A Girl From Nowhere

by James Maxwell

She traveled directly to the tower, but even as she approached she was again struck with awe as the city revealed itself in more detail. Wide streets stretched out in all directions. All of the buildings were of a uniform height with the exception of a few large structures. In the distance she again saw the massive, oval-shaped arena.

  Zorn was beautiful and alien. Everything was walled with brilliant stone, and there were stairways and arches, stout columns and smooth paths. She watched from above, unseen, as a man in a bright red tunic led a long file of laborers in rough smocks, each burdened with the lopped off limbs of cactuses. Two girls played a game with rolled stones, under the supervision of a pair of richly dressed women seated nearby. Another group of workers carried heavy sacks as they were hectored by a barking overseer.

  This was the most Selena had seen of Zorn, and she knew immediately that it wasn’t built by human hands. It was too big, in every way. The doorways were too tall, the steps too far apart.

  Yet no matter who had built it, humans lived in it now.

  Selena had never seen such numbers of people before. Some of Zorn’s citizens walked at a leisurely pace but most were purposeful. Everyone she watched was unarmed. She longed to be among them.

  Even as she had the thought, she knew that back in the cactus grove Mugrak would be increasingly impatient. She only had this one chance to ask for help and secure her freedom. It was time to make contact.

  From just outside the city wall she rose higher, until she was level with the open-sided chamber at the tower’s summit. Focusing on her symbol, she drew on her power until it was shining brightly, glowing like the golden sun.

  Who is there? A wavering shadow suddenly appeared in front of her. She once again had an impression of a triangular head and multifaceted eyes. Who are you?

  I have to be quick. I’m outside the city wall, here. Remembering the trick Rei-kika had shown her, Selena sent an image of where she was in the grove of lifegiver cactuses, pleased by how quickly she could do something once it was shown to her. I need your help. Some bax are holding me captive.

  The hazy figure turned back to look at the tower. I will tell the Protector.

  The figure vanished a moment later.

  Selena’s eyes refocused and she looked around her. She was still sitting cross-legged on the ground. Tall, spiky cactuses flanked her on both sides. Mugrak hovered over her with his hand out, evidently about to shake her.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What news do you have for Blixen? Did you find her?” He waved Borg and the other bax over to hear her reply.

  Selena supposed it was possible that Blixen’s wife was in a cell somewhere, but Mugrak was right; it was far more likely she was dead. “I searched the city,” she lied. “Every building except the tower.”

  “And?”

  “There are no bax in the city—”

  Mugrak grabbed Selena’s arm and peered into her eyes. “Of course there are. We all know what happens at the arena.” His voice became a low, menacing growl. “How do I know you haven’t just sat there for a time?”

  Selena’s panic grew. “What would be the purpose? Why wouldn’t I want Blixen to know?”

  Beastly cries sounded overhead. The chorus of piercing shrieks became louder.

  Mugrak’s eyes widened. “You?”

  He snarled as he grabbed her arm. He pulled her toward him and his strong hand grasped at her throat.

  Galen gazed down as his wyvern shot over the city wall. Arrayed around him were dozens of his men, astride their own winged creatures. The wyverns formed the shape of an arrow. Soldiers’ heads turned as they searched the ground below.

  Galen caught movement and his head jerked to the side. He saw a young woman with coal-black hair at the edge of one of the cactus groves. She was struggling in the grip of an ugly, wart-covered bax. The bax wrestled with her, trying to grab her neck, but she shoved her elbow into his face and knocked him back.

  The young woman burst free and sprinted away until she was in the cleared space between the groves. She gazed up at the sky and waved her arms.

  Galen felt a surge of admiration. Most of the women he knew from the city wouldn’t have the courage to fight back in the way she had. He had no doubt she was the mystic he was trying to rescue. He wondered how she had convinced the bax to travel so close to the city wall. She wasn’t just brave, she was also resourceful.

  As soon as he saw her, Galen shouted at his men and pointed. Wyvern after wyvern swooped toward her. Galen’s men lifted their bows and fitted arrows to the strings as they began to circle. The black-haired woman glanced back at the area of the cactuses.

  The stocky, wart-covered bax she had fought with stood at the edge of the grove. He had spread out his arms to hold his subordinates back. He glared at the woman and snarled, but as he looked up at the circling wyverns, he knew that if he tried to reach her, arrows would pepper his body. He shrank back into the tall green plants surrounding him. Clearly he was hoping that if he could hide from the threat in the sky, he still might get away alive.

  The young woman had stopped waving her arms, but she still alternated her attention between the wyverns above her and the grove she had just come from. Galen focused on the bax. Their squat bodies were crouched lower under the cactuses and their mottled hides blended with the spikes and broad limbs. For the time being Galen ignored the mystic. He inspected the groves he was now traveling over. Some of the other wyverns circled even lower. Soon Galen was directly above the area where the bax were hiding.

  As soon as it was clear that the city guard knew exactly where they were, the bax bolted. Loping along with their strange but swift gait, they kept to the groves and moved between the cactuses.

  But all Galen and his men had to do was follow from overhead. When the first bax left the fields altogether, arrows rained down from the sky. A pair of sprinting bax died next. Another fell with three shafts in his back. Some of the group had second thoughts and tried to hide, but Galen’s men saw them and they fell like the rest.

  Soon there was only one ugly creature left. Galen recognized the wart-covered bax that the woman had broken free from. He was ducking and weaving while he ran, narrowly avoiding arrow after arrow.

  Galen made a circling motion with his arm. His wyvern flew forward while the rest of his men gathered behind him. Just above the ground, Galen pulled up, and the following wyverns drew together in a ring around the bax.

  The wart-covered bax came to a halt. Galen turned his head to scan his men, seeing that they all had their bow strings drawn to their cheeks. Panting, the bax opened his mouth to bellow something up at the sky.

  Galen lifted his arm, making sure all his men could see it, then he swept his arm down.

  Arrows flew from every bow. They flashed down from the sky to pummel the bax’s body. He jerked with every strike. When it was done, the bax collapsed onto the dust.

  Galen then indicated for his men to gather. His wyvern wheeled, turning hard. With strong sweeps of their wings, the wyverns gathered behind him and followed him toward the mystic. She gazed up at the circle of winged creatures that soon surrounded her from above.

  Her face was flushed with pleasure and relief. She had been held captive, and now she was free, just outside the safety of the city’s tall white wall.

  As the rest of the wyverns hovered, Galen indicated to his men that he would be the only one to land. Watching the black-haired woman, he left his position to fly down at her. The mystic bravely stood her ground, even as Galen headed straight toward her. He slowed only at the last moment, feeling the saddle below press hard against his body. His wyvern settled its limbs to the ground.

  Galen climbed off his mount. He gave the mystic a more detailed inspection as he walked toward her.

  She was slender, with sharp features and long hair as black as night. He already knew that she wasn’t as delicate as she looked, and as he approached he saw strong lines of resolve in her mouth and intelligence in her eyes. She was pretty, something he hadn�
��t been expecting when he set out for her. He realized her eyes were odd-colored, one brown and the other green.

  He kept his manner businesslike. “You’re the mystic?”

  “Yes.” She met his gaze directly and her voice was like her: soft but strong. She glanced over her shoulder. “Are they all . . . ?”

  He kept his face cold. “Every one of them. I know my business.”

  “Thank you.” She turned and looked toward the city. Emotion worked its way across her face. “I’m here. I almost can’t believe it.” A smile brightened her face. “I’ve made it to the white city.”

  “Its name is Zorn.”

  She was still smiling. “I know that.” As the moments dragged out, she gave him a curious look. “What now?”

  “You can start by giving me your name.”

  “Selena.”

  “My name is Galen. I am the commander of Zorn’s city guard.” He indicated his wyvern. “The Protector wants to see you.”

  “He can help me?” Selena asked.

  Galen nodded. “Of course he can,” he said. “Follow me.”

  23

  The Protector of Zorn enjoyed a sense of height, of looking down upon others. When he stood face to face with one of his citizens he knew the effect that his tall frame, stern manner, and intense blue eyes had upon the subject of his attention. Whether in public or with his aides, he made sure to maintain an imposing appearance. He wore tailored clothing in dark shades. He kept his gray hair neatly combed. Like his father, he had once had a name, but names belonged to children, not to the ruler of a powerful city. He had renounced his old name the day his father died.

  The soaring tower at Zorn’s heart, where the Protector lived along with his key advisors, also gave him a pleasant feeling of height. No other place had a view like the one from the open-sided chamber at the highest level. From this observation room, the Protector saw all. He could watch the citizens scurrying in the streets and gauge the city’s mood. He could monitor anyone crossing the plain to approach his city. This large, circular space, from where he looked down at the rest of the world, was where he spent most of his time.

  As he gazed out at the city’s white rooftops and the rust-colored plain beyond, the Protector frowned. There was something he tried not to think about, but he was reminded almost every day. His father had been a strong mystic. The same had been true of every ruler of Zorn before him.

  The Protector may have a commanding view from the place where he was standing, but, because he had not been born with the talent, he was less than what a Protector of Zorn was supposed to be.

  He often imagined the things he could do if he had the power. What need was there for a lofty view if he could free his awareness and roam anywhere he wished? If there was dissent in the city, he would be there, unseen, watching and listening. His citizens would hold him in awe, like they had his father.

  Nonetheless, he was an intelligent man, and he had made the best of his situation.

  Once he became Protector, he had searched for others with the talent and recruited two men to his service. Turning away from the vista of rooftops and streets, he faced them now.

  Arren and Merin were childhood friends. They weren’t powerful mystics, but what they lacked in strength they made up for in skill. When they had first offered their services, the Protector had initially been dubious, but over the years they had proved themselves time and again. While they weren’t able to farcast a great distance, what they could do was work together to channel through another mystic—whether that mystic wanted it to happen or not. Then they could do anything.

  Arren—a wiry, narrow-faced man with lank dark hair—sat on a stool close to the center of the observation room. Nearby, straddling another stool, was Merin, who was stockier and plumper with close-cropped hair. The attention of both men was focused intently on the mantorean, Tika-rin, who occupied a hard-backed wooden chair in front of them.

  The Protector examined the mantorean. “Arren, how far can Tika-rin cast?”

  Arren’s stare didn’t leave Tika-rin. The Protector was well-accustomed to the scene; when Tika-rin was working, the mystics had to give her almost all of their concentration.

  “She keeps her casting to the plain,” Arren slowly replied. “She saw those refugees that Galen stopped.”

  “Have you tried pushing her harder? There must be a way to get her to farcast the Rift Valley.”

  Arren’s nostrils flared slightly, but he still kept his focus on the mantorean in the chair. “Of course we’ve pushed her. Look at the state of her.”

  Tika-rin’s bone-colored carapace was scarred with ugly marks. Her antennae drooped and her frame was so thin it was almost skeletal. The Protector’s lips thinned. Even given Tika-rin’s poor health, he needed her too much to let her rest for more than a short period. He couldn’t let her die, and he would never let her go.

  Along with the high-backed chair in the observation room’s center, the area was sparsely furnished with a desk, table, and a few divans. The Protector turned to face his desk, where an egg rested on a stand.

  “So even if I tell Tika-rin I will destroy her egg, she still would not be able to cast any farther?” The Protector left unsaid that as far as he could tell, the egg might already have decayed.

  “No, Protector,” Arren said. “Her lifeline can only stretch so far.”

  “Hmm,” the Protector mused. “And this new girl?”

  The human mystic, someone almost certainly not from Zorn, had contacted Tika-rin, who had consulted the Protector and then passed the message to Galen to rescue her from outside the wall and bring her to the tower.

  “We won’t know until we meet her,” Arren said.

  The Protector nodded. He had thought as much. Turning away from Arren and Merin, he resumed his contemplation of the view and pondered.

  In times of crisis, people needed a strong leader. Over his years as Protector, he had always shown resolve, and while the current crisis would test him like nothing before, he was a determined man, born to rule, and he had already found a way through.

  Zorn was unique. There was no other place like it in the wasteland, and he was well aware of the lure of his city to distant rovers and settlers. With a multitude of stone houses, everyone had a roof overhead to protect them from the elements and a home in which to raise a family. The fields just outside the wall grew tubers, nuts, berries, and razorgrass for bread. In a world full of predators and hostile enemies, the city’s soldiers—not to mention the Protector’s decisive leadership—meant it was the only settlement where safety could be guaranteed.

  And until recently, the city could also boast that there was a reliable supply of water.

  Even now, strident cries drifted up from the markets that surrounded the tower. “Water! Water!”

  The Protector cast his two mystic aides a sharp glance. “Arren. Merin. Check the city for me.”

  He waited impatiently while Arren and Merin used Tika-rin’s ability to farcast as if it were their own. The silence dragged out, before Arren met the Protector’s gaze.

  “Nothing serious,” Merin said. “No more riots, Protector.”

  The Protector clenched his jaw. Here was the cause of his crisis. The idea of plentiful water was a lie. There was a well at the bottom of the tower, below ground. Over recent years the well’s level had diminished until it was now as dry as the winds that blew across the wasteland.

  The only people who knew the truth were the Protector’s confidants, those allowed inside the tower, which was guarded night and day. Without doubt, the people could never know. The Protector was feared, but he knew he wasn’t loved. His control of the well was the source of his power. His fate would be sealed. His head would roll.

  But he had a plan. It was the manner of his father’s death that had given him the idea. His father had been butchered near the Rift Valley while away from Zorn’s protection. At the time, the bax had said it wasn’t them, but they would say that. The Protector had never
believed them.

  The Protector’s calculating thoughts had turned to the Rift Valley. A large number of bax had lived there for a long time. Clearly, they had their own dependable water source.

  His plan was to drive the bax from their territory. He had always maintained power by pitting humans against non-humans, but he would take the situation further, and seize the Rift Valley before Zorn’s citizens found out the truth about the city’s well.

  He needed the citizens’ support, even as he began to ration the water he had. As he instructed his city guard to burn bax villages, killing and capturing as they went, he whipped up hatred. He pointed out all the things that made the other races different, and scorned any talk of similarities. Bax were ugly and murderous, skalen cold and slippery, trulls monstrous, and mantoreans scuttling vermin. At public gatherings, he spoke to his citizens’ emotions and heightened those that were most keenly felt: fear, anger, and a sense of kinship for their friends and neighbors.

  It didn’t work on everyone, but all the Protector needed was a core of vocal supporters. As his remaining barrels emptied and the price of water went up, he blamed his enemies. If Blixen laid siege to the city, the water sourced from the lifegiver cactuses in the fields would no longer be accessible. The citizens believed that the Protector was doing the responsible thing and building up a reserve. He had diverted their attention. No one wondered if there was a problem with the well.

  Once the city had a defined enemy, the Protector discovered that he had more power than ever before. He always had a reason to deal harshly with the malcontents and subversives who questioned his rule. There were rebels in the city, people who didn’t want a war, but once identified they didn’t live long. Galen rounded them up and sent them either to the fields or the arena. Few spoke out now.

  The Protector’s city guard only had a hundred wyverns, but they were a decisive force, able to shoot arrows from the sky. Slowly, surely, the Protector would destroy anything that moved in the Rift Valley, until Blixen fell, and the last bax fled and never came back.