“There has been no chocolate for generations, not since the Sundering,” Naara explained. “Those beans that were buried with you are likely all that remains—”
Sudduth threw her head back and howled, which was especially unfortunate as she had had her throat slit from ear to ear, and Ismai could see the ululations in her exposed throat. He supposed he was not afraid—being, as Naara had said, more than half undead himself—but it was disconcerting at the very least. And more than a little bit gross.
The warrior’s anguished rage drew the attention of several of her companions. Uruk, Fatheema, Amraz, and several others whose names Ismai had not yet learned, shuffled over to stand with their companion. Uruk put his hand on Sudduth’s shoulder and his eyes gleamed bright and bloody as he glared at their commander.
“What have you done?” he grated. His other hand, as big around as Ismai’s thigh, tightened upon the haft of his spiked war hammer. Ismai swallowed.
I am not afraid of the undead, he reminded himself. I am their king. I think. He shook his head, which made his scalp itch again. “Nothing,” he assured the fur-clad hulk of rage. “Naara told her there was no chocolate. I do not even know what that is, but I guess it was important to her.”
“No chocolate?” Uruk gaped at him and squeezed Sudduth’s shoulder in sympathy. “You raised her into a world with no chocolate? Are you mad, boy?”
Sudduth’s howl grew louder and more strident. More of the undead were gathering, and all of them faced Ismai now, ember-eyed and indignant.
“Help her,” Naara hissed between gritted teeth. “Fix this.”
“Fix this? Fix it how?” Ismai moved toward the keening warrior. Her wails of agony were as hooks in his heart, dragging him to her side, demanding his attention. “What can I do? I—”
As abruptly as Sudduth’s cries had begun, so they stopped.
“Make them live,” she whispered, voice hoarse. She held out both hands to him, dead seeds cradled in them as if she held her beating heart. “Make them live, my king… make them live. Please. I lived for you, I have died for you, and I will do so again. Only… only do not expect me to abide in a world where there is no chocolate.
“Please.”
It was that please, the brokenness of it, that was Ismai’s undoing. The despair and sorrow in her voice, the lost pleading in her dead eyes, and the abrupt realization that she had sat here in dust and emptiness, caught between death and undeath, just so that she could be dragged into the harsh light of day and denied even this simple comfort.
All for Kal ne Mur.
For me.
Can we help her? Ismai closed his own dead eyes and reached deep into the shards of his shattered soul. When he opened them again, the undead host—all save Sudduth— drew back with a sigh of reverence, and he knew that he was not Ismai.
“My king,” Sudduth murmured.
“My beauty,” he replied in a deep voice, a voice accustomed to being heard. He reached out and brushed the backs of her knuckles, feeling the harsh rasp of calluses grown in his service, seeing the ragged edges of her wounds. “Sweet Sudduth who died for me. I am here. Live. Live.” He cupped her hands between his, and breathed deep, pulling the living air into his seared lungs. Her faded beauty was a testament to his power, and a remonstrance.
See what I have done, he said to Ismai. What I have wrought. And now see what I can do, little warden.
He let the air become a fire in his belly, let the fire become a dragon, and then Kal ne Mur, once and future king of Atualon, lifted his face to Akari and sang.
Had the body he rode been his own, had the life he had lived not been cut short—or had he the Mask of Akari—such magic as he wove would have been a grand thing, a great work. Forcing the bodies of those who had sworn their blood and souls to him was easy, as easy as pumping blood through his own veins, air into his own lungs. These seeds, however, small and shriveled and dead as they were, owed him no fealty. Their small lives were woven into a new song, small sparks long gone dark and cold, and they resisted his call, his pull.
Yet he was Kal ne Mur, the Dragon King, the Lich King, and he would not be denied. They were dead, and the dead belonged to him. He sang, he commanded, and eventually…
angrily…
reluctantly…
they obeyed.
Kal ne Mur let the song fade from his lips, the fire from his heart. When he released Sudduth’s hands again her skin was brown and pliant as a young girl’s, the slash at her throat had been mended, and her eyes sparkled wide and brown. She unclasped her hands and fell to her knees before him.
“Oh,” she cried in a voice as soft and sweet as a nightingale’s. “Oh, oh, my king.” She bent her head and wept, live tears falling from living eyes upon the soft green of new leaves; the boon she had asked had been granted. All five of the beans she held cupped in her palms had sprouted.
“You gave me your life, ages and ages ago,” he told her. “In this I hope I have repaid a small portion of that debt.”
A wind rose then in the heart of Eid Kalmut, born from the tears of the grateful dead.
“Kal ne Mur,” one whispered, then another, then another.
“Kal ne Mur.”
“Kal ne Mur.”
“Father!” Charon cried. Naara, his beloved child. “It is I! It is you! You have returned to us, at last!”
And so he had.
Ismai tried to wake from the dream, tried to reclaim his body, and found with rising terror that he could not. As he began to panic, to fight, to scream, his arms were raised high, his mouth formed into a smile by a will not his own.
Sulema, he cried, reaching out to the river. Help me! Find me! But Sulema did not answer. From the Ghana Kalmut came only the voices of the dead, raised in a hymn to the glory of their king.
The voice that issued from his mouth now was not his own, and never again would be.
“Who am I?” he cried, low and ringing as a call to battle. “My friends, my faithful soldiers… who am I?”
As one, the host of the undead went to their knees and raised dry voices in exultation:
“Kal ne Mur!” they cried, they howled. “KAL NE MUR!”
“Indeed,” he answered. Ismai opened his mouth to scream, but Kal ne Mur smiled upon his faithful instead.
Kithren, Ruh’ayya wailed, far away and helpless. Kithren, come back, come back to me.
I cannot, Ismai answered. I—
“I am home,” said Kal ne Mur, and smiled with Ismai’s face.
* * *
“I have no wish to go to war.”
Ibna sud Barach stood before him, tall and proud and straight as the blood-iron spear he bore. In life he had been Iponui, one of the running warriors of Quarabala. Deadly with spear and sword, able to outrun a horse—many a soldier had made a small fortune betting on Ibna’s legs, or lost one betting against him—and with a laugh like healing rain. He had never been one to back away from a fight.
Until now.
“I have raised you to fight for me.” Kal ne Mur rubbed a hand over his aching dead eyes. “And you say to me now that you have no wish for war. What, then, do you wish to do with this life I have given you?”
“I will fight for you, my king, and die for you. Again.” Ibna’s face was smooth and devoid of emotion. “But my heart is no longer in the fight. I wish, if I would—”
“Yes? You would what? You might as well say it.” Ibna was not the first of his soldiers to approach him this day, to express both undying loyalty and a wish for something— anything—other than warfare. “Husna wishes to be a farmer. Aydna would like to spend an eternity fishing. What would you do with your time, pray tell me?”
“I would make things. Beautiful things, with my hands. I would shape clay, or rock, or perhaps wood… I would like to make beautiful things, instead of dead things.” Ibna clenched his jaw. “If I had your leave to go.”
“You do not have my leave to go,” Kal ne Mur replied. Any more than you do, Ismai son of Nurat
i, he said to the screaming boy who shared this body. “You wish to make something beautiful, Ibna? Then help me retake this world, and we will make it over in our image. We will reclaim the Zeera and teach these false Mah’zula their place. We will take the river, and Min Yaarif, and send word to our allies in Quarabala. Together we will raise Atukos over all the world, and these kings and emperors of loving men will bend the knee to us. That will be your thing of beauty, my friend.”
“War.” Ibna spat. “War does not make the world beautiful, your Radiance.”
“I know,” Kal ne Mur answered. “But war is what we do.”
ELEVEN
The day was long, and the way was long, and Sulema was half dead before it began. But she was warrior-trained, warrior-born and bred. Half dead was simply a reminder that she was wholly, fully, fiercely alive.
The wind had shifted, bringing word of places where the mountains met the rivers and serpents sang in the flowering shallows, of dark shadows, deep hidey holes, of land held up to the gaze of Akari Sun Dragon like a handful of jewels. Ahead lay a town. The sand beneath her feet was slippery-soft and that was good, because it made her slow down, placing each foot with deliberation, and not think too much about the pain in her neck and shoulders.
And arms.
And back.
No, she mused, I am not thinking of the pain at all. She laughed silently at herself, alive and free once more under the sun. Ehuani, it was a good day not to die in the bowels of her enemy’s prisons.
The way to Min Yaarif was not difficult to see. Faint paths became clearer and more frequently used as they wound their way down the foothills and toward the wide Dibris. All roads—Istaza Ani had been fond of saying—led to Min Yaarif, as all strands led to the center of a spider’s web. Sulema wondered if this was true, and why, and what lay in wait for her at the center of this web.
She also wondered how someone who looked so small and fragile could be so dragon-blasted heavy.
Yaela groaned, and her weight shifted so that Sulema nearly lost her footing.
“Wake up,” she suggested, less than sweetly. “Walk your own self down the mountain. I am tired of carrying you, and your tits in my face make it difficult to look for snakes.”
Yaela groaned again, kicking feebly as Daru used to during one of his fits. Sulema stopped in the middle of the path, bent beneath the weight of her companion.
“Are you awake?”
“Uhhh,” Yaela answered.
“Good.” Sulema dipped one shoulder, ducked her head, and dumped Yaela unceremoniously, bag and all, into the sand on the side of the road. Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her, but she forced them to be still, and her back to straighten, and shook the weariness from her arms. Not dead yet.
Yaela curled into a tight ball, arms cradling her head as if protecting herself against an assault, and a single soft whimper escaped before she went still and limp. Then she straightened, yawning and stretching, opened her eyes, and scrunched her face against the late sun.
“Whaaaat…?” she said, yawning again before rolling into a seated position. She looked up at Sulema and frowned. “Where are we? And why are you still here?”
“We are almost to Min Yaarif, by my best guess,” Sulema snapped, turning on her heel as if to continue alone. Ungrateful whelp. She rolled her shoulders. “And I am still here because I am Ja’Akari. A warrior does not break her vow, even if it means carrying your fat arse down a mountain.”
“Fat arse.” Yaela’s voice was flat and hard. After a surly silence, she added, “Thank you. I did not expect—” She groaned. Sulema stopped and glanced over her shoulder to see Yaela pushing herself upright. The woman swayed where she stood, and her face had a gray cast to it.
“You thought I would kill you, take what you carry,” she said, “and run all the way home to the Zeera without looking back.”
Yaela stared straight at her, unblinking.
“Yes.”
Sulema snorted. “That speaks to your honor, not mine. Come, we need to get to shelter before the sun goes down. I hear that mymyc are excellent night hunters.” She rolled her shoulders again—they ached, but it was a good ache, she decided, free from the burn of reaver’s venom—and walked the rest of the way down from the hills toward a town that lay waiting for them crouched beside the river.
Like a giant spider.
She did not look back.
* * *
“Is stealing not dishonorable?” Yaela asked around a mouth full of dates. “You are going to get us both in trouble. I have salt enough to pay for food.”
“It is not stealing to take food if you are hungry,” Sulema protested. “That law is older than the Zeera. And I am hungry.” She shrugged, unconcerned. “Also I thought it best that we avoid talking to people when we can. I would rather our whereabouts not become common knowledge. Besides, it is only trouble if you get—”
“You!” a voice roared from the other end of the alley.
“—caught,” Sulema finished. “Ah, horse shit.”
“Do not run,” Yaela cautioned. “If you do, they will catch you anyway, and kill you before you can fulfill your vow to me. At best they would cast us both naked from the walls of Min Yaarif, where we would be eaten by the great desert cats, and we have yet to find the shadowmancer Keoki.”
“Vash’ai do not eat people.” Sulema wrinkled her nose at the idea. Three men approached them, but they did not move like warriors. None of them were particularly impressive, so she dismissed them as a threat. “And I am no coward, to run from trouble. So we spend an afternoon cleaning churra pits or washing the vendor’s soiled clothes—”
“What are you talking about? This is not the Zeera. In Min Yaarif, thieves do not pay the price of stolen goods by performing chores. Here, they cut off your hand. Or your foot. Or your head. Sometimes they sell you into slavery—you, and all your companions.” For all her dire words, Yaela appeared more irritated than frightened. “Au Illindra, you desert crawlers have heads full of cobwebs. Shut up and let me do the talking.”
Sulema opened her mouth to protest, or argue, or come up with some witty retort—desert crawlers? Heads full of cobwebs?—but Yaela turned to address the men who had come close, and the handful of curious onlookers who had followed, no doubt hoping for some entertainment.
“A heart welcomes you, good men,” she called out. “How may we serve?”
“As prisoners,” the man in front replied. He was the tallest of the three and, judging by the scowl on his face, he was the angriest as well. “That little bald shit stole food from my cart.”
Yaela glanced back at Sulema and shook her head in exaggerated sorrow. “This one? She is an idiot, a foreigner, and cannot be held responsible for her actions. What is the value of the goods she took?” She touched the bag at her shoulder. “A handful of red salt?”
Sulema stared at her. The dates she had snatched had not been worth more than three pinches of white salt, never mind red.
The man frowned thoughtfully, and his companions looked to him.
“You can pay?”
“I can pay.”
“In that case”—the man smirked, eyes crawling over Yaela and then Sulema in a manner that made her skin crawl—“how about you pay me with a handful of pussy?” He grabbed his crotch at them, and his companions laughed. It was an ugly sound.
A few in the crowd chuckled, as well. Others appeared uncomfortable at the exchange.
Sulema glanced at Yaela and was shocked at the naked fury on the other woman’s face. Her eyes had gone wide and black, and she bared her teeth in a snarl that would make any vash’ai proud.
“Then I will fight you for it,” the shadowmancer’s apprentice said. Her voice was soft, soft as a killing wind, soft as poisoned honey and hungry shadows. She raised an arm in a delicate arc, cupped her hand before her face and blew. Shadows poured from between her fingers like smoke from an oil lamp.
She is bluffing, Sulema thought. The shadowmancer’s apprentice
trembled with the effort it cost her to summon even this small handful of shadow. But two can play this game as easily as one.
“Works for me,” she agreed aloud, stepping into a fighting stance. Though it seemed a lot of fuss over a few dates, and though she was a three-day journey past exhaustion, it occurred to her that a good brawl might cleanse her heart of anger—and these shit-brained outlanders had just volunteered.
“Shadowmancer,” one of the tall man’s companions muttered loudly, tugging at his sleeve. “My friend, this fight is not worth it.”
“A shadowmancer and a desert slut,” the third man agreed, “shorn of her braids.” He held up both hands and took a step back. “Not worth the risk, even for prime pussy like this.”
That was enough for Sulema. “Desert slut?” her voice raised to an outraged squawk on the last word; she had been called slut by these men one time too many. She spat on the sand and yanked her vest open in a show of contempt. “I will teach you to mind your tongue, you—”
“Geth! Geth!” someone shouted, and the crowd of onlookers parted to let a woman through. She was tall and well-muscled, and reminded Sulema immediately of Sareta. She wore robes of pale yellow, and a pale yellow wrap at her brow emphasized the most beautiful cloud of black-and-silver hair Sulema had ever seen. Her dark eyes were wide, and almond-shaped, and filled with a hard expression that said there had been enough nonsense for one day. She was flanked by four enormous hard-faced men in yellow vests and white trousers.
Yaela curled her hand into a fist, and the shadow-smoke faded away. Sulema dropped her stance and bowed her head. She knew trouble when it had caught her.
“What is all this?” the woman snapped, mouth set in a firm line as she eyed the tall man. “Baoud, what do you do here?”
“These women stole from me,” he said, his voice aggrieved. “I am simply trying to support my family, and they stole from me. I seek justice.”
“Justice, hm.” The woman glanced at Sulema, but addressed her words to Yaela. “Does Baoud speak true? Did you steal from him?”
“He speaks true in part,” Yaela agreed. “My companion, being an idiot child who does not know the ways of this place, took a handful of dates to fill our empty bellies. I offered to pay this man in salt, but he thought to take payment in girl flesh instead.” Her shadow-filled eyes glinted dangerously. “We refuse.”
The Seared Lands Page 10