Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series

by Helen Garraway

  Jerrol continued his spin and regained his feet, hands wide as he assessed the threat. Kayerille had been joined by Marianille whose Vespirian tactics forced her opponent back, her movements smooth and efficient as she followed the body down, before spinning alert for the next threat. Another body joined the one on the floor near her. Atoleans spilled out from their tents, responding to the sound of fighting, swords at the ready, but the Sentinals were the only ones left standing.

  Jerrol scanned the tents, searching for the archer, but he had slipped away unseen. He prepared to assist Kayerille, but she had her man beaten and the Atolean guards pinned him to the ground. Birlerion appeared by his side, breathing heavily, his sling in hand.

  Jerrol exhaled. “Thank you.”

  “You do attract trouble,” Birlerion grinned, his eyes bright as he assessed the situation. “Maybe I’ll finally lose the accolade of being the troublemaker,” he said, gazing at the captured assassin with calculating eyes.

  The assassin glared at Jerrol. He spoke three words and laughed as he started to foam at the mouth. His eyes rolled and he collapsed to the ground.

  Jerrol took a deep breath as he wiped his sword and sheathed it. He bent to retrieve his dagger.

  “Kayerille?” he asked.

  “All good, sir,” she said. “You?”

  “Fine. Marianille?”

  “Fine,” she replied, rolling a body over with her foot and crouching to inspect it. Birlerion joined her, pushing up sleeves, searching for marks.

  “Kirshan assassins,” Viktor’s voice cut through the silence. “His last words: ‘Death awaits you.’ They have an order out on you.”

  “I know, but they haven’t been able to find me until now. I should have taken Var’geris out,” Jerrol said suddenly. “He knows who I am. It had to be him arranging such a fast response.”

  Viktor looked at him in concern. “They don’t stop until they succeed.”

  Jerrol grinned, narrowing his eyes. “Well, it will be their most expensive hit yet, and maybe we can confuse them for a bit longer.”

  “How?”

  “Could you hound Var’geris out of Mistra? He’ll want his assassins around him. He doesn’t have many of them left. It will give us long enough for us to leave for Mistra without him seeing us.”

  “That won’t stop them.”

  “No, a mere decoy. But I now know it’s Var’geris sending them. Once I kill him, the hit will be void, the agreement cancelled. If you accidentally manage to kill him, I’m sure the Lady will bless you for protecting her Captain,” Jerrol said. “But make sure your people are careful. It’s better they keep him running. I’ll deal with him.”

  Viktor grinned in anticipation. “It will be our pleasure,” he said, turning to order his people to remove the bodies littering their camp.

  34

  Deserts of Terolia

  Early the next morning, Jerrol twisted in his saddle and checked his caravan. He had four camels stretched out in a line behind him, each linked to the other by rope to ensure none went astray, but he still worried.

  Tris’eril curled inside his robe, laying across his lap, her hand gripping his tunic. Zin’talia crooned in his head, pleased to be out on the road with him again. He faced forward and followed Birlerion, who with his innate sense of direction, led them across the empty sun-baked sands.

  They had slipped out of the camp before dawn and made good time crossing the desert to the south towards the mountain range that ran down the coastline. His thoughts drifted as they travelled. His gaze rested on the back of his Sentinal, and Birlerion turned around.

  Birlerion’s gaze flicked over the line of camels, and then he met Jerrol’s eyes for a moment before turning back to the desert. Birlerion was fading into the background as the other Sentinals drew the attention away from him, and Birlerion let them. Was that how he became so unobtrusive? Was that the trick of it?

  The previous evening, after they had settled after the attack Birlerion and Roberion had reported that Var’geris had packed in a hurry and moved out. To where was the question.

  Birlerion had been in a contemplative mood, lingering beside Jerrol as they stared out towards the burning sunset. He had stirred as the air shimmered and the little Arifel, Lin, appeared before him. He held out his hand and she settled as he accepted the message. Jerrol could still see Birlerion standing, gilded by the sun to burnished gold. What little skin was exposed glimmered as he read the missive. The black and white Arifel rubbing against him.

  When Birlerion raised his head, his eyes were liquid gold as if he had absorbed the very sun itself, and then the sun sank below the horizon and he was just a man again. It had been an unnerving moment, and then he spoke and the impression was gone.

  “Tagerill and Lady Miranda have joined. I am so glad. His tree must have worked his magic. And the confirmation was successful; Alyssa picked up the guardianship. That’s Deepwater in safe hands. I wondered how Tagerill was doing. It’s his borning today,” he had said with a soft smile. “He finally made twenty-one. Some thought he’d never make it. I’m glad he has someone to celebrate it with.”

  It wasn’t until much later that Jerrol remembered that Tagerill and Birlerion shared a borning day.

  As the sun rose higher and became more intense, they circled the camels before encouraging them to fold down onto the sand. The Sentinals rigged an awning, raising the middle of it to a height for at least one person to stand and stretch. They all lay limply on the sand, leaning against the animals as backrests. No one talked; they tried to sleep to save their energy.

  Jerrol stirred as the awning began to flap in a strengthening breeze. He stood and peered out at the perfect blue sky. “Adilion, Roberion,” he said, kicking their feet to wake them, “make sure the awning is tied down securely. Drop the height. It looks like a sandstorm is coming.” He retreated inside, stepping over legs and retrieving Tris’eril.

  “I don’t think this is a natural sandstorm,” Zin’talia said.

  “Why not?”

  “The air is spinning, sucking the sand up. It’s scouring the land. This is not right.” She stirred as the other animals began to shift.

  “Hold onto your rides; this is not going to be good,” Jerrol said out loud.

  The Sentinals gripped the camel’s reins as Jerrol tried to soothe Zin’talia. Birlerion held onto his horse.

  Zin’talia rolled her eyes. “He’s here. He’s going to sweep us all away!” she shrieked in Jerrol’s head. She reared, and Jerrol fought to hold onto her, but her panic affected the others.

  The wind whipped and tugged the awning, which stretched in all directions. The slapping noise upset the animals even more and, eventually, it ripped down the middle. It was whisked away into a swirling funnel, sweeping across the desert, sucking in everything around it.

  The air roared and bucked and buffeted them, pulling them towards the funnel. Sand swirled around them, blotting out the horizon and each other. Jerrol hung onto Zin’talia grimly as Tris’eril whimpered into his chest. He hunkered down, praying the reins wouldn’t snap, trying to shelter the little girl. The camels fled in all directions; Sentinals tried to act as drags, slowing them down.

  As quickly as it had started, it ended. The air stilled and silence descended. Jerrol stood. Sand cascaded from his clothes, and he looked around as Zin’talia trembled beside him. He hugged her neck, and realised his hand stung, burnt by the leather reins sliding through his grip.

  The horizon had changed. The sand had shifted, scoured back to bare rock in places. He turned in a full circle as two Sentinals led their camels towards him. Another camel lay in the sand, an immobile lump in the distance; it would never stir again. He shielded his eyes. Roberion and Marianille were trying to offload what was left of the equipment.

  What they had brought into the shelter with them had gone. Any trace of them had been scoured clean; nothing remained but bare rock. He checked his water supply. He had two full canteens still tied to Zin’talia. He ha
d been rigorous in ensuring they were tied securely. Birlerion came up, fortunately leading his horse, his eyes wide and dazed.

  “That was not natural,” he said.

  “Agreed, but it’s gone now, along with tonnes of sand. No wonder they say the desert never looks the same one day to the next.” Jerrol said, trying to slow his own beating heart. “How much water do you have?”

  "I’ve got two canteens. But we’ve lost what was on Marianille’s camel. We couldn’t hold it. It got dragged into that… that thing,” Birlerion replied, twirling his hand in the air.

  The other Sentinals arrived. They all had abrasions and burns on their hands and faces. Their eyes were a bit wild. “Birlerion, see if we’ve got anything for the burns and cuts,” Jerrol asked. “We can’t leave them unattended in this heat.”

  Birlerion rummaged in one of the remaining packs. He resurfaced with a pad and a bottle of lotion in his hand. He removed the stopper and thoroughly wet the pad, then peeled off a thin layer of cloth and handed one to each of them.

  “Fortunately, Maraine insisted we pack some healing supplies,” he murmured as he crouched by Marianille in the sand. She hissed as he dabbed one on her chin. He passed one to Jerrol and as he laid it across his palm, Jerrol sighed in relief as the pain eased. He flinched as Birlerion pressed another pad against his cheek. He hadn’t noticed the sting until the cooling pad relieved it.

  “Zin’talia, are you hurt anywhere?” he asked, busy checking Tris’eril over. She seemed fine. She had been well sheltered.

  “No-o.” Zin’talia’s voice didn’t sound too sure.

  Jerrol spun on his heel and walked over to run his hands down her flank. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry.” She dipped her head. “I shouldn’t have panicked. I made it worse.”

  Jerrol hugged her neck. “You were marvellous. It couldn’t be helped; everyone panicked. How did you know it was unnatural?”

  “I heard his voice in the wind. He was angry,” Zin’talia said.

  “Who’s voice?”

  “The one who threatened you in Mistra.”

  “Var’geris?”

  “Yes, he was furious.”

  “Good,” he thought as he squinted out across the horizon.

  “Birlerion, was that the Ascendants?” Adilion asked, holding his camel tight, his expression tense. “Remember that attack outside Melila that nearly killed us all?”

  “Probably,” Birlerion said.“Though this was different. Last time, they were able to target us specifically. This was more general, drawing from across the desert. But it is worrying that they have similar skills.” He scowled. “We had no defence then. We have even less now.”

  “If they have power, surely the Lady’s power should be just as effective?” Jerrol suggested.

  “That’s the problem. It is Her power. She used us as vessels on occasion, but it was Her power, and She isn’t physically here anymore. What we had is gone.”

  Jerrol stared at him. “What power did you have, Birlerion?”

  Birlerion shrugged. “Nothing that will help us here.”

  Jerrol bit his lip. That wasn’t quite the answer he was expecting, but this wasn’t the time to dig further. The other Sentinals were listening with interest; it was apparent they didn’t know what Birlerion could do either, except maybe Niallerion, who had raised his eyebrows as Birlerion spoke.

  Regrouping, they checked their supplies and remounted, the Sentinals doubled up on the remaining camels.

  They reached a small village later that evening, more by accident than design as it wasn’t marked on any map. The Sentinals shrugged when Jerrol asked them its name. They gazed at the burnt-out shells of the buildings as they rode down the main street. The fields were long abandoned and had reverted to shifting mounds of sands encroaching the outer limits of the ruins. The well was fouled, so they couldn’t even top up their water. There was no sign of a sentinal tree. Jerrol listened keenly just in case and double-checked with Birlerion, but Birlerion shook his head.

  They stopped for the night on the outskirts of the town; the ruins were too depressing. The following evening, they trailed into Melila.

  Most of the houses were deserted and falling into disrepair, though a couple were still standing near the well. The Sentinals stared around them as they made their way down the main street. What were once small vegetable patches had been returned to dust. The surrounding fields were empty and abandoned.

  They pulled up by the well, scanning the buildings around them. Jerrol dismounted, holding Tris’eril’s hand. Her thumb was firmly stuck in her mouth as she clutched him with her other hand. Roberion let the bucket fall and rewound it, the ratchet clanking in the silence. He dumped the water into the trough and let the horses drink their fill.

  “Check the houses. Niallerion, refill the canteens,” Jerrol instructed as Roberion dropped the bucket again and repeated the action for the camels. The Sentinals spread out, searching the ruins.

  Niallerion gaped around him. “How many people lived here?”

  “It was about the same size as Il Queron, I believe. A couple of hundred maybe,” Jerrol replied as he squatted down beside the child. “I’m sorry, Tris.”

  She stared at him for a moment and then turned back to the road. Marianille escorted an elderly couple towards them. They were clutching each other in fear, even though Marianille had her hands spread apart; they weren’t reassured. They had learnt not to trust—the hard way.

  Tris let out a loud squeal. “Amma!” she called, releasing Jerrol and darting down the road towards the old woman. The woman opened her arms, and Tris threw herself into her embrace and burst into tears. The woman cradled her in amazement, murmuring soft endearments into her curls. She raised her head as Jerrol approached.

  “We mean no harm,” he said, observing the Kirshan tattoos on their cheeks, the same as Tris’.

  The man snorted. “Nothing much left to harm.”

  “Is there anyone else living here?”

  “They won’t come out. They’re too afraid.”

  “We came from Mistra. No one knows anything about this.” Jerrol raised his arm and indicated the ruins.

  “They know. They do nothing about it,” the man said, his crooked fingers stroking his sparse grey beard.

  “Who knows?”

  “The Kirshans. They pass by now and then. Make sure we haven’t left.” The man laughed bitterly. “Where would we go? No livestock. No camels. We wouldn’t survive out there. We hardly survive in here.”

  Jerrol waved the Sentinals closer. “Adilion, you and Roberion find the Waystone and go back to Mistra. Bring supplies, new mounts, and help,” Jerrol ordered as he turned back to the elderly man. “My name is Jerrol. We came here to help.”

  The man stared at him in disbelief. “To help us?”

  “Yes, to help anyone who needs. We expected there to be more people here. What happened?”

  “A tall man came, preaching change and a new way of life and swept everyone away with him. Those who wouldn’t go were either slaughtered or chained up, anyway. Destroyed our homes too, just to make sure there was nothing to come back to.”

  “We lost our tent and supplies in the storm; may we shelter in one of these houses?”

  “Take your pick. They are all empty; been empty now for over a year.”

  A year. Anger stirred in his gut as he stared at the man. “You know Tris’eril?” Jerrol asked.

  “Our granddaughter,” he said, pride in his watery eyes. “We lost her with our daughter, Sher’ille, and her man last year. The Kirshans came through and swept away every able-bodied person. Left us here to die. Haven’t died yet! The Lady watches over us.”

  “That she does,” Jerrol agreed.

  The woman rocked the child gently, crooning a soft lullaby, soothing the tears away.

  “Birlerion, set up camp in whichever house has a roof and build a fire. Make us a drink.”

  Birlerion dug a shallow pit outside his chosen house
and lined it with the fire rocks. He soon had a small fire burning merrily. Rummaging for a coffee pot, he filled it and placed it over the fire before venturing back into the house to search for mugs.

  Niallerion tied the Camels to the ring in the wall and went into a house and brought a chair out, placing it in the shade. He went searching through the house next door and returned with some floor cushions, which he repeatedly whacked against the wall. “Please, be seated.”

  Chatting quietly with the old couple, who relaxed in his soothing company, Birlerion handed around the coffee, grinning as Marianille returned from scouting around the village. “Smelt the coffee, did you?” he said. “This is Terl’ana and Ame’lie,” he said, introducing the old couple.

  Marianille cupped her coffee and said, “There is another family, but they wouldn’t join us. They are in the house to the north of the well.”

  “Maybe they’ll join us later,” Ame’lie said, hugging Tris.

  Tris’ grandfather inhaled the aroma. “Coffee. I haven’t had coffee for so long.” He sighed with pleasure. He barely flinched when Roberion and Adilion impossibly returned with three camels loaded with sacks of supplies; ground flour, sweetmeats, and fruit. The couple stared at them a little wild-eyed, but Birlerion had calmed them enough to keep them seated. A broad smile grew on Ame’lie’s wrinkled face.

  Jerrol quirked an eyebrow in question at his returning men.

  “Maraine’s men decided to come by the traditional route, by horse. They didn’t like the sound of the Waystone’s side-effects.” Adilion grinned, glancing around. “Find anyone else?

  “Not yet. We’ll split the watch between the five of us. Marianille and Roberion, you take the first shift; rotate every six hours. The Atoleans should arrive in a couple of days. Let’s make sure no one else surprises us before then.”