She built up energy in her palms, and then electricity lanced out, catching Kazimir as he blinked across the wall, sending him to the floor, smoking.
“Everything can die!” Sigrid hissed.
Whitney leaned out to look up and realized that most of the mystics were dead. A couple gurgled their final breaths, crossbow bolts sticking out of their chests like pincushions. One heaved, Sigrid stooping over him and ready to drink.
Instead, she leaped to defend her maker, blade in hand, clearing more of the room than should’ve been possible. She landed on Aihara Na’s back and drove the blades into her. Her corporeal state flickered as they drove in, then out again and Sigrid passed through to hit the floor.
Aihara Na screamed, then called forth fire to her hands. A pillar of it coursed down into Sigrid, burning her clothes, singeing her skin. The stench was rank on the air. Sigrid squealed and flailed, but Aihara didn’t allow herself to be struck, or for the fire to relent. Sigrid’s skin melted away, revealing her muscle and half her ribcage.
Whitney wasn’t sure what he was thinking as he bolted out of his cover, straight at the all-powerful mystic who took on two upyr like it was some mere bar fight. But he slashed at her. Unlike Kazimir or Sigrid, he had no powers, or whatever upyr magic it took to be able to strike her, and again, his hands passed right through, and he slipped on the blood-slick marble.
He did, however, earn Aihara Na’s attention. She stopped pouring fire over Sigrid and turned to him, her spirit-like body seeming to grow before him. Sigrid crawled for the corpse of another mystic.
“You insignificant little insect,” she said. “Nesilia will reward me for your head.”
She raised her hand, and another bolt of pure lightning burst from her fingertips. Whitney slammed his eyes, shut but couldn't help himself when he didn’t get zapped. He peeked through his eyelids to see Kazimir in front of him, and his cloak pulled up like a shield. The energy absorbed into the fabric, leaving only a thin swirl of smoke hanging in the air.
“A Son of the Night protecting a mortal?” Aihara Na said. “Now, I’ve seen everything.”
For the first time since they'd met, Whitney saw Kazimir look weary. His eyes were somewhat lagging, and while he wasn’t panting—Whitney was pretty sure he didn’t have to breathe—his chest heaved.
“I’ll slaughter every last mystic in this tower,” Kazimir said. Even his voice was raspy.
“And I’ll find more,” she said. “The Dom Nohzi will meet the fate they so deserve.”
She extended her hand, and it became a blade entirely made of fire. Whitney was spellbound by it. She swung down at Kazimir, moving as fast as he did, putting him on the defense. Whitney would’ve helped, but his feet felt like they were sunken in mud.
Bashing at Kazimir, Aihara Na beat him backward until his back was against the wall. She knocked a knife from his hand, then slashed his chest with the burning blade. His back slammed against stone. She gripped him by the throat, her hand becoming digits again but still wreathed in flame. His skin burned, sizzling, then healing on repeat.
“I have no weaknesses,” Aihara Na said. “But you do.”
She reached into his robes and removed a dagger Whitney hadn’t seen before. It was heavily engraved with what looked like Drav Crava and gleamed, made of silver. She grinned as she sent it plunging toward his chest. His hands shot out to grab her by the wrist, and his touch turned her arms physical, but her figure seemed to waver around them, pushing through.
“Maker!”
Whitney heard Sigrid but didn’t see her. Only wind gusted by him before she was soaring through the air. Half her body was burned to the bone, but her eyes still glowed, powered by fresh mystic blood on her lips.
She crashed down on Aihara Na, driving her fangs into her back. The ancient mystic pulled away and howled in agony. Sigrid didn’t pass through as Whitney had. She’d bought Kazimir the time needed for him to duck out of the way of the silver blade, and he too plunged his fangs into Aihara Na’s neck.
More of the whitish energy surged out of her, and the mystic collapsed to her knees. Her lower body still waffled like a spirit, but their attack made the top half physical. She continued to cast spells with shaking hands, damaging the upyr , but now with mystic blood, they healed fast enough to withstand the assault of elements.
Kazimir tore his fangs away. His eyes, normally a soulless black mass, now radiated white.
“Sigrid, child,” he said, “close your eyes with her, all the way.”
“You said never to do that,” Sigrid argued, still wrestling with the mystic.
“I will bring you back from Elsewhere.”
Aihara Na’s fire-covered hand pushed at Kazimir’s face, burning off his pale skin, hot enough to reach bone and sinew almost instantly. He fought through it and bit her again. Sigrid did too.
Whitney watched, dumbfounded, and then, at the same time, the two upyr closed their eyes. For an instant, they were gone. Whitney was halfway toward running to where they’d been when they reappeared, on their knees.
Kazimir held Sigrid in his embrace, holding her tight as her eyes were wide, brimming with terror.
Aihara Na was gone.
XIII
The Daughter
Nahanab. She was a port city if ever there was one. With direct access across Trader’s Bay and up the Jarein Gorge river system leading to Yarrington and Panping, the city had flourished under the thumb of the Glass Kingdom. Their major outlet into the Black Sands.
At least, it was until Mahi’s father burrowed within its walls.
No city had received the Glass’ influence like this one, which also came with their scorn. Mahi could see it as they ascended over the rocky terrain overlooking the city. A handful of spires from churches dedicated to Iam rose above the low skyline, constructed with black sandstone. Large libraries could be seen too, which were all likely to be filled with tomes of Glass history as well.
The shrines to Mahi’s own god sat along the waterfront, half-submerged so the seaweed, nigh’jels, and other blessed life of the water could drift in and out. Unlike the rest of the peninsula, Nahanab’s shores mingled with the M’stafu desert. The columns were the fingers of a Siren, made from petrified sand; the rare white grains glinting in the sunlight. Some were crumbled, others decaying. All were forgotten, neglected.
In its center, she could see the afhem’s palace, still standing, which was a good sign.
Nahanab, like all cities, was named for its first Afhem. Now ruled by Afhem Dajani Calidor, the Calidor Afhemate looked after the city; a group which had thrown support behind Muskigo early on, and Mahi could only hope that Calidor and her father were still alive.
Mahi crawled up to the ridge looking down over the valley within which the city was situated. A fortification extended between two natural cliffs, protecting a mass of stacked clay buildings and stone monuments. She’d been there before with her father and remembered how the bazaar bustled. Now, it was ripped to pieces.
On the west side of the city, the docks had little more than tiny fishing rafts moored or floating loosely in the water. Mahi was glad, and prayed thanks, for the constant fog which plagued the bay. It would mean anyone on the lookout would yet to see the smoke from her battle to the south. Her men had been methodical, ensuring that no survivors made it through—not even a galler.
On the east side, a number of soldiers moved away from a vast army camp. A line of them marched through the opened gates of Nahanab like conquerors. The Shesaitju archers along the ramparts weren’t even firing upon them.
“Is that—” Bit’rudam started.
“Father,” Mahi finished for him. Even from so far away that he was the size of an insect, she recognized him. She could never forget the white tattoos coating nearly his entire body, marking his afhemate and many victories. Not an afhem alive boasted more.
Presently, her father wasn’t fighting valiantly for the city. Instead, he was chained to a cart being rolled into town by Glassmen. Shieldsmen in s
hining, white armor marched on either side of him—but not only them. Shesaitju walked among them, including a leader Mahi would know from an even greater distance just by the size of him. Afhem Babrak walked, chatting with Sir Nikserof, Wearer of White and the man responsible for murdering Shavi and so many more in Saujibar.
“What is this?” Bit’rudam questioned.
“I don’t know,” Mahi replied. She might as well have struck like a sand snake. Her fingers dug into the rock, her knuckles going pale as ash. Her arm had been feeling better, hardly feeling the pain as she climbed through the labyrinth of rock up to their position, but now, she squeezed her fists so tight, her wound burned from the exertion.
“Is he captured?” Afhem Tingur asked, panting as he reached the ridge. He collapsed on his back to catch his breath. Unlike Babrak, he wasn’t a giant, merely out of shape.
“Babrak is with them,” Bit’rudam said.
“That fat, slob of a zhulong!” Mahi cursed in Saitjuese. “I didn’t think even he could stoop so low.”
“That is insulting to zhulong,” Bit’rudam said.
“With Muskigo’s army broken, and you on Nipaval, not a soul exists to challenge Babrak’s power,” Tingur said.
“Well, unfortunately for him, I’m not on my isle any longer.”
Mahi went to stand, but Bit’rudam tugged on her arm. “Look,” he said, pointing at the Glass army’s camp. “They’re completely exposed and relaxing in victory. If we move down that ridge, attacking them from the southeast, we can overrun their position.”
“They have my father,” Mahi said. She paused, remembering everything Yuri had said to her in his fear-addled rant. She shook her head. They may have been equals now, she and Muskigo, but he was still her father. “I can’t leave him.”
“Of course, my Afhem,” Bit’rudam replied. But for the first time, she could hear a hint of disappointment in his tone. “Perhaps we can climb down, then pick them off from the rooftops.”
Mahi’s gaze darted between the city and the Glass encampment. Muskigo was being rolled through the central avenue now. Ayerabi warriors and Nahanab civilians flocked to watch, emerging from damaged homes, sticking their heads through shattered windows, though none attacked.
Mahi knew that all members of an afhemate would give their lives for their afhem, fight tooth and nail to free him. The only reason they wouldn’t was if the afhem had ordered them not to. That meant her father wasn’t just captured, he had surrendered. The very thought made Mahi’s chest constrict.
“My Afhem, what is your will?” Bit’rudam asked.
The camp was still well-manned, but Mahi’s forces had the element of surprise, and they could strike fast. If the Glass’ armored horse cavalry didn’t have a chance to mount and charge, the advantage belonged to Mahi.
Closing her eyes, she listened to the gentle whistle of the wind, hoping to hear the whispers of the Sirens upon it. What she heard wasn’t gentle at all. A distant rumble broke to the south, and she opened her eyes to see the darkening storm clouds far across the desert. Never a good omen in a place where rain was scarce. When it quieted, she heard only the thumping of her own heart.
“Afhem Tingur, lead our armies down that ridge and drive the heathens out of their own camp,” Mahi ordered. “Move fast and destroy everything they have. Hit the stables first. Don't want them fleeing like the cowards they are.”
“What about you?” Tingur asked.
“I’m going after my father.”
“Mahrav—” Bit’rudam caught himself. “My Afhem. Lord Darkings spoke like a mad boar, but his advice that you stay alive is worth taking into consideration.”
“His concern, as well as yours is noted,” she said. “But if they see a force coming, my father is as good as dead. If I go in quietly, I can free him. Or at least convince him to fight back. I don’t know what Babrak told him, but if he sees me, I know he’ll fight. We can catch the Glass army between us if we time it right.”
“Or, you die, your army breaks, and we hand them the city’s defenses as well as this coast’s best water access.”
“Then I’d better not die.”
Mahi used her spear to stand, but before she could take a step, Bit’rudam moved in front of her, fell to his knees, and bowed.
His voice rose, muffled. “If this is your will, my Afhem, then I beg of you, do not go alone. I have watched you fight, from the arena to the bay. You are exceptional, but your style is still raw and overly aggressive for your stature. Not to mention your injury.”
Afhem Tingur swallowed audibly, and Mahi stared at him, aghast as his bluntness.
“I do not mean to offend,” Bit’rudam went on, looking up at her now. “But I loyally served Afhem Awn’al al’Tariq. It was only by the hand of God that I was not on the ship when his life was taken. But I knew him, and I know when he pushed through that storm, it was nothing except pride.”
“Saving my father isn’t pride,” Mahi said, a harsh edge entering her tone. “I don’t care what you or anybody thinks. He fought for us when nobody else would, fought for the soul of our people.”
“You misunderstand. I only mean it is prideful thinking you must do so alone.” Bit’rudam stood. Then he stomped on the ground and barked commands in Saitjuese. In an instant, a dozen warriors flocked to his side, drawing scimitars, fauchards, and other such weapons, and placing them on the ground before her. Then, spitting in their hands, they bent and ran their fingers through the dirt beside their weapons.
“One Current for al’ Tariq!” they chanted.
Mahi scanned them. They were fearsome warriors by appearance, each of them far larger than Bit’rudam. She didn’t know their names, barely knew much about her new afhemate since they’d departed Nipaval so quickly, but that was what it meant to be afhem. She didn’t need to know their names—they were all one.
“I was a child when your father stood in defiance before King Liam on the very sands where you purchased our love with the blood of your enemies,” Bit’rudam said. “The Glass will cower like rats before you.”
Mahi nodded, then she turned to Tingur. “Can you handle this?”
“I may not look like much anymore, little lady, but there was a time this hammer was feared by pink-skins,” Tingur said, lifting his weapon. It was unique, something she’d never seen before—a staff about half the length of the man, with a solid hammer on each end. “Aren’t many left alive who can say that.”
“And I’m honored to have you at my side.” She spat in her hands, then lowered herself to the ground and ran her fingers across it. “May the Eternal Current guide you.”
“And you, Afhem Mahraveh.” He returned the gesture.
When he stood, his smile went all the way to his eyes. His back straightened, and he began to speak with a confidence she hadn’t heard since she’d met the aging afhem. For a moment, she understood why his name was featured in stories about the last war with King Liam.
“When you find your father,” he said, “tell him it should have been me in Tal’du Dromesh that day, but the glory is his. He’ll know what it means.”
Tingur waved for his forces and waddled off. Bit’rudam relayed Mahi’s orders, and her afhemate went with him. It was a steep climb down, but they could handle it. Everyone knew what was at stake.
Mahi, Bit’rudam, and the others, however, faced much more challenging terrain. The bluffs closest to the water were jagged. The warriors treated her like a child, or something precious, fragile to the point of breaking. Every step she took was guarded by one of them in case she slipped.
“I can handle it,” she snapped at one as he took her arm.
“One Current,” Bit’rudam reminded her as he hopped down behind her.
She clenched her jaw and watched him go by to aid another of the warriors. It was then she realized they were all helping one another. They weren’t just babying her like everyone had when she was a child.
She felt ashamed. “Thank you,” she said to the warrior. Then,
once she was safe upon the next step, she turned and offered her spear to the warrior behind her.
“One Current,” she repeated.
One by one, they made it to the lowest flat and the stark cliff-face falling toward the Nahanab valley. Mahi took note of the footprints in the thin layer of sand. Some areas of the black were darkened by what appeared to have been blood. Embers from a campfire swept along in the wind.
“Our people were here,” Mahi said.
One of the warriors ran his forefinger through a bloodstain and touched it to his lips. “That’s Glassmen all right,” he said. “You can tell by how sweet it tastes.”
“They do love their cakes,” Bit’rudam said.
They all shared a laugh.
But not Mahi. She stayed low and perched over the edge of the ridge. From the vantage, she had a clear view of the city. Everyone gathered in the bazaar before one of the Glass churches which lay straight across from Calidor’s palace.
Considering the state of the place, Calidor, himself, had to be dead. When news reached Latiapur, there would be a massive turnout of warriors seeking the afhemate. Tal’du Dromesh would be on again. Her father’s rebellion left a number of afhemates leaderless. There would be tournaments for months, meaning Latiapur would be desperate for food and supplies and the trade which they’d been cut off from, giving Babrak more power.
No region was more desirable than one of the walled cities along the Black Sand’s western coast. Those afhems tended to gather the most wealth and live the longest, provided they didn’t join open rebellions. Mahi couldn’t imagine what Babrak’s city looked like now that he’d exploited the missing Caleef and manipulated a group of scared afhems unsure of what to do next. Abo’Fasaniyah was positioned on the largest island southeast of Latiapur. It was heavily guarded on the west by not only other small islands but the ancient Intsti Reef as well, making ship-faring all but impossible if the captain weren’t intimately familiar with the region. A perfect throne to grow fat on.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 76