than a container, Heru was right about the sajaami. A dozen guul might devastate their caravan, but one sajaami could destroy all that stood on the sands, including Ghadid.
With no small amount of regret, Illi re-sheathed her sword. She remained at Heru’s side as Merrabel walked the edge of the caravan, pouring salt from her leather satchel onto the sand behind her. Rare, precious, and expensive salt that Merrabel was just pouring onto the sand as if it were, well, sand. Even in a thin line, Merrabel would quickly exhaust a year’s worth of baats before she’d even halfway circled the caravan.
The kingdom of Hathage must be far richer than Illi had first assumed.
As Merrabel walked around the caravan, her guards took formation on the other side of the line. Although they all wore the same drab brown wrap and red-brown tagel, Illi easily picked Canthem out of the group. She knew their movements almost as well as her cousins’, and remembering how she knew them brought warmth to her cheeks again—and her belly.
Worry gusted through her just behind the warmth. Only seven guards against almost twice as many guul. This was exactly why she couldn’t let herself get too close to Canthem, to anyone. It physically hurt to stay back and watch, even though that was the safest thing she could do. She couldn’t afford to care, couldn’t afford to be weak, to make mistakes. After all, feelings were fleeting; death was forever.
So Illi waited. She watched. And the guul drew closer.
Talons and teeth flashed in the sun. Hyena limbs and vulture necks and gazelle bodies jumbled together in the mess of collected parts. But mostly, the guul wore human flesh: white bones and scraps of hair and skin turned to leather by the sun and the heat and the dryness. They ran on all fours with human arms and human legs and opened human jaws wide, even if they’d filled those jaws with cobra fangs and jackal teeth. After the Siege, the guul had had their pick of bodies.
The caravan shrank back, a worried murmur sweeping through them. Their warriors formed up on the inside of the line, while Merrabel’s guards waited, patient, on the other side.
Merrabel, meanwhile, had just finished her circle of salt. As the guul galloped across the sands, she only gave them a quick glance before drawing a dagger and, without any hesitation, slashing he
r forearm. She held her arm over the salt, lips moving wordlessly. Blood welled and dripped onto the salt, staining the white red, and even though Illi had known the general must dabble in en-marabi magic, it was another thing entirely seeing Merrabel actually using it.
Then the guul were upon them. The guards moved as one, a wall of blades that cut down the guul, slicing off limbs and skin. Several guul still managed to get by, circling too far for the flashing blades to catch. These were rebuffed by the line of salt, sent stumbling back, heads shaking in confusion, only to try again a moment later.
But the guards quickly caught up with them. They cut down the guul with practiced efficiency, never panicked, never stumbling, while Merrabel—and the rest of the caravan—watched. Merrabel’s guards were well-oiled gears grinding through the grit of the guul as if they were nothing.
Until one of the gears slipped.
One guuli toppled to the sand, its head falling several feet away. A darkness swarmed from its neck, curling tight upon itself before unfurling toward the sky. Illi’s mouth went dry; the guuli had untethered, and now it was free to take any number of the bodies around it.
The guuli struck out one way, then the other, tasting the air like a snake. The guards backed away from it, but otherwise didn’t try to contain it. Several glanced toward Merrabel, who had drawn her blade across her arm again. Blood dribbled down Merrabel’s forearm and she raised her hand, fingers widening—then hesitated.
The guuli abruptly snapped toward Canthem, cracking across the air like a whip. Canthem had their back to it, busy driving another, embodied guuli away. They never saw it coming.
Merrabel’s lips started to form words, but she wouldn’t be fast enough. Illi felt the world slow, felt her heart pause, felt the wind stop. The air became as still as water. The guuli swarmed Canthem, its darkness winding around them. Warmth stirred inside Illi’s chest.
