The big man’s shadow fell across what little light snuck into the tent. Matasa lay back before his strange host re-entered and settled himself on his stool. The man un-stoppered a waterskin. He gulped loudly. Matasa smelled alcohol.
“The man I was with…” Matasa began, seeking the right words. “Is he…” Matasa choked up. One look at Finyaka and a simple goat could tell he wasn’t well.
“In a bad way? Yes, but I have given him healing herbs. He’ll be better on the morrow.”
A weight lifted from Matasa’s chest, although he still felt odd.
“There was another. My guards found him crossing our perimeter uninvited. He’s after something.”
“I don’t know…”
“Perhaps he’s after your mage-priest.” The big man shifted his weight and stretched, his joints popping. He gulped his alcohol again, then stoppered the wineskin. “Or his gold.”
Gold! The armband! That’s why Finyaka looked different--wrong. He wasn’t wearing Sinaya’s golden armband. This brigand must have taken it for himself. Gold had value in the wadi, and not just as a mark of Anuu’s chosen mage-priests.
“It might be family.” Matasa felt uncomfortable saying anything but what choice did he have? “The mage-priest is my cousin, Finyaka. His father and brothers were chasing us.” It felt odd calling Finyaka a mage-priest, but if it kept them alive, it was worth the lie.
“Young for a mage-priest,” said the man. Something landed with a whump near Matasa’s head, startling him. “Drink, adherent,” said the stranger.
How did he see so well in the dark? Matasa fumbled in the blackness for the water skin. He uncorked it, smelling it first to ensure that it wasn’t his host’s alcohol. What Matasa needed most was water. He downed as much as he could before his stomach complained. His head pounded.
“What did you do to them that they are chasing you?”
“Spoke out against them.” Water eased Matasa’s pain enough for him to prop himself onto one elbow.
“They call me Old Sondha.” The man returned to his place by the tent flap but remained standing. “You are guests in my camp. I heal you.”
“I’m Ma…Mata…Matasa.” The word sounded odd as if he'd never said his own name before.
“Where were you going?” Sondha opened the flap just enough to peer through it before closing it again. Something glinted on his belt.
“Onubaki, to f-f-f-f-find Asho, the w-w-wise w-w-w-woman.” Matasa slurred his words. A tingling sensation danced across his tongue. Had there been something in the water and he missed it?
“Asho you say. Hmm. Keep your place now while I’m gone. No harm will come to you if I have my say. Or so Anuu wishes.” The tent flap opened, and the big man disappeared into the night.
Not far from the tent, Matasa overheard Sondha saying, “Where’s Nahbas? I’ve got some information for him. And a trinket to show him.”
A trinket? He must have the slain wise woman’s armband. Through his honey-thick thoughts, Matasa heard the groan of a camel, mumbled voices in the camp, and Finyaka’s somnolent breathing. How had he slept through all of this?
They were alive, but where? And who was this supposed healer, Old Sondha? Matasa’s mind grew foggy. He slipped onto his side, eyelids as heavy as his body. The pain was gone, replaced by a tingling sensation that made him giggle.
Think Matasa think! He heard himself scream although no sound came from his mouth. He snorted once, deeply, then slipped into dreams filled with the rich scents of baking baklava.
From his well-hidden vantage point at its peak, Nahrem surveyed the camp nestled in the hollow of a hill. Men passed at regular intervals dressed in a similar kit. These weren’t run of the mill brigands. Someone wealthy had outfitted them. Most likely a merchant looking to protect his valuables.
The main trade road that wound along the northern cusp of the wadi lay nearby. Camels bellowed and bleated in the darkness. Nahrem counted at least twenty of the black tents. No fires, no loud noises save the camels. He was certain that someone from this camp had rescued his goat-spawned cousin and naive little brother.
He waited for the next patrol to pass. With the grace of a hunting cat, he leaped from his perch and landed on the hard-packed stone in a soundless billow of dust. All he wanted to do was find Finyaka and destroy him.
Nahrem shook his head. He needed to hide and uncover the caravan’s destination. If the guards spoke his language, maybe he had a chance.
A growing Darkness in his mind propelled him forward. He shook his head again. Nahrem’s head spun. He took a deep breath and fought down the urge to throw open every tent flap in search of his prey. What is happening to me?
He deftly made his way along the cusp of the hill. The smell of dung and sweat filled his nostrils. He stayed low, blending in with the broken horizon, so watchful eyes wouldn’t easily discern him.
“Haraz, have you seen the two strays in the camp.” If the man hadn’t spoken, Nahrem would have walked into the clearing where the two pickets stood. The guard who spoke, with a voice not more than a whisper, had a strange accent. A shadow shifted until it became a second armed man visible against the star-filled sky. Nahrem crouched behind a natural pillar of stone. He pressed against it to make as little a profile as possible
“No,” the shadow replied. He stretched with a creak of leather and jingle of chainmail, then yawned unenthusiastically. “They’re Umu Salani tribesmen, so say the drovers.”
Two strays? Nahrem’s heart raced. Finyaka and Matasa were here! Nahrem was one step closer to making his father proud of him.
“We’re near Onubaki.” The first picket’s voice projected toward the camp since he had his back turned to Nahrem’s position. “Aren’t they Umu Salani?”
“No. They’re Umu Sonu in Onubaki. But both tribes are of the Aboki people.” Haraz shifted with a grunt. He stepped within a few feet of Nahrem, smelling of metal, sweat, leather, and camel. “Not that I care at this hour. Ahken and Nakhet will be here soon to take their turn. Then we rest.”
“Finally.” There was the creak of leather and the thud of a wooden haft against the stone. “Onubaki on the morrow, so says Nahbas.”
“It’s his coin,” chuckled Haraz. “He’s the boss. So, Onubaki a few days, then onto the Golden City and a chance to spend our own hard-earned coin?” He leaned on the wooden haft, a kind of spear, a mere hand's breadth away from Nahrem’s hiding spot.
Nahrem made out Haraz’s profile: broad, tall, and maybe a good three stone heavier. He struggled against a sudden urge to strike out at the guard. What am I thinking?
Footsteps, hardened boot against stone, approached from the camp.
“Who goes now?” Haraz grasped his haft and shifted into a protective stance.
Dust kicked up around the newcomers. Nahrem could just make out a shield being carried from the last row of tents.
“It’s Nakhet,” replied a low-pitched, feminine voice from the settling cloud.
“Have you been to camp?” Haraz maintained his defensive posture.
Presumably, the other picket did as well, because Nakhet replied, “Would the two of you stop acting like a couple of stray calves? We just came from the camp. Heard they’re holding two Aboki strays.”
Haraz relaxed, placing the spear butt against the ground.
“Umu Salani,” the first picket insisted, still sounding like he faced away from Nahrem. “So, say the drovers. Heard one wore a mage-priests armband.”
The other three guards were closer than Nahrem cared for. He opened and closed his hands, considering his options. If he backed away now, he would get away unseen, but he wouldn’t find out which tent held his brother and cousin.
“If he’s a mage-priest, he won’t need a gold band,” said Nakhet. “Boy’s in a bad way. The silly calf that was with him towed him across the wadi with no water. Both had passed out. Nahbas says if they die, it would be a waste.”
And a personal disappointment. Nahrem gritted his teeth togethe
r.
“And a cut to Nahbas’ purse,” replied the fourth guard. Everyone laughed.
“Old Sondha’s watching the strays,” said Nakhet, which prompted more guffaws from the others.
“He’s sobered up enough to see?” Haraz stepped towards the two newcomers. There was an appreciative slap of an open palm on leather from the unseen picket.
Haraz turned and called to his watch-companion, “Come Adin, let’s go—” He stopped, making out Nahrem for the first time.
The demanding Darkness instantly overpowered Nahrem’s mind. His knife was in his hand before he knew what he was doing. Instead of fleeing, he slashed the legs of the unsuspecting Adin standing between him and Haraz.
Adin buckled, shouting out in pain as he sprawled against his spear and onto the ground. Haraz shouted an alarm in his native tongue.
Nahrem delighted in the anguish he’d caused. Seeking another victim, he locked on Nakhet. Nahrem lunged for the woman, expecting an easy target. She deflected his ambitious assault with her spear shaft. Nakhet jammed the butt of her weapon into his shoulder, driving him to his knees.
Haraz tackled him to the ground. Nahrem’s vision filled with the large man’s face, his rancid breath almost palatable. Nahrem felt detached as he rammed his head forward into the heavier man’s jaw, the pains he would associate with such a blow never occurring. At the same time, he slashed with his knife, the guard’s chain mail and leather deflecting the blow. Someone grabbed his wrist, repeatedly slamming it against the rocks until his numb fingers released the blade. At the same time the big man on top of him, Haraz, brought a heavy fist down into Nahrem’s face. It was the last thing he saw before he fell into the Darkness.
The fine, white sand against his incandescent skin was as soft as the goat hair vest his mother had made him as a child. Raising a sunburnt hand to shield his squinting eyes against the dazzling sky, he surveyed the desolate and monotonous landscape. Nothing had lived here for eons, and nothing would ever live here again. Though different in its appearance, he somehow knew this was the place between worlds.
“Sinaya!” The sound of his voice seemed hollow in the vastness.
He reached down and picked up a handful of the white sand. Why have I returned to this place? There was a prickling along his legs and feet, like the minute bites of a thousand sand fleas. The same sensation crossed his sunburnt hands; the few grains that remained squirmed along his skin. Grimacing, he frantically wiped his hands upon his sarong, inspecting his hands afterward to ensure the strange granules had been dislodged. What is happening to me?
Ever so softly the ground beneath his increasingly tender feet began to move. Something bit him on the ankle and then jabbed him in the knee, forcing him to jump back onto the balls of his feet. Am I hallucinating? The writhing sand crawled and squirmed across his feet, leaving an itchy, painful trail of read welts. Desperately he scraped at the grit and sweat that mixed upon his skin. What is happening!
He rubbed the sole of his foot against his calf. A stinging warmth crawled along his ankle, searing the flesh as it went. He cried in pain. I need to escape! But where!
The burning sensation in his feet shot up his shins and across his calves. His vision swam. Not knowing what else to do, he ran.
“Sinaya! Help me, by the Great Sun help me! Sinaya!” He needed her help. He needed to know why he was here, what was happening to him. “Sinaya!”
With every stride, his muscles exploded in a white-hot pain. He was no longer sure where he was or what he was doing. All he knew was the pain, and the undulating sand which followed him like a massive storm. I must escape! It will consume me!
The storm roared, he heard voices in that roar, like the screams of a thousand people being consumed by their worst nightmares. His scream joined theirs. Knees buckling, he skidded across the ravenous grit, each minute granule digging into his exposed flesh. I don’t want to die!
“So live,” Sinya’s voice was like a beacon in the storm that roared within him. He searched for her but saw nothing but the bleakness of the Between.
The wave of sand sped towards him. In its mass he could see the contorted faces of those who screamed, their visage paralyzing him, holding him against the ravaging sand. Only his head was capable of movement.
Fine grit flew into his eyes, stinging him like the sand ants he was taught to avoid as a child. The swirling cloud of fine grit covered him, burying him in a shallow grave. He screamed. I need to find a way out of this before I’m buried alive!
“When and how you die is your choice.” Sinaya’s words rang true in his mind, jarring him to the present. Had she spoken them again or was it just in his memory? Tapping into the calm he so desperately needed, he found his Radiance as the swirling sand covered his face and mouth. The force of the storm was upon him. This isn’t real!
The first note of Anuu’s song escaped his lips as the sand enveloped him. He coughed, spat the stinging grit from his mouth, and sang the note again. Calm began to flow over him and from him. The storm beat upon that calmness and was repulsed. His confidence grew as that first note filled him. He pushed back at the sand with his Radiance. The circle of his calm widened. Another voice joined his own, though where it originated, he knew not. Thirty paces from his position he had scoured the dried, parched ground of the insidious sand. The landscape began to resemble what he had remembered in his first visit.
The second voice subtly grew in volume, and where once there was a single note accompanying him, now there existed a melody, its tempo building. As that tempo built it blasted the landscape of the sand so that only the parched salt flat remained. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the song that played about him, his own voice now silent. Finyaka could feel the music.
Euphoria filled his being as he searched for the source of that divine Song. An urge to dance took him, as the crescendo grew. A chorus of a thousand disembodied voices filled the air about him. With excruciating precision, he could make out each individual voice. Each mage-priest that sang the Radiance into existence. This is the Radiance! His pace soon matched the insistent, filling him with a joy he had never experienced before. All his cares were being burned away. Is this what it feels like to be chosen?
He wept, thinking of Sinaya as her words flowed through his mind. "So live, live a life, unlike other mage-priests."
“How? How will it be unlike other mage-priests?”
“Or not,” came her ethereal response. “It is your choice.”
Finyaka wanted to sing with the disembodied choir that surrounded him with their chorus. Anuu’s power pulsated through him.
“You still have a choice.” A whisper from the grave that floated through his mind.
Bathed in the glory of the Great Sun, feeling it call to him, Finyaka made his choice. He opened his eyes. They seared and boiled away, yet he felt no pain.
Grateful for his life, and the coolness of the morning air, Matasa inhaled slowly. If this were his last breath, he could die happy. Well, maybe, if he knew that Finyaka was going to be okay in Old Sondha’s care.
Sweat drenched the broad-shouldered healer as he lashed a wooden chest onto the most patient camel Matasa had ever seen, not that he was familiar with camels. Matasa packed the last of Sondha’s rolled rugs into another chest, thankful that not only was he of help to someone but also that that particular someone had more than shown his appreciation. After a restorative sleep, Matasa woke to a fulfilling breakfast of warm flat breed and dates prepared by Sondha’s own hands. He hadn’t, however, risked asking his healer-host about Finyaka’s missing golden armband.
“Is Finyaka safe to travel?” Matasa lifted the second chest.
“Yes, he will be safe to travel, although I am a bit concerned.” The healer pulled a handkerchief from his tunic and wiped his brow. With his free hand, he produced a wineskin from his voluminous vest. He yanked out the stopper with his teeth, then let it dangle from its cord. Sondha took half a dozen gulps and then offered it to Matasa, who decline
d. He’d learned early on that Sondha survived on alcohol and ambition, and he was all out of ambition.
“Why?” asked Matasa.
Sondha wrapped the wineskin with his handkerchief, corked it, and vanished it back into his vest like magic. “I may not seem like much of a healer, but what I know, I know well. Your cousin will survive the day’s traverse to Onubaki, but he should have come out of his sun-sleep by now. Something holds him there. I wish I knew what.” He shrugged and took the chest from Matasa.
An armed guard stopped to address Sondha. “That bag of filth from last night is still out cold,” she said, picking dried blood from her bandaged hand. “Should I leave him behind?”
“No, Nakhet,” scolded the old healer as if he spoke to a petulant child. “Nahdas wants him alive.”
Nahdas, Matasa had learned over breakfast, owned the caravan. Sondha described him as a savvy merchant who could turn a profit from a dung heap. Through Sondha, Nahdas had said that once the caravan reached Onubaki, Matasa and Finyaka were free to go. If Finyaka survives.
Sondha secured the last of the ropes. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. Matasa didn’t know a person could perspire that much. “Let me finish here first, then I’ll take a look at him.”
“Make it soon.” Nakhet grinned mischievously. “Ahken and Haraz are trying to conceive a plausible accident.”
“In which case, I’ll come along now.” The big man patted the camel with a comprehending nod, a faint smile at his lips. “Matasa, finish taking the tent walls down for me? I'll be back soon.”
Matasa strode inside the empty tent, hands upon the center pole. The drovers who had left the camel had taken Finyaka with them, to make him comfortable for the next leg of the journey.
“Did the dung heap ever give you a name?” Matasa overheard Sondha ask before Matasa pulled the upright support beam from its position.
“For what it matters, yes. He called himself Nahrem.”
Matasa dropped the pole in shock. The tent billowed outward, then fell upon him like a settling cloud of dust.
Wayward Magic (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 2) Page 54
