Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Macide led them along the sloping cavern in the general direction of the blooming fields. The cavern widened, and then narrowed, then widened again. Several times they were forced to slip sidewise through another gap, or lie on their stomachs, the same as they had done when entering this place. Twice Macide became confused. He would walk around the cavern, examining several of the possible passageways out, eventually choosing one. Once, he backtracked through several caverns before choosing another path. But after a time they came to a tunnel that was formed of solid rock, not crystal. The tunnel widened, became more uniform. Clearly it had been carved by the hands of man.

  Eventually they reached a passage that ran across theirs. They stopped at this intersection, and Macide turned to them all and drew one of his two shamshirs. “This is the palace of Külasan,” he said quietly. “We cannot know if there are Maidens here, or Silver Spears, so be careful. Be quiet. Call upon your brothers and sisters if needed.”

  They broke into three groups from there. Emre went with Hamid and Darius and two others along the left fork. There was a stout man twice Emre’s age named Gihran. The other was a woman called Sahbel. They followed the passage and found an arched entryway that opened up on their right. Hamid led the way with one of the torches. The room was small, five paces across, and within it sat a granite sarcophagus with a name carved into its heavy lid. Iyesa Külasan’ava al Masal.

  A daughter, perhaps, or granddaughter, or some other distant relation. The Wandering King had lived for over four centuries, after all.

  Around the room were several marble busts and one full-body statue. They were all of the same woman, though at different times in her life. She had been a handsome woman with full lips and a regal brow, and judging from one of the busts that showed her as aged, she had lived a long, long while. There were other adornments in the room as well. A painting of an eagle in flight. A carved ivory horse. A golden necklace with a stunning emerald pendant around the neck of the statue. This last Hamid slipped over the bust’s head and into his shirt.

  “I don’t imagine she’ll miss it,” he said to Emre as he headed out of the room and along the passageway.

  They came across several similar rooms—tombs, in essence, set aside for the Wandering King’s loved ones. Most subsumed his name within their own: Külasan’ava. But there were other names as well. Jalil’ava, Muhsin’ava, Latif’ala. His granddaughters and grandsons, then, or even more distant relations. Külasan had lived for more than four hundred years. It made sense that his family in Sharakhai was vast.

  Eventually they came to a tomb that had no adornments whatsoever. A lone sarcophagus was the only thing occupying the cold, dark space. Unlike the other sarcophagi, however, it was carved with ornate symbols on its lid.

  “Seals,” Emre said to the cold, echoing darkness. “To keep people out, I suppose.”

  “No,” Hamid replied confidently, “to keep something in.” He stepped out into the passage and whistled three times. A few moments later, Emre heard softer whistles answering him. He whistled twice more, perhaps to draw the others to them, now that they’d found what they’d come for.

  This was it, then. This was Hamzakiir’s tomb.

  Emre examined the sarcophagus more carefully. Hamzakiir’s name was not written on it. Not that he could tell, anyway. He’d never been good with the old script, but these looked like symbols of power, not a man’s name.

  He ran his hands across the top of it as Hamid came strolling back in. “All this to speak with a dead man.”

  Hamid’s sleepy eyes rested on him, a knowing smile on his lips.

  Emre didn’t understand the joke, but then he thought back to what Hamid had said a moment ago. The seals weren’t meant to keep something out. They were meant to keep something in. To keep Hamzakiir in.

  By the gods who watch above, they hadn’t come merely to speak to Hamzakiir. They’d come to free him.

  The others filed into the room, Macide leading the way.

  Emre took out his iron pry bar, as did Macide and Gihran and Hamid, and then they used them on the lid of the sarcophagus, trying to lever it off.

  From outside the room, Emre heard a sharp hiss. Darius rushed in moments later. “Someone’s coming,” he said.

  Macide, working with the others, gave a fierce grunt as the lid shifted. “How many?”

  “Not sure yet. A dozen. Maybe more.”

  “Take six,” he said to Darius. “Set the oil at the intersection, and lay the traps beyond it. Light the oil when they come near. Slow them down. Fight them if they cross, but otherwise conserve your strength.”

  Darius nodded and was gone, taking six of the others with him, leaving only four behind: Macide, Hamid, Emre, and Gihran.

  At last they managed to shift the lid off the sarcophagus just enough to see the white shroud covering the form within. Macide pulled the shroud back to reveal a man with horribly tightened skin. He looked as though he’d been lying down here for a thousand years, but the gods had refused to let him rot. His cheeks were so drawn, Emre could make out where jawbone ended and teeth began. His eyes were sunken, looking like grapes waiting to be plucked.

  As a shout came from somewhere in the distance, Macide took the blood-red breathstone from within his thawb and placed it against Hamzakiir’s emaciated mouth, which was opened slightly, but not wide enough to slip the stone in. “Pry his mouth open,” he said to Emre.

  Emre reached in and gripped this ancient man’s teeth in an attempt at prying his jaw wider.

  From the hallway came the sounds of marching at the double, accompanied by the chink of mail, the clatter of shields. It sounded like dozens of Silver Spears were headed toward them. A whooshing sound came from the passageway, and the flicker of flames. Shouts came moments later, then screams of pain.

  “Quickly now,” Macide said to Emre, nodding for him to try harder.

  Emre did, but the man’s jaw was slow in moving. He was afraid to tear the tissue and muscle lest he be unable to talk, rendering the stone and its magic useless. Macide pressed the blood-red stone against the corpse’s teeth, waiting as Emre struggled. Finally, with a cluck, the stone slipped into Hamzakiir’s mouth.

  And nothing happened.

  The sound of steel against steel broke out somewhere down the hall. Men screamed, one calling the name of Külasan shortly before releasing a cry of anguish that was cut short by a crunching sound. But Hamzakiir remained lifeless.

  Emre had released the jaw, but opened it again, which was easier this time, and stuffed the stone further down Hamzakiir’s throat.

  The throat convulsed, and Macide reached into the sarcophagus and stroked repeatedly under the man’s chin. Hamzakiir swallowed again and again, but the stone seemed to be caught there.

  “Get him up!” Macide said, beginning to lift him from the sarcophagus. Emre and Hamid moved to help, while Gihran drew the sword from his belt and stood outside the door, ready to protect them should any of the Silver Spears break through. No sooner had he reached the doorway, however, and turned left toward the sound than the spiked head of a morning star crashed into the back of his skull. He crumpled to the stones along the floor, the crown of his head a ruined, reddened mess.

  A moment later, a man Emre had never seen before filled the doorway. He was tall and impressive, with a broad chest and a beard and mustache that hung down his chest. He wore a set of polished mail adorned with the sign of a spread-tailed peacock. The mail draped from his conical helm made a shink sound as he turned his head to regard Macide and Hamid and Emre.

  “You dare,” King Külasan said in a deep, scratchy voice as he stepped into the room. “You dare tread these halls!”

  “Take him,” Macide said, leaving Hamzakiir to Hamid and Emre while pulling his twin shamshirs and moving to meet Külasan.

  The two of them clashed. Macide launched a ferocious combination of sword strikes.
Külasan blocked every blow, either with his morning star, Gravemaker, or with a black buckler inlaid with golden crescent moons. Macide’s onslaught was so vicious Külasan was forced back, into the passageway, but only until the attack had played itself out. After blocking two more swings, the King used his morning star from on high, coming at Macide over and over, while keeping his shield at the ready. He pressed Macide into the tomb once more and toward the far corner. “Did you think you could steal into my home and take my son from me?”

  Emre and Hamid had managed to lift Hamzakiir out of the sarcophagus. Together they cradled him, for his entire body was stiff. The only evidence that he was alive was his head, twisting from side to side but only marginally, as if it were strapped to a board.

  Among the sounds of the battle, Emre heard a wheezing, hardly more than a whisper. Hamzakiir struggled to lift his head. He was trying to speak.

  Emre looked at Hamid, but Hamid merely shrugged. “What is it?” Emre asked, leaning his head down to listen. “Tell me!”

  He whispered something, but Emre couldn’t make it out.

  “Louder!”

  And then a single word came out in one long rasp, “Blllloooooodddd,” making Emre’s skin go cold.

  “Out,” Hamid said. “Get him out of here!”

  They began moving toward the passageway, even as Hamzakiir continued to wheeze for blood. But the moment they approached the entryway, Külasan kicked Macide in the chest. As Macide fell, the King turned and charged Hamid and Emre. With a grunt, Hamid shoved Emre into the hallway, drawing his shamshir and laying his hand across the flat of the blade to block the blow from Külasan’s fearsome morning star.

  “Blood . . .” Hamzakiir rasped again. “I need blood.”

  Emre began pulling him to his feet. “We’ll get you out,” Emre said, “and then we’ll find you blood.”

  To Emre’s right, flames were licking up the intersection where Darius had set the trap for the Silver Spears. The rest of Macide’s men were engaged with more than a dozen Silver Spears, and more were waiting beyond the flames.

  In the tomb, Hamid was momentarily stunned by a backhanded blow from Külasan’s shield. With that one small opening, the King immediately brought Gravemaker down onto Hamid’s shoulder, and he crumpled with a cry of pain, his sword clattering to the ground. Macide engaged Külasan once more, but the King was too fast, blocking blows from Macide’s lithe swords with his heavy morning star.

  Hamzakiir coughed weakly. “We will never leave this place,” he rasped, “unless you give me your blood.”

  “How?”

  In answer, he reached out, took Emre’s wrist in his quivering, twig-like hands.

  Emre grimaced as, around him, the battle raged on. Things could not last much longer. Macide was looking weak. The men were becoming overpowered, and the flames blocking the advance of the Silver Spears were beginning to fade. Emre looked down at Hamzakiir, who quivered as he stared up into Emre’s eyes, looking as though he might fall dead at any moment.

  What is a bit of blood for this cause when so much is being shed around me?

  He held his arm out, and Hamzakiir wasted no time. He pressed his nail into Emre’s arm while Emre gritted his teeth against the hot pain. As Hamzakiir drew Emre’s wrist to his mouth and drank, Emre felt himself going instantly chill, from cheeks to fingers to ears to feet. He shivered, felt himself slowly but surely being drained away. He cried out, partly from the pain but more so from the fear of losing himself to Hamzakiir’s needs.

  How long they stayed like that, Emre couldn’t say. Hamzakiir’s thirst seemed endless.

  The world began to lose focus. The crash of battle and the cries of anguish were fading, becoming more distant as a keen ringing sound replaced them. The flickering light from the burning lamp oil dimmed. His sense of who he was and where he was began to distort. It felt as though he were lying on a raft, drifting along the Haddah with Çeda at his side. They’d done that once, when they were younger. Emre had saved coin for weeks to do it, and when the rains had finally come, he’d asked her, and they’d drifted downriver for a day, eating and laughing and admiring the desert, and had then been towed back by one of the long Qaimiri rowing barges headed for the Amber City to trade.

  Part of him knew that he wasn’t on a river. He was in the catacombs of a lost king, waiting to die. Hamzakiir wouldn’t stop until he was dead. He realized that now, and even if he survived the bloodletting, Macide was about to fall. Emre could see it in his slowed movements. He was barely able to fend off Külasan’s attacks.

  Suddenly, from his left, something quick and lithe flashed across his vision—a woman holding an ebon blade.

  Külasan blocked her initial swing, but she bulled into him, and sent him reeling. Then she threw something at him. A flower. An adichara bloom. He batted it away with his shield. The bloom flew against the far wall, but a diaphanous, golden-white powder exploded in its wake, and immediately he began to cough—long, wracking coughs that doubled him over.

  Hamzakiir released his hold on Emre’s wrist and laughed. A rolling, grumbling thing that sounded as though it came not from a man but from a dying god in a dark cave at the lonely edges of the world. Blood slicked his teeth. Emre’s blood. It slicked his mouth, as well. Dribbled over his chin. Then he made his way to his feet on shaking limbs, still laughing.

  He stared around the room, eyes burning with intense fury, his laugh slowly dying away. As it did, a rumbling filled the air. A groaning of the earth. An awakening of things long forgotten. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. Cracks rent the stone, and chips of it began to fall away.

  Ahead, Külasan, still coughing, launched a series of furious attacks at Macide and the Blade Maiden, who, Emre realized, must be Çeda. The soldiers of the Moonless Host were forced to retreat or be crushed by Gravemaker. The moment they gave ground, he sent one last swipe their way and rushed from the room, heading back the way he’d come.

  Emre was still fiercely cold. His arms and legs shook every bit as violently as Hamzakiir’s had done moments ago, but he managed to get to his feet by pushing himself up against the rumbling wall.

  Çeda started to run from the tomb but stopped when she saw Emre. She glanced at him, at how badly he was shaking, all but her eyes hidden by her black veil. “Get out,” she said. “There’ll be more Silver Spears coming, and the Maidens have surely been summoned.” Then she turned and chased Külasan.

  Macide came from the tomb, Hamid’s arm over his shoulder. Hamid seemed to be moving well enough, but his left arm hung limply, and his shoulder was a bloody mess. Macide whistled twice, and his soldiers—the five still standing—beat an orderly retreat down the hall, away from the fire and the Silver Spears.

  The rumbling continued. Emre darted into the tomb to grab the torch and led the way down the dark passageway, shivering all the while. They came soon to an intersection. Three tunnels led away from this place and Emre could hear the King’s coughing up ahead. He could hear Çeda’s rapid footsteps as well. He was ready to head down that hallway, but just then the groaning of the earth intensified. As Emre and the others retreated, rock and rubble fell, crashing down with a sound like the dying of the world. It sent dust everywhere, making the torch gutter, though thankfully their light wasn’t extinguished entirely.

  Coughing from the cloud of dust, Emre held the torch high to see what state the hallway was in. The rockfall had blocked much of the intersection, though a small gap remained—perhaps enough for a man to slip through. It led only to the leftmost passage, however, not the one Çeda had taken.

  Emre crawled through on his belly with the torch, hoping he’d find a gap, even a small hole he could widen, some way to reach Çeda and help her, but there was nothing. The way had been completely blocked.

  “Leave her,” Macide said, tugging on his sleeve.

  Emre knew Macide was right. He knew he couldn’t help Çeda,
but it burned at him. They’d come all this way, and still Çeda had been there for him. She’d saved him, as she’d done so many times before. He was desperate to even the scales, but there was nothing for it now. He couldn’t reach her. So he nodded to Macide and began helping the others through the gap in the rubble. When all the men were through, Darius threw a clay pot down against the stones, coating the way with lamp oil. Emre put the torch to it, and lit the rubble aflame.

  It wouldn’t last long—the Spears and perhaps the Maidens would be on their trail again soon. But it would block any pursuit for a time.

  So on they ran, on toward the crystal caves. On to the desert, and safety.

  RAMAHD WAITED ON A SHALLOW RIDGE, crouching low to the ground with Dana’il at his left and Meryam to his right. Nine of his men waited in a line behind them—Corum and Quezada and Rafiro and the rest. They knelt with bows at the ready, spears on the ground at their sides. They’d been waiting hours beneath the twin moons for Meryam to give them some sign as to what was happening inside Külasan’s hidden palace.

  When they’d first arrived, Meryam had stopped them and pointed to a large stone on the other side of the dry streambed. “They entered there,” she’d said, and knelt on the ground. She hadn’t moved since, remaining in that same position, kneeling on the rocky soil, eyes half-lidded, as the night wheeled slowly by.

  “We should scout the cavern,” Ramahd had said after hours of waiting.

  “We wait,” Meryam had replied simply.

  “They might leave from a different place altogether.”

  “Would you rather fight them in cramped quarters or take them unawares from a distance?”

  “That isn’t the point. I’m worried we’ve lost them, Meryam.”