by Alec Hutson
“Any idea why these were built?” I ask her, but she merely gives a sullen shrug.
“It’s perfectly obvious,” Bell says, inspecting great jagged runes that have been carved into the pillar. She gestures at the endless procession marching away from us in their perfectly straight lines. “These pillars used to flank some sort of important road, which is now buried beneath the dust. Maybe they were merely for decoration, or perhaps they were distance markers.”
“Important roads go to important places,” I murmur, shielding my eyes as I stare at the shimmering horizon.
“If there’s a city around here, it’s at the end of this road,” Bell says confidently. She points at the runes. “Can you read these?”
I step closer to get a better look at the ancient writing. For a moment they are simply scratches in the stone, but then it’s like puzzle pieces sliding into place and suddenly I can understand the pattern.
“It says, ‘And in the following summer, in the thirtieth year of his glorious reign, Tribune Amodeus defeated the outcast Irons and drove them beyond the sea.’ Then there’s the number eighteen.”
Bell traces the runes with her finger, as if trying to commit them to memory. “Interesting. I would guess that a similar snippet of this Amodeus’s life is etched into each of these pillars. They must have been erected during his lifetime, or perhaps by his successor. And this number must measure how far away the city is.”
“But eighteen what?” Deliah asks. “Days marching?”
“It’s not too far,” I say. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. “Each unit here is about a league. We should be able to walk seven or eight before we have to rest.”
“So two and a half days walking,” Deliah muses. “That’s about how much water we have, so there had better be some more at this city. There better be a city.” She turns to Valyra, who has come closer since we stopped but is still hanging back a ways. “How did your people get water from the wastes?”
Valyra stares at the lamias like she’s just asked a ridiculous question. “Get water from the wastes? There’s no water out here. My tribe’s home had a spring beneath it that was fed by an underground river. Any member of my people that ventured into the dust had to bring all the water they would need.”
The lamias looks at me, her lips pursed. She’s not one to display fear, I know, but I can tell that the idea of running out of water worries her.
“If there’s a city at the end of this road, it probably has wells,” I tell her, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
Deliah grunts in reply as she starts on the buried road. She doesn’t sound convinced.
“Wells?” Valyra says, her tone incredulous. “Wells? You think that in a land regularly lashed by dust storms that there are wells that haven’t been filled to the brim with dust?” She snorts a harsh laugh. “We’re going to die of thirst . . . unless we get lucky and the Shriven kill us first.”
Deliah stops, then turns around. She begins walking towards Valyra, who takes a nervous step backwards.
“What are you –”
I flinch as Deliah slaps the weaver across the face, knocking her to the ground. Valyra’s hand flies to her face as she stares up at the lamias in wide-eyed surprise.
“We are here because of you,” Deliah says calmly. “Because Talin feels enough of a debt to your mother that he would risk his life to help you. We could have easily let the crazy wolf girl shove a knife in your eye. But we did not. And do you see us complaining? Be grateful, little girl.”
Then she adjusts her pack and without sparing another glance at the shocked weaver she turns and trudges away.
I step over to Valyra and hold out my hand. “Come. We have to work together if we are going to survive this place. And I mean to survive it.”
The weaver gazes at my hand for a long moment, the dry wind pushing red curls across her face. Her copper eyes are unreadable. Finally, her hand slips from her cheek, revealing a red smear that looks like the beginning of an impressive bruise. I wince, but I also know that Deliah could easily have shattered her face if she’d wanted to. Without looking at me, Valyra climbs to her feet and starts walking in the direction the lamias is going.
Letting my hand drop, I shrug and follow.
I’m down to my last few mouthfuls of water when the city finally appears on the horizon. It feels like we’ve been walking for an eternity, but we only needed to stop for sleep once. We huddled around the base of one of the great pillars, and Bell managed to cleverly construct a small tent. It was only large for two of us to rest beneath, so we took turns lying in the shade it afforded. I didn’t think I was going to manage to sleep at all, but I must have, because it seemed like as soon as my head touched my travel bag I was being shaken by Bell so she could take my place.
Deliah is the first one to spot the ruin, and she lets out a whoop so loud it startles me. “Buildings,” she says. “Towers and walls.”
“You have good eyes,” I mutter, but now that she’s said that I can make out buildings etched against the unnatural sky. We would have seen it much earlier, but the wind has gradually been rising, pushing dust into the air.
“Not too much farther,” I say, twisting around to smile at Valyra and Bell. That smile quickly fades, though, when I see what’s rising in the distance behind us.
“Storm!” I cry. A great shadow is swelling, towering high into the sky. These winds must have been a harbinger of what was building.
“We need to hurry!” I yell, rushing back to where Valyra and Bell have turned to gape, open-mouthed, at the looming storm. “Take shelter in the city!”
I pull on the weaver’s arm, and she starts to run awkwardly, her long robes flapping. Bell is no more graceful, and after a few dozen strides she slows, her chest heaving. Valyra is also struggling, and I’m having to half-carry her along.
“Deliah!” I bellow over the rising winds. The lamias has kept pace, not getting too far ahead, even though I know she could easily outdistance us. She looks barely winded, despite jogging in full armor and carrying a heavy pack. “Help Bell! I’ll stay with Valyra!”
Deliah nods and goes to the scientist’s daughter. She swings the pack Bell has been carrying on to her own shoulder, then ducks her head under the scientist’s daughter’s arm so that she can take some of her weight.
We flee across the wastes as the storm closes. The winds continue to rise, until the howling is so loud that I can’t hear my own voice. Stinging grit flails at us. Valyra has her head down to protect herself, so I have to keep mine up to guide both of us. It’s like a hundred needles prickling my face, and I shield my eyes with my hand as best I can for fear of being blinded.
Soon the city vanishes, swallowed by a veil of swirling red. If we somehow get turned around, or otherwise alter our path so that we are no longer running towards the city gates Deliah glimpsed, we have no hope of surviving this storm. The lamias and Bell are barely visible, just shadows stumbling along ahead of us.
Well, it could be worse. The last time this happened the Shriven were steps behind me.
A dark shape looms out of the storm, towering above us. We’re plunged into darkness as we pass within, as if we’d entered a tunnel, and then we stumble into muted light. There are more shapes around us now, and Deliah pushes through the dust towards one of the smaller ones and slips inside. I join her a moment later, dragging Valyra, and collapse into a mostly enclosed space mercifully free of the grit. I cough, spitting out a wad of dust, and roll onto my back. There’s a ceiling of white stone above me, riven by cracks and partially collapsed, but its keeping out the worst of the storm.
“By the Pen,” Bell croaks wearily, sliding to the floor as she leans against the wall. She’s a shadow, lost in the gloaming brought down by the storm obscuring the sky. She hacks a cough, and it sounds like some of the sediment has settled in her lungs.
Deliah tosses down both of the bags she’s carrying. “I think we’ve earned ourselves a little rest.”
> The storm’s fury continues to build, winds flailing against our sanctuary. Trying to talk with Deliah or Bell about what we should do after the storm abates would be futile, but also there seems little appetite for conversation. Each of my companions finds a spot shielded from the dust slithering inside and curls up to sleep. I tell myself I will keep watch for the rest of them, and settle myself cross-legged in the middle of the room, my bared sword across my knees, watching the maelstrom rage outside.
I wake when I feel a touch on my arm.
Blinking away the grit in my eyes, I glance around – Bell and Valyra are still dead to the world, and from the layer of red dust that has accumulated on them they must have been sleeping for quite some time. There’s also a film coating my green-glass blade, and I wipe it clean. Deliah is crouched beside me, one hand on my arm and the other holding up a finger against her lips. What? I mouth, and her eyes flick to the building’s entrance.
It’s lighter outside now, more of the sky’s surreal radiance filtering through the storm as it weakens. The winds are still stirring up dust, but far less than when we first stumbled inside this shelter. I can actually see the indistinct outlines of other buildings across a plaza of sorts, and also what looks to be an obelisk.
Something else is out there as well.
My hand tightens around the hilt of my sword. Shapes are moving across the plaza – hulking shadows with long, tapering limbs that hang to the ground. They are moving slowly, leaning forward so that their malformed heads and elongated jaws are nearly brushing the dust. As if they are following a scent.
I know what these things are. I’ve fought them before . . . they very nearly killed me. I can still feel my insides sliding through my fingers from the time one of these creature’s bone-hook hands sliced my belly open. Scythes, Valyra’s people had called them.
“Shriven,” I whisper.
Deliah nods, her face betraying no fear. Very slowly she reaches over her shoulder and grasps the haft of her glaive. She cocks her head, and I realize this was meant as a question. I glance outside again. There are five Scythes that I can see, but who knows how many others are nearby?
I shake my head, and her hand leaves her weapon’s handle. She seems neither relieved nor disappointed. Perhaps she does feel fear – I certainly do. She can see the concern in my face, though she winks at me before returning her attention to the demons moving across the plaza.
As we watch, one drifts closer to where we’re hiding. More details resolve as it approaches, its snout snuffling in the shifting dust which covers everything. Ropes of drool hang down from a jaw bristling with jutting fangs, and short, curving thorns cover its gnarled black flesh. I hope it’s my imagination, but it suddenly seems to grow more excited, its pace quickening.
The Shriven is definitely coming our way. Deliah and I share another glance, and the question is again in her eyes. I sigh and shrug, and now she does smile, her hand returning to her glaive.
We rise together and charge the Scythe, the only sound the whisper of our boots churning the dust. Still, the creature hears this, as it suddenly rears back with its scimitar arms upraised. Surprise is not an expression that I thought would translate well to such a monstrous visage, but that’s what I can see in the demon’s face as we close the distance. Its mouth opens and its slitted yellow eyes flare wider.
I slash at the demon’s midsection, and then dive forward to avoid a clumsy swipe from its hooks. I land on my shoulder, the dust as soft as sand, and roll back to my feet just in time to see Deliah – who had been a few steps behind me – shove the spiked end of her glaive into the Scythe’s throat. The metal point explodes out the back of the demon’s neck, and as she rips her weapon out it collapses in a heap.
“Not so tough,” she shouts over the wind, her long indigo hair dancing across her face. Across the plaza the four other Scythes have raised their heads from the dust and turned in our direction. For a moment they simply stare at us, as if in disbelief at what just happened, and then they charge. Their long curving hooks furrow the dust, pulling them along, and the distance between us vanishes unsettlingly fast.
I reach down into that oasis of calm, my feet sliding into a fighting stance. The sound of the wind and the shriek of the monsters fades. The world around me slows, crystallizing into this one perfect moment.
I explode into motion. My green-glass blade leaps to meet a flashing scimitar and shears through the bone. The demon reels away in shock and I follow, hacking at the other hook as it tries to defend itself. This time the thick limb requires two blows before it falls severed. While it’s still tumbling to the dust, I jump forward to separate the monster’s head from its shoulders. It slides to its knees and I kick it in its chitinous chest plate, sending it toppling backwards, right into the path of the other horror. That one screeches as it scrambles over its fallen kin, its scimitars carving the air. I backpedal to avoid those flensing limbs, the tip of one of the hooks glancing off my ring-mail hauberk.
This Scythe is more cautious than its brethren, darting forward to slash with its scimitars and then retreating quickly so that I can’t get inside its guard. I keep backing up, watching for an opening between the arcing blows. Soon I’m going to be pushed once more into the building we’d sheltered inside, and I’m not very excited about trying to avoid those great bone scimitars in an enclosed space. Gritting my teeth, I prepare to lunge forward and take my chances.
The Scythe’s head jerks back as something sprouts in its cheek. It screams, shaking its head to dislodge the crossbow quarrel that has suddenly appeared. I seize the opportunity and rush forward, dodging a clumsy swipe, and then bury my sword in the monster’s chest, searching for its heart. A jet of black blood strikes me, spattering my face with warm, bitter-tasting droplets. I wrench the blade back and forth and the Scythe convulses. Its legs give way and it falls backwards, my sword sliding free.
I whirl around to find Bell standing in the doorway, her crossbow braced on her shoulder. I offer her a quick salute with my blade and turn to help Deliah, but the lamias is already striding across the plaza towards me leaving two crumpled demons in her wake. She’s also covered in ichor, tarry streaks marring her red skin and carapace armor.
“That was a Shriven?” Bell asks as I push past her into our sanctuary.
“Yes,” I reply, poking my finger into the hole the demon made in my tunic to see if the ring mail beneath is still intact. The links are a bit battered, but have held. I’ll definitely have a bruise underneath, though, from my sternum’s dull ache.
Deliah has joined us, and she looks exultant. “Here are enemies I revel in fighting. Let us go hunt more of these things, Talin.”
“If you want another fight, you just might have it,” Bell says uneasily. She’s staring at something outside the building, and as I turn I expect to see more of the Scythes loping into the plaza.
But that’s not it.
Surprise goes through me when I see that two dozen men and women have appeared. They stand in a semi-circle facing the entrance to our shelter. Some are bare-chested, while others wear mismatched scraps of ancient armor, and all have smeared their skin with gray ash. Their weapons are similarly eclectic – swords and poleaxes and spears and even a pair of what look to be antique hewbows. They watch us silently with piercing blue eyes, the color all the more startling for staring out from ash-coated faces.
I make a show of sheathing my sword and step out into the plaza. “Greetings,” I say to the one I think must be the leader, a tall, long-limbed man with matted hair teased into spikes. He’s standing a step closer to us than the others and wearing a shirt of many linked coins. His hands rest on the pommel of a two-handed greatsword, the blunted point in the dust. “It gladdens my heart to see you,” I continue. “We had feared the city was dead.” I find that I’ve instinctually reverted to the language of this world.
The man cocks his head to one side, his expression unreadable. I sense my companions moving out of the shadows of the building
to stand beside me. There’s some muttering when they catch sight of Deliah, and the man I’ve taken for the leader even raises his sword into a guard position.
“No,” I say stridently. “We are friends. Look,” I say, indicating the dead Shriven strewn about the plaza, “we killed the demons.”
The man’s lips curl, and he spits. “Yes, you killed the Shriven. Which we never do, for it draws unwanted attention.”
“Ah,” I say softly. “We are sorry, then. We were protecting ourselves.”
The man narrows eyes the color of arctic seas. “You will come with us,” he commands. “Lay down your weapons.”
Deliah doesn’t speak their language, but she must have guessed what was said as she snorts and cuts the air with her glaive. In response, the ash-smeared warriors take threatening steps forward brandishing their own weapons.
Damn. “We will go with you,” I say quickly, unbuckling my sheathed sword and laying it at my feet. “Deliah!” I cry, and the lamias mutters something in a language I don’t know. The glance she gives me could dissolve iron, but still she lets go of her glaive, letting it fall to the ground with a thump.
The leader nods curtly and a pair of blue-eyed warriors step forward to collect our fallen weapons. Others move behind us to complete the encirclement. “Bind their hands,” he barks, and I grit my teeth in anger. This was not the welcome I was expecting.
“You had better be right about this,” Deliah murmurs as a youth wraps thick twine around her wrists. I hold out my arms as they do the same to me.
“We are not your enemies,” I tell their leader. “I promise you.”
“That will be for the Sword of Salvation to decide,” he replies, and then turns away from me. Bell and I share a glance, and then someone shoves me in the back to get me moving. There’s a grunt and a thump and one of the ash-covered warriors sprawls in the dust. Weapons rise again, pointing at Deliah. The lamias regards them with cold disdain. The man she threw to the ground scrambles back to his feet, his face flushed with anger.